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Pier 19

Efrem Emerson

It's two forty-seven AM. I'm out on the end of Pier 19, sitting on top of this old steamer trunk I stole from an antique shop downtown the other day. I wheeled it out here with a dolly, the one standing over to my left by that tall stack of crab traps. It's stolen, too. There's nobody else here. Nobody except Tom Clancy, the famous suspense writer. He's inside the steamer trunk, in fact. It's an old one but sturdy, with a strong latch and those leather straps that wrap all the way around. I checked them a few minutes ago, and they're pretty secure.
     What's Tom Clancy doing inside that trunk? Squirming, I'll bet. Yeah, I would imagine that right now he's in a high state of agitation. Borderline freakout even. Oh, well.
     It's rather quiet this time of the early morning. Other than a distant foghorn or the cry of a restless tern, there's not much going on. Clancy lets out an occasional muffled yell every little while, but that's nothing. His mouth is duct-taped shut, so the noise isn't too audible. He's also wrapped up in an old smelly blanket I had behind the seat of the truck. It's probably causing him to itch like hell, but that's not my problem.
     Oh, he might be rich and famous and all, but I certainly don't envy him. Not where he's going. And where would that be? Well, right the fuck off the end of this pier, that's where. I tossed eight or ten bricks in the trunk as well, so he's going down.
     All the way down.
     I light a cigarette with Clancy's monogrammed Zippo, a Carlton 'cause I'm trying to cut down on my intake of tar, and quietly scrutinize his driver's license. I've already pocketed the cash, a little over $1500 in twenties and fifties, along with the chump change in his pocket. The license, I discover, is from Saskatchewan. That's in Canada, for fuck's sake! That freak! Trying to pass himself off as some kind of genuine pure-bred all-American! Stupid right-wing warhawk freak! The picture on the license is a pretty good likeness, too, with that dopey smirk of his and those dopey aviator shades. I've got those fuckers in the left side pocket of my trenchcoat right now, as a matter of fact. I begin squeezing them until they bend a little, then a little more until I crush them in my hand. One of the lenses actually snaps, and I feel a sharp pain. A moment later the palm of my hand becomes damp and sticky. It's just part of the ceremony, I guess, but isn't this whole thing a ceremony? I pull the broken pieces out of my pocket and fling them into the water. They hit the surface with a series of soft, barely audible plops. My hand throbs a bit as blood trickles down my fingers. It's just part of the ceremony. Oh, I've also got his dumb-looking hat folded up and stuffed in the back pocket of my jeans. The one that reads USS Ticonderoga or some fucking thing across the front, with the scrambled eggs on the visor. Big fucking wanna be hero freak! You can bet I'll be wearing that hat and saluting smartly when he goes over the side. Wait! He's yelling something again. I think he said "oil can." Ha Ha! I give the trunk a slight kick with the rear heel of one of my scuffed-up engineer boots.
     "Shut up, you freak!"
     So what's my motive? My reasoning behind all this? An interesting question. But I have a question, too, and that question is: do I really need a motive? Does intense hatred of bad taste really require an explanation? Think about it.

     He had been downtown at a trendy bookstore/coffee bar called the Knick Knack Nook earlier, signing copies of his latest bestseller, the name of which escapes me at the moment. I read about it in the paper a couple of days ago, and knew instinctively that it could be my only chance. The place was packed with phony, espresso-drinking freaks. He didn't notice me. I hung back pretending to be interested in one of his earlier books, The Hunt for Red October. I wanted to get in line and ask him to sign the fucker, but those sheep at the bookstore said I had to buy it first. Well, fuck that!
     After the bookstore I discreetly followed him to this bar on the waterfront. Salty Sol's, it was called. Cool name, huh? Buoys and Gulls on the toilet doors, overdone deep-fried fish sandwiches with wedges of lemon and gobs of tartar sauce, Schlitz in long necked bottles, scruffy waterfront clientele. I followed him inside. He strutted right up to the goddamn bar and ordered a shot of Cutty Sark and some onion rings. Cutty Sark, for Christ's sake! He didn't waste any time letting everyone know who he was, either, the arrogant prick, and pretty soon he was surrounded by all kinds of groupies and other low-life star-fuckers. I scanned the scene for a moment, then shouldered my way up to the bar and ordered a cup of coffee, black. Clancy was just a few feet to my left, offering somebody the time with a quick flash of what appeared to be a Rolex Oyster. This fat blonde with big titties stuffed inside a sheer, too-tight blouse weaseled up out of nowhere and was soon hanging onto him like he was Jesus Christ. I took my coffee over to an empty booth and sat down. There wasn't anyone near me. I sipped it slowly and, through slitted eyes, watched the freak bask in all the plastic bullshit hoopla. He was tossing down shots, stuffing himself with onion rings, and expounding on the destructive power of the latest nuclear torpedo, which he had a hand in designing, he claimed. This may have been true, but I noticed that his other hand was busy crawling up the fat blonde's thigh. I finished my coffee and ordered another cup. I sipped this one even slower, making it last. Pretty soon most of the back slappers, glow worms, and other handjob freaks began to dwindle off, but there were still a few left, including the fat blonde cunt. I waited patiently, like a lion at a watering hole, and when he finally got up and staggered into the bathroom, I made my move. Luckily, there was nobody else in there. I found him leaning heavily against one of the partitions between the urinals, fumbling around with his belt and zipper. I stepped up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.
     "Hello, Tom."
     His big head whipped back around at me. Urine splashed noisily against the porcelain.
     "Who?...whoosits?"
     "I have it, Tom. What you've been looking for."
     "Wh-whazzat?" He half-turned, spraying the wall to the right of the urinal.
     "Outside, Tom. In the car."
     "Innacar?" A growing puddle appeared down around his tan Gucci loafers.
     "That's right, Tom. The car."
     "Wazinnacar? Wazza?"
     "Oh, a little 'something,' to quote Winnie the Pooh. All the way from Peru, as a matter of fact. Think of it, Tom. You'll have a stiffy for as long as you want."
     "Sss...stiffy??"
     "That's right."
     "I wanna sss-stiffy!"
     "Good."
     I told him to meet me outside in five minutes. I told him I'd be waiting in the black Toyota pickup with the steamer trunk in the back, next to the fence in the rear parking lot. I told him it wouldn't be long before he would have something that would cause that fat blonde's hard nipples to get even harder. It was really quite simple to smash him over the head with my steering wheel Club, tie his hands behind his back with the clothesline, and slap a strip of duct-tape over his mouth. It was a little harder getting him into the steamer trunk, though.
     Ha!
     I pull my left hand out of my pocket and stare at it. The wound is still bleeding. I let a few drops splatter at my feet, then stare over at the stolen dolly. As I said, it's standing up next to this stack of crab traps. I get up and wheel it to the edge and push it over. It splashes into the cold black water and sinks quickly. Yeah, in just a few moments I'm gonna push this heavy bastard of a steamer trunk off, too, and down that fucker'll go! No more bestsellers, freak! No more stupid smirk! It's almost twenty feet deep here, you know. I checked on the harbor nautical charts. Twice, in fact.

     I wonder what that freak'll be thinking about on the way down. Developing gills? Some sort of hasty evolutionary mollusk-type filtration system? Net worth? Ha! The only problem I can foresee is that his sudden removal from the ranks of the living might make him some kind of a martyr, causing the sales of his books to skyrocket. Wouldn't that be a kick in the pants?
     A large fishing boat chugs past a few hundred yards out. I hear those twin diesels thumping away long before I see the running lights. A moment later the wake slaps against the pilings below.
     "Hear that, freak?"
     I begin to wrestle the huge heavy trunk closer to the edge, pushing until it's about halfway out over the water. Clancy starts to wail, a high-pitched moan. He knows it's almost time.
     It won't be long now. I check the time with my new Rolex Oyster. Two fifty-seven according to those impressive glow-in-the-dark hands. Just a few more minutes to go. I can see a dim light off in the east. I take a last deep drag off the cigarette and flick it over the side. The smoke trickles slowly out through my nose and is carried off by a slight breeze. I lean against the trunk with my whole body, nudging it even further out. A muffled scream comes from inside.
     "Shut up!"
     The trunk slips, starts to tip downward. I have to hold it back now. Every muscle of my body; shoulders, arms, all the way down to my legs, is tensing up with the effort. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. It's not quite time. Another early morning fishing boat approaches. A bigger one, this time. I meditate on the steady drumming of those big twin diesel engines, and a smile crawls slowly across my face as I relax my grip, allowing gravity to pull the trunk out of my hands.

Copyright © 2010 by San Diego State University.

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