The Pirates' Cooper II

As for my pay I was earning far more then I had ever expected to make when I was living on land. At first I saved my pay like my father, a thrifty man, had taught me. Unfortunately I soon set my behavior by the example of my companions and my savings disappeared. I took to gambling in my free time with the rest of the crew and several times did I lose the entirety of my pay in this way. When I didn’t lose all of my pay through bad luck with dice I lost it in taverns and brothels soon after we would put to shore. It didn’t matter where we landed, by the end of the week my money would be gone and even I couldn’t tell where. The only portion of my money that didn’t go this was the money that I set aside out of every pay to send to my brothers to assist in the support of my father. I couldn’t think of not helping them while I had money in my pockets and not even the prettiest girl in town could have pried that money from my hand. I might not consider my fathers house to be my home anymore but I still had my duty to him as his son.

I was in this destitute state one day and decided to take a walk down to the Sign of the Mermaid. It was one of those taverns that sits next to the harbor and thrives on the sea trade. Sailors found their way there when they were looking for work and captains found their way there when they we short on hands. It was also a good place to check and see that a captain you were considering sailing with treated his crew in a proper fashion. I had sailed with a bad captain once before and it was a mistake I never wanted to repeat if I had a choice. That night I heard that Captain Johansson was looking for an entire crew. He was a fresh new captain with a fresh new ship and no one really knew much about either of them but I needed the money so I went in search of the man at his lodgings.

I can’t say that I was impressed by Captain Johansson. He was too inexperienced and far too eager to prove himself. Such captains tend to be over eager to assert their authority as well. Had I been in a better position financially I would waited until I could find a better job but I was one meal away from starvation. Besides, who knew when there would be another ship, the industry was in a slump and people who had a job were holding on to them. I moved my sea chest on board that very night.

We sailed that very Friday which caused a bit of talk on board the ship. It is a well known fact that sailing on a Friday is bad luck but the captain dismissed our comments and declared he wasn’t going to fall behind schedule for a superstition. We raised our eyebrows at this but said nothing. It hadn’t got bad yet, it would and later people would say that we had all been punished for our foolish sailing day.

I had been right about the captain; he was a very overbearing man once we were at sea. The crew grew to hate him very quickly but there is very little that a crew can do at sea about their captain, or on land for that matter. The captain’s word is law and he reigns higher then God for most sailors, after all he can dictate that we work on Sundays and holds the power of life and death for those who disobey him. He is a man above the law and every sailor must acknowledge this. I just did my job and kept out of his way, I was lucky; my job meant that I rarely crossed his path. The only time that this wasn’t the case was when all hands was piped; it was then that I felt the lash across my back. I make a very poor sailor. My knowledge of ships continues to be only of their barrels and wood and when asked to assist in the working of one I made a very clumsy and slow hand. More then once did I feel the blows of the quarter master but I still got off better then most on that ship.

To be continued...

The Pirates' Cooper

I am sorry to leave off in the middle of a story, and I know I already posted a story with this title so let me explain. This is the kick off for National Novel Writing Month, and I participate every year. So I have yet to finish a complete novel in the month as it is and I sure don't have the time to also write a page a day of short stories. So I will post a page a day of my first Nanowrimo story instead. I had more pages then there are days in a month so I thought I would start posting now. Thank you for your understanding.

I watched as the ship disappeared into the distance with more despair then I can even begin to describe. At this point it would be better to just jump off the ship and drown myself. I had been on that ship two hours before, three hours ago it had been sailing peacefully through the waves and I had been going about my day to day business. I had been on better ships in the past but at the moment I would be willing to give up all payment and work twenty four hours a day until it reached port just to be back on it.

After such a dramatic declaration I suppose that it would be best to explain what had happened. I am only a normal man and unused to telling stories so I pray that the reader will excuse the clumsy and uneducated way that I tell my tale and will indulge me.

My father was a cooper and he taught my brothers and I well. I had three brothers but one died when he was twelve due to sickness and suddenly I was the youngest of the family. My father had a fine business but it couldn’t support three men so as we got older it became more and more obvious one of us would have to leave. There wasn’t any discussion about it, no one ever mentioned that belts had to be tightened and there wasn’t enough work for us all but we kept watching one another and it soon became obvious to me that I would be the one who would have leave. It was only natural since I was the youngest and the less experienced.

It wasn’t easy finding work in the city. There were already plenty of coopers around and many of them were looking for work. The money that could be made reflected this and even had someone been willing to hire a journeyman cooper I couldn’t have lived on what I would have been paid. I couldn’t let this stop my resolution to leave my fathers house though, I couldn’t be a burden on my brother any longer and so I wandered down to the docks. This was truly a last resort. Ships coming in and out of the harbor were always looking for coopers but it was hard work surrounded by hard men. It was only the thought of my brothers that enabled me walk up to a ships captain I had heard was looking for help and offer my services. I wasn’t sure if I was happy or not when he accepted me in spite of my inexperience. My brothers didn’t come to see me off but they did each give me a quick hug as I left the house for the last time and my father gave me a nod, a reward for having done the right thing. I never returned to that house.

The next few years were spent accustoming myself to the new world that I lived in. At first I only went on short voyages, around England nearby countries. As I grew more accustomed to life aboard merchant ships I traveled farther and farther from home. During this time I learned all that was expected of me. During the constant movement of the ship damage occurred to the barrels in the hold. It was my duty to replace destroyed casks and repair the ones that were damaged. I also sometimes helped the ships carpenter with his work and when all hands were called I had to report with the rest. For the most part I was in an enviable position however. While the sailors were forced battle all weather I was rarely forced to come above deck if I didn’t wish to. I was also able to keep slightly more regular hours which was a relief.

To be continued...

The Godfry Kidnapping

I realized when I was looking through the stories I have put on here that I have a lot about criminals and none about the enforcers of laws. I thought I would change that.

“Come out calmly, with your hands in the air,” I said, even though I didn’t expect the guy inside to actually listen to me, he didn’t. There were some things that they made us say even when it wouldn’t do any good. That was one of them. I mean it wasn’t like I was good at talking anyway, that wasn’t part of the job really. I was part of the kidnap squad of the city’s police force and most of the communication that went through my hands was either police reports or ransom notes, in both cases they were generally poorly written. Neither job, cop nor gangster, required a lot of literacy. I have to admit that most of the time I liked reading the ransom notes more, some of them were amazingly creative and it was always a challenge to think of ways to get around the conditions they would place on the delivery of the ransom money. I don’t want to make it seem like I was on the kidnappers side, ever, I hate kidnapping passionately but police reports have a form behind them that gangsters don’t have to follow.

“I don’t want to have to shoot,” I said, and I was telling the truth. Every time I opened fire I got an earful from the chief about alarming neighborhoods. There was also always the risk that I would accidentally shoot the kidnapped victim which would be a public relations nightmare.

I waited for some noise from inside the apartment I was facing but all was silent. Someone had responded to my knock a few minutes before so I knew I wasn’t on a wild goose chase but I wasn’t getting anywhere talking to someone who wouldn’t respond anyway. This was the only lead I had had on the kidnappers the whole week and I wasn’t about to let anything get in my way. I kept my gun in one hand as I tried the door handle with the other. The officers behind me tensed, ready to shoot if anyone tried to take my head off.

The room was empty, with a window at the far end of the hall open onto the fire escape. I swore, I hadn’t checked out the house enough, I hadn’t considered back ways that needed watching as well. Not that I had enough men to watch all of them even if I had thought of it. It wouldn’t change the fact that I was going to get a earful when I got back to headquarters. I could see a car pull out of the garage below me but I couldn’t shoot, I had no idea if the victim was in the car and while I was an amazing shot I couldn’t risk a stray bullet. All it would take was one and I could have the blood of an innocent on my hands.

“I got the license plate number,” said the man next to me. He was my second in command and as close to a friend as I had but I was in a foul mood and in no mood to have anyone talk to me. I whirled on him.

“What good do you think that will do George?” I snapped. “They’ll have changed them within three miles as likely as not. We’ve lost them.”

“Yes, sir,” said George, slipping the paper with the license number to a police officer next to him. It would be spread through the city police within the hour I was sure, even in my anger, George would see to it that it was looked for, just in case. He was meticulous while I was reckless, the perfect balance to my personality.

To be continued...

The Artist IV

Brent never considered himself to be a good judge of his own art but as he stepped back he couldn’t avoid the feeling of satisfaction of a job well done. It had taken him two weeks but it had been worth the effort. After all a part of that had been waiting for layers of paint to dry, which wasn’t really work. He wrapped the painting in brown paper to protect it from what the elements might throw at it, and once again ventured out of his lair. It was vanity on his part, he knew, to want to once again show a painting to someone who would appreciate it and have it displayed in the proper setting.

Brent reveled in the way that the women in the shop cooed over his painting, though he was a little concerned when they kept saying that it looked just like him. Though it had been a self portrait he hadn’t meant it to be too good. Still these had been the experiences he had dreamed of at one time; he had wanted nothing more then to have people praise his talent and now it was happening, again.

The winter streets seemed slightly more comfortable then they had for the last several months and Brent decided that rather then go back to his basement room right away like he usually did he would go out to eat. He had the money, though normally he hated to spend it, it seemed like a time of celebration some how though he couldn’t have said exactly what it was he was celebrating. It wasn’t really the new painting hanging in the gallery with the name Michael on the bottom and what he was assured really was his face looking at customers. Instead it was a feeling that he was celebrating, a feeling he hadn’t had in a long time. Like a dream Brent floated through dinner and drifted off for home.

Brent tried to run when he walked into the gallery a week later to find his agent looking at his self portrait thoughtfully, but he was far too late. The moment that he had walked into the art gallery the cage had been closed and the trap had been sprung. People who Brent recognized as close friends and family members came from all sides to block the exit and his agent turned to look at him.

“This is by far one of your better pieces of work. It was only by chance that I saw it of course. I still go through art galleries looking for talent. It’s a shame you didn’t sign it with your real name, it diminishes the value.”

“I don’t want to go back to that life,” Brent said, trying to back away from all of the familiar faces. The gallery owner seemed to be watching bemused.

“I understand it was stressful for you dear, we really should have found a psychologist for you, you have been having problems haven’t you?” asked his mother, trying to throw her arm around his neck. Brent ducked neatly away and found himself facing his best friend, who still had his cigarette in hand in spite of the no smoking sign on the door of the shop.

“That’s what they’re saying Brent, you know. They are saying that you’ve cracked, let the pressure get to you. That not everyone can be the greatest artist of our generation, and you let it get to you.”

“I suppose I did let the pressure get to me. Well I just don’t like it,” Brent admitted. “So I’ve left it, goodbye,” he tried to head for the door but his way was blocked.

“Your talent will find you out you know,” his agent said. “You can’t resist painting and you can’t resist sharing your paintings with the world. So long as you show such talent the world will find you and place you in a spot of importance.”

As they carried him away, Brent considered this. He paused only for a second to sign the self portrait with his real name and give the gallery owner permission to keep it before his was whisked away to wherever they kept truly talented artists. Except for one thing, Brent never painted again, he had reached his decision and if he would never be allowed his peace while painting he would surrender it. The self portrait still hangs in the gallery, insured for millions of dollars, as Brent’s last painting before he just sort of dried up, and arguably one of his best.

The Artist III

Brent now made his way to the art gallery through the frozen streets of the city, winding between the shadows of men who he failed to truly see. They were not people that he cared about; they were not part of his world. His world was small, and select and it allowed him to do as he pleased, which counted for a lot.

“You do yourself no justice selling things like this,” Brent said, running a hand down the frame of a low priced painting and looking at it critically. “I am not saying that I expect every one of your pieces to be done by masters but this looks like hotel art. I could have done better at twelve.”

“You’re an artist?” asked the owner of the gallery. She never argued with his appraisal of her art pieces, mostly because usually she agreed with them. She was not very surprised to hear him talk of doing some form of art; she had suspected it all along from the way that he talked about art. For him it seemed to be a type of love, he showed more interest in a painting then he ever showed in a person. Even now he was looking at the painting instead of her, even though they were having a conversation.

“I have done some painting,” Brent admitted, though the less people knew about him the happier he was.

“You should bring one of your pieces in for me to sell,” the gallery owner suggested. “It couldn’t hurt to try and I would be happy to sell it for you.” Brent considered this. He didn’t want anyone to see his work, he knew that he was good, but it was still drawing attention to himself. On the other hand he needed some new clothing and that cost money. He would also need some more paints and he knew that he couldn’t earn enough at pawnshops to get that sort of money. It was hard enough to find a pawnshop that would take his paintings at all. Most of them weren’t willing to take art of any sort. The ones that were, weren’t willing to pay much for the pieces. It would be a risk to his status but the more he thought about the more of a good move it seemed.

“I’ll bring in a painting for you to look at in a couple of weeks,” Brent promised the owner of the gallery, thinking of the blank canvass at home and what he could do with it. Ideas were already swirling through his head as he walked back to his easel in the basement of the abandoned building.

Brent realized that he hadn’t done a self portrait in a long time. Of course that would simply add to his chance of recognition but he doubted that too many people would see it or connect it to his face. It would give him something to work with. He didn’t own a mirror which helped comfort him. He was going to have to paint something from his memories, how he imagined himself, and whatever it was he saw in passing these days when he passed store windows. He doubted that it would look anything like him when he was done but it was something to do, and people tended to like pictures of people so long as they were done. They liked landscapes better but Brent and never painted just for the public and he was bored of landscapes. They were easy to mass produce if you didn’t care about quality but to do a good self portrait would be a true evaluation of his talent.

To be continued...

The Artist II

The oil pants were stacked next to the space heater so they wouldn’t freeze and get ruined. The paints were old and battered but well taken care of, speaking of a time when money had been spent in more plentiful amounts then it was now. Next to them was a series of brushes, carefully cleaned and arranged according to size. Brent used an old knife instead of a spatula, he found it worked just as well and he had never had any problem roughing it when he had to. He had known people in art school who had insisted on only the finest materials and had insisted that roughing it would damage the quality of the work. Brent had been willing to admit that good paints, over poor ones, and good canvas was important but he had become just as good with an old knife as one of the blunt spatulas they sold for artists to use. He liked to think of it as a testing of his boundaries and abilities as an artist that he could work on a short budget and in difficult conditions. Sometimes when he thought of the elaborate studios with their fancy lighting that he had been in he started to laugh.

Clothing was something of less importance to Brent then his paints but society frowned on not possessing any, and besides it was growing cold, so there was a box off to one side of his space that had some clothing neatly folded. When he wanted to wash them he would go to the laundry mat and search under the washers and driers until he found enough quarters to wash and dry his clothing. At one time he had just tried washing them and bringing them back to air dry but there hadn’t been enough air circulation to dry the clothes in his basement. They were not the clothing of a homeless man mostly because he didn’t want to look like one. He didn’t mind the lifestyle but he did mind being labeled and he really didn’t like being offered charity. That was one thing that he never did, he never begged, it didn’t seem right. He also didn’t like the way that people treated homeless people and had no interest in enduring that. When he got dressed in his slacks and button up shirt with his long over coat anyone on the street would think him just another business man in the city. The city swallowed up humanity like a creature and formed instead a single entity that rarely changed, even in the dead of winter. It was an easy place to blend in and never be notice. People would notice the details of a homeless man because they were a smaller community, but a businessman was a mindless corporate drone who could pass through walls without comment.

Brent was always very careful when he went up to the world above. He didn’t want to be discovered and dragged from his precious shelter. Technically he was trespassing but no one really had cared yet and he was hoping they never did. There was an art gallery nearby and they knew him by name there, not his name, he never liked giving people his real name when he was out wandering around, but they knew him by name just the same. In the art gallery he went by the pseudonym Michael, and they loved him even though he never bought anything. He would just wander the halls of the gallery and look at the pictures and sometimes make a comment about one of them that showed a broader knowledge of art then most art critics. For that the gallery owner was willing to forgive him for never actually pouring money into her businesses coffers. They were in no need of money anyway, they made enough money off of people who knew nothing of art but wanted to look the part. The owner of the gallery felt that the class of the establishment rose every time that Brent walked in simply because he knew and truly loved the art that she sold.

To be continued...

The Artist

Winter set in, and with it came that steady feeling that the world was asleep. The trees were, the animals were, the only thing that didn’t have the good sense to lay still under the blanket of snow were the people, who ventured out of their cave like houses against everything that nature ever intended. Deep in the caverns of the city there was someone who did sleep, and at the moment he was just waking up. He had been asleep for several days now but he didn’t know it yet and even if he did know it wouldn’t have made a difference.

Brent led what could be considered a blessed existence, one which could live in comfort anywhere and knew where to find what he wanted without ever having to work for it. Even his home, the tiny room in the basement of an abandoned building no one had entered for a year, had just come to him when he had needed a home. There were only two things that he had bought in the entire room, one of them was a space heater, he could have gone to a shelter or charity for it but he knew that they would ask questions and try to keep track of him and he liked his freedom. The second was a painter’s easel that stood in the corner away from the wall, which poured water during rainy days. The easel now had a blank canvass on it. The painting that had stood on it before had been sold at a pawn shop for enough money for the space heater and the new canvas. It was a life of breaking even but Brent didn’t mind it at all. It was how he liked things.

Food was getting to be more of a problem now that the snow was covering the world, but at least it kept it fresh. He made tours of the local groceries dumpsters where they threw away things that were past expiration. He had gotten food poisoning a couple of times but not bad enough to deter him. In some ways the cold weather was a blessing because it meant that the food would stay fresher for longer, during the summer produce left out for a day would be well cooked and start to smell.

To be continued...