In which I wouldn't know anything about this

Martin is a neighbor of mine. A single man of indeterminate age, he lives aboard his boat on the same dock where I live with the Keelhauler. His is a 28-foot powerboat covered with large quantities of marine blue canvas, and it never leaves the dock. Like a lot of boats, his functions as a floating condo. Unlike a lot of boats, his contains two crystal chandeliers, a grandfather clock, a fake fireplace, and various ornaments decorated with bead fringe and gold leaf. The crystals sway and clink together when you step onto the boat. They wouldn't survive a trip to the harbor entrance. Were I to share this description with Martin, he would stop, aghast, and exclaim, "Bitch! You KNOW I have three motherfucking chandeliers on that boat. Don't confuse me with your trailer trash relatives!"

Martin likes to make an impression. Asked "how are you?" by a passer-by, he will call out, "Better than a handjob, I'm told." A pronounced Massachusetts accent lends an edge to his every statement. He wears diamond pav� rings big as postage stamps, and several jeweled necklaces, for his task of sitting on the dock, conversing with the neighbors. This has earned him the nickname "Liberace." He never drinks, owing to diabetes, but at Christmas, he assembles gift bags of wine, ornaments, chocolate, which he distributes to those in his favor. Those not in his favor receive unflattering nicknames and scathing, just-within-earshot critiques.

Martin kicked out his long-time companion Tom years ago, and has lived alone ever since, with a cheerful little dog named Benji. Over the years, Benji has grown infirm and blind, tracing a lightning-fork down the dock as he follows Martin up to the parking lot. Martin makes the trip several times a day, so I run into him a lot.

"Hi, Martin!" I call, which proves sufficient provocation for him to strike a pose, extend a jeweled hand, and say, between puffs on a cigarette, "Dear... You wouldn't know anything about this, but when you're REALLY good-looking..." Point made, he never has to finish the sentence. We laugh about it, watching Benji wander crookedly in the grass, stopping to pee on various objects. This lead-in is one of Martin's favorite, and always makes me laugh. "You wouldn't know anything about this, but..." He doesn't waste these insults on enemies.

Benji has been thirteen, according to Martin, for the five years I've known them. At some point, it became obvious that Benji was somewhat older than that, but the subject seemed a sticking point with Martin. He grew sensitive to questions about Benji's age and health.

I'd been away from the dock for a week or so, and when I returned last Friday, I ran across Martin, sitting on the dock box outside his boat, smoking a cigarette. He returned my greeting with a smile and nod, and a simple hello. I stopped.

"Are you all right?" I asked him, and he nodded. He looked drawn.

"I am now," he said. I waited. "Well, you know Benji died," he said. No, I had not known. I apologized, said I'd not been around.

"People've been amazing," he said, "the cards, the flowers..." He shook his head. "One arrangement is this high"--he indicated a height of about three feet--"it had to cost several hundred dollars." I said again that I was sorry I hadn't been around when Benji died. There was no point to saying it, I just didn't know what else to say. I mentally reviewed my stationery inventory on the boat, in search of the appropriate sympathy card.

Martin sighed. "For days, the cards have been coming. Now I wish they'd stop. It's just a reminder." I stopped my mental stationery review.

As he will, Martin shook off the gloom and brought the conversation up to his normal level. "Well, if you hadn't been out chasing the fleet," he huffed, tossing an imaginary mane of hair. He likes to humorously accuse me of being a prostitute who works the waterfront. "But you heard the fleet was in, and so..." he made a sweeping hand gesture. It was another sentence he didn't finish. I turned to make my way down to my own boat. "That's right," he yelled, "Get back down to your own corner--this is my turf! And another thing: You owe me thirty-five cents and a roll of Scotch tape!"

I thought about our exchange for a while when I got back home. I'd gotten Martin's point about the cards. Still, I wanted to make some gesture of friendship. Something kind to let him know I cared, but that didn't cross over into sentimentality. Finally, I got out a card and wrote:

Look, bitch:

You wouldn't know anything about this, but a really first-rate whore would keep a red light on so the fleet could find her. You have so much to learn from me.

Love,
Violet

I dropped the card off early the next morning, when I was leaving for work. I haven't seen him since, but I hope that he got the message.



Star of the day. . .Benji
posted @ 2:35 p.m. on July 21, 2008 before | after

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She lay awake all night,

zzzzzzzzzzz......