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The Boston Whaler (Lexington Avenue Express)

Review for The Boston Whaler (Lexington Avenue Express)

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Review for The Boston Whaler (Lexington Avenue Express)

The Boston Whaler (Lexington Avenue Express) Review


The Boston Whaler (Lexington Avenue Express - Short Fiction)

"She's a peach," Charlie Bellow smiled, choosing a phrase he thought might endear him to the old man sitting on a plastic lawn chair beside the boat. An open can of varnish rested at the old timer’s feet, a worn brush balanced across the crusted, syrupy maw.

The weather-worn seafarer squinted at Charlie and shifted his gaze from the young man to the vehicle parked behind him then back again. Two other visitors waited in the big, four-door pickup. Long white plastic cylinders were strapped on top the metal framework above the truck bed; the old man recognized the survey gear.

"Sorry to show up unannounced like this but the company's been trying to phone you for a couple of weeks. They sent a registered letter, too."

The old man never blinked as he stared up at the uninvited guest. He still didn't speak and an uneasy silence settled over them. The pasture buzzed beneath the heat of a mid-morning sun and a smattering of enormous, gray-tinged clouds hung motionless, suspended in the late-September sky.

"You got the letter, I hope," the young man continued, his tone earnest. The old man's head moved slightly, not enough for Charlie to be certain whether it was a nod of acknowledgment or just a tremor reflecting the land-locked sailor's advancing age … or wariness … or something else altogether.

"I'm talking about Varner Oil," Charlie continued. "They bought the option on a bunch of dormant oil leases in this area and one of them is located on your property. We'll be working around here for a couple of months, updating the surveys. I hope you got the letter; we hate to barge in like this but—“

The old man stood, unsteady for an instant, then he extended his hand. "I'm Aiden Kennesaw. Sorry, I ... don't get many visitors out here."

Charlie Bellow reached for the old man's hand and shook it. The unexpected strength in Kennesaw's grip surprised him.

"Pleased to meet you, sir," Charlie said. "We, my crew and me, we really hate just showing up like this—“

"Don't worry about it," Kennesaw interrupted, his unblinking stare still made Charlie feel uneasy.

"Me and Tiny and Jim-Bob there," Charlie continued, tilting his head toward the pickup, "we'll be working just on the far side of that low hill to the west. We shouldn't be here on your property more than a couple of days."

"You usually use that expression?" the old man asked and Charlie stared at him blankly.

"'She's a peach,'" Kennesaw continued. "I haven't heard anyone use that expression for years."

Charlie studied the old man's face, trying to determine his meaning but the wrinkled, leathery countenance revealed nothing. Again, the eyes, the sable-tinted gaze made Charlie feel strangely uneasy. He nodded toward the boat to move the conversation along.
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The Boston Whaler (Lexington Avenue Express)

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