Decisions, Decisions
by
Michael D. Britton
* * * *
Copyright 2012 by Michael D. Britton
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Vacancy.
This place oughtta work.
If I recall correctly, it’s only a short walk up the hill and then down some sand-dusted steps to the driftwood-cluttered beach. Perched on a rotting log near the tan sandstone cliffs etched with graffiti, I can release my beauties, let them do their work.
If only this soaking rain lets up – they never do well in the rain. But it is best if nobody’s around.
I’ve been here before – the Saltair Inn, Lincoln City, Oregon – some nine years ago I think it was. The place has changed a lot since then – more useless trinkets scattered around, a huge old boat’s been dragged up onto the lawn, looks kinda like it was picked up and dumped there like Dorothy’s house on the witch.
Hated that little witch – Dorothy, that is. Spoiled, whiney brat.
But the place is in many ways the same as ever – eponymous salty air, cool mist floating down through the fir trees, no unwanted questions from the proprietor, and enough space between the bungalow rooms that nobody will hear the squawking sounds that are bound to come from my room.
Cabin number seven will do nicely – only has neighbors on one side. I can back my Econoline right up to the front door, unload the cages easily and set them up in the main room.
Riker and Troi should be comfortable enough – we’ll only be here a couple days at most. The smell of the ocean through the open window is already making them antsy – I feed them a couple of handfuls of dried crab bits, stroke their feathers, then cover the cages for the night.
In the morning, we will hunt.
#
It was the summer of ‘92 when they found me. I’d been out of the Navy brig over ten years by then – had plenty of time to think about choices and consequences – but knew I could never go back. Nobody wanted to hire a military criminal, and I didn’t care to work for anyone, so I made my living collecting shells along the coast – from as far south as Fort Bragg, California, up as far as Astoria, Oregon.
Beautiful, whole shells, a thousand varieties – spiky conches in dozens of shades, spiraled mollusks, striped Nautilus, marbled pearly abalone. I’d clean and shine them all up and sell them out of the trunk of my rust-orange ’77 Corolla, until I could afford a van.
It was a good deal – my overheads were low: free raw materials, free labor, free lodgings (I slept in the car), no storefront to maintain, no taxes to pay, and no family to support. Free as a bird.
Life was simple, apart from the ever-present sand – in my shoes, in my clothes, in my hair, in the creases of my body, and in my car. I wore out three DustBusters in the first two years. I finally got sick of the sand in the hair and shaved my head, but I let my beard grow down to my chest – over the years it’s become white and scraggly like an old fisherman, though I’m only fifty.
Everything was pretty copacetic – then those two seagulls came on the scene.
I was combing the beach just north of the depressing lumber town of Eureka. It was a cloudy day, and my collection bag was still nearly empty after spending the whole morning tracking back and forth along the water’s edge as the tide receded.
Along came Riker, majestic and bold, white underbelly and dark brown top feathers, and landed right in front of me with a soft flutter – not six feet ahead. He took a couple steps toward me, his webbed feet slapping the wet sand, stared me down for a few seconds, then coughed up the most beautiful, speckled Nautilus – about three inches across – and placed it at my feet like an offering.
Before I could recover from my shock, I heard the loud complaining of Troi. She waddled over, beak wide open, yelling at Riker with a repeated awhk-awhk-awhk-awhk!
They seemed to be having a complex conversation, like an old married couple disagreeing on a finer point of decorum.
Then Troi flew off in a huff, but returned only a minute later. In the mean time, I’d bent to pick up the Nautilus Riker had given me, and was turning it over in my hands, glancing up now and again to see Riker staring at me with oddly intelligent eyes, as if to say, “Not bad, eh?”
The sound of the waves crashing to my left seemed to fade as Troi returned, bearing a new gift – this one a remarkably bright pink hunk of hard coral.
But instead of placing it at my feet, she dropped it on my head with a soft thunk that I could hear and feel at the same time. It bounced off my black flat cap, brushed my shoulder, and amazingly wound up in my left hand.
She landed next to Riker and awaited my reaction.
“Uh, thank you, thank you very much. This is very nice stuff. Do you know where there’s more?”
I felt really dumb standing there talking to a pair of birds, but the beach was empty, I was a little high on Humboldt green, and I felt much less dumb when I heard an answer in my head: Sure. You just have to know where to look. Come back tomorrow at this time and we’ll show you what we can do.
Uh, excuse me? Did I just converse with a seagull? What was in that weed?
They flew off, I went back to my car, and took a much needed midday nap.
Next day, they’d delivered me a pile of shells and sea treasures that made my usual take look like a little bundle of junk.
I thanked them, and although I was completely sober, I heard Troi say: No problem. Would you like to go into business together?
And thus, a wonderful arrangement was formed.
#
Riker never spoke.
I mean, he could squawk like any other seagull, but he did not communicate with me the way Troi did. She pretty much spoke for the both of them, which was fine, since one freaky telepathic bird was enough for me.
But Riker was definitely the better of the two when it came to creative finds, and volume of collectible deliveries. A real workhorse, he could pick up and bring me twice as much as Troi.
And that’s just what he commenced doing the morning after we showed up in Lincoln City – just up the road from the Inn.
It was a gray, cold day, not long after dawn, the wind blowing hard as it always does at the beach. I could smell the ocean’s fresh saltiness – even after all these years it struck me vividly and sometimes threw me back to my first days aboard the U.S.S. Iowa. The waves pounded against the wet sand, their force as impressive as ever.
The tide was way out, and I released Riker and Troi from right near the bottom of the cliffs, where the biggest logs of driftwood made for a good seat on which to wait for them to do their work. I stomped down some of the reedy grass and took a seat with my back against a log that resembled a faded wooden whale. My bird friends took off in different directions, and I laid my head back with my eyes closed and my hoodie up to fend off the wind, trying to feel the sun’s weak rays on my face through the cloud cover.