Normally, I’m happy to be alone. Tonight, I was elated to see a fellow human being. No luck, though. It was Big Dan, Raynauld, and Greg just closing the place, in a hurry to get to their homes so they could finish boarding windows.
Tomlinson had left an hour ago, they told me. They hadn’t exactly asked him to leave, but they were glad he had. He’d been going from table to crowded table, wearing his weird goggles, and prescribing various drinks depending on the customer’s aura. Sounded like Tomlinson was having a restless night, too.
I rode on. Over a wooden bridge, then passed the elementary school, its playground and ball diamond more silent because of the implicit laughter of children. I stopped for a moment to look at the moon through clouds. Blue light in the moonlight.
I turned, and returned to Dinkin’s Bay. No one stirring at the marina, either. The approaching storm had chased most of the residents to the mainland. Boats with dark windows creaked on their lines; bait tanks hissed; halyards tapped in the wind. The bay was black but for the twin yellow eyes of lighted portholes on an old Morgan sailboat.
No Mas.
Tomlinson was awake.
I rode home, got a six-pack of beer, and started my skiff.
A board his boat, without an audience, Tomlinson is Tomlinson, not the ever-happy hipster people have come to expect. Tonight, he was more staid than usual, sitting at the settee berth, brass oil lamps and patchouli sticks burning, reading a book on the history of Islam.
I suspected it was the book that put him in a restrained, thoughtful mood, although he told me, “I was at the rum bar tonight and got weirded out, man, because I realized that just being who I am weirds out a lot more people than it used to. No matter how straight I get, the world manages to stay a little straighter.”
“Maybe you’re so far ahead, it just seems like you’re behind,” I offered.
“Um-huh. Wouldn’t we all like to think that.”
I ducked going down the three companionway steps, put the beer atop the icebox, starboard side, and told him, “I have a mystic-mental image of you going from table to table, wearing your Kilner goggles, telling customers to drink rum if they have green auras but stick to beer if they’re red. A kind of vision. It just came to me.”
He smiled and played along. “Very perceptive. Accurate, too. You’re definitely into a whole new sensitivity trip. Soon, you’ll be feeling actual emotions, Doc. Human emotions. The real test? That classic film, Old Yeller. I predict it’ll get a sniffle out of you yet.”
I was wearing my foul-weather jacket. It had begun to sprinkle while I was in my skiff. Light rain in a gusting wind. I hung the jacket near the aft quarter bunk, then adjusted the cockpit door, kerosene lamps fluttering, as I replied, “Nope. I always pull for the wolf. The one that’s got rabies and wants to bite the nice-looking kids.”
“You stopped by the bar?”
“Yeah. Dan and Raynauld told me about you prescribing drinks. Sounded like a good idea to me.”
“Yeah, well…I think it scared some people, and everyone’s already nervous because of the weather. I was surprised the restaurant was busy, so many people have split.”
He sighed, irritated.
Occasionally, irrational behavior troubles the man. He was troubled now.
“Folks are packing their cars and running. Why? We’ll get thunderstorms tonight. Wind’s supposed to be fifty knots tops. Tuesday, it’ll be a little worse, but so what? That’s no reason to leave homes, shut down businesses. I put out a couple of extra hooks and laid in some emergency bags of weed. That’s preparation, man. Everything else is just hysteria.”
The news media had gone hurricane insane, he added, intentionally exaggerating information. I took a seat as he talked about it, finishing, “Fear sells. Every news story is a variation on journalism’s favorite cliché: the apocalypse. But they’re screwing up the economies of whole cities, and I’m not even a capitalist, man. They’re screwing with people’s lives!”
Was that tea he was drinking?
Yes. Green tea in a ship’s mug. Something else added, possibly, but maybe not. He was uncharacteristically cogent for this time of evening. Yes, getting straighter and straighter while I, as he claimed, was becoming more in tune with…something. I have learned not to ask.
Tonight, though, I did not feel like the reasonable, rational man I attempt to portray. So maybe he had a point.
Tomlinson stood, took a can of beer and offered it to me. “No. Tea’s fine. Or nothing.”
“Your head’s killing you, man. I can tell. Your eyes get glassy. A CAT scan is what you need, amigo.”
“Do you have one aboard? If not, please drop it.”
“No. But I can get you something that’ll help.”
I said, “I’ll take it.” I thought he meant aspirin. Instead, he shrugged—Okay, if that’s what the man wants—and removed the teak cover from the icebox.
I watched him stick a bony arm into the icebox, and retrieve a plastic bag bulging with what looked like oregano but wasn’t. I’d seen this ceremony many times. When he lit up, I would go outside. Or we both would.
I never smoke. Not even cigars.
As he took out rolling papers, I said, “I’ve always honored the unspoken agreement you and I have about women we date. We don’t risk embarrassing them by sharing details.”
“We have an agreement about that? I thought we were both just being sly.”
“It’s a small island.”
“That’s true,” Tomlinson said. “The only drawback of living on an island is that resources are limited. Particularly around bar-closing time. Men’s paths are bound to cross. That’s the crass version, anyway.” He had separated two papers, now somehow joined into one. “The way we honor the ladyfriend deal, yeah. It’s very cool.”
“I’m talking about Chestra.”
“I’m aware of that. Are you asking me if we made the beast with two backs?”
“Maybe, but don’t answer yet. The effect she has on me when we’re alone is abnormal. Even if she’s fifteen years younger than I think she is, it’s still not normal. I’m trying to figure it out.”
“The age thing, yeah, man. It’s one of your hang-ups, I know. When you found out Hannah Smith sometimes treated old Arlis to the lady’s Triple Crown, you said it was disgusting. So maybe karma’s taking you down this road for a reason.”
“Distasteful” is what I’d said, but I didn’t correct him. “The dynamic is entirely different. Did you feel it, when you were alone with Chestra? The attraction? I saw you lose your temper, first time ever. I saw you choke a man. Testosterone. Rage, the murderous variety. Territorial displays of aggression. All at about the same time you were spending time with her.”
Tomlinson licked the paper again, poured in dried leaves, then rolled it into a fat cigarette, pointed at both ends. “When you put it that way, it does sound like I was being a romantic fool, head over heels in love with the woman. The attraction? Yes, I felt it. Powerful, too. Not at first, though. Every time I saw her, it got stronger.” He focused his sad blue eyes on me, being serious for once. “I’d get the shakes if I felt her breath on my cheek. When she sang, I wanted to possess her. I wanted to take her from behind, naked, and watch our reflections on the piano’s surface. Oh yeah, compadre, there was attraction.”
I felt a flash of anger, a territorial response, but recognized it for what it was.
“To possess someone. That’s out of character.”