Mickey’s Catch

Two sweating bottles of beer clunked down in front of Tom and Clifton on the pock-marked bar they knew so well. They thanked the bartender in low tones, clinked bottles, and took a slug. The bar had that familiar combination of smells: beer, saltwater, and a hint of fish guts. It made them feel at home and at ease. Fishers, dock workers, and captains of varying shapes and sizes perched on wooden stools and tables. Dusky light trickled from one stool to the next through the grime. When a particularly strong swell swept past the pilings below their feet, the dock swayed just a bit. Just enough to let them feel the closeness of the water. 

“Hol-eeee shit, is that, Mickey?” Clifton asked Tom. Nodding his grey-speckled beard toward the back of the bar. Tom glanced back. A man in a wheelchair sat beside a small table in a dark corner. He lounged back in the chair and reached down for a sip of his drink. Tom noticed that his legs ended at the thigh, giving him the perched appearance of a parrot. He had a long gash down the side of his face and wore a contented grin as he watched the bar patrons sink into their drunk and salty stupor. When the dock rolled, his chair wobbled, but his head stayed still. A lifelong sailor. 

Tom stared for a moment, bold as day, then turned back to Clifton and shrugged.

“Could be, never knew him, before my time,” he said.

“Yeah, well, there’s mud minnows running out there that came before your time,” Clifton said with a grin. Tom shrugged again.

“Who’s Mickey? How’d he lose his legs?”

“Mickey? Mickey’s…” Clifton started. “You’ve not heard the stories?”

“Not a one,” Tom replied, sipping his beer.

“Jesus Christ, I’m old… and forgetting about Mickey… that’s what’s wrong with this town… the whole world.”

“Well go on then, old man,” Tom said, signaling the bartender for another round.

“Right… Mickey was… is?... Back in the day, that is, Mickey was the heart and soul of this dock and, by a very short extension, the town around it. He was a living legend. He… it was incredible… when things went sideways, he was just there. You know the Coast Guard Station, the new one with the fancy cutter?”

“Yeah,” said Tom.

“Well 25 years ago,” Clifton said. “We didn’t have the fancy cutter. We just had Mickey and his Palomina. One time… one time… Ahhhh I remember that one. There’s a swell in the water right, sky’s this ugly purple-ish color just after dawn. Storm’s coming, we all know. There’s been power in the water for days, now the sky… no one’s leaving port, right. We’re all bellying up here to the bar to watch it blow in and a group of fellas come marching past, laughing.” He waved one gnarled hand toward worn dock planks just outside the open door.

“They’re heading out while we drink, gonna make a big catch, get home before the storm,” he said.

“Lemme guess,” said Tom, “Mickey saved them.”

Clifton nodded.

“They left, Mickey watched, they were gone for a while, the wind came up and Mickey left with a smile. Few of us told him not to bother. Dumb kids had it coming, let the bottom feeders have ‘em. We watched him go. Palomina heaving over the swell at the mouth of the harbor. Couple hours later, they come back around and Mickey’s towing their half-sunk boat, laughing at the top of his lungs. The boys are all huddled in the back of the Palomina like a sack of puppies who got dragged out of a well. Come to find out that three of the fools went overboard. Mickey spent two hours swimming around in the storm dragging them back to the ‘Mina.”

“Sounds like a tough son of a bitch,” Tom said. “He fight sharks, too?” 

“A few times,” Clifton said gruffly, “now that you mention it.”

“ 's that how he lost his legs?”

“Shark?” Clifton mused. “Might have been that? Or a boat motor? I think I remember hearing about it, while I was away. Some kid fell in and he went in after them. Saved the kid, of course. Disappeared after that, hadn’t heard a word from him around here in…20 years? Maybe more? Seemed strange, he loved this damn town. We minded our little piece of the ocean and Mickey minded us. Couldn’t believe he just left.”

“Disappeared? What like in a puff of smoke?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Clifton chuckled. “Nah, Coasties airlifted him out or something. I think they were here by then. He just never came back, now I know why…” 

“You gonna go talk to him about it?”

Clifton sat for a moment, staring across the bar and beyond it. Tom waited for a moment. 

“Clif?”

“Yeah?”

“I asked if you were gonna–”

“Go talk to him, I heard ya,” Clifton replied. He gave his head a little shake then turned to face Mickey’s corner.

Mickey looked at him, smiled at him, raised a beer of his own, and took a slug. Clifton returned the gesture. Tom watched, brows knit.

“What? That’s it? That’s all? Was that a conversation?” he asked.

“Something like that,” Clifton said.

The dock rocked heavily under them. Everyone in the bar let their bodies sway with it, their heads held still above. 

“Swell’s picking up,” Tom said after a minute. 

Clifton nodded.

Clifton nodded again. They drank for a while. The night grew dark, the bar emptied slowly, fishers abandoned the pier. They chatted for a long while, and eventually, Tom brought up the storm.

“NOAA says it’s coming close,” Tom said, “might turn in on us tomorrow. 

Clifton didn’t respond for a moment.

“I’m gonna go for a walk,” he said, “feel the air.”

Tom gave him a look.

“Alright, I’ll get a last round and meet you out there.”

Clifton nodded as he stood with some old man grunts and a shaking out of the leg. He walked, legs a little too stiff, to the door and paced out along the dark pier, further out over the water. The boards hummed under his feet at each passing swell. He could feel the power building. Toward the end of the pier, the waves rattled the supports and the decking wobbled beneath Clifton's boots. It occurred to him that the pier might not survive the next storm.

“Everything I love is rotting to shit,” Clifton mumbled as he walked the warped board. 

He reached the end of the pier and glared out over the ocean. Moonlight rolled in on the waves below. It filled his heart with joy and longing all at once, as it always had and always would. He glared and smiled. Then he heard the deck boards creak behind him and turned to find Mickey, grinning in the moonlight. 

“Clifton.”

“Mickey.”

“Mind if I slip by you?”

Clifton shot a look out over the water.

“Mickey,” Clifton said, “I’m sure it’s hard. But… you can… you don’t haveta…”

Mickey was laughing.

“It ain’t like that Clifton,” he said, “ain’t like that at all. Give me a hand up to sit on the railing.”

“Oh,” Clifton grumbled, “o’ course, course. Just a sec.” Clifton reached down for the man’s proffered armpit and gave a pull. They drew close for a moment and Clifton thought he could smell the salt coursing through the veins of the old legend.

Mickey sat on the railing smiling out at the ocean. 

“You know,” he said. “I flirted with her for years.”

“Death?” Clifton asked, nonplussed.

“Nah,” Mickey laughed, “Nah, not death.” He nodded down to the water. “Never let another man or woman into my life, not really. Never felt lonely though, always thought we had an understanding. I loved her that much. There’s this endless… joy and longing in it, you know?”

Clifton nodded.

“Too bad she can’t reciprocate it, huh?”

Mickey turned back to Clifton, teeth shining bright as he grinned in the moonlight.

“Says who?” he asked. Then he winked and launched himself from the end of the pier. 

Clifton shouted and grabbed at him, but the old sailor had moved too quickly. He laughed the whole way down, only stopping when he splashed into a passing wave.

Clifton kicked his boots off and had his shirt over his head when a wave crashed into the dock and gave it a wrenching creak. He toppled over, cursing the whole way, still wrenching at the shirt.

“Clif!” he heard from below, “Hey Clif!”

With another series of curses, the fisherman yanked his shirt back down and stomped to the railing. 

Mickey waved up at him from the water. 

“Toss that damn chair down when you get a chance,” Mickey yelled up. “The kids love to play with it.” He gave a wave of farewell, then dove under the water. 

Clifton watched for the leg stumps to flip up over Mickey’s head as he dove. Instead, the dazed fisherman saw a long, golden fishtail, attached to Mickey at the hip. He shook his head and blinked. Moments later, further offshore, two… two… Clifton wouldn’t allow himself to think the word, it felt so ridiculous. Two very large fish leaped up out of the water. 

Clifton didn’t trust himself to stand. He clutched the railing, breathing heavily. After a minute or two, he began to laugh. Waves crashed against the dock and it creaked, but Clifton didn’t worry. He put his boots back on, hefted the chair up, and tossed it over the rail without ceremony. It splashed into the water. He watched the waves roll in under the moon until Tom strolled up with a beer for him. 

“NOAA confirmed it, storms on its way,” Tom said. “No one’s going out tomorrow.”

“Except us,” Clifton said. 

Tom didn’t reply for a long moment.

“Clif, c’mon now, a couple fish ain’t worth dying over,” Tom said, softly. 

“You just gotta have a little faith, Tom,” Clifton replied. “She’ll take her due, eventually. But I don’t think it’ll be tomorrow. I don’t think it will.” 

~ END ~