There is very little sex in this tale and as with several of my stories I tend to dwell on the 'recovering husband' theme without having to paint the grunts and groans by numbers. The recent political season provided a bit of the flavor and maybe a bit of wistful remembrance of the way life should be, as they say Downeast.
None of the people or circumstances in this story are real although I once found myself face to face with a critter who won the staring contest.
There are a handful of authors here on Lit that I can't even begin comparing to and it's a privilege to hone a craft among them; my many thanks for the web hosts giving us this opportunity.
If you think you paid too much for this small entertainment let me know and I'll send a refund your way post haste. I promise. As for the disgruntlement, by all means flail away. Just keep it clean. If you are one of two people that I just won't have littering my combox, well, you know the drill.
*
Traffic was light cruising up Rt. 1 and with the radio tuned to one of the morning talk shows I wasn't paying a lot of attention to the scenery. Some old cuss was letting off steam and going on about the worthlessness of government and those that make their careers being elected to it. Before he could finish the next hilarious thought, I locked the anti-locks tight. A big bull moose stood silently in the middle of the road staring at me contently chewing his cud, oblivious to the hulk of metal that brought him inches from a certain rendezvous with a freezer. The old boy was a good bit south of his fellow denizens and had wandered into civilized Downeast without a care.
Downeast, it's a colloquialism among the natives of Maine in that it defines a rather loose boundary of sorts distinguishing the region from the rest of Maine or New England. Generally it is that area of the state from west of Penobscot Bay to Lubec and upwards to Rt. 9 and Rt. 2 above Calais where the accents strengthen and clapboards become more frequently weatherworn.
As a child my sister and I would visit the area staying with relatives during the summer where we would chase each other over muddy tidal flats until one of us fell face first into the muck. It was a place where the smells of steaming clams and mussels mingled with layers of seaweed in the pot over a hot fire. When we were fortunate, father would drop a few lobsters into the pot and we'd litter the ground with bright red shells at our feet.
I drove for most of the late morning pointed toward the tiny hamlet of Cushing before pulling into the parking lot of a seafood diner making its presence known with an enormous billboard picture of an overfilled lobster roll visible a hundred yards before the turn. It was in the middle of the metropolis of Friendship, Maine with its abundant population of 1,152 souls.
She watched me eating while pretending to be inconspicuous. The roll was stuffed to overfilling just as the sign indicated and it was one of those long top split rolls toasted on each side before being filled with so much scrumptiousness that an exceptionally wide open mouth was necessary to traverse the challenge. I managed to get hold of it and massage the taste buds well enough to elicit a broad smile from her.
"Hi, I'm Claire and I gotta tell you that you're the first one I've seen get the whole bite in on the first try."
She nodded toward the seat and I gestured with my free hand for her to take it as I finished chewing the meal in my mouth.
"I'm John Mason and pleased to make your acquaintance." I shook her hand and took her in. She was probably around my age, fortyish or so with a pleasing smile framed with long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail with deep chocolate eyes. I try my best not to be a letch but couldn't help being drawn to her bosom. They were full and the nipples rigid, visible through the thin fabric of the white cotton tee shirt she wore.
"Terry's my sister and she owns this place except I had to teach her how to make the lobster rolls. Ain't that right, Sis?" She yelled across the counter to the woman who made my order and who just grunted an inarticulate reply while laughing.
As we talked I learned Claire owned a small bed and breakfast place down on Harbor Road that offered six rooms with all the fixings in the morning and tremendous views of the cove and the flats beyond.
"If you are planning on sticking around in our fair town I've got a few rooms open so you wouldn't have to drive up to Waldoboro and get one of those nothing motel rooms on Rt. 1. This time of year I've got some long termers in a couple rooms till they decide to move on; give 'em a weekly rate"
"Claire, I'll keep that in mind. Actually, if you'll give me a card I'll let you know later this afternoon."
She gave me a boutique card for her B&B before returning back to help her sister. I managed to finish the best lobster roll I had enjoyed in years, settled up with a good tip and after the goodbyes, I had someplace I needed to be early that afternoon over in Cushing, a small township a couple miles from where I was.
By vocation I'm a journalist/writer for the Portland Times and I had an interview with one of the local sages living on a little place near Baily's Point. It wasn't so much his poetry that interested me as his independent run for Governor; he was in a virtual tie several months out from the election when none of the polls mattered yet.
William Wadsworth Wiggins III is his actual name although his close friends and family members all call him Bill and thinks him to be a bit strange and unseasoned around the edges. His own actions didn't assuage those sentiments much; one of his campaign slogans early on was a web address with a big picture of his bushy bearded face. It stayed up until his meager campaign staff realized that somebody had hacked the site and pointed it to a smorgasbord of teen porn.
The sandy driveway meandered through a tall stand of spruce and fir before opening up to a grassy clearing with a small white frame bungalow nestled between several overgrown hydrangeas and an abundant lilac tree. An old black lab lay out in the sun hardly paying any mind to the vehicle parking off to the side.
'Bill' Wiggins came out onto the small porch to welcome me to his abode.
"I see you didn't get lost like that other fellah" He shouted as I stepped out of the cab. I just shook my head and approached him with my hand extended.
After shaking he welcomed me into his home and we sat at his sturdy kitchen table with a fresh pot of coffee on the stove. He had a small fire going in the porcelain end heater and grabbed a couple mugs out of the drying rack in the expansive slate sink. Out of the corner of my eye I saw an enormous calico Maine coon cat shrewdly reach for a piece of bacon his owner tossed at him.
Mr. Wiggins was an oddly imposing man, late fiftyish with piercing blue eyes, stocky and large without being obese. He lived alone here in this craftsman's cottage with a dog and a cat and whatever assortment of jays and sparrows he could entice with a piece of suet and a bag of seed.
