Inflating a Dog (The Personal History, Adventures, Experiences & Observations of Peter Leroy) by Eric Kraft (e manga reader TXT) 📕

call this boat Three Guys . . . ’cause we’re three guys . . . and that makes sense . . . I’m not saying it doesn’t . . . but we ought to call her Freedom . . . ’cause that’s what she’s going to bring us. From now on, we’re our own bosses. No more working for somebody else. We’re gonna be on our own! It’s a dream come true.”

Patti and I exchanged a guilty glance, then quickly looked away.

Mr. Yummy made a clumsy attempt to get his arms around everyone in the wheelhouse, grasp us all in one beery hug, and for a moment I thought he was going to launch into “God Bless America,” but the emotion must have overwhelmed him because he broke away and lurched through the wheelhouse door and over the stern into the bay.

When Sam and Dave had him back aboard again, I throttled down, shifted into neutral, gave the wheel a pat, and, addressing Arcinella in a voice that I meant to carry, said, “Well, old girl, this seems as good a place as any to say good-bye and hand you over.”

I stepped away from the wheel and let Arcinella drift.

The three guys looked around in bewilderment for a moment, not recognizing their cue. Then Mr. Yummy realized what was expected of him, pulled a folded check from the pocket of his pants, and flourished it. The others, with some hesitation, followed suit. I took the checks and signed a bill of sale and certificate of ownership. Mr. Yummy waved the documents in the air, let out a whoop, and poured a can of beer on Sam’s head.

Folding the checks and putting them into my shirt pocket, I asked, “Who’s going to take her into her slip?”

I turned a questioning look toward Mr. Yummy, who turned it toward Sam.

Sam held his hands out, palms forward. “Hey, not me,” he said. “I don’t know how to drive a boat. I’d probably wreck the thing somehow. Let Dave do it. He’s the one who knows boats.”

I got a grip on Dave’s shoulder and steered him toward the wheel. “Here we go, Dave,” I said. “Let me show you how to bend her to your will.”

Dave looked at the wheel, but he didn’t touch it.

“Take the wheel,” I said, commandingly.

Dave did as he was told, reluctantly.

“This is the throttle,” I said. I nudged it, and Arcinella began to move forward. Dave had his hands on the wheel, but he didn’t move it.

“Well, Dave,” I said. “Steer her toward town.”

He turned the wheel, little by little, inch by inch, until she was headed toward town, and then he began to relax a little. The rain stopped, and the day began to brighten. Mr. Yummy, Sam, and Patti left the wheelhouse. Mr. Yummy and Sam immediately headed for the beer cooler.

When Dave and I were alone, I said to him, as one guy who knows boats to another, “You know, Dave, I’ve got to tell you that Arcinella’s got a few peculiarities.”

“Yeah?” said Dave, apparently under the impression that he was going to hear a dirty joke.

“She drives her prop through first and reverse gears of the gearbox from an old Champion,” I said, and Dave grinned as if he figured the good part would be coming along any second now, “so when you bring her into the slip — ” I interrupted myself to say, “I’m assuming you’re going to bring her in bow first.”

Dave said, just as I had when Captain Mac played the trick on me, “That’s what I thought I’d do.”

I rewarded him with a nod to acknowledge the wisdom of bringing her in bow first and said, “Well, then what you’re going to need to do when you get a bit of a way out from the slip is set your throttle down so she’s just kind of chugging along — ”

Dave reached for the throttle, and I swear that for a very brief moment I had an out-of-body-out-of-time-out-of-mind experience and saw not Dave but myself, younger by a summer, standing there at the wheel, reaching for the throttle, as if I were Captain Mac.

“Not yet, Dave,” the Captain and I said.

“No, no. Of course not,” said Dave, recoiling from the throttle as from a flame.

“When the time comes,” I continued, slipping further into the fraternity of duplicitous bastards, “you’re going to want to have her just chugging along, but you won’t want to give her so little gas that she stalls.”

Dave, trying desperately to commit everything I said to memory, said, “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Got it.”

“Then when you’re at the slip, you’ll want to put in the clutch and shift into reverse.”

“Reverse?”

“Yes, reverse. To retard her forward motion.”

“Oh, sure. Of course.”

“Ideally, you want her to glide on into the slip sweet and slow and just barely kiss the bulkhead.”

I turned away for a moment to hide the frown I was wearing. I wasn’t pleased with myself. I would rather not have been doing what I was doing, joining the evil fraternity of all those since time immemorial who have sold leaking boats to gullible suckers, but I decided to press on with it. I turned back to Dave and said, “Treat her gently.”

With that I left the wheelhouse and joined the group on deck. Mr. Yummy held a can of beer out toward me, and I took it. Arcinella approached her slip. She was going too fast. I almost started for the wheelhouse, but I caught myself. I took a pull at the beer and managed to keep myself from even looking in Dave’s direction. I knew what I’d see if I looked. I’d see Dave reaching toward the throttle, trying to decide the right moment to throttle down. His hand would be trembling, as mine had. He’d be sweating, as I had.

I felt the engine slow. Dave had throttled down, just a bit, not enough. Arcinella continued toward the bulkhead with undiminished speed.

Right about now, Dave would be eyeing the shift lever, then the clutch. He would step on the clutch, find