Summer of the Salmon

Wyreck, a small town on the Massachusetts coast, had a thriving fishing industry and little else. The residents held a somewhat antiquated notion of what qualified as a good time, so the teenagers of the town had to settle for a mercilessly dated all-night diner or the ever-growing methamphetamine trend. Those who were lucky or resourceful left town the day after high school graduation, and the others followed their fathers’ footsteps into the fishing business.

Paul Holder was not one of the lucky few who was able to toss off his tasseled cap and hop on the first bus to Boston. He had graduated in May and had been working at the outdoor fish market on Plymouth Street for three weeks. He drove down to the shore at five most mornings, and helped haul the day’s catch up the hill from the boats to the market. After he slapped a few salmons on ice, and wiped their scaly skin, he washed his hands in scalding water. Though it was usually scorching by the afternoon, the mornings were cold and uncomfortable. Until the customers came, Paul would sit on his hands on a bench in the parking lot, watching his breath hang in the icy air.

Around nine, customers started showing up; mostly women in sweatpants and eyeliner who looked at the day’s catch with disinterest and depression, pointing to the first halibut on the pile and lighting cigarettes as they walked to their cars. They drove in from the surrounding towns. Girls from Paul’s class (and their younger sisters) hung around the parking lot most days, eyeing the shiny slivers of fish skin on his apron with a mixture of revulsion and nervous fascination. Paul never said anything to the girls. He just counted out change and chopped up bas, rarely even daring to meet their eyes.

Paul was lanky, with messy brown hair and brooding eyes the same color. Sometimes, he’d have a few beers with some boys from high school after work, but most days he went straight home or walked along the beach for hours, alone. He was quiet, especially around adults and the girls who chewed gum and stared at him from the parking lot. He didn’t realize that they were bored too.

This Monday, Paul was cleaning up shop and tossing the left over fish. He had to grip the slimy creatures as he tossed them into the trash, so they wouldn’t slip out of his hands. Sometimes he would put a few raw shrimp in a baggy to feed to the cat.

            His boss Nevio, the son of Italian immigrants who came to Wyreck in the fifties, was humming to himself in the corner. Nevio was kind but kept to himself, so the two made a good pair. There were a handful of other employees, but Paul closed shop on Sundays, Mondays, and Tuesdays, and Nevio was always gracious enough to stay with him until every box had been wiped down and the floor had been swept from corner to corner. He gave him a hand once in a while, but was typically counting the cash they had brought in that day or talking on the phone in his office, in the back.

            This evening, Paul untied his apron, nodded at Nevio, and walked to his truck. He kicked the lose gravel in the lot and looked down at the ocean. The water was tumultuous today, and Paul impulsively walked towards it. The steps leading down were narrow and poorly defined, so he gripped the wooden railing and stepped cautiously.  It was dark already, and chilly. Paul shivered and put his hands in the pockets of his apron, which he always forgot to take off.

            The sand was wet and flat and Paul absentmindedly picked up a rubbery piece of kelp. He threw it into the violent ocean, where it disappeared quickly. He walked briskly along the shore, just past the foamy breaking waves.

It was always empty at this hour—the grey sand wasn’t particularly attractive, and the beach mainly functioned as a port. The fishing boats were tied to the dock, floating out towards the purple water and back in again with each crashing wave. Paul was surprised to see a smaller boat close to the shore, not connected to the dock but right next to it. It was a few hundred yards down the beach, back towards the market, where Paul had started walking. Soon it became clear that the boat was circling, waiting for something. Paul sat down in the damp sand and watched.

In about half an hour, someone walked down the sandy steps to the beach. The boat docked and the three people inside of it started lifting boxes out of the boat, handing them to the person on the dock. There were four boxes, and each man carried one up the steps.

Paul waited until he couldn’t see the men anymore, and slowly walked down the beach and up the steps. He stood with his back pressed against the side wall of the boarded-up bowling alley, which shared a parking lot with the market. The alley had been closed for years, but teenagers still hung out in the lot out of habit.

Paul didn’t see anyone around, but stood still for a few minutes. Peeking around the corner, he saw his boss exit his office. Following him were three unfamiliar men. Paul stood still, but his fingers were tingling and he had to force himself to breath slowly, silently. He saw Nevio pause to look at Paul’s truck, still parked next to his car. Paul quickly ducked behind the building and didn’t come out until long after he saw the men walk back down the steps to the sand, and heard Nevio drive off.

  The next day was painfully typical. Paul brought in the morning’s catch and cleaned countless fish. He put on rubber gloves, weighed the creatures, and took twenty dollar bills from the tired women and tourists who came in from the wealthier coastal towns because they’d read about the bass in guidebooks. He was counting change for a customer when he saw a woman follow Nevio around back, towards the entrance of his office. “Just a sec,” muttered Paul, shutting the cash register and following them in a jog.

He turned the corner and saw Nevio handing the woman a whole salmon. “These are less fatty,” he was saying. He turned to look at Paul and narrowed his eyes. “Paul? Is there a problem?”

“I just thought…” he said.

They looked at him blankly. “What?” Behind Nevio and the woman, the office door was open and Paul could see the blue coolers where they kept extra fish so they wouldn’t have to stack them on the ice.

 “Sorry,” he blushed and turned away.

That night Paul cleaned up in silence while Nevio was in his office with the door shut. He wiped down the last counter and took a cleaver from the dish drain, gently putting it in the pocket of his apron. He walked towards his truck and drove up the street. He pulled over in front of a barbershop about a mile away from the market and parked. He walked back at a steady, determined pace.

Paul was standing behind the bowling alley again when he saw the four men exit Nevio’s office. This time he stood perfectly still, though his mind was racing. He waited, with steady breaths, as each men left. Then he waited some more.

He’d broken a window once before, but it was by accident. He had been playing homerun derby in front of his house with some neighborhood kids, and had somehow sent the ball sailing directly through his living room window, shattering it. This time, though, he was purposeful and aggressive. He firmly stabbed the glass three times, and listened to it shatter on the floor inside. He hoisted himself up, and climbed through.

Inside, there was a desk, a phone, and four blue coolers. He opened one. It was packed with silver salmon. He threw back the lids, one after another, and they were all full of salmon, staring up at him with empty, beady eyes.

Paul felt a sinking feeling, like betrayal but more physical and heavy. He looked at the pane-less window and shook his head. Damn, I gotta get out of this town, he thought. Was this how he was going to spend the tail end of his adolescence—cleaning fish in silence and getting maniacal ideas into his head? He shuttered to think what he might do next with this expansive boredom and free time.

He gingerly closed the lids of each case, but paused before he shut the last one. He grabbed a salmon and brought it with him outside. Setting it down on the pavement, he hacked it in half with the cleaver. He poked the familiar pink flesh, and cut one of the halves in half again, lengthwise. Paul pulled a small bag out of the fish’s massacred body, and he had to bring it inside and turn on the light to see the tiny white crystals. He picked up the phone.

The next morning, Paul pulled into the parking lot. He sat in his truck for a while, watching. There were two cop cars and lots of chatter. The girls, the tragic women, the tourist families—they were all crowded around the entrance to the market. He walked, slowly, to the scene.

“No work today, man!” shouted Dennis, a loud and self-indulgent co-worker whom Paul generally tried to avoid.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Drug bust, dude!” said Dennis, grinning incredulously. “Our man Nevio is quite the criminal. This whole thing was a fuckin’ front!”

Paul gazed at the empty counters and the caution tape. “Who turned him in?”

“Anonymous tip!” said Dennis. “But, really, didn’t you always think something was fishy around here?” He laughed loudly and Paul gave a weak smile.

“Yeah, man. Whoever turned him in must have been fishing for answers.”

Dennis guffawed. “Good one!”

Paul waited until he was away from the commotion, leaning back against the pick-up, to really smile. He grinned, giggled. And to think the summer had just started. He glanced over at the girls, who were standing close to, but not in the crowd, wearing acid-wash denim shorts and shaking their heads. He walked towards them, floating.