Washed Ashore

Rebecca Dietrich is a photographer from Atlantic City. She has published photography inWelter, Seaside Gothic, Third Street Reviewand elsewhere. Her photograph "Cliffs of Moher" was awarded Special Merit in Light Space & Time’s 14th annual “Seascapes” art exhibit. She holds a B.A. in Psychology from Stockton University.

Going Down the Road Feeling Bad

by Hunter Prichard

Lyle sat by the window tapping cigarette ashes onto a chipped plate. He felt tender and dreamy, remembering fishing with Bob and Marty all those years ago. They’d worked like devils out on the sea where nobody was witness except for God. His beard was long and full, and girls liked wasting time with him at dockside bars. It was too bad Bob died. Then Marty wrecked his boat in a storm and disappeared. Lyle had quit fishing a year or two after that, had some trouble when a girlfriend had his child, and eventually came to this place that was now home.

He sat trying to put the past back into arrangement, but he couldn’t think well and only shifted his weight and tapped his feet and had another cigarette. He wondered how he hadn’t gotten drunk last night and smiled a little, thinking on the old Citgo station, the last place he could buy beer before he reached Mrs. Horton’s house, where he now lived in a small room with a bed and kitchenette and a bathroom down the hall, the shower occupied by old men and sometimes children, so that he went several days without bathing, so that whenever he wanted to bathe, he walked up and down the corridor listening intently if anyone should be around. It was getting worse and worse, this longing for drunkenness. Something akin to terror or guilt kept him away from it. It was hard going, but he knew he mustn’t lose himself in petulance and hatefulness. Lyle held himself still. His hands jittered on the windowsill. He smoked another cigarette. A seizure came upon him: a sudden flashing in his eyes, followed by disorientation and nausea. Lyle clasped his hands against the table-edge and shut his eyes until it passed.

“You there, Lyle?” Mrs. Horton called from the hall. “Rent’s due tomorrow.”

“I know, Mrs. Horton,” he said and stood slowly from the chair.

Mrs. Horton cleared her throat. “You show me your paycheck.”

She must’ve gotten up on the wrong side of the bed today, Lyle said to himself as he got his shoebox from under the bed and took out his paystubs. Every so often she came around, suspicious about money. It was her right because she’d been cheated, and the people who lived with her weren’t any good. He knew Mrs. Horton came and snooped around the room when he wasn’t around – her old-lady perfume lingered in the cracks – but he only felt sorry for her, the same sorry feeling he had for himself.

“I got it here,” he said as he opened the door.

“Let me look.” Her chin bobbed as she smiled. “Looks the same to me.”

“It’s the same. But I might get more hours now that it’s summer.”

“Will you?” She clutched the check between her bony fingers, her eyes tight as a child’s when they’re learning to read.

“Will you get a raise, too?”

“No, it’s only that I might have more hours.”

“They treat people like hell.” She chewed her lip. “Leave the check tomorrow.”

“I know, Mrs. Horton. I’ll have it for you.”

She gave it back to him. “How’s your head?”

“About the same.” He tried to smile. “It’s day by day.”

“Are you still getting sick any?”

“Not so often.”

She nodded and turned down the hall. A while later, he was standing by the window and saw her pacing the front lawn. She had on a straw hat and a mesh shopping bag hanging off her shoulder. Her head was bent, and she prattled indiscreetly to herself. The people across the street stared dully. Lyle tried not to feel so sorry for Mrs. Horton. She lived alone in the house that she’d owned with her husband for many years. Her husband was dead or had left her. He didn’t know which because she’d told the story both ways. Only once had he been up to her apartment, back when she’d first taken him in. All wintertime he hadn’t seen her much, but he heard her footsteps and the things she dropped. Now that the air was warm, she sat all day on the porch.

Lyle paced because he was writing a letter and letter-writing always made him feel jittery and raw. The letters were to his girlfriend and child living up north. He wrote honest, straightforward letters and then tore them into small pieces. The one he wrote today was about work at the King’s Head Café and how he hadn’t had a drink in one year, two months, and twenty-seven days. He told them the waitresses still shouted when he didn’t have the utensils ready but that the chef was kind to him, and he said how wonderful he felt when Mrs. Horton asked him on his health. He drank a soda and ate a little chocolate and smoked many cigarettes and scrutinized each word of the letter to make sure it was the truth.

“That’s enough,” he whispered and ripped the paper into tiny bits.

There was no longer any point in wondering why he didn’t save one of the letters to send up north, but he took a moment to remember his old girlfriend – a tough, pretty woman he swore he’d once loved – and he knew she wasn’t so callous and that maybe she would like to hear on how he was. He wondered if there were any pictures of him for his child to look at.

“End of the month is tomorrow,” Mrs. Horton said when he left for work. She stood on the porch with her arms crossed.

“You’ll have my rent, won’t you?”

“Yes, Mrs. Horton,” he answered, standing with her. “I’ll write the check.”

“You’ll put it in the mailbox for me?”

“I sure will, Mrs. Horton.”

“I know so.” Her eyes shrank. “You work at the King’s Head, don’t you?”

“That’s right,” he said. “I’ve been working there since winter.”

“I guess so.” She smirked and looked at him in a new way. “I sure love that place. My husband and I would go after church. That’s right. Let’s see.” She figured. “I got vegetable omelets. He got skirt steaks with eggs over easy and orange juice. They still got that?”

“I think so. But I’m only the dishwasher, Mrs. Horton.”

“I haven’t been down there in a long while,” she went on. “We used to go right after church. I bet it’s busy there now that it’s summer.”

“Sure is.” He fiddled with his cigarettes. “I should be going.”

“Got people coming in and out like the tides, don’t you?”

“Oh yeah, all night the orders come and go.”

She nodded solemnly. “Good of you. Are you the chef there?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Not yet, you mean. I bet you work hard and they’ll make you chef soon. I bet so. You’re one of those types that work hard for something – something big and important, you know?”

“Thank you,” he said after a moment. “I’ll leave the check in the mailbox.”

He stopped in the gas station for some fifty-cent chocolates. Already people were buying beer and having a good time. When he came out, there wasn’t anyone around except for an old man that stood around these parts with a jangle of phlegm choked in his throat. A cigarette poked from his lips, and he drank a bottle of beer so ruthlessly that the beer dripped down his shirt. There were some little ragged children walking down the block close to them. Lyle stood tall and told the man drinking the beer to get out of there. The man turned dumbly. They stood together in the street staring at each other for a long time. Eventually, the man turned, and Lyle watched him disappear around the corner.

The King’s Head Café was in a nice part of town, and the streets were packed with happy, well-dressed people walking to dinner. Lyle turned down the alleyway adjacent to the restaurant and went in through the backdoor. Some waitresses were around, their arms folded. A cook drank a soda against the wall. Lyle went into the kitchen and stood by the washing machine. He laughed a little before he turned and filled the three-basin sink with soapy water. It was tough coming here night after night, but there wasn’t anything better than a job well done. A cook came by to tell him on the trash. A different one said that the mats needed to be washed. Then the chef called for him, and Lyle dried his hands and went out to the front.

“Summers are too busy for most people we hire,” the chef said. He leaned against the pass. “The thing is that you’re not keeping up.”

“I’m trying my best.” Lyle cleared his throat. People filled the booths around them as the waitresses scurried. “I tried hard as I could.”

“I wrote your paycheck for a full week’s amount.” The chef passed it over. He looked back behind him. “You were a good worker. Too bad it gets so busy during the summer. That’s all. I’m sorry.” The chef shook his hand and went into the back.

On a quiet lane north of the cafe, an old woman had fallen. Her face was cracked open and dark blood poured down her face onto her fine clothes. She was being helped to her feet by an old man. Lyle went to them, but he couldn’t be of help. Turning from them, he bumped into some young women storming down the street, chattering on how badly they needed a cocktail. They had rings through their noses, and their shrill laughter ricocheted against the world. Lyle didn’t know if he should care. He sat down on the sidewalk with his feet in the street. He smoked for a long time, his head hanging between his knees, tapping cigarette after cigarette into the gutter-drain, inside of which dark water churned.

Aurthor's Bio: Hunter Prichard is a young writer from Portland, Maine. He works as a claim’s examiner at an insurance company, but is in the process of earning his education certification, and plans on teaching English Literature at the high school level. He writes short stories and critical reviews. His work has appeared inHunger Mountain Review, Tampa Review, Touchstone Literary Magazine,and elsewhere.