In the Company of Whales

Monday, October 20, 1997

Carla drew her red felt-tip pen from behind her left ear, then paused to reposition one of the half-dozen earrings running along its upper edge. The dangly one with the silver skull was forever getting caught on things. This time it was tangled in her hair.

     “Hell,” she muttered and shook it free.

     She spread the local newspaper on the worn lunch counter and flipped to the classified ads on the last page, but her mind was elsewhere. How the fuck did her mom get her phone number? Carla had been sound asleep and didn’t hear the phone ring during the night, but the little red light on her answering machine was blinking when she got up for work. The sound of heavy traffic on the recording nearly drowned out her mom’s voice, and her speech was slurred. No surprise there. Carla listened to the message twice, but all she could make out was her own name and the word sorry. With a shaking finger she erased the message.

     After the last time, Carla persuaded her roommate to change their number and take her name off the account. But he moved out two months ago and switched the name on the account from his to hers. That must be how her mom found her. Besides not having money to pay the phone bill, now Carla had another reason to cancel it.

     A muffled weather update on the radio in the kitchen slipped under the swinging door and into the quiet coffee shop. The drizzle that had started as she drove to work that morning was whipping itself into a steady downpour. 

     The Coffee Spot stood by itself at the end of a quiet residential street with scattered homes facing the water. The shop was a stone’s throw from the shore of Dyes Inlet, and the large windows gave customers a view of the boat launch and fishing pier. Summer visitors came in for coffee or an early breakfast before a day on the water. The rest of the year, it served the locals who lived and worked in the little town of Tracyton.

     Carla’s secondhand Doc Martens squashed her toes as she rose on tiptoe and leaned both elbows on the counter. 

     “Found,” she read aloud. “Black leather wallet. No ID. Baby photo. Bremerton Ferry Terminal.”

     Noah, the first of her early regulars, looked up, his attention divided between Carla and the fluted paper he was struggling to remove from his muffin. Under the brim of his baseball cap, his eyelids drooped. He worked the nightshift and would be heading home to bed soon. Days were short this time of year in the Pacific Northwest, and the sun wouldn’t be up for another half hour. Dyes Inlet was barely visible through the streaky windows behind him. 

     “Seriously?” Noah bit into the muffin with a soft grunt of pleasure, set it next to his hot chocolate, and licked his lips. The jacket of his security guard uniform hung from his bony shoulders. No matter how many muffins Carla served him, the kid would never fill out his clothes.

     “Right?” Toss the damn thing and get on with your life. They weren’t living in fucking Mayberry. On the other hand, losing a nice wallet sucked. Nice that someone bothered to put an ad in the paper, though. Carla brushed her shaggy bangs away from her forehead. She drew a finger down the page, her short, black-polished nail scraping the paper lightly.

     “Lost. Key ring. Poulsbo Cinema.” She removed a pair of scissors from her apron pocket and turned back the cuffs of her heavy plaid shirt, revealing a portion of the tattoo on her forearm. She clipped both ads, her scissors making a sound like chewing, and tacked them to the crowded bulletin board next to the wall phone, muttering, “C’mon, Tony. Work your magic.”

     “Who’s Tony?” Noah asked.

     Carla ignored him. He didn’t need to know about her superstitious devotion to Saint Anthony, the patron saint of lost things.

     Roommate Wanted ads were next. Was she the only person in this crappy town desperate to split rent? If it didn’t cost so much, she’d place an ad herself. She’d tried posting flyers at the supermarket and the library, the kind with her phone number written on little tear-off tabs at the bottom. Pathetic. Three people took her number, but not one bothered to call. If she didn’t find a roommate by the end of the month, she’d have to add get evicted to her list of things to do. That kind of shit she didn’t need. Along with her mom popping up again after all this time.

     Searching in the pocket of her white baker’s apron, Carla’s fingers found her worry stone. She rubbed the smooth indentation with her thumb and scanned the Help Wanted ads with her pen poised and ready, always on the lookout for a better job. Nothing. At least nothing she was qualified to do. A high school diploma, a couple of years playing bass in a grunge band, and ten years working in this dive didn’t amount to much. Besides, fall was the worst time of year to look for work in Kitsap County, Washington. Business was slow everywhere. It would be months before Carla saw a new face at the shop now that the summer tourists were gone. Past ten in the morning, she’d be lucky to see anyone at all.

     Stewart slipped in and stopped on the doormat, clutching his thermos to his chest. He took his coffee to go but rarely said a word or came in any further than the doorway. Carla carried a steaming carafe across the cramped dining room to meet him.

     Noah looked on, shaking his head. “Dude, you should find a drive-through. Carla don’t need—” 

     “Don’t listen to him. You know I don’t mind.” She filled his thermos and gave him a wink. His bright hamster eyes darted around, avoiding her gaze. “Besides, my coffee is better than anyone’s. Am I right?” She leaned in and nudged him lightly with her elbow. He stiffened and loudly drew in his breath, recoiling from her touch.

     “My bad,” said Carla, stepping back. She knew how to make it up to him. “Wait here a sec.”

     A moment later, she returned with a small paper bag. “Just a couple cookies. See you tomorrow?”

     The door opened again and Delbert lumbered in, bringing the cold damp air with him. Stewart paid for his coffee and disappeared.

     “Morning, Carla.” Delbert heaved his large body onto a stool at the counter and shrugged out of his jacket. He slapped his bucket hat against his thigh, sending droplets of rainwater flying, before settling it back onto his bald head. “Nasty out there.”

     Carla glanced at the wet floor and then toward the two large picture windows, one on either side of the door. Rain sheeted off the glass, obscuring the dark water and the opposite shore. 

     She refolded the newspaper. Her daily horoscope and Dear Abby would have to wait. After quickly twisting her pale shoulder-length hair into a messy bun and securing it with her pen, she set two thick white saucers on the counter in front of Delbert, placed a cup in each, and then filled the cups from the glass pot. He added sugar to his and stirred, slopping coffee over the rim and into the saucer. Carla sipped from the other and watched as drips fell onto the clean white countertop when he lifted his cup to blow off the steam. She pushed the napkin dispenser closer to him, but he missed the hint. He pulled one out and used it to dry the lenses of his giant Clark Kent glasses.

     “Muffin? They’re banana-nut,” Carla said. Mondays were always banana-nut.

     Delbert set his cup in the saucer with a loud rattle. “Where’s Sylvia?” He checked his watch.

     “Called in sick.” What a shock. Hungover more likely.

     The shop owner’s daughter took the early serving shift before heading to class. She loved to drop the word college into every conversation, even though she was only taking courses in cosmetology at the community college, paid for by dear old daddy. And she always called the shabby coffee shop a café. Completely annoying.

     Carla’s job description included everything back-of-house, hidden away in the kitchen, while Sylvia, with her dimpled smile and teenage shape, waited on customers out front. It was the way Carla liked it. But when Sylvia was late or didn’t show up at all, Carla stepped in, doing both jobs but getting paid for only one. At least she got tips.

     Carla slid the newspaper across to Delbert. He smiled his thanks and watched as she topped off his cup and collected the two singles he set on the counter. His money smelled like stale tobacco, a smell that always reminded her of her old life with the band. Some days she wasn’t sure which she missed more, the cigarettes or the music. She stepped over to the cash register, dying for a smoke.

     Behind the kitchen door, drums thumped the opening riff of Alice in Chains’ “Angry Chair.” Carla jabbed at the register keys to the beat, jerking her head and mouthing the words. She was supposed to keep the cheap plastic radio tuned to the country station. The manager insisted on it. Since he was never around, she played her favorite punk station KNDD. If she kept the volume low enough, the customers could hardly hear it anyway.

     “No, that’s for you, darling,” Delbert said with a wink as Carla set his change next to his saucer. With one hand she swept the coins, a dime and four pennies, into the other.

     Someday she’d get her act together and do something with her life, something that mattered, far away from this dump, somewhere her mom couldn’t find her. Then Carla would never have to bake another muffin or pour another cup of coffee for chump change. But first she needed to save enough cash for a fresh start. Fat chance. Crappy wages and even crappier tips, when she got them at all. And no one to split the rent with again. Leaving this job and this town was more out of reach than ever. 

     She pocketed her tip and pushed through the swinging door, hard enough to send it sailing. It hit the wall with a bang. In the kitchen she turned up the volume, and her voice joined Layne Staley’s monotone growl. The menacing thrum of his six-string and the crash and clatter of Carla’s baking pans, alive with looming catastrophe, were the perfect soundtrack for her mood.

                                                                                      ***

The sun dropped to a level just below the clouds and knife-thin rays sliced through the evergreens. Carla turned west toward home. Light reflected off the wet pavement making her eyes ache. She flipped the visor down, but instead of blocking the sun, it came loose and dangled in her face.

     “Dammit.” She yanked it off and tossed it into the back seat. “You’re a piece of crap, Dot.”

     The used Datsun wagon was the first thing Carla bought when she had saved enough money working at the Coffee Spot. With no roommate she could barely afford gas anymore, let alone the oil Dot guzzled and the new filter she desperately needed. Now the old girl rattled and squeaked around the north end of Dyes Inlet toward Carla’s apartment on the other side. At least the heater worked. And the radio. She switched it on, and Iggy Pop’s voice crackled to life.

     She’d had a dog named Iggy. For a short time anyway. Iggy was Gordon’s big goofball of a mutt, long dead by now. Carla’s throat squeezed tight, and she coughed to push the sadness away. Gordon took everything that mattered when he split, including Iggy. On rainy days she imagined she could smell the happy stink of his wet fur.

     Thoughts of Iggy took their usual path to Gordon. Memories of him had worn a deep groove in her mind, like a turntable going around and around with the needle stuck in the same place. The band, the music, the plans they made. And the love. Yes, Gordon took everything that mattered, and it all fell apart. How her life turned out since then was her own fault. She didn’t blame Gordon. Not entirely.

     Carla turned the volume up. The song, “I Wanna Be Your Dog,” was the one that had given Gordon the idea to name his dog Iggy. She was still barking out the lyrics at the top of her voice when she pulled into the strip mall and parked near the entrance to the Shop ’n Save.

     She grabbed six cans of Friskies for Grandma Moses. Hugging them to her chest in the pasta aisle, she did a quick calculation. She didn’t have enough for that jumbo jar of marinara sauce to ease her growling stomach. Her apartment manager was going to pay her to clean a vacant unit next Sunday. Cash. The spaghetti could wait. She grabbed a box of off-brand instant mac and cheese. 

     At the checkout, while the cashier totaled her purchases, Carla looked at the neat rows of cigarettes behind the counter. Red, blue, and gold packs, 100s, menthols, lights. Packs with camels and packs with Indians.

     “Anything else?” the cashier asked, following Carla’s gaze to the cigarette case.

     “No. That’s it. Just these.” Carla waved her hand toward the end of the moving conveyor belt where a can of cat food had turned on its side and rolled and rolled. “And this.” Carla pulled a pack of spearmint gum from the rack. Princess Diana stared at her from the cover of People magazine. What happened to her was awful, but Carla had no interest in celebrity gossip. She tossed the gum onto the belt, and her gaze drifted back to the magazine rack. The front page of the New York Times had a photograph of Clinton. Above it the headline read: “President Plans Energy Savings In a Moderate Step on Warming.” Plenty of news stories about the planet heating up lately. Global warming. She shivered in her denim jacket and pulled her knit beanie down further over her ears. A little warming would be welcome right about now.

     “Five eighty-two.” The cashier’s voice was hard.

     Carla opened her wallet and pulled out the day’s tips. She handed three singles across to the cashier and spilled the jingling change from her coin purse into the woman’s hands. If Carla had fifty cents to spare, she could buy a copy of the newspaper. The topic of global warming interested and terrified her, but she could read it for free at the library.

     The cashier sucked her teeth as she counted the nickels and pennies so Carla would understand how annoyed she was. “That’s only five-twenty.”

     Shit. In the pocket of her jeans Carla found the forgotten fourteen cents Delbert gave her along with a few chunks of walnuts she had snagged from the kitchen floor. Banana-nut-muffin-Monday meant a fresh supply of treats for Ghost, the albino squirrel she could sometimes coax to eat from her hand.

     She dug into the bottom of her ratty canvas shoulder bag while the man behind her in line muttered something. Impatience wasn’t the only reason he pushed his cart to the next checkout. Carla was used to small-minded townies sneering at her secondhand clothes, backing away when they caught sight of the large safety pin piercing her right earlobe or the Minor Threat tattoo on her forearm. Whatever.

     She fished out two more nickels and a penny. Still short. There was money in her bank account, but that was for rent.

     “Take one of these off.” Carla retrieved the rolling can of savory salmon and handed it to the woman. Sorry Mosey. She could ask her boss for a raise, but he would never give her one. There was barely enough business to keep the lights on.

     Outside, the Datsun coughed and shook when Carla turned the key in the ignition. The engine caught and chugged like a freight train, going slower and slower until it stopped. She tried again, twisting the key harder. Moron. As if that was going to help.

     Carla pressed her forehead to the steering wheel. “Come on, Dot, you steaming heap of…” Another turn of the key and more gas, more chugging. It refused to turn over. She floored the accelerator and held it down, begging, “Come on, come on,” through clenched teeth.

     Flooded. Shit. The last time this happened was in front of the Coffee Spot after she’d locked up for the day. Noah had showed up minutes before Carla turned the sign to CLOSED at 3:00 for a slice of pie and a to-go cocoa. It was his day off, so he’d missed his usual morning stop on his way home from work. He was still in the parking lot finishing his drink when Carla got into her car.

     “Open the hood for a while,” he had called to her, poking his head out the window of his Jeep. “Let the extra gas evaporate. If it still doesn’t start, take out the spark plugs and clean ’em. I can do it for you if you want.”

     “Got it. Thanks!” Carla waved him on. She waited until he pulled onto the road before getting out of her car to open the hood. Twenty minutes later she tried again, but it still wouldn’t start, so she walked to the gas station up the street where she bought a socket wrench and a wire brush.

     And where were these handy tools now? Asshat. More than a mile away. In her toolbox under the bathroom sink. A smart person would have kept them in the car.

     Noah might come to help if she called from the pay phone in front of the supermarket, but she didn’t have his number. Or a quarter. Besides, he would be asleep at this time of day. The only number she knew was Alex’s, and he’d moved to Tacoma.

     Still leaning her head on the steering wheel, Carla whispered, “Please, please, please start,” and gently turned the key. The engine mocked her with its rhythmic, rapid whine. She pressed her lips into a tight line and let her breath out through her nose. Well, shit. She gathered her things, slammed the door shut, and headed home on foot.