“Yeah, I’ve seen one of those,” the man said with smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Webster—hey, just like that little black kid, remember that show?—Anyway, I’m Moses McGillicuddy.”
The big man extended his hand. His skin felt like the surface of a baseball bat.
McGillicuddy didn’t squeeze too hard, giving Culann the impression that he was holding back, careful to avoid crushing his delicate fingers. Culann squeezed a little harder to let McGillicuddy know he wasn’t that soft, or maybe just to convince himself. McGillicuddy didn’t seem to notice.
“So, McGillicuddy,” Frank said, “we’re swapping life stories here. Care to contribute?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Tell my cousin what brings you up here.”
“Money,” McGillicuddy replied. “I used to be a machinist down in Flint, Michigan. Worked for GM. Then the plant shut down, and I was out on my ass. One day I was shooting pool with this guy who tells me any dumb motherfucker with some balls can make good money hauling nets up here. And I said, ‘Hey, I’m a dumb motherfucker with some balls.’ So I dragged Margie up here, and here we are.”
Alistair came over with another round of drinks. Culann started to apologize for laughing earlier, but Frank put a hand on his arm and shook his head.
“Don’t rile him up any more,” Frank said after Alistair left. “Crazy asshole’s bound to piss in our beers.”
“What’d you do to old Alistair?” McGillicuddy asked.
“I laughed when he said Toronto was an example of societal decay.”
“Hah,” McGillicuddy laughed. “Guy hates to be thought of as a rube. Which he is, by the way. Societal decay my ass. You ever been to Flint? You can’t kick a can down the sidewalk without hitting some three-toothed, black hooker just begging to suck your dick for five dollars. Worth every penny, too.”
McGillicuddy guffawed and pounded the table. Culann had seldom felt more different from another human being than he felt from this man, but he liked him immediately. Culann wondered if perhaps his time in Alaska would transform him into one of the wild characters who surrounded him. He didn’t think, with a belly full of whiskey at least, that such a transformation would be all that bad.
“Speaking of hookers,” Frank said as an older man with a long, white ponytail slid into the chair next to him.
“What’d you call me, you little turd?” the man asked with a smile.
“I didn’t call you nothing, Worner. McGillicuddy was just talking about the hookers in Flint, and I thought you could tell us all about the hookers in Saigon.”
“Hell, a hooker’s a hooker,” Worner replied. “It doesn’t make any difference where she’s from.”
“You ever hear such profound wisdom, Culann?” Frank asked.
Culann shook his head.
“So you must be the pervert Frank’s been talking about,” Worner said.
“That’s me,” Culann said. “I’m the pervert.”
“Don’t worry about it, buddy. This saloon is chock full of perverts. How you liking it up here?”
“I have to say it’s been a truly edifying experience so far.”
“Edifying experience,” McGillicuddy repeated with a chuckle.
“Not everyone’s an illiterate asshole like you,” Worner said.
“Look who’s talking. You ever read a book that didn’t have pictures of naked ladies in it?”
“Hell, I got more books in my cabin than all the rest of you put together.”
“Boy, that’s something,” Frank chimed in. “You must have, what, two books?”
Worner threw his arm around Culann’s shoulder. The old man had an antiseptic smell, like harsh cleaning products, though he did not appear to have bathed recently.
“Ignore these philistines,” Worner said. “They have no respect for wisdom. I’m glad we finally have another educated man out here.”
“Educated my ass,” Frank said.
“Didn’t you know I went to college?”
“You did?”
“I’ve never been what you’d call civilized,” Worner replied. “I’ve tried to fit in with polite society, but I’m better suited to life up here. That was made quite clear during my one whole semester in college. Those city boys were always laughing at me for dressing wrong or talking wrong or just plain being wrong, and then I’d haul off and slug one of ‘em. I got to be on a first-name-basis with the dean of students. So I popped three or four rich kids in the mouth, but you know what got me booted? Chewing tobacco in class. They didn’t have any signs posted or anything, and I even brought my own can to spit in. I lost my deferment after that and got shipped off to Vietnam.”
“What did you study?” Frank asked.
“History. I’ve been interested in it since I was a little kid. My granddad gave me an old Civil War cannonball he’d gotten from his granddad. It’s like a good luck charm. I always bring it with me when I fish.”
“What were you going to do with a degree in history?” Frank asked.
“I wanted to be a high school teacher.”
“Hey, just like Culann here,” Frank said.
“Is that right?” Worner said. “What do you think, kid? Would I have been better off being a teacher?”
“It’s not for everyone,” Culann replied.
“Yeah,” Frank chimed in, “but Worner’s not a pervert, so maybe he’d of been fine.”
“What do you know?” Worner said. “I’m at least as big a pervert as this kid. You repressed little church mice have no business sitting in this groghouse if you’re so worried about another man’s appetites. Right kid?”
Culann raised his glass in reply, and they both downed what was left of their beers.
They stayed at their section of the table well into the evening. Most of the bar’s patrons—which amounted to nearly every man in Pyrite—came over to introduce themselves to Culann at some point; only a couple of them called him a pervert. The rest courteously welcomed him by squeezing his hand, pounding his back and forcing a shot down his throat. A couple of grizzled, old coots in faded overalls sat side by side at the end of the bar the whole day without rising to greet the newcomer.
“What’s their deal?” Culann asked. “Don’t they like us?”
“It’s nothing personal,” Frank replied. “This town doesn’t exactly attract social butterflies.”
Indeed, the two men did not talk to one another or even to Alistair. Each simply raised a finger to the barman when a refilled was needed. He’d hobble over, fill their glasses, and receive a grunt of gratitude for his trouble.
Nearly every man in Pyrite would be working on the
“First voyage is a real bitch,” McGillicuddy said.
“It’s not easy being greenhorn,” chimed in Worner.
“I still remember when I popped my cherry,” Frank said.
“Yeah,” Gus grunted. “You were even more worthless than you are now.”
“You really rode my ass, you old prick.”
“You got off easy,” Worner said. “Gus stabbed McGillicuddy on his first voyage.”
“Bullshit. I didn’t stab him.”
“What are you talking about?” McGillicuddy said, tilting his head to reveal a thick, white scar along his jaw line. “Look at this.”
“That’s just a scratch,” Gus said with a smirk.
“You stuck a gaff in my face.”
“I was just trying to yank that finger out of your nose so you could get some work done.”
Culann didn’t know what a gaff was, but he’d been teased enough already for being a shit-for-brains greenhorn, so he didn’t ask. He was astonished to hear these two men joking about what sounded an awful lot like assault with a deadly weapon to him.
Drunk as Culann was, it was clear that he was dealing with men of a very different sort here. Maybe big, wilderness-loving Frank could fit in with them, but Culann doubted he ever would. No matter how this voyage turned out, he could not imagine himself on either end of a stabbing, much less joking about it later. More importantly, he
