Deep Waters - Rodney

1977. The United States of America was 201 years old. We’d survived the pogrom against our people, the destruction of our sacred temples, a life under scrutiny by shady government powers; we’d even survived those same government powers leaning on us for cash, in the form of untraceable gold, throughout the Nixon era. If America had celebrated in 1976, we in Innsmouth were partying for other reasons, most of which had to do with the conditional pardon and the removal of covert oversight enacted into law by a Georgia humanitarian and former peanut farmer, who now parked his boots beneath the Resolute desk in the Oval Office. Yes, there were reasons for contentment and jubilation in the most secretive of New England’s secretive hamlets; but I was having none of it: Doreen and I weren’t speaking.

It was December and an early cold front was moving in, promising snow. The bulk of my friends were over at the Gilman House at the school dance, where Charlene Masters was probably already waiting for me to show up as her date, a role that I’d accepted but which I hadn’t yet decided to follow through on at that point. I was sitting on the bonnet of my car, the 1974 Pontiac Firebird I’d rescued and re-built, parked on the beach and shining my headlights out into the dark waters offshore.

Whatever black sign I’d been expecting from the murky surf of the ‘Reef I couldn’t have said; regardless, it wasn’t forthcoming. I sucked the last skerrick of nicotine from my cigarette and flicked the butt out onto the sand, a dying ember that echoed my own feelings of goodwill about the evening’s entertainment. I let the smoke flow out of my nostrils and dissipate on the night breeze. Then I jumped up and strode around to the driver’s side door: I had an itch to be moving, like a shark throwing off a torpor, and since insight wasn’t heading my way from the ancestors, I figured I’d light out and seek it from other sources.

I gunned the engine and backed off the sand, onto the coast road. Spinning wheels and shifting through gears, I sped up to the main square and turned right on squealing tyres onto the bridge across the Manuxet and on, out of town. I stabbed the button on my tape player and “Gold Dust Woman” blared out as I left the town limits.

In no time I was above the coastline, cruising along the dirt roads that stretched out to the Aylesbury Pike, leaving Innsmouth in my wake. My escape wasn’t to be total though: at a certain junction, I turned off the main drag and crawled along a dirt side-lane, deep into the swamp towards a corrugated iron shack hidden in the salt marsh and lazy fog. The sign read “Rodney’s Rubber Worx! (It Does!)” in garish letters, illuminated by a yellow bulb under a steel shade that was a magnet for the local bloodsucking insects. I slammed closed the door of the Firebird and splished over to the front door.

‘Rodney? You there?’

The door swung wide to unleash illumination upon the swamp surroundings, as well as the vocal dynamics of Clare Torry singing “The Great Gig in the Sky”. I knew that if Rodney was this far into “The Dark Side of the Moon”, he must be well fried.

‘Dude!’ he beamed at me, thick smoke wreathing his beard and gathering beneath his aviator sunglasses, ‘you’re just in time!’

I grinned at him, we hugged and went inside to the tie-dyed miasma that was Rodney’s work-space.

Rodney had moved to Innsmouth some months previously. He’d lived on the West Coast in Hollywood and had made his mark in the movies as an assistant to the shark in Spielberg’s movie. From what I could gather, he was the guy who jumped in to repair any tears or splits in the rubber that Bruce, the shark, contracted during filming. Quite simply, there was no-one living who knew the stress tolerances of saltwater on latex rubber better than Rodney Parker. Once that film had tucked an Oscar under its belt, Rodney had seen the writing on the wall: sequels were the inevitable outcome of Academy success and he knew that, if they were to be made, the Powers That Be would have to seek him out if they wanted to make more. Consequently he moved to a location as far removed from Tinseltown as he could find so that, when they came calling, he would be able to gauge how keen they were. Unfortunately for Rodney, CGI was the way of the future and they weren’t that keen.

Still, in a fishing community like Innsmouth, wetsuits and rubber dinghies need repairs all the time, and he did a killer line in squid-shaped fishing lures.

The door closed quickly behind us (because, you know, we didn’t want any of the smoke getting out) and Rodney swiftly padded the gap at the bottom of the door with a towel. He then turned to me and offered me a toke on the biggest spliff I’d ever seen up until then. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘it’s on Bruce.’ So I knew that he was digging into his film earnings for this shindig.

Rodney being Rodney, the sound system was excellent, with speakers swinging from the rafters and the bass turned up high. I sunk down on some accommodating cushions and drew a long pull on the doobie, letting the smoke ooze out slowly through my nostrils. The record came to a close, leaving me feeling somewhat unfulfilled and Rodney switched over to a local radio station while uncapping beers, before flipping the disc and continuing the groove.

‘I thought it was dance night at the Gilman,’ he said while Wild Cherry was telling us how they got to “Play that Funky Music” in the background. I waved a dismissive hand.

‘I’m not into that scene,’ I declared, ‘there’s nothing there to interest me.’

‘Not even Doreen Hepplethwaite?’ Rodney looked disconcerted as he handed me a beer. I took it and lay back with a smile: I took a hard swig and another toke off of Bruce’s bounty.

‘Not even,’ I said, ‘that’s a dead issue.’

Rodney looked glum. ‘That’s a shame,’ he said ruefully shaking his head, ‘you okay? You wanna talk about it?’

‘Naw,’ I said, handing over the spliff, ‘it’s cool; just one of those things, y’know?’ Although, deep inside, something was telling me that it was anything but.

Rodney pouted and took a pull on his beer, nodding sagely. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if you need me, I’m here – you know that, right?’

I stuck out my beer bottle and he clinked it with his own. ‘Sure, man,’ I said. ‘Hey – I didn’t mean to bring you down, y’know?’

‘Yeah,’ he answered, ‘that’s okay – it’s just you were great kids, y’know? I thought you were really cool together...’

‘Well,’ I waved my bottle breezily, ‘plenty more fish in the sea an’ all that...’

But I had set the tone. Rodney decided not to follow the Pink Floyd trail all the way down the rabbit hole, but rather, switched records and started a pity-session fuelled by Bread’s “Lost Without Your Love” which he scratchily returned to every time it almost finished. By the fifteenth replay I was gnashing my teeth and sucking beer as hard as I could.

Just when I thought I could take it no more, the door was flung open and Winston Gilman pushed his way inside. He was all dressed up to party in a tan leather jacket with two-foot fringing, high-waisted tight flared tan jeans and a Studio 54 t-shirt. His long, straight dark hair fell down his back and he flicked it to one side as he sniffed the aromatic signature in the air.

‘Woah! Come inside and close the door, Boothe,’ he said, ‘there’s a party happening’

I was a bit baked by then, but not in a good way, due to Rodney’s maudlin jag, and I didn’t really register Winston’s partner. He was dark, dressed in dark clothes, and trying real hard not to be noticed. My impression was that he was young and impressionable – just the sort of patsy that Winston usually gravitated towards.

Winston loomed in my field of vision.

‘Hey, Benson?’ he said, ‘you okay?’

I shook my head and stared up at him. ‘What makes you ask?’ I said, annoyed.

‘Well, you’re flat on your back, stoned and drunk, and it’s prom night, and you’re not with your girl.’

‘Ex-girl,’ I interrupted.

‘Well, I was talking about Charlene Masters,’ he said, ‘but whatever...’

‘That’s...’ I began, but he cut me off.

‘I don’t need the drama, dude,’ he said, ‘it’s cool. Just tell me this: can you drive?’

I struggled up in my all-consuming cushions. ‘Sure,’ I said, shaking my head, ‘sure I can drive. What do you want?’

‘I need someone to drive us,’ he pointed at himself and his shady-looking friend, ‘into Newburyport. Are you up for that?’

‘Do either of you have “Lost Without Your Love” on cassette?’ I asked.

Winston looked over to his companion who shook his head quickly; he turned back to me:

‘No, it's cool,’ he said. ‘Look dude, if this is a deal-breaker, maybe we can get your friend here to make one...’

‘No need,’ I said struggling to stand up, ‘I’m good to go...’

*****

To Be Continued