F for Effort: Chapter 1

I closed my eyes and leaned back. The occasional tourist walked unsteadily around my car. Their lack of sea legs betrayed their Seattle origins. A tourist fights the rocking of a boat. A real islander lets it take them back and forth. We accept that the ocean will have its way with our bodies. It’s a comforting thought in the way that the smell of diesel lingers at a bus stop - it’s not something you would choose, but it’s something that you come to expect. Waves, diesel fumes, and death, I suppose.

My car smelled like pine, a little bit of dirt, and a more than a little bit of rum. The pine was from the wreath my sister, in her pushy but well-meaning way, had forced upon me as I was walking out of my parents’ front door. No blow-ups this Thanksgiving. That’s how she knew I would be easy prey. Nothing made my mother’s smile beam brighter than seeing her kids get along. I had accepted it, making sure to hug my sister conspicuously in front of the kitchen window as a thanks to her for the clearly handmade shitpile. I could sense my mother’s happy tears as I drove up the dirt drive and towards the ferry landing.

The dirt smell was thanks to the muddied boots in the trunk area of my beat-up Subie. Lopez can get messy. The rum smell wasn’t as exciting as you might think; my mother, noted tee-totaler, was of the mind that more was always more when it came to baking. This year, I was pretty sure the new fruitcake recipe could be classified as a controlled substance with explosive potential. I didn’t see my dad complaining about it. It was probably the most booze he’d get all year.

Looking at things from a seagull’s height, I was in a rusty old car on a rocking boat, surrounded by filth and smelling like a bum’s (literally) wet dream. Not a bad Thanksgiving, I guess.

I was just about to nod off to the sway of the ferry when my eye was drawn to my passenger-side mirror. A woman was huffing up the skinny aisle between cars. Her longish brown hair was tossed by the breezeway, and her steps were small and quick. She would occasionally look behind her, and then shout something. Her puffy grey jacket made her belong more to the Seattle set, probably more comfortable sipping coffee in both hands as she looked on at little Ashley or Ashton or Aslain playing soccer.

But I recognized the face. It was Sara. Or Sarah. Didn’t really matter. I remember her being a year behind me at high school. A couple of decades put a few lines on her face, and her current expression didn’t do her any favors. I remembers her looking like a sweet, young-looking junior sitting somewhere behind me in math during my senior year. Now she looked like a vengeful angel of death. Not exactly prom material.

As she quickly blew past by door, I could see the source of her consternation. Some guys you can judge right away; this one was pretty easy to peg. Lightly cultivated beard with just the right amount of raffish unkempt whiskerhood? Check. North Face vest which had never seen the nasty messy side of a trail? Check. Lumberjack shirt, iPhone permanently in one hand, some kind of exciting bracelet that denoted this jerk’s commitment to some cause long forgotten? Check, check, check.

I realized suddenly that Alice may have been right about me being a misanthrope. I felt like I should have cared about her judgment, but I couldn’t spare the effort. She was the one to have given up on a boyfriend with a steady job for an idiot with a guitar, a dream, and two-and-a-half brain cells kicking around in a much-too-large skull. Not exactly a woman with sparkling taste. But seeing as she chose me that thought didn’t make me feel much better.

More to come...