Curiosity ~ Lucidity ~ Humanity
On the old boardwalk of Falmouth Harbor a man in familiar clothing stops his bicycle. He arrives just before sunset, in serene glasses. Reaching into the bungee-corded milk crate in back he pulls out this small, archaic antenna. He unfolds the metal hinges and waits.
Now and then, a local or vacationer walks by and the man strikes up a conversation. They pay him three dollars and then watch as he calibrates the instrument. He presses the antique receiver against his ear. Song sparrows sing. A fishing line moves in the breeze. The man’s fingers scribble down a private message, which he then passes to the patron, who often curses or storms away, down the street.
They say he is The Peddler of Unsaid, that he can tune his peculiar apparatus to the secret thoughts of the world. It’s a rumor, of course. And as my father says, always take rumors with a grain of sea salt.
However, as usual, my curiosity gets the better of me. Leaving the rocks behind, I tuck this flimsy notebook under my arm. I approach the dusky figure. I do not fish for money. Nor do I speak. And perhaps it is my imagination, but a strange grin washes over the man’s face, and his teeth begin to foam. The Island Queen is sliding into the mouth of the harbor. Children wave from high railings. The peddler waves too, still grinning. Then he calls to me:
“Fer a mere three dollars, I’ll share the Unsaid. Perhaps y’have a lover? A coworker? A siblin? A neighbor? A friend? Maybe a parent? Maybe a child? Ah! Now, what d’ya wish t’learn? What have they not told ya? There’s somethin, isn’t there? Come, ya deserve t’know yer own kin, yer own kind.” Buoys rise and fall, but I prevent myself from nodding. Discarded messages wander the parking lot. There should be an eerie fog, but the sunset touches everything golden. A father and son toss stones across the channel. A cormorant vanishes into its own reflection. The Peddler laughs, as if we are old friends, his teeth flickering:
“Aye, a life of the Unsaid can grate on ya. Come, it burns the spirit. What d’ya care t’know?”
Taking a swig, he offers me a taste from his wooden flask. I don’t tell him I’ve been sober six years, but it seems he already knows. Looking across the harbor, I watch the tethered vessels change direction in the tide. They face the current. Not because they are brave, but because it is easy.
Before I can respond, a frantic woman materializes. Clutching a green pocketbook, she does not notice me. The scent of dead fish mingles with her perfume. I step back, not wanting to intrude.
Soon I am driving along the wild bluff. I open the windows to the evening air, which is cool and filled with motion. Heading toward town, I listen to the lullabies of finches. My phone buzzes. I don’t pick up this time. Porchlights pass. A long voicemail. As I speed up, fireflies are slicing homes. I think of my daughter. I think about how she adored ladybugs, yellow ladybugs.
Liam Maguire’s is busy tonight. At one table, a family is eating dinner. The parents give each other weary looks, since the adorable baby is crying, and a fork is tapping, and the toddler is pouring uneaten soup into a glass of wine while the teenager is texting. At another table, a college or military friend pays the bill while the other spews his philosophies on finance. The banjo plays as our local priest savors a Guinness. Near the bar, I find a place. Enjoying the noise of the room, I watch the wordless. There is so much beauty I want to say to them. By the kitchen Liam is quietly sipping tea.
“How are you, sweetie?” The bartender leans on the counter. She has already poured me a fizzing tonic. I offer a friendly, conciliatory shrug. She smiles, slaps the counter. I watch the fluffy foam in my neighbor’s tall glass. What would the peddler have said? I imagine myself driving back to the cold harbor: I am sweating. My eyes are filling. Tearing a sheet from my notebook, I slam the car door. The sky blazes ladybug-yellow. The peddler is loading his bicycle onto a misty sailboat that seems about to dissolve. I pay the three dollars. He grins and prepares the rickety equipment as I hand over the name of my ex-wife: Susan McKinley. The dial begins to turn. The receiver garbles into his twisted ear. The pencil scrapes. I grab the note. Under the terminal sunset, standing out on the jetty, with the night waves exploding at my ankles, I gaze out across the water. Martha’s Vineyard is polka-dotted with tiny, twinkling houses. I unfold the Peddler’s message. My lungs catch. A green pocketbook floats by. Dizzy, the ocean screams. My eyes and soul scan the seven-word sentence. And THIS it what it says:
Actually, a fluttering of music awakens me. The bar is brimming with laughter. An old couple is dancing. The mandolin sparkles, and I remember this world is real. We all chant, “No, nay, never, no more!”And for a time we are all where we need to be. We are all safe. We are all sound.
Bio-Fragment: We are the stories of Nathan Walkowicz. We are a family. We are strangers. We do not define the author any more than a wave defines the ocean. We are a glint of movement, frozen in language. A few of us have considered starting a band called “Alternative Literature”, but the name hasn’t stuck. Not yet. Still, we love to exist as little experiments. Despite our sizes, Nate treats us with care and curiosity. He listens to what we have to say. He helps us grow and prefers that we get the spotlight. It’s funny, sometimes he seems almost surprised that we exist. Also, he is an educator in Massachusetts, a father of two terrific boys, and a fan of mint tea.