Daniel Norman, author of Hooked, received his BFA from the University of Georgia. Previously, he was a senior executive and an inventor at AT&T Mobility, holding numerous U.S. patents. He is also a past member of the board of directors of the Florida Literacy Coalition.
*****
Good Lord, Carl thought. Why do grown men do that to pickup trucks?
He’d needed a few things, before going to the beach house he’d rented for the week, and stopped at a Quik-Mart near the bridge to the island. He’d pulled in beside a large black pickup, which looked like one of those monster trucks.
The wheels are almost as tall as my car, and you’d literally have to reach over your head to grab the door handle.
He opened his car door, and it immediately smacked into something—hard. He rolled his window down, looked out, and saw his door had hit a big chrome running board sticking out from the truck.
“Shit,” he yelled and pulled the door shut.
He backed up and moved his car over, so he’d have room to open his door. As he got out of his car, the truck window rolled down, and a man leaned out. He was thin, harsh looking with a sparse, scraggly beard—wearing the remnants of a baseball cap.
Carl bent down, and saw a big dent in his door where it had hit the truck’s running board. “What the hell—” he said. “Why does that thing stick out so far?
“Hey now buddy, don’t get all worked up. It’s your fault—you’re the one done hit the truck,” said the man with the scraggly beard.
“How could I not hit the truck—the way that thing sticks out.”
“Like the man said, you hit my truck,” said the driver as he came out of the store.
“Look how far your damn running board sticks out and—”
“Your fault,” interrupted the driver, “and you’re payin’ for any damage you done.” Then he put down his case of beer and bent over to inspect his running board.
Carl bent down, and saw a big dent in his door where it had hit the truck’s running board.
“My fault. Are you kidding me? That thing’s a hazard.”
“What kind of slick car you got there, mister?” asked the driver as he stood back up.
“It’s an Audi A4,” said Carl. “What’s that got to do with—”
“Well, listen carefully mister owwdee,” the driver said, as he got right in Carl’s face. “You’re damn lucky you didn’t damage my truck. Now—calm the fuck down, and get the hell outta here—now.”
Assaulted by beef jerky and beer breath, Carl backed up. Then the truck door opened and Scraggly climbed down to join the driver. Carl got back in his car and cursed as he drove to the big grocery store out on the highway.
*****
By the next morning, Carl had almost forgotten about the whole unfortunate experience. He’d come to the island alone. He’d just finished a consulting project, and had a week before the next one began. Rather than stay home and watch movies all week, he’d decided to come to the beach. He planned to catch up on his reading, do some fishing, and run each day. Plus, there was something he needed to do—promised himself he’d do. He glanced over at the wooden box, the size of a shoe box, sitting on the dining room table. It had been almost five years—he’d just kept putting it off—but it was time—so he’d brought the box with him.
He poured himself a cup of coffee and took the stairs to the rooftop deck—the widow’s walk. From there he could see all the way north, to Myrtle Beach and all the way south, to Pawleys Island. To the west, the view across Murrells Inlet was spectacular. He looked out at the beach. It was empty as far as he could see, not a beach chair, umbrella or a person in sight. Scanning the island, there was no evidence of anyone staying in the other houses—no cars or boats in the driveways.
He poured himself a cup of coffee and took the stairs to the rooftop deck—the widow’s walk.
A hurricane had skirted the South Carolina coast a few months ago and done some major damage to the Island. When he’d called to reserve a house, he’d been told there was repair work going on, only a few people were staying on the island, and the shops were all closed. But he’d gotten a great price, and he’d have the island to himself—so he took it.
He looked up the island road—it was deserted—no cars, trucks or bicyclists. He finished his coffee and changed into his running clothes.
*****
Carl was about a mile north of the house, and he’d had a hard time running on the sidewalk. It was ancient and hazardous—dangerous, with large cracks and edges you could trip over. Some sections had been washed away by the storm. In other places, caution tape had been pulled across where construction was in progress. There wasn’t any traffic, he’d only seen one car since he’d left the house, so he decided to run the road.
After two and a half miles he came to a public beach parking lot—empty today. Ahead, he could see the sign for the pier, the halfway point where he’d turn back. As he neared the pier, a large, black pickup truck with big chrome running boards turned onto the road. It looked like the one he’d hit his car door on, the day before. It came barreling down the road in his direction.
*****
Inside the truck, Scraggly—Johnny—said, “Hey, Winn, there’s one of those ass-hole tourists runnin’ on the road ‘stead ah the sidewalk. Say, ain’t that the dum shit who hit your truck with his car door yesterday?”
“Ah—yep—sure looks like him.”
“That sum-bitch needs to get his ass off the road. Act like you’re gonna run him over—then pull up beside him.”
Johnny didn’t like the tourists. The summer he’d turned fourteen, he’d been at a party on the beach with a group of teenagers, and a really cute girl had asked his name. They’d talked all that afternoon, walked the beach and made out behind one of the big sand dunes. It had been the first time Johnny had kissed a girl. After a while, they’d heard someone yell out her name, she’d said it was her sister, and she needed to leave. She’d asked which beach house he was staying in, and he’d said he lived in a house in Golden Shores out on the Beach Highway.
“Oh my God,” she’d blurted out. “Isn’t that a trailer park? You live here all the time? You’re not just here on vacation?”
Without waiting for an answer, she’d jumped up and gone to find her sister.
The next day, he saw her on the beach with another boy. She wouldn’t even talk to Johnny.
She’d broken his heart.
Until that day—he’d felt he was no different than the people who came to the island for a week during the summer. He’d never forgotten the lesson she’d taught him—some people are raised to believe they’re much better than others.
*****
As the truck got closer, Carl could see it was the same truck from the encounter the day before. Suddenly, it veered off the road like it was going to run over him. Then it stopped suddenly, about twenty feet away. Dust boiled forward. The engine revved. He could see the two men sitting in the truck. Why are they just sitting there? It’s like they’re waiting for me. He decided to avoid getting too close, he didn’t want to get into it again with these guys. He jumped off the road into the sand and ran over to the sidewalk. Just as he was about to pass the truck, the window rolled down and Scraggly leaned out.
He leered at Carl through red, irritated eyes and said, “Well, if it ain’t mister owwdee.” Then his face contorted into pure rage and he spit-screamed, “Listen asshole, get the fuck off the road.”
Instantly, the truck roared to life, the tires smoked and screeched, and the rear end veered off the road. The big wheels peppered Carl with sand, broken sea shells, and grass. Then the truck lurched back up on the road, zig-zagged and rocketed south.
Carl stood there horrified; his heart raced. It had happened so fast, had been so unexpected. What was wrong with those people? There’s no traffic on the road. He bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath and regain his composure. After a few minutes he started running again—on the road. He looked back often; in case the truck came back. Soon he came to the pier, and he turned around to head back south.
He hadn’t gone far, when he saw the truck coming back. Jackasses, I’m staying on the road, they can scream all they want. It’s a free country, and I’m not going to let a couple of red necks tell me where I can, or can’t run.
But as the truck neared—he got off of the road and quickly ran over to the sidewalk.
He kept up his pace along the sidewalk. Just look straight ahead, don’t look over at them—keep running. They got what they wanted; you’re on the sidewalk.
The truck got closer and slowed down. He was just about to pass it, when the window rolled down.
Scraggly stuck his head out and shouted, “Hey.”
Carl kept running.
“Hey—asshole. You hear me?”
Carl stopped and looked over at Scraggly.
“I told you to get yur fat ass off the road.”
“I’m on the sidewalk,” said Carl.
“But you were on the road, til you seen us comin’ back.”
“Yes, I was. But then I got off the road and got on the sidewalk.”
“That ain’t how it works, dum-shit,” yelled Scraggly. “You don’t never—ever run on the road. The road b’longs to trucks, not dum-shits. Got it?”
“Yes,” muttered Carl.
“Yes what? Tell me what you don’t never—ever do.”
“Don’t run on the road,” said Carl.
“I can’t hear you, dum-shit.”
“Don’t run on the road,” Carl yelled back.
“That’s better, dum-shit. Now you have yourself a nice day.” And the truck roared away.
Carl was angry, embarrassed and ashamed of himself. “Why didn’t I stand up to those assholes?” he said out loud, as he stomped around in the road. “Why did I let them treat me like that? First, they blame me for dinging my own car door. Now they’re telling me where I’m allowed to run.”
Then—his ego got the better of him.
He waited until the truck had driven through the downtown area—far enough away—that he was certain they wouldn’t be able to see him. Then—he raised his arm defiantly into the air—and gave them the finger.
Immediately—the truck came to a screeching—tire-smoking—halt.
Carl, panicked.
He looked south; it was more than a mile to the marina. I can run toward downtown; but nothing is open—maybe there’s someone at the rental office. It’s only a few blocks, but once they turn around, they’ll get there before I can. I can start banging on doors, but all the houses are empty. He ran toward the beach. They’ll be expecting me to run south along the beach, so if I run north—and stay low behind the dunes—maybe they won’t see me from the road. Then I can sneak past them, cut across the road and get to the rental office, before they realize I didn’t go south. When he got to the beach, he ran north. Why did I have to flip them off? Why did I do that?
Unfortunately, Carl didn’t know—there was a public entrance to the beach, wide enough for a truck, north of the pier. When he came running out from under the pier headed north, the truck had already turned onto the beach—headed south. The men in the truck couldn’t have had an easier time catching him. Scraggly jumped down from the truck before it stopped and tackled Carl.
“Wow, you kudn’t be more dum,” he said.
“Help, help me, somebody he—” Carl screamed, but the driver quickly slapped a piece of duct tape over his mouth and taped his wrists together.
“What do you want to do with him, Johnny?” asked Winn.
“Let’s take him out to the end of the pier and throw him in the water.”
“Fuh no,” Now panicking, Carl screamed through the duct tape. “No, no Stoff, leh me go, leh me go.”
They pulled him to his feet and dragged him up the wooden steps to the pier entrance. The pier was also being repaired, and there was a big Closed – No Trespassing sign and yellow caution tape, where there used to be a door. Winn tore off the caution tape, and they carried Carl onto the pier. He flailed his legs and arms and fought, but there were two of them and they were stronger than him.
At the end of the pier, Scraggly tore the duct tape off of Carl’s wrists and said, “Have a nice swim, shit-head.” Then they lifted him, threw him off the pier and walked away.
Carl landed hard, in a belly-flop. It knocked the wind out of him, and he sank under the water. He struggled back to the surface and ripped the tape off of his mouth. Then he floated on his back in the rough waves, until he could catch his breath. Soon his shoes filled with water—pulled him down and made it hard to float. He couldn’t keep his head above the surface, so he pulled his body upright and began to tread water.
The waves were huge and the beach looked like it was ten miles away. As he paddled in place, he searched the pier for a ladder or some way to climb back up—there wasn’t one. Suddenly, he realized he was being carried toward the pier by the waves and would soon be washed under it. He swam as hard as he could to get away from the pier, but the tide was so strong, he couldn’t make headway. No matter how hard he swam he was being swept under the pier. Then—a huge wave propelled him up and washed him directly under it. He fought to stay in control but was slammed, stomach first, into a piling.
His chest and stomach exploded into agonizing pain. Razor-like mussel shells and barnacles, attached to the pilings below the water’s surface, sliced through his shirt and deeply cut his chest and stomach. He instinctively pushed back with his hands, and the shells cut into his palms. Thankfully, he hadn’t taken off his running shoes. He pushed back with his feet and grabbed the piling above the water line were there weren’t any of the knifelike shells.
The waves kept pushing him into the piling; he slowly began to work his way around to the other side, where he wouldn’t have to fight the waves shoving him into the lethal shells. He moved in tiny steps around to the other side. But as he moved—he felt a string-like sensation around his ankle and thought at first it was seaweed—or worse—a jellyfish. The more he moved, the tighter it got, and he realized he was tangled up in old fishing lines wrapped around the piling.
Then another large wave slammed into the piling—pushed him back, strained the fishing lines and instantly—a sharp pain seared through his calf and shin as fish hooks punctured his leg. He screamed out and reached for the lines underwater. Gently, he held the cluster of lines and tried to raise his leg out of the water to pull the hooks out. But he was so focused on getting the hooks out, getting untangled, he hadn’t seen the next wave coming.
It was even bigger, and when it hit—it washed him up and backwards. The lines pulled tight; the hooks dug deep—the pain was fire. He howled, wrapped his arms around the piling and held tight to keep another wave from causing more damage—more pain. He clung to the piling—tried not to move. The water rushed up, down and around his leg—pulled at the lines, the pain was agonizing. Carl knew he had to see how many hooks were buried in his leg and how deep. He had to get them out. He pulled in close to the piling, to create some slack in the lines, and raised his leg out of the water to get a look.
What he saw was horrifying. There were two large treble hooks—almost two inches in size—embedded in his leg. Coiled and knotted fishing line was wrapped and bunched up all around his leg, and blood poured from where the hooks were set in his leg. One of the trebles was buried deeply in his shin. Fortunately, only one of the three hooks had dug in, but it was very deep in the skin, well past the barb. The other treble was deeply embedded in his calf, and unfortunately two of the three hooks had managed to dig in—both buried deep and past the barb. Carl knew things were bad—but as he traced the lines from the hooks—he discovered things were worse than he could have imagined.
The hooks were attached to a fishing rig made with steel lines, and the rig was connected to a long steel fishing leader, wrapped around the piling. He pulled at the steel line, but it would budge. It was snarled tightly in the shells, tangled with other lines, and appeared to be wrapped several times around the piling. He pulled harder, but the steel line sliced deeply into the cuts on his hands. The pain was terrible—his hands bled—he had to stop. He then tried to open the connectors to get the hooks off of the rig, but the heavy duty, metal lock-snaps wouldn’t budge. Soon his fingers were bleeding so badly they kept slipping off, and he quit. He clung to the piling, rose and sank with the waves.
He knew there was no way to break steel fishing lines. He’d have to try again to pull them free from the piling. With one hand, he peeled off what was left of his shirt and wrapped it around his hand. He pulled the steel leader out of the cluster of nylon lines and looped it around his hand. He left as much slack in the steel line as he could, so if he slipped, the line wouldn’t pull the hooks even deeper into his leg. He held tight and leaned back—but the line didn’t move an inch. What will I do if I can’t get loose? What if I can’t get anyone to come help me? I’m clinging from a piling, hooked like a fish. I’ve got to get these hooks out of my leg. What if a shark—
Then he began to panic. He pulled his leg out of the water, pushed down on the hook buried in the skin on his shin, and tried to break the barb loose. He screamed in pain; the hook didn’t budge. Then he pulled on the hook, hard, to try to yank it out. He’d never felt such pain. He raised his head and screamed at the underside of the pier. The hook wouldn’t come loose. He gritted his teeth, and he pulled as hard as he could—tried to tear through the skin—to rip the hook out. He yelled in agony, but when the pain was more than he could take, he stopped. He waited until the pain let up a little, then he took a deep breath and tried again, this time he pulled even harder, screamed even louder—determined to rip the hook out of his leg. He couldn’t bear the pain any longer and stopped, again.
He clung there, gasping and sweating—his leg throbbing. He’d had no idea how tough human skin was. The hooks weren’t coming out, he couldn’t tear through the skin—no matter how hard he pulled. He looked toward the empty shore and suddenly saw someone, a man or a woman, walking along the beach. He yelled as loudly as he could and waved frantically.
“Help,” he screamed again. “I’m hooked on a fishing line. Help me.”
He or she couldn’t hear him this far out and didn’t even look in his direction.
He screamed until he was hoarse, then gave up.
Silently—he clung to the piling, fought the pain and stared out at the ocean. He wished he hadn’t been such a hot-head. Why can’t I ever back down and walk away? Why do I have to make an issue out of everything, win every argument and always be right? Once again, I’ve gotten myself into deep-shit trouble. Not like New York but—
“Stop it, stop it—stop it, Carl,” he yelled out loud. “Don’t go there.”
Time passed.
He stared out at the ocean, scanned the beach, and he tried to think of anything he could do to get free. He looked up through the gaps between the planks above. The sun was no longer directly overhead. How long have I been out here like this, an hour—a few hours? He dropped his head and looked at the mussel shells colonized on the pilings, below. He stared at the shells, watched as waves covered them, then receded. It was hypnotic—
And suddenly—he had an idea—if he could just bring himself to do it. He’d break a mussel shell off of the piling and use the razor-sharp edge to cut the hooks out of his leg. He waited until the next wave receded, then bent down, grabbed a shell, and tried as hard as he could to break it off. Unfortunately, the shell was firmly attached, slippery, his fingers slid loose and the shell sliced through his thumb and forefinger.
“Shit,” he screamed. “God that hurts so badly.” He squeezed the sliced fingers hard with his other hand, trying to block the pain. “I have to keep trying.”
He wrapped his shirt around his hand like a glove, grabbed the shell, and pressed back as hard as he could. The water rose up past his chin, he closed his mouth and was about to give up when—it snapped off. Carl stared at the shell in amazement. Quickly, before he had time to change his mind, he pulled his leg out of the water, pressed the sharp edge of the shell against the skin above the entrenched hook, and cut—hard. He screamed at the pain but persevered and cut through the skin. He tried to force the shell in deeper but the pain was agonizing. Suddenly he had a muscle spasm in his hand, lost his grip and the shell fell into the water. He began to cry.
God, everything hurts so badly, my thumb, stomach, hands, leg. Those ass-holes. Why did they have to throw me off the pier? When I get loose—”
He stopped—the realization that he might not get loose poured over him. He felt light headed and his thoughts drifted to how much blood he must have lost. Certainly not enough to bleed to death, but enough to attract sharks. Carl’s thoughts trailed off as he began to watch the surface of the water for sharks. He couldn’t think of a worse way to die. God, no one will ever know what happened to me. There won’t be any remains. Anything left by the sharks will be hooked to the piling for the crabs and fish to nibble on. By morning the hooks will be clean.
*****
Hours had passed since Carl had dropped the shell. The sun was now low on the horizon. He was exhausted, in miserable pain and losing body heat. Earlier he’d almost fallen asleep and into the water. Afraid he might fall asleep and let go again, he’d hugged the piling and wrapped the remnants of his shirt around his hands to hold him in place. He couldn’t keep his eyes open and wavered in and out of half-consciousness. He thought he’d seen a shark fin a while ago—close—circling. I’m sure it was a real shark—it sure seemed real. Nearly sundown—need to rest—figure out what to do next. I’m so tired. There it is again—that damn shark. Chasing after that guy on the motorcycle out there. Sounds like a Vespa—probably not fast enough to outrun a shark.
“You need a bigger bike—motorcycle,” he’d tried to yell. “You need a bigger one. The shark’s gonna catch you.”
That Vespa engine is getting louder. Sounds like the guy cranked it up a bit. Maybe he’ll be able to get away from the shark after all.
Then suddenly a large wave rolled under the pier, lifted his limp body and raised him up in the water. The steel fishing line attached to the piling pulled tight, the hooks dug deeper and Carl’s entire mind and body exploded in electric pain. He snapped fully awake and screamed at the top of his lungs.
Then he heard it again—the sound of a motor. Carl looked out into the ocean and saw a small fishing boat about one hundred yards out.
“Oh God—help, please help me,” he screamed and waved his arm.
The man in the boat hadn’t heard him and continued to look straight ahead.
Carl yelled again and again, and then ignoring the pain, he crammed his swollen thumb and finger into his mouth, and he tried to whistle. The first few attempts brought nothing but pain and a mouth full of blood from the cuts on his fingers. The boat was about to pass beyond the pier—he had to get the man’s attention. He spit out the blood, wiped his hands on his shirt and made one last attempt—mercifully, he managed one sharp whistle—then waved and screamed loudly, “Help—help me. I’m stuck under the pier”
The man looked in Carl’s direction, and suddenly slowed the boat. Carl wasn’t sure if he’d actually heard him, or he’d just been looking toward shore and seen him. But it didn’t matter, the man had turned the boat and was headed toward the pier. Carl watched, with tears running down his cheeks, as the little boat got closer. Then the man brought the boat to a stop about fifty feet from the end of the pier and rode the swells up and down.
He yelled out, “I can’t come in too close to the pier, it’s too rough. I’d end up slamming into the pilings. What the hell happened to you?”
Carl didn’t want to scare the guy away by telling him he’d been thrown off the pier by two thugs. So, he told him he’d fallen off the pier, gotten swept under and gotten his leg hooked on a fishing rig wrapped around one of the pilings.
The man said, “Holy shit.” Then under his breath he muttered, “Drunken idiot.”
Carl didn’t react. He felt like an idiot and wished he was drunk.
“If I throw you a knife, would you be able to catch it?” the man asked.
“The fishing line is steel; do you have wire cutters?”
After rummaging in his tackle box for a few minutes he yelled, “Yep, pliers with cutters, I can get a little closer, but not much, the waves are too high and rough. I only have one pair of cutters and I don’t think we should play catch with them in these waves. So, I’ll throw you one end of this rope, then I’ll tie the pliers—real tight—to the other end, and you can pull them through the water to yourself. When you’re free, you can throw one end of the rope back to me, and I’ll pull you to the boat.”
It took several attempts, but Carl managed to catch the rope. The man then tied the pliers firmly to the other end, and Carl pulled them through the water. He untied the pliers and tossed the rope over one of the cross braces attached between the pilings. Cutting through the steel lines was much more difficult than he could have imagined. He was shaking badly and could barely use his right hand because it was cut up so badly. Between waves, he leaned against the piling and squeezed the pliers with both hands to try and cut through the line. He couldn’t do it—he just didn’t have the strength and was about to give up—when there was a snap and the line fell loose. He was so excited he screamed at the top of his lungs. Overwhelmed with relief, Carl yelled “Thank you” to the man in the boat over and over again. Then he grabbed the other line and clamped down as hard as he could. Again and again, he renewed his grip and squeezed. He knew he could do it now and was determined. An eternity later, mercifully, he felt the pliers snap through the line. He’d never been so relieved and happy about anything in his life. He reached for the rope so the man could pull him to his boat.
The rope—where’s the rope? Then he screamed, “Where’s the damn rope?”
While he’d been busy cutting the steel lines, the rope must have fallen off of the brace, or a wave caught the end of it dangling off and pulled in into the water. Frantically, he looked around under the pier and eventually saw it wrapped around a piling nearly to the shore.
“I’ve lost the rope,” Carl yelled out to the man.
“I don’t have another one,” the man yelled back. “And there’s no way you can swim out this way, the waves are too strong. You’ll have to swim under the pier to the other side, and I’ll pick you up over there.”
Carl looked through the pier at the maze of pilings underneath, trying to determine the best path through. He quickly realized, pushing off from the piling and trying to swim to the other side wasn’t an option. The pilings were close together, and he didn’t want to get hooked again or have another barnacle encounter. The pilings were connected with large wooden braces which crisscrossed one another in an X pattern. If he could climb up, he could use the braces to get the other side of the pier. He couldn’t walk across them, they were steeply slanted—up and down—with nothing to hold onto, but he could straddle the lower brace, pull himself up to the next brace and then slide down. If he could that, from one piling to the next, until he got to the other side—he could then dive out into the water.
He wrapped his arms around the piling, dug his shoes into the sides and climbed up to the cross brace. Through the pilings, he could see the man in the boat was already on the other side waiting—riding up and down in the swells. He sat down on the cross brace and pulled himself up the slope to the point where it intersected the brace that sloped down. Pulling himself up the brace had been hard, but sliding down the next brace was a nightmare. By the time he slid to the bottom, he had an ass full of splinters.
When he finally reached the last brace on the other side of the pier he was shaking uncontrollably and dizzy. He looked out at the man in the boat, and suddenly everything went dark. He felt himself fall, his head smacked—hard—into a piling, and he hit the water. His last thoughts, before passing out, were of being pulled by the arm, then a horrible pain in his back—while being pulled into a boat—and then, “Okay you’re in.”
*****
Carl wasn’t sure where he was—he struggled to open his eyes—everything was so bright and white. As his head began to clear, he could hear a monitor beeping, and he realized he was in the hospital.
Thank God, I was afraid I wasn’t going to—
Then the pain in his leg and head bloomed to full strength—he gripped the side rails of the bed, moaned through gritted teeth and tears poured down his cheeks. He looked down at his leg and was horrified. Swollen, covered in bruises and angry red patches of skin—with zig zags of black stitches on his shin and calf. It throbbed, his head pounded, and he looked around the hospital bed trying to find a nurse call button.
“God, it hurts so bad,” he cried out. “I need some pain—”
“Carl, you’re awake.”
He jerked his head around—and there was his wife, Angie, curled up in a chair in the corner, wrapped in a blanket.
“Angie, sweetheart, you’re here.”
“Yes, I got here as soon as I could. The doctor said she had to remove big fishhooks from your leg and you had a concussion. Something about you having been trapped under a pier. You’re all cut up and scraped, Carl. What happened?”
“I was thrown off of a pier by two red-necks in a pickup truck. I was washed under the pier, got cut up on shells when I slammed into the pilings, then got huge hooks—”
“Two red-necks in a pickup?” she interrupted.
“Yes, I went out for a run and was running on the road, I couldn’t run on the sidewalk—and these two local red-necks didn’t like that I was on the road. They pulled over and screamed—”
“They just pulled over—and screamed at you for running on the road?”
“Well, hold on, let me start at the beginning. I’d stopped at the Quik-Mart, when I first got to the island. I’d opened my door and it slammed into the damn running board on the red-neck’s truck. They said it was my fault. My fault? So, I told them—”
“Carl, you didn’t get upset and—”
“Angie,” Carl interrupted—now agitated. “There’s that condescending tone of yours. I know what you’re going to ask—so don’t.
“Oh, Carl, did you do it again? You didn’t antagonize them—did you?
“You haven’t even heard the whole story, and you’ve already jumped to the conclusion the whole fucking thing was my fault. Nice, Angie, real nice. What about the ass-hole red-necks who abducted me and threw me off of a pier into the ocean? No—no, don’t blame them. Are you listening? For Christ’s sake you’re not even listening, you’re just staring out the window.”
“No Carl, you’re the one who doesn’t listen. These types of things have been going on for a very long time, and over the years you’ve gotten worse. You wouldn’t listen to me when I told you how you tended to blow things out of proportion. How when you had a confrontation, you took it so personally and got so upset. Then at some point, I don’t even remember when, your behavior started to change. You started to get very angry—very quickly—when things didn’t go your way, and you had to have the last word. You didn’t listen to Dr. Rausch when he cautioned you about your anger issues. You didn’t pay attention to the that judge when you smashed up that man’s golf cart with your clubs—”
“That man—almost ran over me, and blamed me—said I was drunk and wasn’t looking.”
“Carl, that was no reason to destroy that man’s golf cart. You drove it into a lake. The judge told you—”
“The judge wasn’t there. He didn’t see how that guy tried to run me over.”
“You were drunk and walked right in front of him, Carl. And that time in my favorite restaurant, when you got mad and threw your steak at the waiter because you said it was cold.”
“That son of a bitch did it on purpose. I said pink in the middle, not frozen. He was a smug asshole from the minute he came to our table.”
“We were asked to leave and never come back; I loved that place. Carl, you can’t keep blaming everyone else for everything that goes wrong. Like the time that man took that parking spot—”
“Stop it—please stop it, you don’t need to recount ancient history,” screamed Carl. “What are you saying? Getting thrown off the pier was my fault? I’m to blame because I got angry at some ass-holes who didn’t want me to run on the road.”
“The way you act, when things don’t go your way, really pisses people off, Carl. I’m sure they didn’t just throw you off a pier because you were running on the road. If it was like the times before, you did something or said something that really made them mad. And that’s probably why they threw you off the pier, and you got hooked like a flounder.”
Carl was quiet for a long time, then said, “A flounder? That’s a bad example, Angie. They’re demersal fish—bottom feeders—they live and feed on the ocean floor. I wasn’t at the bottom of the sea. The sheepshead is a better example—”
“Carl, stop it,” protested Angie. “This isn’t about flounders or sheep.”
“Sheepshead Angie, not Sheep, it’s a fish, not—”
“Carl, shut up—shut up—shut up,” Angie screamed hysterically. “Just shut the fuck up. This isn’t about fish. It’s about how you bring these things on yourself. You blame everyone else, and you can’t—won’t—back down and let things go. When we got robbed in New York—”
“No—stop it, Angie. Stop it now. Don’t bring New York up again.”
“He had a gun, Carl. I told you to drop your head, look down—not to look at him. I gave him my purse, my rings, and I made you give him your wallet—”
“Stop it—stop it,” screamed Carl, and he put his hands over his ears.
She grabbed his hands, pulled them down and yelled, “He was leaving Carl; he was going away—”
“I know what happened,” Carl bellowed. You don’t have to tell me again and again—”
Suddenly a nurse raced into the room, “What’s wrong? Are you okay? I could hear you yelling all the way down—”
“Get the hell out of here,” Carl roared. “Can’t you see my wife and I are having a discussion? Get out, get out—get the hell out.”
Dumbstruck—the nurse managed to say, “Sir, you need to calm down or I’ll get security and—”
“I said—” Carl screamed even louder, “—get the fuck out, now. And shut the door you stupid, little half-assed—”
She quickly backed out of the room and ran right into another nurse coming to help.
“Sylvia, what’s going on? What’s all the yelling about? the other nurse asked.
“Who’s doing all that yelling?” asked a doctor running toward them.
“It’s the man they found under the pier, the John Doe without any identification. He’s in his room screaming, yelling and arguing—”
“Who is he arguing with?”
“No one—Dr. Abrams. There’s no one in there but him.
*****
Four days later, Carl sat in the sand at the edge of the channel leading into Murrells Inlet. His arm rested on the wooden box. It had been nearly five years—five years since New York. Five years since that fucker had robbed them. Angie had seen the man approach and realized they were going to be robbed.
She’d seen the gun and told Carl, “Keep your head down—don’t look at him. He needs to know we can’t identify him.”
She gave the man her engagement and wedding rings—she loved those rings—surrendered her favorite purse, and she made carl give the man his wallet and his ring. But then the asshole wanted Carl’s watch—the one his father had given him. Carl wouldn’t take it off, but Angie took the watch off his wrist, and she handed it to the man. The man put it all in his pockets, stuffed Angie’s purse under his coat, then turned and left.
“You’re a real son of a bitch,” Carl had yelled out after the man. “The money wasn’t enough, you just had to take her rings; you could’ve let her keep them. And my watch, my dad gave me that watch—”
Angie had pleaded, “Carl, please stop, please be quiet, he’s leaving, he didn’t hurt us—”
Carl wouldn’t back down—from angry to furious—he screamed at the man as he fled, “Yeah, you’re a big man—a stupid bastard, is what you are. You just had to have the watch, didn’t you? You low life piece of crap. No job—too good to work, aren’t you? Think you’re better than all of us poor working slobs. You just take things from respectable people who do work.”
Angie had wrapped her arms around Carl, “Please stop, he might hear you and come back, those are just things, we’re not hurt—please stop, Carl.”
But Carl hadn’t stopped—couldn’t stop, “You’re an asshole.” Then as loud as he could yell, “You’re a fucking coward—”
The man stopped.
“Just couldn’t keep your mouth shut,” the man had yelled back. Then he raised the gun and fired.
*****
Carl wiped away the tears, and slid the top off of the box. He removed a blue and white urn, carefully removed the lid—and he poured Angie’s ashes into the channel.
*****
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