[We cling to our wounds. They are the scars of our lives. They define us, and we like to show them off. “Seven scars make a Man,” said one of my neighbors growing up at Post Island. It seemed like, once a summer, I would rip my foot open running barefoot on the beach, a wound that usually required a trip to the emergency room at Quincy General Hospital. The hospital is no longer there, but I still have the scars to prove I’m a man. SB SM]
What Really Pisses Me Off
“May I come?”
Artie is rigging up for his daily striper search. He isn’t prepared for Shea’s question.
“I’ll just bring my chair and a book. It’s a beautiful day.” She holds up her lawn chair. It’s one of the low-slung kind, perfect for sitting just above the lapping waves.
Elaine has returned to L.A. Ain’t no Injuns around. The Sox are still in the running for the wild card. Liam is getting ready to go visit Meiko. Cuzzin, Artie, and Shea are all trying to figure out what to do with their lives. August is suddenly in a holding pattern, with dank, humid air forcing the residents of the North End out onto their balconies to sleep.
“Well, ok,” his reluctance shows, “but I have to warn you that I concentrate very hard when I fish. And we’ll be doing some walking. The day Elaine came with me was just a scouting expedition, and she was a real pain in the ass.”
“I won’t be. I promise and walking is ok.”
August has just passed the tipping point. You can’t say that there is a nip of fall in the air, because it’s over 80 degrees, but something has changed. The tomatoes know it. The stripers know it. Shea knows it.
Artie and Shea drive to Wessagussett Beach in Weymouth. Artie parks the truck and he and Shea climb down the long stairway (56 steps) to the rocky beach.
Artie scouted this area at low tide several weeks before. There are two jetties, one long and one short. Artie’s plan, worked out in consultation with Sandy Beach, is to start at the small jetty and work the outgoing tide to the tip of the larger jetty. Then, as the tide turns, work the same course in reverse. He plans to fish a fly called Lefty’s Deceiver, which is a general baitfish imitation, unless the surface is dead calm, in which case he will switch to something that creates some surface commotion. He tells Shea the plan as he pulls on his waders. With his rod as his sword, his long-billed cap, polarized glasses, and anointed with sunscreen he feels very much the salt-water gladiator.
Shea has said scarcely a word, not wanting to infringe on Artie’s need to concentrate. She sets up her chair in three inches of water and wishes him luck. She is reading Beyond Yonder by Stephen Morris, an allegory for the human species set in a small town in Vermont..
Artie notices that Sandy Beach is not speaking to him today and wonders if the presence of Shea has made him shy. He wades out to crotch level and works his line out to deep edge of the channel. Midway out to the longer jetty, the familiar voice comes to him:
“You’re showing off. You’re thinking ‘Damn, I look good,’ but you’re forgetting some key fishing basics. Did you see that you had a fish follow your fly just back there? But you did two things wrong. First you pulled your fly out of the water just when the fish was ready to strike. Remember, it’s very important to fish each cast right to the very end. You’ve got to believe, every time you put your fly in the water, that you’re going to catch a fish. You’ve got to believe. Secondly, you spooked the fish, because you retrieved the fly directly toward you. Remember when you’re at about the twenty foot mark, move your retrieve off to the side to distract a fish from you. Your casts are fine. Damn, you do look good, and the babe on the beach is noticing.”
Artie smiles at the ribbing from his mentor. Sandy is right. He is preening for Shea, and forgetting his fishing basics. Artie works out to the tip of the long jetty. Tide is nearly dead low. Artie sees a swirl near his fly. He can sense fish. The tide turns, imperceptibly at first, but within minutes he feels the current strengthening. The breeze picks up.
A swirl, a hit. Artie’s rod arcs as a frightened fish tries to swim to freedom. It’s a nice fish, he can tell, very strong. He plays it in. It’s not a striper, but a bluefish! Nice fish, perfect size for the grill. The minimum for bluefish is only 16 inches, not 30 for stripers. He guides the fish to where he can grab it by the lower jaw. He takes it by the jaw and tail and lifts it out of the water, turning to show Shea. She’s buried in her book, however, and misses the show. Slightly crestfallen, Artie runs a string through the fish’s gill and mouth and ties it to his belt. He keeps fishing for another half-hour.
“Wind’s come up.” The gladiator has returned.
“Really, it seems delightful to me.”
“Even casting into a light wind can be difficult. Did you see me catch the fish?”
“Oh no, I missed it. I am impressed with how graceful you are with your casting. Quite an improvement from when you started. You are poetry in motion out there.”
“Take a look at this!” He shows her the bluefish, “We’ll not go hungry tonight. I caught it out by the tip of that jetty just after the tide turned.”
“Are you all done?”
“Done fishing. Like I say, it’s really hard casting into a head wind. We don’t have to go now, though.” Artie takes the suspenders off his shoulders and sits in the water next to Shea.
“So, tell me your story,” he says. And like the gate on a spillway, a torrent of words pour forth.
I’m not sure why, but when Richard Mobien, started groping me in that elevator, my world crumpled. I worked hard to be in the express elevator heading to the 75th floor. I worked hard to be a peer of Richard Mobien. I did all the right things, only to be treated like an animal in a world where the only thing that counted was who was bigger and who was stronger. The worst part was, I respected the guy. I liked him. I trusted him. If he had asked me out on a date, I probably would have accepted. I’ve asked myself a million times, why did he do this? The only answer I can come up with is to show himself and me that he could.
Shea and Artie are still sitting in the waters of Wessagussett, but they’ve had to move three times due to the incoming tide. Tears are streaming down Shea’s face. She’s been talking for more than an hour. Artie has mostly murmured.
“One of the lessons I’ve learned,” says Artie gently “is that we are all animals.”
“I know. I know what you mean, but normal animals don’t do to each other what Richard Mobien did to me. I put everything into my career. I didn’t get married; I didn’t have kids. All because I wanted to prove something, and above all I wanted to prove it to the Richard Mobiens of the world. I wanted to prove that I had arrived and that I belonged. And he proved that the President of Banque Suisse can make up his own rules.”
She sobs. Artie touches her lightly on the arms and says that he’s sorry.
Grilled Bluefish a la Artie
Bluefish is a very oily fish. Because of this, I’m not sure why, the flavor deteriorates very quickly. Never buy bluefish in a market, even a good fish market, and never, never order bluefish in a restaurant.
That said, fresh bluefish can be one of the most delicious things you will ever taste. I cook mine on the grill, over a bed of hardwood charcoal. Don’t use compressed briquettes, and for god’s sake, don’t use charcoal starter.
This doesn’t make sense, but coat your bluefish fillets with mayonnaise. I learned this from Bull. I know it sounds disgusting, and it makes even less sense, but it works. I’ve asked chefs to explain this to me, and none of them can. Somehow the mayonnaise does something chemical with the oil in the flesh.
Whatever! The mayonnaise makes the bluefish delicious. Trust me.
The hardest part is flipping the filet, because if it sticks to the grill, you will end up serving a lump of
baked, fishy mess. The best protection is to make sure your fire is hot, and the grill is clean. You can brush the grill with olive oil just prior to serving.
Bluefish tastes great with freshly ground pepper. The mayonnaise disappears in the cooking process. It emulsifies, or something. You can also do fancy things with bluefish and people will really think you know what you are doing. I’ve served bluefish on a bed of steamed onion. Once I made a little confit of chopped fresh tomato (remember to remove the seeds) and black olives.
Don’t insult bluefish with white wine. Bluefish can stand up to even the most challenging red. I like to match it with one of those arrogant Italian wines such as a Barolo or a Barbaresco. A bluefish fights just as ferociously in your mouth as it does in the salt water. If you can find some of those rugged red table wines from Corsica or Sardinia, even better.
The next day there is a stiff breeze, and the waters are too roiled to fish. Artie decides to scout out Thompson’s Island. He asks Shea if she would like to come. They park the car and walk out over a gravel bar to the only privately owned island in Boston Harbor, now the site of an Outward Bound Education Center.
“So, you really did like My Mother, My Lover…?”
“I did,” says Shea. “It helped me understand your pain.” “What! It wasn’t about me.” Artie doth protest too much.
“It really is about this dicey issue of the changing roles of the sexes and how in a contemporaneous way … ”
“Artie, I’m not interviewing you.” They’ve reached the shore of Thompson’s now. The backdrop of the Boston skyline looms behind them in stark contrast to the pastoral setting of the island. “You must have loved her very much.”
“My Mother? Of course.”
“I’m sure. I was referring to your wife.”
“Evelyn? I don’t know that I loved her so much as I was humiliated to be left, not for another lover or provider, but for a whole new lifestyle. I thought I had given her everything she wanted and needed.”
They begin walking again. Shea says, “You know you really do have a lot of accumulated anger towards women.” This opens the gate for Artie:
You know what really pisses me off. Bluebirds piss me off. All of my life bluebirds have been the symbol of happiness. And one of strong myths associated with bluebirds is that they mate for life. Of course the life span of a songbird is, what? Two years or something. Nevertheless, the image we were peddled is of a loving couple with mama and papa building the nest. They have little babies. Ma and Pa go off and collect bugs and stuff for the kids to eat. Pa defends the nest against predators, even huge monsters like crows and cats. But he’s super bird, because he has the noble task of protecting his nest and his family. Well, I bought into that. Swallowed it hook, line, sinker, rod, reel…the whole damn deal. Now, it turns out the scientists got it wrong. After the first mating Pa builds the nest and Ma goes out and fucks every other horny bluebird stud she can find. The scien- tists say that this is adaptive behavior, because it expands the diversity of the gene pool. I say, fuck diversity. If I’m building the nest and protecting the young, I don’t want to have my mate out there diversifying the gene pool. Why were we fed this lie that if we keep our noses clean, and stick to the straight and narrow, what results will be peace and harmony? Why didn’t someone clue me in that it’s all a lie?
“Why does this make you so angry?” asks Shea.
“Because I bought into it … hook, line, and sinker.”
“See where that salt pond is emptying into the bay?” They’ve been walking in silence following Artie’s tirade. “I’ll bet you stripers are waiting in the deeper water for baitfish to wash out. Tomorrow I’ll cast my Lefty’s Deceiver in there. Give it a little motion. And wham, I’ll have a thirty-six incher on the line. I’m running out of time to bag my legal striper. Hey, we better head back before the gravel bar is covered, unless you want to spend the night out here.”
So … yes, on one level you are right. My Mother, My Lover…is all about me. But on another level it’s about these stories and tunes that frame our worldview. What are we supposed to believe? Adam and Eve. I think I’m only now starting to understand the story. Adam was like this clueless guy who watched Monday Night Football, drank beer, scratched his balls, and generally was at peace with life. Eve comes along, and pretty soon he’s got kids running around killing each other; his wife’s probably out fucking bluebirds; and he’s totally confused about life. It’s like the schlub in My Mother, My Lover… He gives his mess of a sales manager a supportive hug, and before long he’s living on a park bench where a bunch of teenagers set him on fire.
Angry. I’m not angry. I’m fucking livid. And I don’t know where to go with it, because no matter how you slice it, I’m pretty lucky and it’s my own damn fault!
The tide is just starting to cover the gravel bar. Shea and Artie cross as quickly as possible. Towards the end they are in a swift current up to their knees. On the way home they stop for fried clams and a creemee at a place not far from Howard Johnson’s original ice cream stand. Without warning, Shea breaks down:
I don’t know what I’m going to do! How can I go back to that office? How can I face those people? Even though people don’t know what happened, I do. But I can’t stay at Indian Mound, drinking herbal teas and meditating for the rest of my life. I wish I had kids, so I could interfere in their lives. I’ve thought of running away, but I like where I live. Maybe just changing careers would do it. My favorite client has always been the Massachusetts Bay Association. Maybe the world of non-profits and envi- ronmental stewardship will be different enough, but I don’t know if I can survive in that world. Maybe I can start a little business, a gift shop or something. I don’t know. I just don’t know. I just know I can’t go back.
Artie puts his arm around her.
They return to Indian Mound. They take turns taking showers in the Nucking Fuff-designed outdoor shower overlooking the Boston Skyline. Then, they go into Artie’s bedroom and make love. Afterwards Artie leaks words like the cottage roof during a thunderstorm from the east.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. Part of me wants to get back into the game and to show the same bastards who wrote me off that I’m a player. Then another part says “Fuck the system. You’re beyond that. Make your own film, your own way, and if it works, reap the benefits. If it doesn’t sell, so what? You’ve failed before.
Then, another part of me says take the money and run. You’ve seen how this system works. You’ve been a winner, and you’ve been a loser. You’ve been chewed up and spit out, and it’s time to find more meaning in life than success. But suppose I make that point. I like being important. I like people hanging on my every word. I like swapping dirty jokes with Jack Nicholson at Laker games. I like having a crew of fifty and a cast of thousands waiting for what I tell them to do.
Artie takes a moment to look at Shea who returns his gaze evenly. “You can’t have it both ways,” she says.
“And you like having twenty-something bimbos pretend you’re attractive,” adds Shea.
“This is what you won’t believe,” says Artie. “They’re not pretending, because power is a real lubricant, an aphrodisiac. It is exciting, and those who have it are attractive. What’s-his-face from Banque Suisse believed that.”
“And What’s-his-face was wrong!” She is angry.
“I’m sorry. That was unthinking of me. I was just trying to make a point about power.”
“Just shut up, Artie.”