In loving memory of Greg

When I got to the dock, I saw that there was a large pile of rain gear left for me to clean. The rain gear consisted of equipment that the fishermen used when they took tourists out to the company’s private cove for fishing tours. There were bibs, jackets, boots, beanie, and gloves. All of the gear was warped and crumpled up, left behind as if the previous wearer was in a rush. My workstation, a walk-in closet that sat behind a sliding door on a dock, was blocked by this pile. I took my headphones off. I put them into my bag. Then I looked around to see if any fishermen were around. The skiffs were all in their assigned lots. They were empty. They gently rolled side to side. No one was around. I threw down my backpack. 

I squatted for the next ten minutes wondering how to tackle the mess. I had a 4 hour shift where I had to dry the rain gear, an impossible task without enough hangers to hang the goretex articles from makeshift closet rods. I had gotten into the habit of putting the boots upside down to get rid of water, but with over 10 pairs, I needed an electric shoe dryer. I stood up then walked to the pile to assess the amount I had to clean. The freshly wet wooden floor of the dock seeped through my canvas shoes. I grabbed a bib then threw it to one corner. Then I grabbed a boot and aimed it at the wall. With both hands, I dug into the heaping pile of wet goretex then tossed it across the closet. I yelled from the top of my lungs. 

After I cooled down, I reached for my backpack on the ground and shuffled around the bottomless pit in desperate search of my speakers. When I found them, I walked to the one outlet in the closet. On the cardboard table that I constructed from old boxes, I placed the stereo system then plugged in my iPod with the AUX cord. I turned the volume high enough to drown out the sound of chirping seagulls. It was high tide and the dock was still. The music was enough to shake the foundation of the poorly constructed shelves inside of the workspace. I put on my cut-resistant gloves, stretched my arms and legs, and then began cleaning the mess I had made.

I sorted the gear in their specific categories. Chuck, the owner of The Fish House, the restaurant I was working for, told me one day after a shift that it was imperative to have things in order, because each day of the summer season could be a busy one. It would be easier if the fishermen knew where the hell things were. I took his words as “Don’t leave a mess behind after you’re done.” I wondered, for a man who hiked up Deer Mountain each morning, a 3 hour trek up and down, how he would be a stickler for such detail. After all, a mountain man’s main concern should be the transcendental experience of seeing the skies and clouds and trees on his journey’s path, not so much the details of top-of-the-line industry rain equipment. 

After about 30 minutes, I had sorted all of the bibs, jackets, boots, beanie, and gloves into different physical spaces of the closet. As the bridge of “Once In A Lifetime” played, I felt that I was in a groove. I was then interrupted by a knock at the opening of the closet. 

“Hey Kris,” the man said. “Can I come in?” 

The man wore a faded cap with the words “Baranof and Company” on it. His rain jacket looked to be a tad bit oversize with a semi-faded coating, indicating that it was no less than a year old. His jeans had patches of brown, which were tucked into knee-high XTRATUF boots. 

It was Greg, Chuck the owner’s son. He looked much different from his old man, a mustachioed guy that wore suspenders everyday to hold up his weathered Carhartts. But they certainly had the same head of red hair. 

He leaned against the frame of the closet door then took his hat off. I hesitated, and I reached for my speaker set. Instead, I stood firm, letting the Talking Heads override the awkwardness.

Greg was the Fish House’s manager that I onboarded me that summer. I had returned to Ketchikan after a long year at school in Virginia in search of a job. I had just spent the year struggling to make ends meet. With my head held down, I returned home to my parents condominium in Carlanna Lake. I needed a job, so I went back to the Fish House with hopes of doing what I did the previous summer. Back then, I was the company’s fishmonger. I sold tourists frozen cuts and filets of fish, packing them in the prep kitchen, and sending it their way in the domestic 48. I transported fresh packed fish from Trident Seafood Corps to our walk in freezer, which was in a dilapidated building that was constructed where the old Blockbuster used to be. There was a lot of sweet talking and schmoozing with the company’s partners. I spent the summer driving around town in the Blue company van. But when I asked for my old job, Greg told me that all that was available was a job cleaning rain gear. In quiet desperation, I enthusiastically shook his hand and sealed the deal. I had now been demoted to the ocean bottom, the abyss where the light could not penetrate the dark.

“How’s it going down here?”

“You know, it’s going,” I said.

Greg began talking about how busy it was for Baranof and Company, the overall company that the Fish House was housed under. That day in particular was one of the busiest days in the summer season, despite it being the normal gray day that Ketchikan had seen too many of. His father, Chuck, was a lot less present, as he was dealing with some personal behind-the-scenes things – as heard through the grapevine. But it didn’t stop the fishing tours from increasing. 

“In fact, I was wondering if there was anything that you needed.”

I wanted to tell him that we needed more light in the closet. I needed shoe dryers. Maybe more pay? I wondered if there was any way that I could stop working down at the dock and return to my rightful station above the dock. Maybe I could have free food like the previous summers, where I engorged myself with bread pudding for lunch, a whole corner piece that was enough to put a horse into a coma. 

“No, I think I’m good. All I really need are the tunes. They help me get through it all.”

“Well, as long as you are okay.”

I nodded my head. He put his hat back on. I began to let him fade in the background and focus on the task at hand. 

“Thank you, Kris. Really, for all of the work you’re doing here. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He turned around and made his way to the dock. I walked to the frame of the door, holding myself up with my gloved hands. I watched as he made his last rounds. Greg paced along the part of the dock that jutted out. He inspected each skiff, even squatting down to check if the rope was sturdy enough. The wind started to pick up and the dock swayed. He looked at his clipboard, maybe at the schedule that was ahead of him. His day would soon be over.

I returned to my station. I sat down and scrubbed at the next bib. There was red gunk on it, fish guts or bits. I vigorously wiped at this rare patch of gore tex, as if it had managed to avoid all of the water that seemed to dampen everything else. It had dried, making it a lot harder to scrub out. It did not seem to come out. I breathed in and sighed. I could feel my body starting to tense up, and I did not want to lose out on any energy that I had left. I had a few more hours left in my shift. I daydreamed of my day off. It would be sunny day on the trail where I could hike and go lose my mind. Maybe I could be a tourist and escape the town, headed up Deer Mountain. I’d sit on a ridge and watch the ships head north. They would come and go. I didn’t know if tomorrow would be a busy day, but I knew that I would be back here again.