Princess Grace and the Tugboat

“At least you fell in love in June. That’s my advice to every livin' breathin' yearnin' soul out there- fall in love in June.”

Even though those were the exact words dropped out of her mouth, a damn hot August is when she fell in love- and all the while flappin' her trap about June. While I was rippin' the honeysuckle open to allow the flower to cry its single sweet tear, she was talkin' about June and fallin' in love in August.

I wonder now, hell, I might have even wondered then- course far as I can remember I wasn’t very wonder filled back then. But I suppose when someone who looks like Princess Grace says you did right to fall in love in June, and then goes ‘round the side of the house to fall in love in August, you have to wonder just a little, even if you don’t wonder at the white petals and green pistons in your hand.

And so I probably did wonder.
As I recall, I did.
I’m damn sure I did now that I think about it.

I lay awake as the leaves changed colors, wonderin' if the tugboat had made it’s mysterious appearance a couple months early, would she fall in love anyhow, or did it take her ‘till August to realize the importance of June.

I advised myself never to fall in love again- no matter what month happened to show up on the calendar. Tellin' yourself not to fall in love is like standin’ up on the top of the inside of the Barnum and Baily circus tent with your trapeze in your hand and tellin’ yourself you got a net down there you can fall into it anytime, and ain’t nothin’ get bruised 'cept your pride. Lettin’ yourself fall in love is holdin’ that same trapeze and jumpin’, but you’re not quite sure if you have a net there or not, and you didn’t take no precautions- no dippin’ your hands in chalk, no sayin’ a prayer, no nothin’- you just jump.

She gave me her approval: “You’re lucky, fallin’ in love in June.” And I gave advice: “Don’t fall in love, Princess Grace, don’t fall in love at all.” And so she was the poet and I was the cynic.

The poet and the cynic drank red wine together in the mosquito months. They washed their clothes in the river, even though they shared a washing machine. They never fought. And when the poet looked out her window to see the little green and dirty tugboat pulling only itself into the marina on August first, she called to the cynic to come see.

The marina had been empty as far back in time as the oldest man in the town could travel in his mind. In 1972, Jimmie Fisher and Martin Curtis and a couple of other boys went down there to get some drinkin’ done. Martin stumbled too far to the left, and fell through some rotten wood. Good thing he could swim fine. If he hadn’t tried to pull himself out of the water using that old anchor, he might have been able to tell you this story himself. The anchor fell on top of him and knocked him cold before pinnin' him to the bottom. Jimmie and the other boys dove in, but they couldn’t move Martin, which seemed strange, considerin'. It wasn’t until the cops tried to fish his body out that they realized a part of that piece of shit anchor had gone clean through his skull.
         
They boarded up the place after that. Put up all sorts of caution tape, and warnin' signs, and memorials of fresh flowers for Martin’s memory to remind people that a rotten marina is no place to get your drinkin’ done.

The tugboat slipped into the marina and dropped its anchor. It bobbed eagerly, as if it was trying to get picked up out of it’s watery pen, and taken home to some loving family that would throw it a red ball and slip it chicken bones under the table.

“Isn’t it wild?” She asked. She was always askin' questions like that. I always had the questions like “Why aren’t any of the lights on inside it?” or “What’s it doing here?” or “Who the hell is drivin’ that thing?” She never concerned herself with practicalities- they weren’t romantic enough for her. Information made her think too much and feel too little, and the poet couldn’t have that. That was a cynic’s job.

It was wild though. I had to admit it was. However, humidity tames all us livin’ down ‘round here. It captures us in it’s thick heavy net of air, makin’ sweat pour out of our skin and saturatin' our minds so that none of us can really do anything but sit in our air conditioned cages tryin’ to remember our own names.

Seemed that the heat also had a soporific effect on curiosity. No one’s will was strong enough or energy high enough to investigate the wild thing that rested in the water. While under normal circumstances, Sheriff Jefferies would be out there with the squad car and first lieutenant checkin’ to make sure everyone and everything was safe and ain’t no laws bein’ broken or ‘bout to be broken, but this was August. We all went about our lives. Jimmie Fisher sat sippin’ whiskey with the TV on as he watched one memory play over and over in his mind. I ventured out to pick honeysuckle in the cool evenings. Gloria sang sad songs down at the smokiest bar in town. Sheriff Jefferies youngest continued catchin’ frogs to blow up in the microwave. The only one who was not actin’ according to the normal order of the cosmos was the poet, who could do nothin’ but sit at her window and gaze out at that damn tugboat. She sat there as the August days began to end the endless heat of summer, sighin' and pettin’ her head as if she was expectin’ the feel of perfectly cut diamonds of a priceless tiara on her fingertips. 

One night, late at night, must have been about two-thirty, maybe even three in the morning, I caught her up at that window with a flashlight tryin’ to send signals to the tugboat.

I told her, if she really wanted some answers it might do her more good to go bed, and approach the boat at a more decent hour, instead of confusin’ every lighting bug from here to there and back again. She sighed her little poetic Princess of Monaco sigh and turned toward me. The lapping water reflected moonlight through the window and highlighted the tears that streaked her face.

Cynics never know what to do with these kinds of tears. We try to ignore them or imagine them to be some useless bodily function that gets rid of excess salt. Poets can't seem to ignore them.

These were the tears she had waited a lifetime to cry.
These were the tears of hoping without the times being hopeless.
These were the tears that prayed to no God.
These were the tears that mourned no man.

I always wish I could cry those kind of tears.
She always wanted to fall in love in June.

She began to pack the next day. All her soft cotton sundresses, curlin' iron, brush with a silver handle that belonged to her grandmother, baby teeth, and silk robe to keep her warm at night went into a burgundy trunk. In her purse she put her powder puff and a map of the world, folded a thousand times, with the Mediterranean Sea circled in red lipstick.

I walked her as far as the honeysuckle bush in which I had planted the memory of Martin. She smiled at me, that royal smile. I watched her gingerly pick her way through the barriers of caution tape, branches, and fallen tin roof, sure footed despite being high heeled. She heaved the trunk onboard, then climbed on, standing at the side of the boat, waving to assure me of her safety.

Anchors drop to the bottom and pin you down. That's what they're there for, I guess, to keep you in one place. The anchor rising out of the water, pulled by invisible inside forces, promised her freedom. I watched the ripples on the water become smaller, and heard the cicadas gradually drown out the hum of the engine.