The International Writers Magazine:Novella in Progress

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Summer On Cadillac- Chapter Four • Mike Blake After he showered and dressed, Frankie led me down the street to a coffee shop. He wanted his coffee fix and I figured, after two beers, I could use some caffeine myself. Doyle also wanted to say hello to the pretty young clerk who worked the counter, one of his many “girlfriends” around Jordan Harbor.

He had the young lady laughing and shaking her head with a few smooth lines (something about a date). I was hanging with the Cool Kid this day; he was going to show me a good time.
Frank had the casual look this morning, of course. No hat, the long hair slicked back, the shades a must, an extra large t-shirt advertising a beer and hiding the gut, a pair of baggy shorts, no socks, white sneakers, untied. He looked loose enough to melt into one cool puddle, and it was no wonder he needed some caffeine to tighten things up. A little later, it would probably be a few lines up the snoz to put a brighter light on the day. But I was even game for that.  
    
Actually, what we did surprised me, pleasantly, and secured our friendship for the summer. Doyle suggested that we take a hike somewhere near the water, on one of the trails that skirted the edge of the island. He said he knew of a scenic place (a promontory, as it turned out) that we could go out on and drink beer and toke some weed.
“I haven’t been out there this summer yet, and it’s one of my favorite places on the island,” he said. “The best thing about it is that we can walk there.”

And we did, starting at one end of the public park by the harbor docks and continuing on next to the rough and jagged rocks that formed the coast, on a well used, official trail that ran in front of mansions with big, lush green yards colored with well-tended flower gardens. These were some of the select spots on the island picked out by the wealthy a couple generations before, at least. I was to discover, in future summers, that the rich had found their preferred spots up and down the Maine coast, as was the case all along the eastern seaboard. I personally grew up one two-dollar bridge ride away from one of the most famous and “elite” places on the coast – the Gatsby territory of Newport, Rhode Island.

Yet we continued on past the impressive architectural designs, each of us carrying a bag of beers, to a place where we couldn’t see a house. Yet this headland was just as grand in its own way as any of the big homes we had passed. It was a place of high grass constantly blowing in the breezes it was exposed to, as we were exposed standing high up over the rough churning and swirling water that hit the rocks below us. We were far enough away from town where the docked boats were out of sight, and the music, shouting and laughter didn’t reach us. Behind us was a wooded area with some huge pine trees and soft, needle-covered ground to sit on. Frank and I walked on along the trail halfway around a cove with clear shallow water and smooth round white stones forming a little beach, and sat under a couple of thick trees. We popped open beers, and Frank breathed as if he had walked miles. The wind wasn’t as strong here, so we could have a smoke too. We did see people walking now and then out on the promontory, some coming from the opposite direction we had. I wondered how far the trail went along the water’s edge, and Doyle didn’t know either.
            “I know it doesn’t go all the way around the island,” he said. “The cliffs get too steep in places. Some of it’s private land too.” He expertly rolled a doobie while I kept watch for people, particularly anyone in uniform – a ranger more likely than a cop. “This is park land,” Doyle explained. “So the rangers do walk around in pairs this time of year.”
            “You mean the rangers don’t smoke mota around here?” I asked, joking.
            “They probably do, but not in public.” 
            “They probably grow it somewhere on this island,” I said.
            “I wish I knew where.” Frank gave me the joint and his lighter. “You’ve smoked some of this with Kevin, haven’t you?”
            “Yeah, I’m one of those gay, rock climbing potheads,” I said, and he laughed.
            “At least you’ve got a sense of humor, man. I like that. I can see why you and Kevin get along. Like I said, maybe you can put a good word in for me at the store. A few paychecks before school will come in handy.”
            “Sure,” I said. “The next time Rita bitches about lack of help, I’ll say something.”

Apparently, the pot business wasn’t good enough to support him; and, apparently, the old man wasn’t throwing enough cash his way. So I told myself I’d put a good word in for him. Frankie might lighten the atmosphere at the store, as he already knew many of the regulars in the coffee shop. With his outgoing nature, he might just be a natural at the job. When we’d finished with the joint, Frankie wasn’t thinking about jobs, however. He told me about two young women who lived upstairs from him at the frat house, Donna and Leanne.
            “You’ve seen them in the store with me,” he said.
            “I’ve seen you with quite a few cutey-pies,” I said, laughing.
            “This can be a fun town this time of year,” he said. “There are plenty of single women around. But Donna and Leanne are the coolest. Those girls can party with the best of ‘em. They know you, but they only know quiet Mr. Thriftway.” Frank laughed. “We’ll have to introduce them to the new you. Maybe we’ll go to Maxwell’s tonight.”

Maxwell’s was a popular bar in town, one known for its live music. On Friday and Saturday nights it was standing room only, but this being a weeknight, you might just find a seat. Still, Maxwell’s, though it was one of the more exciting nightspots, was also a killer on the wallet, and I mentioned this.
            “Hell, dude, I never spend much money in that place. I go there so stoned and drunk that I don’t have to. And I know one of the guys at the door who lets me in with no cover.”
            “Is that where Donna and Leanne like to hang out?”
            “Hell, they’ll hang out anywhere there’s booze and drugs, dude. They’re not fussy. Not like some of these bitches that are looking for sugar daddies with yachts. No, these ladies are fun. But if they’re not around, we’ll find somebody else to party with, don’t you worry. You came to the right place today.”
I knew he was cocky, but I believed him nonetheless. And what else did I have going on this day off of mine?  
 
Later that afternoon, Doyle took me to his father’s boat – the Shamrock – which was one of the bigger boats in a gathering of big ones in Jordan Harbor, a vessel, white with green trim (a big Irish clover on the side also), that sparkled and gleamed expensively and looked roomy enough to take a small group of people out on the water, comfortably, for a couple days at least. Frank was going to introduce me to his father, but the old man wasn’t on the boat. Frank greeted one of the neighbors, a gray, portly man in a white sports shirt and tennis shorts standing on his boat. The neighbor hadn’t seen Mr. Doyle all afternoon.
            “He’s probably out on someone else’s boat, or getting smashed at one of the bars around here,” Frank said, looking a little disappointed.

The restaurants and bars near the waterside docks were the most expensive on the island, and the only time I’d thought of stepping into any of them was on my first day in town, when I was looking for work. I imagined that even the dishwashers had some type of dress code.
            “His girlfriend’s as big a lush as he is,” Frank said, with a grin. “She came on to me one night on the boat. I swear to God. The old man was passed out and she was horny. But I didn’t do anything with her. Hell, she’s old enough to be my mother, almost. Not bad for her age, but I’d have to be pretty drunk to even think about it.”
Not to mention that he might be disinherited if he got caught.

Doyle’s parents had been divorced since he was sixteen, and Frank was used to the old man having girlfriends around. He told me he had known at least half a dozen in the last five years.
            “They last a few months, and then he’s on to another one,” Frank said. “He’s always asking me when I’m gonna get serious with a woman and I tell him I’m having too much fun right now. I told him I might think about a relationship after school, when I’m pulling in some bucks.”
There seemed to be no doubt about this in his mind. The money was going to continue to come his way as it always had.
            “Hang on a minute,” he said to me, as we passed one restaurant. “I’ll be right back.” He went inside, and I found a seat on a nearby bench, watching the people at some of the outdoor tables at the restaurant. Most looked to be having afternoon cocktails, and I was thinking that I could go for a stiff drink myself. The beer and the pot had me yawning now.
            Frank was gone ten minutes, and then he reappeared with a little smile on his face.
            “My old man’s had more than we have today,” he said. “He likes scotch. And he hands cash over easier when he’s loaded.” He chuckled. “Actually, he owes me for work I did at his house the other day, but he doesn’t remember. That’s the problem when I try to get paid. Let’s go find some place cheaper to have a beer.”

Which we did, at a small brewery/beer garden, where the home brew was made in the back. At certain times of the day, the place gave short tours of the rear of the building, and I wondered if they gave free samples, as they do in other breweries I’ve been in. Doyle didn’t know.
            “All I know is they give you these big glasses of the stuff for a buck and a half.”
We sat in the little outdoor garden, with two of the sixteen ounce glasses of the amber colored brew in front of us. Every other table was taken; we had gotten lucky in getting this one. Inside the building, there were a few tables next to the large windows looking out on the street. There were also what looked like large copper vats in sight behind the sales counter, ball shaped, with pipes running into them from the back room.
            “It doesn’t taste bad at all,” I said. “I like it better than that stuff we were drinking.” Meaning some popular American beer, which lost what little bite it had after the second beer.
            “It’s okay,” he said. “But I’m gonna buy a bottle of rum for tonight. That’s my drink. A few rum and cokes and I’m all set.”
Speaking of coke, I wondered if Frankie did lines. Probably, when he could afford it, or when he could talk someone else into putting up some cash. I almost asked him then, but decided to wait until later.

We sat at that tree-shaded table and listened to the tourists talk about what they had seen and what they wanted to see, and their comments on the different brews; everybody in their bright colored summer tourist clothes, looking bored really, but pretending interest in being here. We watched them parade slowly by in the street, families, couples, people with sunglasses and hats, and cameras around their necks. I realized then that I wouldn’t want anymore than the two months or so of the summer season on Cadillac Island; I wouldn’t want to look at this tourist traffic for more time than that. I could understand why some of the locals, who didn’t depend on the tourist trade, complained every day about the visitors, the traffic and the noise, the lines in the stores. Of course, it went from one extreme to another here, I’d heard, and I’m not sure I would have enjoyed a harsh winter with a daily quietude to drive you batty.
            “Any of your friends from school come here for the summer?” I asked.
            “Oh yeah,” he said. “A lot of students come here to work. A few of them live in the house I’m in. Donna and Leanne. Hailey. Chuck and David. I’ll introduce you around.”
            “Good. It’d be nice to meet some people who don’t work at the store.”
To be continued September 2005
© Mike Blake July 2005
mablake63@cox.net

Summer in Cadillac - Chapter One
Mike Blake - a novella in progress
I had no intention of spending more than a summer on the island
Summer in Cadillac - Chapter Two
Shiftwork 11.05.05
Summer in Cadillac - Chapter Three
Taking a Break in a pig's sty

Summer in Cadillac - Chapter Five
Getting Stoned


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