Free The Wooden Nickel by William Carpenter

hasn’t
     risen above sixth place.
    Coming up on Damon is the
Trudy P,
Chucky Peek’s boat, throwing off black smoke the way a boat does when it’s in its death throes. Chucky’s a relation of Sarah’s,
     he’s got six kids, his wife’s pregnant, they have one with spina bifida so they spend half their time at the Ronald McDonald
     House, and now his diesel’s going. They told him he was crazy to race the fucking thing, that 260 Isotta-Zucchini was a piece
     of shit right out of the crate. He came in dead last and burnt her out to boot. Guy like that’s not going to survive, but
     where’s he going to go? Ought to be a way to help out, chip in, keep it a secret, get him a new engine or something, but you
     can’t. No way he wouldn’t know it, and he wouldn’t take a cent. A man would go under first. But there’s no under, when you
     think about it. And nothing under that.
    Now a Split Cove boat crowds the
Wooden Nickel
coming up to the narrows at the Sodom Ledge bell. It’s a little black plastic diesel called the
Bad Trip,
there’s about four Split Cove guys aboard. It’s clear they’ve been hauling all day and have nothing to show for it, they’re
     riding high and passing a joint around, all huddled grimly about the wheel. They’ve got a bottle of that fruit-flavored brandy
     they like so much, Split Cove life expectancy’s around twenty-six. One of them pulls a Red Sox cap down low over his eyes,
     another one gives Lucky the finger, low and sneaky, but no mistaking it. That boat belongs to some Astbury cousins if he recalls,
     all of them dark-skinned like Ronette, dark-haired, there’s Indians in the next town over. The Split Covers like to fish with
     the whole tribe aboard and they’re now trying to crowd the
Wooden Nickel
into the bell buoy, which is not allowed. He puts the throttle up hard and the stern drops, his four-blade Michigan prop
     grabs solid water and the wake rises behind him like a waterspout. The loran takes a minute to figure it out, reads out twenty-one
     knots, then twenty-four, then twenty-seven. He sneaks past Ronette’s Indian cousins before the bell. They’re straining her.
     It sounds like a little Isuzu 650 in there, kerosene vaporizing from the stack and all six injectors strangling in oil.
    Then, because he can’t stand bullshit, he spins the wheel to port and cuts dead across their bow at top speed with about three
     yards to spare. He looks back to see them drenched and pounded by his wake, all four pumping the finger up and down, taking
     their trawler boots off to drain the water out. Fuck them. He slows down and lets them pass, falls just astern of them, floors
     her again and crawls right up their asshole with the
Wooden Nickel
throwing off a bow wave full of crystal stars and rainbows from the afternoon sun.
    He parts company with the
Bad Trip
after Sodom Ledge, fast-forwards the Reba McEntire cassette to the next cut, “He Broke Your Memory Last Night.” That lady
     is one fine musician. He throttles back so he can hear the words.
    Like a rare piece of crystal
    Like a fine china cup
    Which leads his thoughts to Sarah’s sea glass ornaments, the delicacy of leadwork that makes his hand seem as gross as a backhoe,
     so he’s afraid even to touch them. Yet Reba’s talking about sex, if you think about it. That’s the thing about Reba McEntire,
     she’s full of hidden meanings. You have to listen more than once.
    The
Bad Trip
’s oriental whine has faded to the other side of the bay. He’ll sell these lobsters, maybe take Sarah out to dinner at the
     Irving Big Stop, though if she makes him order the Petite Chicken Breast again he’ll put a fork through her hand. Fuck her.
     He only had three cigarettes today. He’s going to order the Prime fucking Rib.
    He spots his son Kyle’s dive boat in the shoal water west of Split Ledge, it’s an old pop-riveted aluminum derelict that had
     been relaxing on the bottom for at least three years.
Metallica,
numb