Page 19 - WTP Vol. VI #4

er, certainly not the hunting, nor the screenwrit- ing. There, the bravado was plain to see. And the films? Well, he’d be inclined to argue when asked about those. He’d vent for a while and he’d build a case for the defense. But honesty had always prevailed—his adult daughter made sure of that —and he would finish by admitting, yes, the films, too, they’d never truly worked.
this.” Jedediah ignored the man’s query. He’d heard that question before. He grinned, took a sip. “Did you see any this morning?”
~
Engstrom looked down at him from behind the counter. He paused, wondering about his friend with the Stetson hat. “Nope,” he said. “My boy
did, though.” With that, he puffed out his chest, and the pitch of his voice climbed higher. “Says he seen couple o’ humpbacks on his way in, ‘fore I got here! Quarter mile out, and breachin’ crazy. He saw them tails and the big spouts an’ all!”
A beach-shack coffee shop waited about a half- mile down the shore, and the old man stepped out of his trailer now. There was the option to walk along a narrow blacktop road, but Jedediah always preferred the dunes, the crunch of the sand beneath his boots. He set off, pressing his Stetson down tight and tugging at the collar of his denim jacket.
“Lend me those, will you?” “The what?”
The wind was cold today, and strong. Another bank of fog was coming in, the horizon a thick blur, just visible above tall waves topped with whitecaps, and the sea was gray, busy with swordfish boats and crab boats heading out.
Jedediah pointed to a pair of Bushnell’s. He’d of- ten borrowed this man’s binoculars, and he felt annoyed by the daily need to explain.
Jedediah watched it all as he strolled, and soon the coffee shack was just a hundred yards away. He shivered, staring at that shack, and decided first on a wide-angle exterior of the octagonal wood building, with sea and sky, then a medium shot, just the rain-rotted shack now, then cut to the bright interior: a filthy kitchen with biscuits frying, noise and steam, a general clamor, a close- up of Mr. Engstrom’s hairy arm as he flips an old urn’s bakelite handle, and pours; then pull back slowly for a medium shot and a semi-pan with Jedediah approaching; now reverse-pan to Eng- strom placing a styrofoam cup of hot black coffee on the shack’s copper counter as Jedediah slaps that counter hard, nods good morning and offers up two neatly-folded one-dollar bills.
“Connie is very good, thanks. I’ll be seeing her at noon. She’ll have word of their decision.”
“Mr. Arkansaugh: are you with us?” The guy was leaning out, waving a hand in front of the old man’s face.
“Your best one, Mr. Arkansaugh.”
“Coffee smells fine, Mr. Engstrom. Been needing
He thought about that, and he remembered the childlike enthusiasm with which Engstrom had
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“Much obliged.” He took the binoculars from the man’s hands, sighed, then downed some coffee. The drink was hot, and he blew on it. Engstrom filled the silence. “Your daughter, is she good?”
Engstrom considered pressing Jedediah for more. Then, thinking better of it, he changed the subject. “Art-house on Main’s showin’ your movie. Ten bucks a ticket, this time.”
“They are?” Jedediah was genuinely surprised. “I suppose those folks have nothing better to do than to hawk some creaky old film most every- one’s seen already. And those who haven’t, well, they’re not about to do so now.” He warmed his hands on his cup, feigned nonchalance for as long as he could. “Oh hell, Engstrom, which one are they showing?”