wave velveteen ⚓ sailboat 85th

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"i climbed up your front porch
and I doorbell ditched ya
and I felt so bad, couldn't cope to what I did
so I laughed myself sick all the way to my car"

---

Knock, knock, boom! 

"About damn time," I've been waiting on this kid for about negative five minutes and I hate waiting. I've been sitting criss crossed in my boat's room, watching some shit ole Capitolite cooking show and eating grapes out of a dirty tubberware bowl -- living the life, y'know, as I do. We've gotten a routine going, you see. I go to work in the morning, sail the boat out about an hour into the shoreline and lay down my bait, smoke a cigarette and whistle along as the sun rises and falls. From there I work until six, going back and forth batch catching and dropping off whatever I get, easy enough besides the smell. 

And then six p.m. comes, and I'm off the clock and parked again. Two weeks ago I'd give him or Wander a call and see whoever shows up first, but at this point Beck just knows, and that's why we're pretty good friends. Seven comes and he's on his way with whatever food he decided on, I don't even have to get my own groceries anymore, he just steals shit from his mansion and the Capitol'll replenish whatever is missing. There's been a lot of changes in my life these last five years, but damn, have I gotten more silver platters than ever. 

"Aye!" Hyping up as I open the door, more excited about the take out box Beck's got than Beck himself, which is saying something, "what'd ya get, is it seafood? I know I talked a big game about hating seafood but I've really been getting into shrimp recently," so maybe I lied. Now I know! 

I take the box from him while I let him in, crouching beneath the string lights I've got hanging up all sloppily. The photo clips kept falling off so now I've just got them tacked into the wall, Wander brought me a houseplant the last time we hung out and that's about the pinnacle of interior boat design that I know of. Plants? On water? Sounds good to me, "seriously, shrimp're like a snack and a toy all in one. I spend more time tearing the shells apart than actually eatin' the damn things," especially if I'm watching something at the same time. I zoned out the other day looking at the sunset and ended up just grinding a shell into chunks and dust, shrimp eyes staring back at me all beady. 

"Oh, how was your day?" 

[[nyte]]

 BECK HAILSHAM

Summers cling to your skin, hot and sticky and miserable until they're not. I'm a lot like that, I think, open as the sun bearing down on the back of my neck as I fight through afternoon humidity toward the ocean. There's always a breeze seeping off her surface, acrid with the taste of seafood and cyanide. It's all about finding the good in things, pearls buried in clams and smiles that fight through sobs. I've not made a habit of knowing what hopeful feels like but I imagine it's something like this.

An itch I can't scratch, all these thoughts that stick like needles shoved under callouses. Something to look forward to, maybe, cutting through monotony with toothy smiles and simple stories that stretch into elaborate epics. And I'm sat there thinking I could listen to a hundred more if he keeps telling them just like this-

and then I swallow the lump that rises in my throat and laugh a little too loud though nothing was particularly funny. It's a game of cat and mouse, playing both predator and prey as I try to keep myself from realizing just how close to normal I've strayed. Like I can smile without feeling guilty about it.

I'm not there yet but the corners of my mouth have quirked on occasion, unbidden and instantly bitten down by something more synthetic. There's another me rattling around in my head, sewn to my skin when the cameras turn my way and I'm trying not to think of how pathetic everyone would think I am if they knew I passed out on the kitchen floor last night.

It's all about finding the good in things.

Like how it's not agony to be at the beach anymore. The whispers still sting but it's been a while since I've let them cut deep. I pick up some sandwiches from old Angus' shack because he bakes the bread himself and fresh-caught fish is to die for. (Though I've always wondered if that's because I grew up on optimally nutritious slop. Wouldn't be the only thing Hailsham ruined for me.) High spirits feel foreign as the bounce in my step and - fuck - am I whistling?

The ocean still makes me uneasy, evening fog gathering on the horizon threatening truths I drown out with my knuckles against Lorenzo's door. "Po' boys from one-eyed Angus' sea shack. Don't worry, his wife does most of the slicing." That's not true but I don't want him worrying about finding fingers in his sandwich because that only happened once as far as I'm aware.

Force of habit draws me to the dark corners of the little house, checking for the monsters I can't convince myself exist only in nightmares. My pacing ends with my back pressed against the far wall, hands all jittery and clammy and it'll be a few more minutes before my body takes up realizing this place is safe.

Oh, how was your day?

Flashes of broken glass and pools of blood, hastily wiped up with white towels that I think I forgot to throw out when I left the mansion this morning.

Why's every innocent question loaded these days?

"Fine. Same as usual." It's not really a lie, "I'm more curious about how the fisherman fantasy is living up to expectations. If you've yet to be sold on District Four I've got a few ideas."