Authors: Kim Williams Justesen
“They tipped pretty good,” Dad says, sliding into the driver's seat. “The son-in-law even threw in a little extra because he was so impressed with you.”
Dad hands me a folded hundred-dollar bill. I tuck it into my front pocket. It's one of the biggest tips I've ever
made, but I worked my butt off today, so I'm too tired to react.
“He says you've got a good head, and you'll be a good businessman one day.”
I think over the conversation I had with the guy. “All I told him was a little about how we run things, and what I might do different if it were up to me.”
“Hmm, and what would you do differently?” Dad pulls out of the parking lot and heads toward the main road.
“I'd advertise a little more, not just rely on repeat customers and word of mouth.” Not that I'm trying to tell Dad how to run the business, it's just what I'd do, and I know he listens to me. Sometimes.
“What kind of advertising would you do?”
I lean back in the rigid seat, pressing my feet into the floor and arching my spine against the pressure of the seat belt, and stretch my arms in front of me. I let out a long groan. “I'd maybe do a brochure to put in the lobbies of the hotelsâsorta like what Jack Sutton does, only nicer, with better pictures like a big marlin flying out of the water or one of the really good trophy pictures.”
Dad drives on for a minute without responding. I look out the window as we reach the bridge and watch the water as we drive over it. A small boat is motoring toward a private pier, a large green net hanging off the back end where a man sits and steers up a narrow side channel. Further on I spot a sandbar where a white crane balances on one leg. Its bill rests against its long neck, and it seems at peace despite the noise of the traffic from the
bridge and the boats making their way back to shore.
“You know,” Dad says after clearing his throat, “those brochures can get a bit expensive. I'm not sure I'd even know how to make one or where to get one done.” He shifts in his seat, grabbing the wheel with both hands and leaning forward to stretch his back. “I guess I could ask Jack Sutton, but I don't want him to think I'm competing with him.”
“But you are,” I say, though I don't have much enthusiasm in my voice. “Besides, I could probably design something on the computer that looks as good as his. Then all we'd have to do is find a printer somewhere who can do all the colors and print it on glossy paper.”
Dad leans back and lets out a long breath of air. “Don't know if we could get it done before this season's up, but it might be something to think about for next year.”
“It would only take me a day or two to pull it together, and maybe a day or two to call some printers up in Jacksonville or maybe Raleigh.” I'm not trying to push. I just don't think it would be so hard. We have a ton of pictures on our computer from earlier charters, and I already learned how to do stuff like this in my computer graphics class last year. “I could probably give you something to take with you tomorrow, and you could get some price estimates while you're in Raleigh.”
We pull up to the house, gravel and shells crunching under the tires as Dad coasts to a stop by the front steps. “Well, you show me what you can do, and I'll take it with me to see what I can find out about printing.”
“I'll work on it in the morning,” I say, because right now I'm so tired that just opening the truck door is a major effort.
As we climb the steps to the house, all I can think of is a hot shower and my bed. Then the phone rings.
Dad takes the cell from the holder on his belt as he unlocks the door. “It's for you.”
I look at the caller ID and realize it's Rachel. “Don't answer it,” I say. I'm so tired that I pass up the shower and head straight to bed. As my eyes slam shut, I worry that I've just given Rachel another reason to be mad at me, but right at that moment, I'm too tired to care. I'll just figure out how to deal with her when I'm not the walking dead anymore.
Dad stumbles into the front room around nine in the morning. I've been up and working on the brochure since seven thirty, and I've got a good draft to show him once he pries his eyes open.
“Coffee?” he asks. His voice sounds scratchy, and his hair shoots up in fourteen different directions at once.
“In the pot and getting old already,” I answer.
Dad trudges into the kitchen, and I can hear the clatter of the ceramic mug on the counter as he pours a cup from the pot I made when I got up. I print a copy of the brochure, fold it into thirds, and take it in for him to look over. He is sitting at the table in a T-shirt and his boxers, leaning back in the chair and sipping from a red mug with black and brown dots that I made him for Father's Day when I was about seven. He takes the brochure from my hand and sets his mug on the table. He reads the information on the inside, flips to the back, looks at the picture on the front panel, opens it again, flips to the back again,
and then looks at me. “How long did this take?”
“About an hour. It's not done. This is just a rough draft to see if you think it might work.” I'm not happy with some of the layout, but I wanted to get something for him to see before he leaves for Raleigh.
Dad looks at me, his eyes wide open. “An hour?”
I nod.
“Son, if this only took you an hour, I'd love to see what you could do with a whole day, or a week.”
“I don't like some of this.” I point to the way the information on the inside flows around the bullet points I put in. “But I know how to fix it so it will look smoother.”
Dad sets the brochure on the table, picks up his mug, and then looks at me again. “I just can't tell you how impressive that is.” He takes a big swallow of coffee. “Not in a million years could I come up with what you've done there, and you've only been at it an hour.”
It's hard to keep the smile off my face. “I really think this would help us. And if you can find a printer that makes us a reasonable offer, I think we could get them distributed within a few weeks.” My excitement is building.
Dad takes another gulp and then stands and stretches one arm over his head. “I'm leaving in an hour. Fix what you think you can or need to, and I'll take it up to Raleigh with me and see what I can find out.”
I sprint to the computer in the front room and get back to work. I can hear the shower running and Dad singing some old Eagles song. An instant message pops up on the monitor. It's Rachel.
Sweetthang101: U alone?
Mr.Mike2U: Not yet. Dad's leaving in an hour.
Sweetthang101: Can I come over later?
Mr.Mike2U: I guess. Call me around 12.
I don't want to be rude to her, but I really want to get this brochure done for Dad to take. I adjust the fonts I'm using and select different bullets. The shape looks better, but I'm still not satisfied.
Sweetthang101: Why 12?
Geez, Rachel, what does it matter?
Mr.Mike2U: Busy, call at 12.
I move a block of the text around, sharpen the picture in the background, change the color of some of the type, and zoom out to look at the whole page.
Sweetthang101: Busy with what? Too busy for me? Thanks a lot.
One of the things I am so totally confused by is how I can like a girl as much as I like Rachel, but how she can drive me nuts like nobody else at the same time. Does that even make sense?
Mr.Mike2U: Boat stuff. For my dad. Gotta get it done before 10. Then I'm surfing. Call around 12, ok?
I mess with a few more details. I can hear Dad crooning, “Welcome to the Hotel Cal-i-forn-ya.” I hurry and print the brochure to see how it looks. I fold the paper in thirds and hold it up for inspection. I like it. It's not perfect, but I like it. Dad leaves the bathroom and heads into his bedroom. I take the brochure and follow him.
“Can I come in?” I yell when I'm about halfway there.
“Give me a second.”
In the front room the computer chimes, and I know Rachel has sent me another instant message, but this is more important. She'll have to understandâor not. I'm starting to think I don't care which.
“Okay, it's safe,” Dad says.
“It's not on glossy paper, or even card stock, but you get the idea.”
His wet hair drips down his back. He has pulled on a pair of jeans and is tugging on a T-shirt with a marlin on the back and a picture of a boat called the
Water Witch
on the front pocket.
“Dad,” I say, “it's gotta be eighty degrees outside already, and the humidity is way high. You're gonna die in those jeans.” I hand the brochure to him.
He looks at me. “And you suggest?”
I tug on my shorts. They are yellow and black with white specks. I have on a black tank with a white skull and crossbones on it.
Dad nods. “I'm fine, thanks.” He looks over the brochure. “I like this,” he says, pointing to the inside bullets. “It looks better. Real professional.”
“We can still make changes, but I wanted you to have something to show the printers.” I sit on the edge of his bed, and it squeaks with its age and my weight.
Dad tucks the brochure into the front pocket of his shirt and then stuffs a pair of socks into a black duffle bag on the bed next to me. The round handle of his brush pokes out at one end, and he pushes it down as he zips the bag shut.
“Maggie's at work late, so she said she'll pick you up when she gets done.”
“How late were you over there?” I ask. I came home from the boat and crashed. I didn't even eat dinner. I heard Dad drive off around seven o'clock, but I didn't hear him come home. I was completely wrecked.
“Not too late. I tried to be quiet when I came in. I hope I didn't wake you.”
“I was dead,” I say.
“You worked hard yesterday. You earned a good sleep.” Dad grabs the duffle bag and heads out of the bedroom toward the front room. The bed squeaks its relief as I get up and follow. Dad checks the computer as he passes. “Who's that?”
I look at the screen. Rachel has sent another message that reads, “Can I come over at 1?”
“Rachel,” I say. “She thinks she's coming over today.”
“I think not,” Dad says. He drops the bag on the sofa and then heads to the kitchen.
My heart rate picks up a little. I want to see Rachel, and I'd like to spend some time alone with her. Nothing too heavy duty. I have learned a few things of value from my dad. But I know what he's thinking, and there is no point to my arguing.
“That girl is starting to sound like trouble.” He pours the last of the coffee into a travel mug and snaps on the lid. “I don't want you having girls over here when I'm not home.”
“Not gonna happen,” I say. “Rachel just wants to manipulate the situation. I'm not sure what her game is,
and I don't want to know.”
Dad looks me square in the eye. “I mean it, Michael. That temptation isn't worth the consequence.”
“DadâNot. A. Problem.” I emphasize each syllable. “She's not all that, and I don't even think I'm going to keep dating her. She makes me crazy.”
Dad laughs. “She's a girl,” he says, as if that explains it all. “So what are you going to do today?”
“Surf, maybe. Watch TV. Play computer games. Basically hang out.”
“No girls.” He grabs the duffle in his free hand and walks down the steps to the truck.
“I'm not five, Dad. I heard you the first twenty times.”
“Good. Maybe after twenty more, you'll listen to me.” He hops into the truck, tosses the bag on the seat, puts the coffee cup in the holder, shuts the door, and waves. He mouths the words “no girls” one more time and then drives off.
I head to the computer to message Rachel.
Mr.Mike2U: You there?
Sweetthang101: Yeah. Where were you?
Mr.Mike2U: Getting chewed out by my dad, thanks to you.
Sweetthang101: What did I do?????
Mr.Mike2U: I told you he hadn't left yet. He saw your last message. He specifically said “no girls” so now I'm stuck here by myself.
Sweetthang101: It's not my fault he doesn't trust you.
My hands ball into fists, and I bang them on the desk.
Mr.Mike2U: Actually, yes it is.
Dad is normally pretty cool about things, but Rachel is kind of pushy, and she definitely has a big mouth. I know he just wants me to be smart about my choices.
I'm waiting for the computer to chime with another message, but instead the phone rings.
“Hello?” I already know who it is.
“It is not my fault that your dad doesn't trust you, and I resent the fact that you would even say that.”
“Rachel . . .” I try to explain, but she won't let me speak.
“If you and your dad don't have a decent relationship, that is not my fault. If you have done something that has caused him not to trust you, then you did it and not me. Don't try to blame your problems on me. I am totally not the source of your problems, Mike. You are.”