Pattern

Fiction

Pattern could still hear the sound of his house getting torn down. It was a county snowplow, scraping three inches of snow and probably a centimeter of asphalt of Jefferson Avenue, but it was the same sound to him.

They were good houses, that row, abandoned by their rightful owners, but good as far as Pattern and Melt and Rico were concerned.

Pattern pulled his argyle jacket around him and looked over the edge of the loading dock.

Capuchins gave him the jacket, and someone asked what the pattern was called. 

Odom Maurice Watkins didn’t know what the pattern was called, so he shrugged his shoulders, said “it’s just a pattern,” and when Rico laughed, his nickname was born.

Pattern was watching the river for the boat light.

They had some cube steaks on the oil drum grill, but Pattern knew it was 50/50 that Captain Gilbey might pull up with walleye.

Cops hadn’t made it to the dock yet, it was well hidden. Only person that knew Pattern, Melt, and Rico lived down the short embankment where fork trucks used to pick up bus bumpers was Captain Gilbey.

Rico had seen him putting into the water down at Gateway Park. 

Rico has a way. That’s how Melt put it. Has a way. 

He had a way of always challenging people, always opening with a negative.

Rico had said, “Bet you don’t catch no fish,” to a complete stranger with a bunch of nice fishing poles and a cool-looking little boat.

“Betcha I do,” the man said with a smile.

And Rico said, “Then bring me some back and feed my ass.”

The fisherman, Captain Gilbey asked him where he stayed, and Rico told him.

“Down off Franklin, and Mt. Elliott, old white warehouse, down in the north loading dock.

“You got a way to cook it when I bring it? “ Captain Gilbey asked.

“You ain’t bringin’ shit,” Rico said, and Melt slapped at him, missed, then apologized to Captain Gilbey.

“Sorry, young brother, “ Melt said. “Rico has a way. He don’t mean nothing. Just his way.”

“I’ll feed y’all if you got a way to cook it.”

“We got a grill.” 

Captain Gilbey pointed. “Franklin down near Mt. Elliot. See y’all in a few hours.”

Looking out at the water for Captain Gilbey’s light, Pattern laughed.

Turned out Rico had never had fresh fish in his life. 

Captain Gilbey showed up, tied up right to the edge of the Riverwalk, walked over with a bag with two walleye in it. Chopped off the head and tail, said he had to jet.

Rico got bones in his mouth and was spitting in terror for a week.

Pattern could smell the cube steaks. They had some redskin potatoes too. Wouldn’t be a bad dinner. 

Pattern kept looking for that boat light.

He loved the fish that Rico wouldn’t touch. But it wasn’t just the fish.

It was a guy with a boat.

Rico had run his mouth at a guy with a boat, because Rico has a way.

And the guy with the boat, that guy showed up with fish.

And he keeps showing up with fish.

It wasn’t just the fish.

It was that a guy with a boat gave a fuck.

Melt handed Pattern his cube steak on a paper plate with a plastic fork and a packet of fast food hot sauce.

Pattern thanked Melt, took a bite, and turned to the river, looking for the light.

***

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