West Of Here Part 10

"Well, yeah, that's true," said Krig, reaching for the joint. "As long as I can remember. It was different back when I started, though. It's different now. If I was you, I'd blow this town."

"Well, you're still here."

"That's what I'm saying. I just mean if I were you, you, I'd go to college and party my a.s.s off and get a degree or whatever so I'd have some options, you know?" I'd go to college and party my a.s.s off and get a degree or whatever so I'd have some options, you know?"

"I gotta go," said Curtis, opening the door.

"Later," said Krig.

Stubbing the roach out in the ashtray, Krig watched Curtis go. The kid ambled across the lot and crossed Marine without looking. He headed south toward Front Street. Weird little dude. But Krig was willing to give the kid a break. He was a little antisocial, but whatever. Who could blame the kid?

Krig checked his eyes in the rearview mirror, fished an Altoid out of the glove box, and reminded himself to order wet-locks.

SOMETIMES IT WASN'T enough for Jared to hide in his office, where Dee Dee was likely to molest his solitude with inventory discrepancies, or Don Buford from Prime Seafoods might call to badger him about the ALS charity golf tournament in Sequim next weekend, or worst of all, Janis might call to dispatch him on some errand - color swatches from Sherwin-Williams, Bubble Wrap from Office Depot - thus negating his lunch hour, which Jared preferred to spend sleeping in the SUV (and why not, it was costing him six and change per month?). But sleep wouldn't have Jared this afternoon, as he reclined in the driver's seat of his GL-450. After five months, the job was getting to him. It wasn't the stress; the workload was manageable enough. It was the nature of the details now populating his life, the things he was forced to think about, all the s.h.i.t that rolled uphill instead of down. For instance, the wet-locks that Krigstadt would no doubt forget to order (again), and the two hundred pounds of coho that would subsequently thaw (again), resulting in a phone call Thursday morning (again) from an irate retailer in Spokane. enough for Jared to hide in his office, where Dee Dee was likely to molest his solitude with inventory discrepancies, or Don Buford from Prime Seafoods might call to badger him about the ALS charity golf tournament in Sequim next weekend, or worst of all, Janis might call to dispatch him on some errand - color swatches from Sherwin-Williams, Bubble Wrap from Office Depot - thus negating his lunch hour, which Jared preferred to spend sleeping in the SUV (and why not, it was costing him six and change per month?). But sleep wouldn't have Jared this afternoon, as he reclined in the driver's seat of his GL-450. After five months, the job was getting to him. It wasn't the stress; the workload was manageable enough. It was the nature of the details now populating his life, the things he was forced to think about, all the s.h.i.t that rolled uphill instead of down. For instance, the wet-locks that Krigstadt would no doubt forget to order (again), and the two hundred pounds of coho that would subsequently thaw (again), resulting in a phone call Thursday morning (again) from an irate retailer in Spokane.

How had his life been reduced to such trivialities? What happened to expectations - his and everyone else's? He was a Thornburgh. Thornburghs didn't ponder the shipping cost of canned clams, didn't fret about the flagging market for pickled herring in the southwest; Thornburghs auth.o.r.ed public policy, they legislated, they built dams out of mountains and put towns on maps!

But wasn't he being a little hard on himself? Was it really owing to some flaw in his own character that he had wound up here, in what ought to be the prime of his life, with nothing more to show than a dwindling trust fund and a head full of canned crab? Where were the opportunities? He had his ducks in line; he was networked, educated, sufficiently energetic. And contrary to the perception around High Tide, Jared had put in his time - maybe not in the trenches but at least in the cla.s.sroom. So where were the rivers to be dammed, the policies to be forged? How did one fashion a future from smoked oysters?

A tap on the window startled Jared from these meditations - it was Dee Dee, clutching a fax. Jared lowered the window with an electric whir.

"This rush just came in from Longview," she said. "Oh, and Don Buford called about your tee time on Sat.u.r.day."

the bushwhacker JUNE 2006 2006.

When Timmon Tillman stepped off the 136 bus in Port Bonita into a mud puddle, with $843 in his wallet and a letter from the parole board testifying to his status as a reformed ward of the State Corrections Center in Clallam Bay, n.o.body was there to greet him, which is exactly how Timmon Tillman preferred it. When the board asked him what future he envisioned for himself, Timmon told them simply, "A place of my own." When they asked him what kind of work he'd like to do, he told them, "Something with my hands." And when, in conclusion, they asked him if he had a goal in life, Timmon said, "To live my life one day at a time."

But what Timmon had wanted to say was, "To be left alone."

In the Circle K, he bought two pepperoni sticks and a Snapple. The clerk snuck furtive glances at his tattooed hand: the washed-out gun-metal blue Egyptian ankh (which looked more like an upside-down gingerbread man), the would-be bar code, which having presented his cell mate Gooch with far too great a challenge from a design standpoint resulted in an amorphous blotch on Timmon's wrist, and above the knuckles, a single word scripted in a scrolling cursive hand: onward! onward!

Timmon left his four cents change in the Kool Menthol penny tray and started drifting toward the center of town under a steady drizzle. The mountains were socked in from the foothills to the ridge, and the strait was hardly visible through the haze. The speeding cars on U.S. Route 101 threw a gritty spray in their wake, and when he closed his eyes, the sound of the swishing tires sounded almost natural to Timmon, like the surf. But the moment he opened them again he longed to be outside the prison of himself. He could almost feel the fizz of tonic on his tongue, the warm suffusion of vodka in his belly. The world was teeming with possibilities, and the overwhelming majority of them were too excruciating to ponder: a nowhere job, a crummy motel room, an issue of Juggs Juggs - then what? The endless reiteration of hot plate dinners and naked lightbulbs? The perpetual sound of his own spinning wheels? How was marking time any different on the outside? - then what? The endless reiteration of hot plate dinners and naked lightbulbs? The perpetual sound of his own spinning wheels? How was marking time any different on the outside?

Only the thought of a steak dinner brightened Timmon's outlook as he booked a room at the Wharf Side, where there was nothing even remotely surrept.i.tious in the appraisal of the carbuncled old desk woman when she looked Timmon up and down with particular attention to his tattoos.

"The coat hangers stay," she wheezed. "And we like to keep things quiet around here."

"Yes, ma'am," said Timmon.

The room afforded Timmon a dramatic view of an auto body shop, a Chevron, a Jack in the Box, and a Taco Bell. The walls were orange, the pea green carpet was piebald, and the residue of twenty-year-old smoke clung to the yellow drapes. The bathroom was so small that in order to stand in it, the door had to be shut. There was a rusty ring around the shower drain. Something smelled like mop water.

Timmon unpacked his duffel bag: some jeans, a windbreaker, some socks, a pair of prison-issue black rubber flip-flops, and a copy of Whitman's Leaves of Gra.s.s, Leaves of Gra.s.s, which might have been kicked there from Peoria. which might have been kicked there from Peoria. O me! O life! O me! O life! He arranged these things spa.r.s.ely about the room in an attempt at hominess. And looking upon his work with a hollow ache, he fled the room immediately in favor of the open air. He arranged these things spa.r.s.ely about the room in an attempt at hominess. And looking upon his work with a hollow ache, he fled the room immediately in favor of the open air.

It was still dumping rain at dusk. The sky was low. The mountains remained invisible. The unmistakable odor of deep-fried fat hung in the air. Timmon trudged north past Taco Bell, br.i.m.m.i.n.g eerily with light in the gathering darkness. Jack in the Crack, Chevron, the Dollar Store. He could have been anywhere. He proceeded over the hump and onward.

In the murky confines of the Bushwhacker, Timmon ordered a vodka tonic and leveled his gaze on the bartop in front of him, avoiding even the most casual eye contact with the bartender or anyone else. Despite lethal doses of Whitman's tireless curiosity and optimism, which he spoon-fed himself daily in the dank perimeters of his cell, Timmon's most recent stint in prison had done little to awaken his curiosity in people.

When his drink arrived, he left it in front of him on the bar like a challenge, where it stayed until the ice melted and the fizz went out of it and dew drops formed on the outside of the gla.s.s. Knowing all the while that if he drank it, the fierce determination to win would come surging back immediately, but knowing also the boomerang effect morning would bring, all the terror and madness and self-loathing. What was this compulsion to escape, to be beholden to no man? And why was it he could only seem to achieve freedom in the reeling, s...o...b..ring stages of drunkenness, those very stages he could never remember in the morning when he awoke in holding cells with his zipper unfastened and lumps on his skull? Why, like old Walt, could he not be afoot and light-hearted upon the open road, healthy and free with his path before him? Where were his hearty appet.i.tes, his slumbering pa.s.sions? Where betwixt these green islands were his subtle refrains?

When his steak arrived, Timmon had no appet.i.te for it. He could do nothing but ponder the dim prospect of his future. Eight hundred and forty bucks. Eight twenty-five after the steak and the vodka, both of which would remain untouched. Beyond this paltry sum separating him from total dest.i.tution - ama.s.sed under the state's supervision at the wage of $1.15 per hour, collating Wal-Mart circulars as a means of personal empowerment and social elevation - the future was even bleaker food for contemplation. The infernal struggle. The paperwork. The standing in lines. The people with their suspicions, and worse, their charity. The smell of those curtains.

At least Don Gasper gave him a couple of leads. Gasper said he was coming back to P.B. himself when he was sprung. Said he knew everybody. Said it was a kick-a.s.s town. But then, look at Gasper. Guy couldn't even burgle his own grandmother.

AN OFFICE, THE first of many, thought Timmon. Well, sort of an office. More of a cubicle with mottled brown carpet and a fishy smell. A guy in a rubber ap.r.o.n and boots was leaning back in his chair, looking at Timmon's letter of recommendation without really looking at it. He kept looking instead at the gingerbread man. first of many, thought Timmon. Well, sort of an office. More of a cubicle with mottled brown carpet and a fishy smell. A guy in a rubber ap.r.o.n and boots was leaning back in his chair, looking at Timmon's letter of recommendation without really looking at it. He kept looking instead at the gingerbread man.

"So, wait a minute," the guy said. "Didn't I see you at the Bushwhacker last night? s.h.i.t yeah, I thought you looked familiar. I was eyeing your steak." Krig handed the letter back to Timmon. "I don't need this s.h.i.t. What are you gonna steal? G.o.dd.a.m.n halibut?"

"Don Gasper mentioned that -"

"Don Gasper's a tool. I played JV with the guy. He's what we call a go-left. No f.u.c.king right hand. Just box the f.u.c.ker in at the top of the key and force him right. He'll settle for some weak-a.s.s jumper every time. Gasper. Pfff. What a p.r.i.c.k. I haven't seen that guy since our ten-year."

Thornburgh came striding down the corridor toward Krig's cubicle. Krig promptly swung his feet off the desk.

"Where's my wet-locks, Krigstadt? I've got two hundred pounds of coho sitting down there and no wet-locks."

"I'm on it, I'm on it," said Krig, with a salute. "Done and doner, sir."

Jared heaved a heavy sigh. He thought about saying something but decided, exhaustively and at length with a rather drawn expression on his face as he appraised Krig, that it just wasn't worth it. Turning on his heels, he marched across the hall to his office.

"p.r.i.c.k," mumbled Krig, who replaced his feet on the desk. "You're one lucky sonofab.i.t.c.h, Tisdale, you know that? And I'll tell you why. We got a hundred and twenty thousand pounds of salmon coming through here next week, and I'm short-handed on second crew. You think you can hose down fish? Spoon out guts? Maybe drive a forklift if you're a good boy? It ain't brain surgery, but you'd be surprised at how some of these dumbf.u.c.ks could screw something up. Do these sound like skill sets you possess, Tisdale? Because if you can do that, I don't care if you tattoo a pentagram on your forehead. I need fast, reliable processors. In fact, I might even be able to shuffle some things around. Better hours. How does first crew sound?"

It was apparent even before Timmon donned his ap.r.o.n the following morning in the locker room that Krig had decided to take him under his wing, a fate Timmon would have cheerfully traded for eight hours of solitary confinement. Krig was intent on grooming him. Krig believed in second chances.

"I figure you give a guy a break, right? Even the playing field. P.B.'s all about fresh starts. Used to be, anyway. h.e.l.l, look at Thornburgh's great-great-whatever. Guy got here with a plug nickel after they ran him out of Seattle, and now half of P.B.'s named after him."

Krig was inexhaustible. He kept talking about his Goat. Three times he commented on Timmon's stature. "You sure sure you didn't play any roundball?" you didn't play any roundball?"

At six foot six, Timmon was weary of this a.s.sumption. The answer was no. No, no, no. He never played basketball. He was gangly, having grown all at once one excruciating soph.o.m.ore year that saw his pants cuffs ascend halfway to his knees and his Adam's apple push against the inside of his neck as though it were trying to break through. Everything grew but his dingus. He'd gone out for JV and was the first man cut. He ran the court like a wounded marionette. He launched hopeless bricks at the rim. He couldn't even set a decent pick he was so skinny. He hated basketball. And still, the whole world insisted on foisting basketball upon him, as though it were beyond the realm of possibility that a tall guy related to the world as anything but one big f.u.c.king basketball game.

Krig walked Timmon through every phase of processing: demonstrating with knives and spigoted spoons various feats of prestidigitation upon fish carca.s.ses as they made their way up the line, station to station. At lunch, Krig insisted on sitting with Timmon on the loading dock. He insisted on showing him the Goat, stipulating that Timmon sit in the driver seat. For one merciful hour, Krig left Timmon slitting necks on the line unattended, but even then he was a lingering presence, frequently prairie-d.o.g.g.i.ng over his cubicle and peering through the smudged Plexiglas window to check on Timmon's progress. Worse, he insisted on driving Timmon to the Wharf Side in the Goat, spiriting him away instead to the Bushwhacker for happy hour, where Krig proceeded to describe in stultifying detail the texture, scent, and miraculous size of what he determined to be Sasquatch dung at a nearby lake.

The second day was hardly better. Krig's presence was suffocating. He persisted with the basketball. His growing familiarity toward Timmon was harder to endure than anything Gooch had ever visited upon him in the darkness of their cell. At least Gooch didn't like basketball. It hardly mattered to Timmon what Krig's intentions might be or what doors Krig might open for him. Timmon didn't want a break. He just wanted to be left alone.

At lunch, he narrowly escaped Krig under the pretense of meeting his parole officer.

"No prob," said Krig. "You can take an extra hour if you need it. You need a ride?"

FRANKLIN BELL WAS the first black person Timmon had seen since he left Clallam Bay. He was a little guy with salt and pepper hair, whose stature was diminished still further by a giant avocado-colored desk, in whose squeaking bowels he presently scanned for Timmon's file. It was soon apparent that Bell compensated for his size with a hard-nosed exuberance. the first black person Timmon had seen since he left Clallam Bay. He was a little guy with salt and pepper hair, whose stature was diminished still further by a giant avocado-colored desk, in whose squeaking bowels he presently scanned for Timmon's file. It was soon apparent that Bell compensated for his size with a hard-nosed exuberance.

"Taylor, Temple, Thatcher, Tillman, bam! Thankyouverymuch. bam! Thankyouverymuch." He pulled the file out, kicked his feet up on the desk and perused the contents of the manila folder, humming all the while a tune vaguely familiar to Timmon. Was that Don Henley? Was the black dude humming Don Henley? Bell tapped his foot in time, bobbed his eyebrows up and down, and kept on humming as he scanned the file. It was was Don Henley! "Boys of Summer." Don Henley! "Boys of Summer."

Thirty-six, thought Franklin, doesn't look it. Same age as the boy would be right now. Had it really been that long? Chasing the thought from his head, Franklin continued his humming survey. String of priors and two strikes. Nothing violent. Kid doesn't look so tough when you get past the ink. Mother deceased, father deceased. Couple of community college cla.s.ses. No driver's license.

Finally, right about the time Henley saw a Deadhead sticker on a Cadillac, Bell slammed the folder shut on the desktop. "Free at last! So whaddaya gonna do with that, Tillman? You gonna squander that opportunity?" But before Timmon could answer, Bell answered for him. "h.e.l.l no, you're not. I'm here to make sure you don't." Bell spun around in his chair and opened a brown mini-fridge from which he produced a green and red carton. Kicking his legs up once more, he took a long pull from the carton, which left a thick white mustache upon his upper lip. Bell was apparently oblivious of the mustache.

"Mm-mm. I like me some eggnog, Tillman. That's That's goodness. Like mothers milk. I know what you're thinkin', too, you're thinkin', 'Now, what kinda dude drinks eggnog in June?' Well, now, you take one look out that window and you tell me it looks like June, Tillman. Looks like G.o.dd.a.m.n Christmas to me." Bell offered the carton to Timmon, and when Timmon declined, he took another pull himself. " goodness. Like mothers milk. I know what you're thinkin', too, you're thinkin', 'Now, what kinda dude drinks eggnog in June?' Well, now, you take one look out that window and you tell me it looks like June, Tillman. Looks like G.o.dd.a.m.n Christmas to me." Bell offered the carton to Timmon, and when Timmon declined, he took another pull himself. "d.a.m.n, that's good. I gotta special order this s.h.i.t. d.a.m.n near four bucks a carton this time of year." Bell set the carton down and picked up the file again. "Native son," he observed. "South-side boy myself, Tillman. South Halsted, one-bedroom apartment with four brothers and a sister. They tore that pesthole down, good riddance, paved it over with an interstate. Where you from?" that's good. I gotta special order this s.h.i.t. d.a.m.n near four bucks a carton this time of year." Bell set the carton down and picked up the file again. "Native son," he observed. "South-side boy myself, Tillman. South Halsted, one-bedroom apartment with four brothers and a sister. They tore that pesthole down, good riddance, paved it over with an interstate. Where you from?"

"Lincoln Park," lied Timmon.

"Mmm," commented Bell, doubtfully, glancing down at the gingerbread man and the blotch on Timmon's wrist. But it didn't bother him that Timmon was lying. He could empathize with the guy. Franklin knew what it was like to want to shed one's beginnings. He'd been running out from under shadows as long as he could remember. "Been a long way down, eh, son?"

"Didn't take long," said Timmon.

"Fast worker. That's good, Tillman. At least you're decisive. We can work with that." Bell drained the carton, spun around in his chair and let a jump-shot fly. It clunked off the rim of the green garbage can. He shrugged it off, and smiled. He still had an eggnog mustache. "Well," he said. "Least I'm still in the game. Let's talk turkey." Bell folded his arms and leaned back even farther in his chair, which issued some plaintive squeaking. "Just what do you plan on doing with your life, son?"

"Gettin' by."

"That it?"

"That's plenty."

"That what they taught you in corrections?"

"Somethin' like that."

"Why Port Bonita? Says here you were in Aberdeen before your last stint."

Timmon glanced out the window at the rain and shrugged. "Why not?"

"Plan on settlin' down, do you?"

"Suppose so. Can't go too far now, can I?"

"This ain't no land of milk and honey, Tillman. I'm just warning you. A man needs to create his own breaks around here, a man needs to show a little hustle if he plans on gettin' anywhere, you follow? Ain't squat for work, and plenty of compet.i.tion. Consider yourself lucky to have a job."

Timmon nodded.

"Plenty of riffraff in these parts, too. How are you at resisting temptation, Tillman?"

Timmon cast a vague glance out at the rain once more. "Why comes temptation, but for man to meet and master and crouch beneath his foot."

"Say what?"

"Browning."

"The pitcher?"

"The dreamer."

Franklin looked impressed, nodding his head slowly and hoisting an eyebrow. "Reader, huh?"

"Not by choice."

"Says in the file you're not a big talker."

Timmon gave a nod.

"Well?"

"What's to say."

"Fair enough, I suppose. How about listenin'? Do much of that?"

"I hear a lot."

"Good start, Tillman, I like your style. You're a man who bides his words. A listener. Good set of ears can get a man a long way. Don't stop listenin' to them dreamers in your head, boy. They know some-thin'. And I know a thing or two, myself. And I want you to listen up, and listen good, because sooner you realize what I got to tell you, sooner you can make your life a masterpiece."

It did not occur to Timmon to envision what sort of masterpiece Bell had created out of his own life, that is, a sixty-hour workweek, peptic ulcer, studio apartment behind a bowling alley, twenty-three consecutive months of excruciating celibacy. Instead, Timmon found himself clinging to Bell's exuberance. And why not? Maybe there was a fresh start awaiting him at the end of Bell's soliloquy. Maybe Port Bonita would prove to be a departure from Aberdeen. Or Lawrence, Kansas. Or Chicago. Gaspar said it was a kick-a.s.s town. Krigstadt had made the place out to be some kind of Shangri-la for self-starters and misfits. So why not lean into Bell's enthusiasm, why not listen to his promise of fresh starts, even if it meant setting certain realities aside?

Franklin could feel it, too - the kid was listening. These were the moments when he scored his victories. These were the moments that sustained the sterling record. This is where you broke a guy's patterns, convinced him to try new approaches to the same old s.h.i.t. This is where you convinced him to run a different team out there for the second half, convinced him to believe. These were the moments when the momentum swung. And if Franklin could push hard enough, he could turn a guy around, undo the first half as though it never existed.

"You're the master of your own destiny, Tillman, and that's a fact. Wrap it in all the poetry you see fit. Because that's the truth. A man can pick his destiny. I've seen it. And he can do it right here in Port Bonita, too - with or without the s.h.i.t economy and neverending rain. This is ground zero for your life, Tillman. So whaddaya gonna do with it? You gonna foul the nest, again? You gonna ignore your past mistakes? Surrender to your own apathy? Or"- here, Bell swung his legs down off the desk and practically had to stand on his chair in order to reach across the desk and seize Timmon by the collar - "are you gonna reach into the future and grab life by the n.u.t.s.a.c.k n.u.t.s.a.c.k?"

Bell made it seem tactile. Almost like an act of aggression. Timmon could do aggression.

"You gotta dare to dream, Tillman. I got dudes like you comin' in and out of my office all week long, smellin' like fish - down in the face, angry folks. And you know why? 'Cause they're chickens.h.i.t motherf.u.c.kers! I say, s.h.i.t or get off the pot, Tillman! Quit wastin' this bureau-crat's time and go waste some more of his tax money sittin' your white a.s.s in a jail cell." Releasing his grip, Bell lowered himself back into his squeaky chair then stood, walked to the corner, picked up the eggnog carton, and dunked it. He sat back down in his squeaky chair. "That there's a high percentage shot. And that's how you do it, Tillman. You gotta slam dunk your life. Think about the future you want for yourself. When you figure that out, the rest is easy. Find a hole, get yourself a head full of steam, grip that rock, and drive to the hoop. And like the man says, 'Don't look back, you can never look back!'"

LATE IN THE evening, having left his sweet-and-sour chicken half eaten in front of the television, where the M's were about to drop their third straight to Anaheim, Franklin found himself - contrary to the wisdom of Don Henley - looking back. A light mist shone in the purple streetlamps, as he walked his bull mastiff around the parking lot behind Port Bonita Lanes. He could hear the faint crack of pins, and the general hum of activity from within the sagging gray edifice. Farther off, he could hear the swishing of light traffic on Route 101. evening, having left his sweet-and-sour chicken half eaten in front of the television, where the M's were about to drop their third straight to Anaheim, Franklin found himself - contrary to the wisdom of Don Henley - looking back. A light mist shone in the purple streetlamps, as he walked his bull mastiff around the parking lot behind Port Bonita Lanes. He could hear the faint crack of pins, and the general hum of activity from within the sagging gray edifice. Farther off, he could hear the swishing of light traffic on Route 101.

He'd lied to that kid today. No getting around it. Dare to Dare to dream - as if anything were that easy. dream - as if anything were that easy. Ground zero for your life Ground zero for your life - as if anything were that definite. He should've tempered his optimism. He'd made all of Port Bonita seem like it actually gave a s.h.i.t. He'd made it sound like he himself gave a s.h.i.t. He should've given it to Tillman straight. He should've said, "Son, I ain't gonna lie to you - it's sink or swim. And keepin' your head above water ain't exactly the stuff of fairy tales. But it beats the joint." - as if anything were that definite. He should've tempered his optimism. He'd made all of Port Bonita seem like it actually gave a s.h.i.t. He'd made it sound like he himself gave a s.h.i.t. He should've given it to Tillman straight. He should've said, "Son, I ain't gonna lie to you - it's sink or swim. And keepin' your head above water ain't exactly the stuff of fairy tales. But it beats the joint."

He should've done the practical thing - told the kid to keep his nose clean, told him to keep collecting a paycheck and stay out of bars. Told him this town was no different than any other town with a Wal-Mart and two Mexican restaurants. Instead, Franklin had inspired him, stirred up those dreamers and poets. He could see that green light in Tillman's eyes, even as he left the office. But how soon would that fade? How soon before a s.h.i.t job in a s.h.i.t town seemed like a dead end street? Next time, Franklin decided, he'd tone things down a bit, prepare Tillman to lower his expectations slightly. Tell him his life may not look like Hugh Hefner's right away - at least not for the foreseeable future - but it could look a sight better than three-square and a Ping-Pong table. A guy could buy his own groceries, watch TV on his own time, get an apartment behind Bonita Lanes. Boy like Tillman needed practical advice, not poetry.

FRANKLIN BELL'S PEP talks actually worked for a while. Two sessions, anyway. On both occasions, Timmon had exhibited a slight spring in his step when he returned to High Tide from his two-hour lunch, donned his rubber ap.r.o.n, and took his place on the line. But after the third meeting, there was no spring in his step. Gutting fish, he tried to see the hole, tried to grip the rock. But the only hole he could see was so deep that he couldn't see out of it, and the only thing he was gripping was a headless fish. And when Krig came up behind him and set a familiar hand on Timmon's shoulder, inquiring whether he planned on joining him for happy hour, the die was cast. Timmon swept the hand off like a tarantula, shed his ap.r.o.n matter-of-factly, hung it on a peg, and walked calmly across the processing room toward the back entrance. talks actually worked for a while. Two sessions, anyway. On both occasions, Timmon had exhibited a slight spring in his step when he returned to High Tide from his two-hour lunch, donned his rubber ap.r.o.n, and took his place on the line. But after the third meeting, there was no spring in his step. Gutting fish, he tried to see the hole, tried to grip the rock. But the only hole he could see was so deep that he couldn't see out of it, and the only thing he was gripping was a headless fish. And when Krig came up behind him and set a familiar hand on Timmon's shoulder, inquiring whether he planned on joining him for happy hour, the die was cast. Timmon swept the hand off like a tarantula, shed his ap.r.o.n matter-of-factly, hung it on a peg, and walked calmly across the processing room toward the back entrance.

The instant Timmon strode out of High Tide and let the door close behind him with a metallic clatter, his future was delivered to him in a flash of weak sunlight. Surrendering to the one decision that could conceivably make his dream a foreseeable reality, a bitter little pellet dissolved in his stomach. Suddenly, he burned to throw himself headlong at the future. The solution to his life was right in front of him.

He had only to beat a trail to it. It was all so tangible. Risky, perhaps, dangerous - by no means a cakewalk - really, a cold hard business when you got down to it but thrilling and boundless. And it was his for the taking.

Timmon patted his wallet in his front pocket, still $618 thick. Plenty for where he was going. He smiled at the thought of it, marched with purpose and determination across the dirt parking lot, past the Goat, and across Marine without looking.

THE NEXT WEEK, when Timmon failed to appear for his fourth parole meeting, Franklin left his office depressed and went home to his studio apartment. Arriving home, he plopped down on his bile colored sofa and patted Rupert's big square head.

"Well, Rupe. We finally lost one."