Nucking Fuff

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The night in the cottage is unexceptional, meaning that it is marked by at least one critter incident. Liam goes to the kitchen to investigate a commotion and finds himself face to face with a giant white rat. He screams, a reaction not inappropriate upon the occasion of encountering a giant white rat in your house during the middle of the night. This isn’t a little scream, or by any interpretation a muffled gasp. It is a bone-chilling wail that originates near Liam’s coccyx, is powered by his lungs, and then is forced through the narrow channel of vocal chords that have been conditioned by years of rock and roll. This, in turn, draws Artie, who also starts screaming, through not nearly as effectively as his son. The men arm themselves with a broom and a mop and commence to shout and swat at the creature that responds by snarling and ambling away. When the house is secured they are back in bed, Artie notice the lights on in the Garden Bitch’s home. They’ll hear about this in the morning.

---

“What’s in that bureau?” Artie and Liam are cleaning out the bathhouse, which means they are opening drawers that haven’t been opened for years. Liam begins with the top drawer.

“Well, in the top drawer, there’s a lot of mouse turds. Then, in the middle drawer, lots more mouse turds. And in the bottom drawer, oh, whole lot more mouse turds.”

“Just what I’ve always wanted,” says Artie, “a old bureau full of mouse turds.”

“It’s a family heirloom,” says Liam.

“And someday this, too, will be yours.”

---

“Howcome we’re not millionaires?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Cuzzin’s stories about how Uncle Bull was really the man responsible for the success of both Howard Johnson’s and Dunkin’ Donuts. Shouldn’t some of that have filtered down to us, or at least him?”

“Um, let me think of how best to put this. I think the world of your Uncle Cuzzin, but he has this little problem with reality. My Uncle Bull had something to do with Howard Johnson and Dunkin’ Donuts, but he was hardly the power behind the throne. Also, Cuzzin and his father never exchanged a civil word after the age of fourteen. Cuzzin never even went to his funeral. Tomorrow we’ll hear about how Bull taught Ray Kroc how to make French fries. Let’s just say time has healed a few wounds for your uncle.”

“You know, ‘Uncle Cousin’ would be a pretty good band name.’”

This is the day that Nucking Fuff Construction is formed. The inspiration comes when Liam is holding a piece of trim that Artie is trying to nail back onto the house. It’s in an awkward position, and Artie is hardly a maestro of the hammer, so it’s a success when the board is actually attached to the house. There’s a one-inch gap between where it is and where it’s supposed to be, but Artie deems it “Close-e-fucking-nough.” Somehow this is morphed into Nucking Fuff Construction where “pretty close is close-e-fucking-nuff.” As they work together, father and son begin to banter back and forth in the form of radio commercials.

Tired of high construction costs? Sick of quality craftsmanship? Here at Nucking Fuff Construction, we promise that your job, no matter how big or how small, will be completed in one day. That’s our Nucking Fuff Guarantee. Any job, one day, it’s done, you’re history. Remember, we’re Nucking Fuff, where pretty close is close-e-fucking-nough.

Liam Gordon

Doesn’t it fry your ass to have to deal with plumbers, roofers, electricians, carpenters, and painters? Let’s admit it, they’re all overpaid prima donnas who whine about how busy they are. Here at Nucking Fuff, you deal directly with the big guys. We work fast; we work cheap; and we’re not afraid to take the blame when we screw up.

Arthur Gordon

We know what the competition says. ‘Nucking Fuff is incompetent, Nucking Fuff has no standards.’ Well, now it’s our turn. Of course, we’re incompetent. Who else would promise to finish any given job in one day? But as for having no standards, nothing could be further from the truth. Here at Nucking Fuff we do have standards. For instance, it’s ok to paint over cobwebs and insects, but not over mammals. Or, for instance, when painting around a rug always try to overlap just a little bit, so it looks like you’ve painted the entire floor.

Liam Gordon

Officer Tropiano comes by in the afternoon. After checking on progress and exchanging pleasantries, he says:

“Artie, there’s been a complaint.”

Artie, ably assisted by Liam, tells him about the giant white rat. Officer Tropiano can’t help but laugh at the image of the two men thrashing about with their weapons of rat destruction.

“Artie, what you’re dealing with is a possum, not a rat. And you can deal with it with a gun, a trap, an exterminator, or a bazooka for all I care, but just do it quietly so the neighbors can sleep.” It is so agreed.

That afternoon Artie buys a Hav-a-Heart trap. Just after midnight they hear it spring. Father and son go out to the kitchen and find red eyes staring back at them. “Don’t scream,” whispers Liam. “Don’t you scream,” retorts Artie.

They have captured a possum.

“Omigod, look at the babies!” Clinging to the possum’s back are six little possums.

“What do we do now?” says Liam. Artie realizes he hasn’t thought this one through.

“Let’s put a blanket over the trap, and deal with it in the morning.” The men sleep fitfully, interrupted by the rattle of mammal on steel.

In the morning Artie puts on leather work gloves, picks up the trap, blanket and all, and drives across town to the salt marsh near Germantown Flats where the possum mama and her babies wander nonchalantly into the tall grass. Back at the cottage Artie and Liam congratulate themselves on a job well done. Liam has to be at work at four o’clock, so Artie suggests they take a break from work and go for a walk on the mudflats.

Quincy Bay is like a saucer. The tide rises and falls on average about eight feet. Because the Bay is so shallow, at low tide the shoreline is exposed for several hundred yards out. The area beaches are ok, but don’t compare to the open ocean beaches like Nantasket to the south and Crane’s to the north. The mudflats, however, are a unique window into a world that is half ocean, half land. It may be just as interesting in other places, but at Indian Mound you can walk right out on the ocean floor and explore.

I’ve been walking these mudflats all of my life. Looking down at your feet is like reading the natural history of the Harbor. Look up and you see the story of humanity, the story of Boston. I know that sounds grandiose. Ok, it is grandiose, but hear me out. See this horseshoe crab? I actually know something about horseshoe crabs. They’ve been around in relatively the same shape and form for 450 million years. Yes, that is a long time. That’s 200 million years before the dinosaurs were on earth. Man? Forgedaboudit! Homo Sapiens has been around less than a million years.

Now look up at the skyline. All those pretty buildings. You know how many of those were there when I was a little kid. Two! It’s hard to conceive how ephemeral it all is.

But back to our friends, the horseshoe crabs. First of all, they’re not really crabs. They are arthropods, more closely related to spiders and scorpions than true crabs. This is their mating season. The males come in first and then the women just a week or so later. It used to be just that way on Indian Mound. The men would come down to open up the cottages, drink beer, and get them ready for the season.

The highest tides are on the full moon and the new moon. The female lays her eggs and the males, attracted by the pheromones that she has released, are right there to fertilize them. The eggs gestate for the next two weeks, alternately warmed and cooled by the tides and the sun, and then hatch on the next flood tide.

It’s really not that different for human beings. When you pick a mate, it won’t be because you decided on it, it’s because she smells good!

Of course, man is doing his level best to eradicate horseshoe crabs by so totally screwing up the habitat to make life impossible, even for creatures that have made it for the last 450 million years. This is despite the fact that scientists are finding all kinds of uses for a miracle substance called Chitin that’s found in the shells of horseshoe crabs.

But maybe there’s hope. This harbor had become a cesspool by the 1980s, but the water quality is somewhat better now. I’ve told you about digging clams here and fishing for flounder when I was a kid. You can’t do that now, but maybe it will come back. Maybe we’ve actually learned a lesson, or maybe we’ve just transferred the problem somewhere else.

---

That night Artie hears a familiar disturbance in the kitchen. He gets up to a possum with six babies, looking disturbingly like the one he released earlier that day.

Artie tells his possum story to Cuzzin. His solution is to catch the possum in the Hav-A-Heart, then to take the cage down to the waterfront and drown them all. It’s real convenient, says Cuzzin, because everything stays right in the cage.

Artie tells his possum story to Officer Tropiano, who offers to shoot the possum the next time it is caught. He seems a little squeamish about killing the babies, however.

Artie tells his possum story to the Animal Rescue League, but they rescue only cute puppies and adorable kitties.

Artie tells his possum story to South Shore Exterminators, who say they will be glad to come over and lace his house with rat poison.

Meanwhile the nightly visits have become regular and predictable. Artie spray paints a dot on the possum after he catches it again and leaves it off on Germantown Flats. The next night it is back. So is the dot.

Artie attacks the lawn, and for several days the air is filled with bits of grass, gas fumes, and the roar of a 3.5 Briggs & Stratton. Through it all Shea sits contemplatively on her deck, breathing deeply and repeating the mantra, “Endure. Endure. Endure.” Finally, there is a break in the two-cycle hue and roar, and Shea comes to the property line.

“Arthur,” she says calmly.

He looks up warily, prepared to go in any of several directions.

“It’s a lovely evening. When you are done with the lawn, would you like to join me for a gin and tonic on the deck?”

Artie is ready with an assortment of one-liners and comebacks. None are appropriate to this situation. He nods.

Shea serves a cracklingly good gin and tonic. Artie tells her so. There is a nanosecond of peace. Then Shea says, “Let me be brutally honest. I don’t like you. I don’t like having you here. We’re completely different people who will never see eye-to-eye, but you’re here. You’re not going away, so let’s try communicating with each other.”

Artie considers the proposal, takes another sip, and says “Ok, let’s communicate. Why did you report us to the police the other night.”

“There seemed to be some kind of domestic disturbance going on. I thought someone needed help.”

“Someone did need help. Me! There was a giant, white, ugly rat in the house.”

Shea laughs. “A possum?”

“Yes, but I didn’t know that at the time. And the worst part is, he’s still there, or I should say ‘she’ because there are six little possums clinging to her. And I don’t know what to do.” He recounts his litany of unacceptable solutions.

“I’m glad you didn’t take any of those options. Have you tried talking to the possum?”

“The possum doesn’t speak English, and I don’t speak possum.”

“I know it sounds crazy, but this is a frightened creature who’s looking out for her family. There must be some level at which you can communicate.”

“Talking to a possum? That’ll be the day. It does sound crazy, and by golly, it’s coming out of your mouth.”

“Think of your options.”

That night, instead of baiting the Hav-a-Heart trap, Artie puts the bait (a can of sardines) on top of the trap, leaving the entrance doors closed. When the midnight commotion begins, Artie approaches the kitchen slowly, without his customary broom in hand. The possum reacts with snarls and bare teeth, but Artie stands quietly on the opposite side of the room. Finally, the possum calms down and goes back to licking out the sardine can. Artie lets her finish before beginning.

I don’t want to hurt you, but I can hurt you. I know you are a mother doing the best for your children, but coming back here is not the best for them, because if you do this again I will have to hurt you. I live here now and will be here for the next few months. After that you can live under the house, but not in the house, because it’s my house. I’m going to open the back door for you and let you leave peacefully. For the next few days I will leave a can of sardines for you out by the edge of the marsh, but I don’t want you back in the house again. I hope I’ve been completely clear.