The Trickless Barnacle
Chapter One
The river was restless tonight. As the cold wind whipped through the prickly berry bushes, voices were heard. They came from the distant canyon to the east. The sacred burial grounds of the Potawanamee Indian tribe. Nobody lived there. It was only inhabited by the Indian spirits. On certain nights such as this, when the moon was full and the stars bright as diamonds in the blackened sky, mysterious things were known to occur. Things that were seldom discussed. Questions never asked and answers left unsaid.
Marge, the river barge was tied to the bank. She was unsettled like the night. Knocking against the steep slope making a scccrrrump, bump, bumping sound, as her old crusty hull scraped back and forth against the rocks and bushes. She wanted the motion to stop. It was making her sea sick. She was old and tired. For 57 years, Marge had worked the river. Only being out of commission once. The time she had to be lifted out of the river by the hydraulic boat lift.
She still remembers the painful wide straps that wrapped around her entire body. Fastened tight under her belly, they pulled her up out of the river, onto dry land to lie in the dirt and pebbles, helpless for many days.
Then the scraping. Oh, how she wished it would stop. The scraping seemed to go on forever. They scratched and pulled. They tugged and ripped. There was yelling and cursing and sometimes laughing. She never knew what they were laughing about. It wasn't funny to her. It just hurt. Nobody took the time to explain to her what was happening. Maybe they just assumed she would know. Perhaps they just didn’t care about her feelings. She was smart as far as boats go, and Marge thought just like a boat. After all, she was a barge for goodness sakes.
The helpless river barge could feel her paint being peeled away. Her outer coat, her varnish, her skin flaking off in tiny specks, like dandruff blowing in the wind. There was no way to defend herself. Barges have no arms or hands. They have no voice. She had a rudder, but that was rather useless while out of the water.
"Make sure you get all those blasted barnacles off the lower portside!" the familiar voice roared.
"Iye iye, Captain," said the man doing the painful scraping. He was struggling with a very stubborn barnacle. Sweat was oozing from his weathered face and trickling into his eyes. He blinked twice and wiped it away with his tattered shirt sleeve.
"Captain, I can't seem to get this sucker off. ‘Tis clingin' on for dear life, it is," the man panted.
It seemed with everything he tried, the barnacle outsmarted him. The man tried to pry it off with a crowbar, but the barnacle didn’t budge. He took his hammer and tried to smash it, but not a chip flaked off. He yelled at it and said unmentionable things to it.
The barnacle didn’t seem to notice or care for that matter. Some people have the opinion that barnacles don’t hear or communicate. Some people, probably the same ones, don’t think barnacles should have equal rights. They think it is just their opinion. These people just lack intelligence and most barnacles know this already, so they tend to have a very laid back kind of attitude regarding this ridiculous notion.
Frustrated the Captain yelled, "We don't have much time. Marge has got to get back on the river by tomorrow. Just get it off...I don't care how, just do it!"
The captain was losing patience. He had a big delivery to make and very little time to do it. It was a long trip. The weather was starting to turn. The leaves had already started falling off the trees. With the wind picking up momentum, this could mean trouble. He knew Marge was capable and sea-worthy, or river-worthy in this case, but a forceful headwind can really slow a barge down. And in all fairness to Marge the Barge, it put tremendous stress on her hull. Being the captain of a river barge was important. Many people depended on him for food and other necessities of life. Every trip he took down the river, was potential danger. He took his job very serious, that’s why he was known throughout the river valley as the best.
Captain Little was a big man, with arms like Popeye. He had a beard that covered his whole face except for his squinty blue eyes. The beard hairs even rolled over his upper lip and on several occasions would have particles of food in it. Nobody ever told Captain Little the food was there. They were afraid he might think that rude, and then go into one of his thunderous rages. Stomping and stammering about the poor ol’ barge, kicking and shouting until Marge would get a horrible headache, with steam spiraling out of her smokestack and everything. She loved her captain, but sometimes he could be a little scary. The trustworthy barge was not very good at confrontation. She preferred things to run smoothly and often wondered, ‘Why can’t everyone just get along?’ Living in a world of barges is different from the human world. Barges don’t cheat. They don’t tell lies. They don’t argue or criticize. They float along the river of life, just doing what they are meant to do. Hauling things.
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Chapter 2
Captain Little retraced his steps over the rocky path. The wind was his biggest worry. He had a good sense of direction, but with the inconsistent wind, he had to admit, he was lost. The size twelve boots he wore, were slick on the wet stones. Twisting his ankle more than once, he slowed his pace. Glancing from side to side now, he searched for a familiar glimpse of something. A landmark of some kind that would give him a clue as to where he was.
The river was no longer in sight. That worried him. All he could hear was the wind. Blowing, slashing, moving things. Every tree, limb and leaf danced to utter chaos. Shadows followed every turn he made. As he lost one shadow, another would find him. Stalking and ready to ponce upon his flesh. His flesh was creeping with goosebumps. The wiry arm hairs tangled and electrified.
When he came upon the clearing, he sighed with relief. He wondered why the old Indian burial ground gave him the creeps. The captain didn’t believe in ghosts. He wasn’t superstitious at all. The stories the local people often told were just that...stories. Why he got the weeby-geebies out here just didn’t make sense. After all, he was a grown man, over six feet tall, and usually fearless. A super-hero kind of guy. Though at this moment he felt exactly like a kid. It seemed as if something or somebody was watching him.
Captain Little held his breath, trying to hear something. The quiet was so immense and his ears ached from listening so hard. There was a sound. A movement. A rustle over there in the rock pile. He turned his head towards the sound and the blackness. The moon lit up an outline of rocks and boulders, but the night hid the rest. As he quietly made his way towards the rocks, he felt a distinct jolt, then a crack of lightening briefly displayed the whole night scene for him to survey.
Eyes were staring at him. Captain Little quickly counted four sets of eyes all in a row. A family of raccoons had taken refuge in a hollowed tree stump.
“Well...dang! Y’all had me pretty spooked,” The captain spoke out loud, for the first time.
The raccoons didn’t move a bit. Just sat there. Waiting to see what the captain was gonna do. They had seen other humans before and knew they could be mean. So they just sat and stared. The raccoon’s strategy was effective most of the time, especially with humans of the type A behavior. It was well-known amongst the raccoon and other animal species, that humans had very little patience. They didn’t like waiting in line. They weren’t very good at staying quiet for long, and always had to be doing something. They were antsy. In the end, the raccoons would always win in this waiting game. And wait they did.
Meanwhile, Marge the Barge, who was tied up to the river bank, was getting anxious. Captain Little had been gone too long. She was frettin‘ and wigglin‘ her rudder back and forth, causing the water to splish and splash. It was starting to get cold and without her coat of paint, she was beginning to shiver. The indignity alone would’ve been enough for most barges, but without the paint, her iron-clad bottom would start to rust and water was likely to seep through her wooden planks above. Then the danger of dry-rot, termites and other disgusting Section 1 items could devalue her even more. If the captain didn’t have the money to repair the Section 1 items, he might have to sell her as a short sale or lose her in foreclosure. Ohhhh...she was just goin’ nuts worrying about all this.
“Don’t worry, be happy...
Don’t worry, be happy...”
Marge quieted the committee in her head for a minute to listen. Something was singing. It appeared to be coming from her portside. It was in tune but repeating the same phrase over and over and over. Almost like a chant or mantra.
The smoke went off in Marge’s brain, as she remembered the man trying to get that rascally barnacle off her portside. Obviously the barnacle had hung on, with all its might.
“Hey Maawge...over here, on your portside.” the voice said.
Marge quietly bellowed from her hornblower, “Who’s there? Who is this?” Whatever it was sounded very East Coast, maybe New York.
“It’s me Barney. I am attached to your portside. You are very lucky because I am here to help. I know things with great clarity. My moral compass will guide you and the captain through all this. Let me ask you an important question. Do you know what you want?” questioned the barnacle.
“What do ya mean, what do I want?” I’m a barge, nobody asks me hard questions like that,” the flustered Barge replied.
“You don’t know what you want? Is there nothing up there? Are you like all the other little boats just floating along the current of life with no direction? I thought you were different, more of a thinker,” antagonized the Barnicle.
Marge was getting flustered. These were difficult questions to answer and she wasn’t sure what the right answers were. She had no idea what this Barnacle expected from her. Her amiableness was beginning to turn to defensiveness.
“Well..I am a thinker. I’m a very talented barge. The captain loves me. Most of the guys think I’m swell,” Marge stammered out.
“What is the point of all this anyway?” She asked perplexed.
Here she was waiting for the captain, doing her job and minding her own business. What was with this barnacle, she thought? All these questions. Hard questions. She didn’t think about these kind of things. The barnacle was making her feel inadequate. As if she hadn’t accomplished anything with her life. That feeling of being a shy little boat was starting to surface and all her young boathood memories were resurfacing.
“I know. When I was young I wanted to be a big ocean liner. I would carry aboard many families going to Mexico and the Carribean. All the kids would be so excited to travel on such a majestic ship,” she sighed and slumped.
“My parents discouraged me from applying to college. I didn’t know any better. Other boats my age were getting their hulls wet by taking the river jobs. It looked exciting to me, so I did the same. I always thought I had plenty of time to make something of myself. Now I am just a blue collar rusted river barge helpless and tied up to a rocky cliff. In the cold. Useless,” Marge sputtered out.
“I’m beginning to see a pattern here. The captain’s out risking his life and your just hangin’ out here on the bank. What are ya, scared? You’re timid. I can tell you have low self-esteem. Ya got nothin’ up there,” Barney challenged pointing at his head.
He was enjoying this. This was a special knack he had, that could knock down anyone. The Trickless Barnacle had anger stored inside from a long time ago. He had been hurt before and swore that he would never be vulnerable to another boat again.
Barney had a hyper amnesiac mind that remembered everything in exact detail. Always on guard, he watched closely for clues or signs that might harm him in any way. Super suspicious and never trusting anyone, he could twist things around so crazy that you felt tongue-tied and a damn fool. He was smart, crafty and trickless. He was also very charming. His people skills and manners, impeccable. Being a Gemini, there were two sides to the Barnacle. Good and bad, although he preferred displaying the bad more often than the other.
Barnacles can be very thoughtful and loving, but they can become a little too clingy at times. It’s in their nature. Most barnacles will attach themselves to a boat and stay there for life. Loving and supportive of their partner, they make great companions. Helping with the navigation. Alerting their beloved boats of hidden dangers. Good listeners. Always ready to go the extra mile and just hang in there.
That’s how Marge became ensnarled in this unhealthy and fast paced relationship. The Open Book Syndrome is what she suffered from. She poured her heart out from the get go. She fell bow over aft for the magnetic but pudgy barnacle. In matters of the heart, she was defenseless. The natural quietness of her demeanor, the polite manner and easy way Marge had with other sea-faring beings, was hindering her at the moment. Where were her boundaries? She felt her bow slipping and tipping under the slapping waves. The sting of the salt water mixing with her own tears. Her heart pounding and sounding like a revolutionary war canon exploding in her portals.
The trickless barnacle knew every trick in the book. The epic novel of tricks it was. Because the trickless barnacle was so slick, he was in his glory during these haphazard relationships. Many who had survived him, said he was a habitual barge attacher. Instead of attaching and latching on to one barge for life, he always found some fault or reason to jump ship prematurely. He never tried to work things out. There were always way more boats in the sea. Barney was fond of saying that, and would undoubtedly, crease the spot between his eyebrows as he rolled his eyes.
While Marge was trying her darndest to figure out the answers to some of Barney’s impossible questions, Captain Little came running to the bank. Out of breath, Marge noticed he was carrying something in his arms.
“Start yer engines Marge! Let’s get outa here!” He bellowed.
Errrrrrrrmph! The engines roared, then sputtered.
Errrrrrrrrrrmph...sputter...sputter. Marge always had a hard time starting when nervous. It was almost like stuttering. The more nervous she became, the more she stuttered...or sputtered as in this case. The Captain who was stressed out, angst out and spun out, was getting impatient with Marge. A Barge should start right up, he always said. Gotta be able to make a fast and clean getaway should the need arise.
Meanwhile the Trickless Barnacle is just sitting on the side taking it all in. Absorbing every little detail going on. Grinning to himself. Just loving how Marge is squirming and unable to start her engines. No confidence, Barney thought to himself.
“Ya know Marge, you have low self-esteem. I probably shouldn’t say this to you...but I have high self-esteem. The two just don’t mix,” the barnacle sneered.
“I don’t always have low self-esteem,” piped in Marge.
The Barnacle didn’t say a word, just looked smugly at the uptight barge.
“What do ya mean...don’t mix?” Marge realizing she didn’t quite understand what he was talking about.
“You can’t have a barge and a barnacle together when one has low and the other has high self-esteem. It doesn’t work. I know this.” He said this with a wicked East Coast sneer.
This infuriated Marge, but she kept her cool, she didn’t have a very good comeback. Her west coast style was so laid back compared to the Trickless Barnacle’s. She was no match for his confrontational and argumentative ways. She lacked the meaness, or the energy required. Marge needed all her focus and energy on starting her engines. The captain needed her.
“C’mon...Marge! Let’s get! You can do it. Gun’em girl!”
Errrrrramp p p pa p pa pa papaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
“That a girl!!!”
After just a slight hesitation Marge let her rip. With Captain Little at the helm encouraging her, she felt young again. Anything was possible now. To hell with the darn barnacle, she thought.
Marge summoned all her concentration now on the task at hand. The Captain had found something very important. She was just dyin’ to know what it was. He was acting as if it were top secret. Wrapped in canvas, it was an irregular shape. He had stuffed it under the deck, out of sight.
To be continued...
