Guide Rough Hewn: A Bus Drivers Anthology

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Q: Spread for us a repast of your choosing, a meal fit for a poet. A: I was for many years a professional cook, trained in the French system of apprenticeship, from potwasher to chef de cuisine, and I still love French food. I remember my great grandmother and my grandmother standing in the kitchen, peeling and slicing the vegetables my grandfather had picked against their palms above the counter into the bowls, never on the cutting boards he had made, unless it was to slice the rectangular loaves of dense, heavy bread into thick slices to be spread with whipped butter instead of olive oil.

In my past it was made with elbow macaroni. So delicious.

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So good. A re-past. Yes, I would love that. The three silver dories bobbed in place, each tied to its edge of the net. The men stood elbow to elbow in them, from six to ten in a group. Holding the net with all their might, every swell splashed their faces, shining against yellow oilskin bib overalls. When the Atlantic dipped, so did each dory.

African Interest

As more of the net went under, the men released it, fearing the loss of fingers. Like everything else, it sizzled white-hot under July sun. Made of heavy aluminum, pointed at both tips, the dories were longboats born of a tradition started centuries ago. She lolled and creaked alongside her margin of the square net. Bald tires hung against her glossy green hull like a bracelet of black washers. Men started to see the catch. Finally, thought Victor Silva, the effort pays off.

Some circled in a noisy growing collective overhead. The net began to curve over the edge of each dory, taking the shape of a bowl. High up the bow of Iron Jane , it gleamed like a spider web catching shifts in the light. A shark fin cleaved through its surface. Victor, and Pat Hennessy next to him, watched it. Foreman Mitch McSherry stood behind them, scarlet-cheeked, fists on hips, green eyes flinty, as lean as a scar from a honed blade.

IN REMEMBRANCE: | BEAUTIFUL, ALSO, ARE THE SOULS OF MY BLACK SISTERS

Hair barbered to a coppery shine, his neck creased and sun-scorched, a scowl of disapproval writ large on his face, Mitch wore jeans and a blue T-shirt so tightly they looked painted to his frame. He was the only one out there not wearing oilskins. He kept a pack of cigarettes rolled into one sleeve. A fillet knife in a sheath fixed to his wide belt. Jeans tucked into high rubber boots. Standard gear, the boots ran up to his knees. All the men wore them.

Each shout came barked in a clipped cadence, a harsh local accent that flattened all Rs. Bend with your knees and pull with your legs. Vic turned back toward the net. So much of his job had to do with balance, economy of motion, and putting up with Mitch. Making progress. As the net emerged black and dripping, so did gleaming fish. He leaned over to study surges, bubbles and swirls of foam on a surface bottle-green one moment, black the next. The sea fizzed like sparkling wine marked by tiny frothing fissures and erratic whirlpools.


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When it darkened, it looked like a polished onyx. If the sea meant anything, thought Vic, it meant life was a show of violent change. Mitch, still scowling, ignored Pat. His face a sun-washed map of cuts and boils, his hair a wild tangle of silver shot through with black, his flannel tattered, tails out, roomy enough to sleep in.

Did he like what he saw? Not Sonny. The years had made his body lumpish, and he needed Thorazine to withstand a nagging back injury, but he gave off an aura of pained endurance, and a tired solidity of purpose that went unquestioned. A cigarette behind his ear, he stopped a moment and rested elbows on the rail. Grave and skeptical, he surveyed the dories. They formed a wobbling frame upon the water that struck him as absurdly puny. He scratched and fingered the stubble of a two-day beard, mumbling vague expressions of doubt.

As usual, he lacked experienced manpower. Many of his boys were unfamiliar greenhorns hired as day laborers to keep the operation going. Means you owe me a hundred bucks. Pat held on and pulled the net but kept a wary eye on the shark fin.

The Complete Commodore Inner Space Anthology

The bundled net at his feet, once a coil, had become a tangled blob. He eyed that, too, making sure his rubber boots stayed on top without any net choking his ankles. Winches sputtered in each dory, pulling a yellow line attached to the net and making conversation impossible. Within the net, a slow boil began to grow louder.

strangertime: an anthology of Indian Poetry in English

Trapped fish slashed seawater, more and more of them exposed to the air. The shark moved closer at a steady clip.

Like a swollen missile, thought Victor. Victor would not show the fear that vaulted in his stomach. He glanced at Pat, who was leaning over the water, trying to grab the fin. He saw Cliff Larch moving from the far end of the dory. Cliff stood close enough to push Pat overboard if he wanted to. Victor lunged toward Pat. You nuts? The dory rocked.

The shark had nosed under and nudged it, throwing them all off balance. Victor saw Cliff nudge Pat. Perhaps on purpose and perhaps not. Never be able to say.