A Lark of His Own

Had an early drunk day last Friday. By early drunk day I am referring to an occasional morning that I will either leave my office, or call out in order to go directly to a little waterfront dive at 8:00 or 9:00 in the morning. The place is populated at different times with commercial fishermen and women, the dentally challenged counting their change for drinks, hipsters on an occasional lark, old school retired union guys, and sometimes real scary bad asses who would like to kill you.

The sound system is far superior to the overall ambiance (previous owners over- invested and went bankrupt so the SS came with the place at basically no cost) and there is an incredible computer Juke Box with just about everything you could want- sans jazz. But I wouldn't play jazz in there anyway lest it cause a stir.

I usually start with 2 or 3 pints. Oh and I forgot to mention I only do this when I'm hung over or haven't slept the night before. I start out almost gaging when I first walk in, (it is pretty rank in there) but after a pint or two I am suddenly having the "...fucking best time of my life with the greatest people on earth." You know the drill.

Jello shots (cherry $1.50). Drinks "For all my friends" Barfly style as I engage in a couple of simultaneous conversations while the volume of everything goes up.

One of those conversations was with a serious hobo looking guy. Thick salt and pepper hair, roughly combed. a long tangled beard; full and bushy hanging down to the middle of his chest, piercing, rhumby, red rimmed blue eyes and a deep regional accent. He was an anarchist, and a self professed hermit. He lived about an hours ferry ride out in the bay, on a sparsely populated island. He didn't indicate in what kind of structure he lived in and I neglected to ask. MISTAKE (Dana Gould's portly top hat wearing man steps out of the closet- tips his hat and sings "MISTAAAKE").

It was a couple of hours before sunset when I boarded the ferry (beers hidden in jacket pockets )with my New Best Friend.

When the ferry or any boat for that matter leaves the dock an instant and amazing transformation occurs. Every time. You are suddenly surrounded by much cooler salt air, and the ocean informs you that it is in charge as surely as sunrise informs you of a new day. The light (we are famous for it here) is charged and sharp with shadows hard edged. The surface wave motion is manifestly spiritual and the colors; yellow ferry, water shades ranging from incandescent blue to nervous death inviting greens churning just below the surface. The prop wake is preternaturally white. Smell of diesel exhaust and deep hum of the engines. The water is killer cold.

My NBF and I were on the fantail with some other island commuter types he knew. We all stood there under the cloudless sky. We talked and drank beers as the Mainland got smaller. You feel as if it is kind of permanently gone. A weird illusion anytime, but weirder still when seriously drunk and a joint has been surreptitiously passed around. It occurred to me that no one knew where I was. An unsettling tremor of paranoia was towed in the wake of that thought. Fucking Weed.

It was, as filmmakers say the magic hour with gold light filling in the interstices by the time we docked at the island. NBF and I said goodbye to our buddies and started off along a path just off the main dirt road (all roads are dirt on this island). We walked for 20 minutes or so into a deep hardwood forest, up an incline across a rocky beach and back into the woods. NBF saw a piece of quartz which was as white as the wake. He gave it to me. I noticed about then that Dude hadn't spoken in a while. It was getting dark fast, the path was getting hard to see. And we were in some deep woods.

When we arrived at his place it was a converted shed, with interesting stuff hanging all over it and a door at the back of a storage area. We had to maneuver around some bikes and scrap metal , it was really getting hard to see, to get to the actual door which led into a pitch black room. He lit a lamp to reveal a couple of chairs, a wood stove, an old rug, some dishes and a large bottle of water, I couldn't make out what was hanging on the walls.

Anyway this is getting too long so I'll split it up. He handed me an old coffee cup, opened a gallon sized bottled of cheap whiskey and poured me half a cup. It was pitch dark outside.

to be continued