Outside In (2 page)

“What if I refuse?”

Her tone became formal. “We hope it doesn’t come to that. After what happened, you are entitled to a leave of absence. We would like to see you take that time.”

My disbelief gave way to anger. “Like you really care about my well-being. You need a scapegoat and want to blame the young guy.”

“I’m sorry you see it that way.” She collected her coat and briefcase. “We should probably set up a meeting with your union rep to discuss the options in a more official capacity.”

And that was that. After busting my ass for five years, the
school district cut me loose. I was just a pawn in the mitigation of the lawsuit.

Maaaahmp
. The horn signals the ferry is in its final approach. From his perch high above the deck, the captain uses the waves and wind in conjunction with the engine to rock the boat into position.

The boat is twelve feet from the dock. A deck hand flings a rope toward a large cleat on land. The toss looks as if it’ll be long, and a worker on the dock swoops in to collect the errant throw, but the back end of the loop catches the gray metallic hook.

Holding his hands eighteen inches apart above his head, the worker signals the distance from the dock. He brings his hands together as the boat moves closer: ten inches, six inches, three inches, closed. The other crew members fasten the lines and lower the ramp.

A faded maroon Taurus is the first car to drive off.
Ja-jink—
the ramp absorbs the weight of the car and bounces on the dock.

After four cars, twenty people follow on foot. Some appear eager for their tasks on the mainland; others look lucky to escape the island, appearing to have been stranded for days: unshaven, clothes wrinkled, taking one step sideways for every two steps forward.

I return to my car and follow the line. A crewman on the pier straight from the pages of a Lands’ End catalog takes my ticket and directs me onto the boat. His name, Robin, is visible on the right breast of his Miller Ferry polo shirt.

Ja-jink
. My car echoes the others as I climb the ramp.

A raisin-faced crewman orchestrates the maneuvers on deck. Following his signals, I ease my car forward. He brings my car
within inches of the one in front. Lowering his hand, he taps the hood of my car. “Put your car in park. Set your brake, please.”

Car by car, I watch the crewman fill the ship to my right and left. He’s got some serious skills. The size and number of pieces may change voyage to voyage, but the goal of maximizing the deck space remains the same. During busy times, being able to fit an extra car on the boat is only fifteen dollars for the boat line, but priceless for the patron. It gets the lucky recipient an extra half hour on the island.

Visible in my rearview mirror, the car behind me creeps forward. I wait for a bump, but instead I hear, “Put your car in park. Set your brake, please.”

The ferry shifts, accommodating the weight of the next vehicle. The familiar symbol and letters M-I-L-L-E-R L-I-T-E are emblazoned along its side. The delivery trucks have priority, especially the ones delivering beer. If the beer isn’t flowing, the cash registers aren’t ringing, and as in any tourist area, the quicker the visitors spend their money, the quicker they go home. They may not be respected, but their dollars are always accepted. Locals’ hearts may say, “Fuck off,” but their faces smile and say, “Thank you, come again.”

Two more cars drive on, then a flock of people rounds the building. Barely noticeable except for their excited chatter, the added weight of fifty-some people doesn’t rock the boat in the slightest.

I open the door and squeeze through the narrow opening between my car and the next. The ferry is full, but I find some open space along the front of the boat. The three miles of Lake Erie between me and the island now radiate a greenish hue, resembling a rolling pasture. A solitary tower pokes above the tree line on the east side of the island.

“Perry’s Monument,” Robin says as he coils a rope nearby, his
sandy hair flapping across the Ray Bans welded to his tan, angular face. “The third tallest national monument.”

“Cool,” I say. “I’m moving from the home of the tallest to the third tallest.”

“Coming from St. Louis, eh? You know the second tallest?”

“Washington Monument.” I extend my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Robin. I’m Brad Shepherd.”

Robin appears confused, then tugs on his breast pocket. “Oh, yeah. Sometimes I’ll kill myself trying to think how someone knows my name, then I remember it’s on my shirt.”

“That’s happened to me at conferences.”

“What do you do?”

“I
was
a teacher. Five years of junior high math. Guess you could say I’m retired.”

He shakes his head. “Whoa, I hated math. My teacher was the worst.”

I laugh. “My students probably say the same thing.”

“Why’d you quit?”

“Cutbacks. They offered a package and asked for volunteers, so I held my hand up. Gotta be more to life than going to work day after day.” It’s not totally a lie. I could’ve refused the offer and fought for my job. But even my attorney recommended I take the deal since I wasn’t tenured. If I fought and lost, it would be in my permanent employment record. Leaving quietly allowed me to retain the positive recommendations I had earned and at least offered the opportunity for another job. I turn away from Robin, toward the island. “What’s the monument for, anyway?”

Robin delivers a speech that sounds well rehearsed. “There was a crucial naval battle fought in the War of 1812 off the shore of South Bass Island, during which Oliver Hazzard Perry left his damaged ship and moved to one of the other boats. From there he defeated the British, sending the famous message to American headquarters: ‘We have met the enemy and they are ours—two
ships, two brigs, one schooner, one sloop.’ The victory secured the north shore for the American forces, and peace between Canada, Great Britain, and the US has ensued ever since.”

“I wasn’t aware of the history,” I say.

“There’s more to the island than a hangover, but most never get past the drinks.” The ferry horn sounds. “Well, I’d better get ready to dock. Nice to meet you, Brad. I’m sure I’ll see you around. South Bass is a small place. Couldn’t hide if you wanted to.”

“Call me Shep.”

The crew moves just as they had on the mainland, but now the positions are reversed. The front of the boat becomes the back, and in order for cars to drive straight off, the captain backs the ferry into the dock. As the boat approaches, Robin launches the rope into the air. Unfortunately he is not as lucky as the crewman on the mainland, and the rope misses the mark.

Five cars go ahead of me. I release the brake and move forward.
Ja-jink
.

Yellow arrows painted on the road direct me: jog right, then up a hill to the main road. Several taxis and a tour train await new arrivals.

Poplar and cottonwood trees line the side of the road and reattach above, forming a canopy that erases the sky for seconds at a time. Tucked between the trees and the occasional cottages are several businesses, including a bicycle and golf cart rental, the island quarry, the airport, and the Skyway Restaurant, which reminds me that I need to eat. The caffeine from my trip is knotting my stomach.

Like flipping the page of a pop-up book, a left turn onto Delaware Avenue transforms the pastoral surroundings into the quaint village of Put-in-Bay.

The Crescent Tavern stands on my left, another golf cart and bicycle rental on my right. The water and docks, sparsely
populated with boats, beckon on the other side of the park, which serves as the center of the town square.

A flash of red—fire engine red—snaps my attention back to the left. No mistaking this structure. A round, red building with a white porch and a dome roof: the Round House. Next door is the Park Hotel, a large Victorian-Italian villa with a wraparound porch, similar to many of the buildings I’ve seen on the street. My new home, at least until I find something more permanent.

The screen door of the hotel rattles as I open it, waking the man sleeping on his hand at the front desk. “Can I check in early?” I say. “I drove all night from St. Louis and could really use a bed about now. My last name is Shepherd.”

His yawn transforms to a nod as he checks his register.

I slide my credit card across the desk. “Where can I get something to eat?”

“Snack House next door,” he mumbles, minimizing words in his sleepy state, the lines from snoozing on the back of his hand still visible across his cheek.

“People don’t spend much time thinking of names for things here: the Depot, the Round House, the Snack House.”

“What you see is what you get. The island is imaginative enough. Creativity don’t need to be wasted on naming things.”

“Sounds perfect. Exactly what I need.”

“Well, I can help you find anything else. Just holler.” He rubs his eyes and releases another yawn. “Bathroom is down the hall, European style.”

All I can do is shake my head and smile at my new life. I’m unemployed and homeless, living in a European-style hotel on an island in Ohio. On the outside it seems so logical while remaining carefree with a hint of crazy. But beneath my outwardly adventuresome spirit, I know that I am lost and that I have been for some time. Worse yet, I don’t have a clue as to how to find my
way back. Hell, I don’t know whether I want to go back, forward, right, or left. So instead, I choose a fixed point in the middle of Lake Erie to sort things out.

The blaring of an electric guitar rips me out of sleep. Where am I? Did I sleep through the day? I check the clock. Three p.m.—time to get moving. I want to surprise Birch and Haley.

Oedipus Birch is my link to this whole new life. His band, Whiplash, played occasionally at a Saint Louis U bar where I used to stop after graduate classes. Teaching junior high for eight hours followed by evening classes and several hours in the pub made for a long day, and an even longer day after, but I needed something to make me feel like a normal twenty-eight-year-old.

The first time I saw Whiplash, Birch and I struck up a conversation during one of their breaks and instantly became friends. His given name of Oedipus made me think that his mother either had quite a sense of humor or that she should’ve been committed. Either way, the more time I spent with him, the more I realized that the name was only a precursor to the tangled mess that lay within. When you’re searching, there’s something comforting about being around people who are even more twisted than you are.

When I showed up the night of Barry’s death, Birch had heard on the news about it, but he didn’t know it was my classroom until I told him. I was beating myself up pretty bad. I couldn’t escape the thought that if I had let Barry go to the restroom or the nurse, things might’ve been different. Birch’s response to that was: “Maybe Barry would’ve died in a stall alone if you had.” Birch always has a way of flipping a situation on its head and seeing it from a different perspective. Another reason I love being
around him. That night he could tell I needed to forget but didn’t know how. He said, “Why don’t you take some time off?”

There was no way I would desert my students. I said, “What kind of example would that set? If the students have to be there, I should too. Besides, spring break is only a week away. We can all take some time then.”

Almost as if it was his plan all along, he proposed, “Just come down to Key West with me and the band for spring break then.”

Of course I had a list of excuses why I couldn’t go—no money, no reservation, too much schoolwork—but he had an answer for each one. By the time I left the bar, he had me convinced to work as a roadie, bunk with the band, and take my work with me.

As to be expected, when I told my parents about this plan, my mom accused me of running away and blamed Birch for being a bad influence on me. She never has liked him. Thinks he’s a dreamer who needs to grow up and get a real job. It’s always easier to reproach the friend than address issues with the person closest to you.

This kind of meddling was exactly why I moved out after my first year of teaching. I would’ve loved to live rent-free and save money, but most days I was just trying to survive the school day. I’m not going to lie; in that first year it was a difficult transition from the college quads to the corridors of a junior high. I would come home exhausted and frustrated, and all she wanted to do was talk about what had happened. If I did open up about how tough it was, she would get worried that I was planning to quit, and she reminded me how she wished she were lucky enough to have such a good job with full benefits, retirement, and holidays and summers off. Ever since I was a kid, I was never allowed to quit anything. If I started something, I had to see it through to the end.