We brought Tom-Su soap and made him wash up at the public restroom, got him a hamburger and fries from the nearby diner, and walked him back to the boxcar. He was goofy in other ways, too. I'm sure up on the roof we all had the exact same thought: why doesn't he check out the boxcar? We yelled for him to start to pull the line up -- and he did!
The Sunday morning before school started, we were headed to the Pink Building for the last time that summer. Tom-Su had buckteeth and often drooled as if his mouth and jaw had been forever dentist-numbed. Drop of water crossword. But compared with what was to come, the bruises had been nothing. The water below spread before us still and clear and flat, like a giant mirror. After waiting till dusk, we left him the bag of doughnuts and a few dollars. Sandro Meallet is a graduate of The Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University. It was average and gray-coated, with rough, grimy surfaces and grass yard enough for a three-foot run.
On the mornings we decided to head to Terminal Island or Twenty-second Street instead of to the Pink Building, we never told Tom-Su and never had to. Me and the fellas wondered on and off just how we could make Tom-Su understand that down the line he wasn't gonna be a daddy, disrespecting his jewels the way he did. My teeth might've bucked on me, too, with nothing but seaweed for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. After the moray snapped the drop line, we talked about how good that strawberry must've been for him to want it so bad. Its eyes showed intelligence, and the teeth had fully lost their buck. Drop bait on water crossword club.com. A cab pulled up next to the crowd, and a woman stepped out. We didn't want to startle him. Pops must've gotten hip to his son's fish smell, we thought, or had some crazy scenting ability that ran in the family. "No big problem; only small problem -- very, very small. We didn't tell him because he somehow knew what direction we'd go in, as if he'd picked up our scent. Each time we'd seen Tom-Su, he'd been stuck glue-tight to his mother, moving beside her like a shrunken shadow of a person.
Words that meant something and nothing at the same time. As the seagulls and pelicans settled on the roof because they'd grown tired of the day, we gathered our gear but couldn't speak anymore, because the summer was already done. We decided that he'd eventually find us. "Tom-Su have small problem, Mr. Dick'son, " she said, and pointed to her temple with a finger. It was Tom-Su's mother, Mrs. Drop of water crossword clue. Kim. We would become Tom-Su's insurance policy. Twice we stayed still and waited for him to come out from his hiding place, but only a small speck of forehead peeked around the corner. Tom-Su stood by the door and watched them with an unshakable grin on his mug. Then he turned and walked toward the entrance -- which was now his exit. If we did, he'd just jump out of sight and then peek around a corner, believing he was invisible. We saved his doughnuts and headed for the wharf. Like fall to the ground and shake like an earthquake, hammer his head against a boxcar, or run into speeding traffic on Harbor Boulevard.
He turned to look back, side to side, and then straight up the empty tracks again -- nothing. But that last morning, after we'd left the crowd in front of Tom-Su's place and made our way to the Pink Building, we kept turning our heads to catch him before he fully disappeared. Even the trailer birds had more success, robbing from the overflow. The drool and cannibal eyes made some of us think of his food intake.
The sky was dull from a low marine layer clinging fast to the coastline. Once or twice, though, one of us climbed under the wharf to make sure he wasn't hanging with the twin. We could disappear, fly onto boxcars, and sneak up behind him without a rattle. Then we noticed a figure at the beginning of Deadman's, snooping around the fishing boats and the tarps lying next to them. He might've understood. The railroad tracks ran between Harbor Boulevard and the waterfront. He wasn't bad luck, we agreed -- just a bit freaky. We went home fishless. The Atlantic Monthly; July 2000; Fish Heads - 00. We shook Tom-Su from his stare-down, slid off Mary Ellen's netting, grabbed our buckets, and broke for the back of the Pink Building. Why do you bite the heads off the fish when they're still alive? The next morning Pops didn't show himself at Deadman's Slip. "He can't start here this summer or next fall.
As if he were scared of the sunlight. The silence around us was broken into only by a passing seagull, which yapped over and over again until it rose up and faded from sight. As soon as he hit the ground, he did his hand clap, and we broke out in laughter. Pops let out a snort and moved sideways to the edge of the wharf, where he looked below and side to side. The Sanchezes had moved back to Mexico, because their youngest son, Julio, had been hit in the head by a stray bullet. As far as he was concerned, we were magicians who'd straight evaporated ourselves! Tom-Su spun around like an onstage tap dancer rooted before a charging locomotive, and looked at us as if we weren't real. We'd stopped at the doughnut shack at Sixth Street and Harbor Boulevard and continued on with a dozen plus doughnut holes. An hour later we knew he wouldn't find us -- or his son. As a morning ritual we climbed the nearest tarp-covered and twice-our-height mountain of fishing nets at Deadman's Slip. As a matter of fact, it looked like Tom-Su's handsome twin brother. From its green high ground you could see clear to Long Beach.
But not until Tom-Su had fished with us for a good month did we realize that the rocking and the numbed gaze were about something altogether different. After he'd thoroughly examined our goods, he again checked our faces one by one. At the fish market, locals surrounded our buckets, and after twenty minutes we'd sold our full catch, three fish at a time. It had traveled five or six blocks before getting to Julio. ) "Tom-Su, " one of us once said to him, "what are you looking at?
The doughnuts and money hadn't been touched. The next day we set Tom-Su up, sat down, and focused on our drop lines. Even from a distance his neck looked rock-hard and ruler-straight; his steps were quick and choppy. They were quickly separated by the taxi driver, who kept Mr. Kim from his wife as she scooted into the back of the taxi and locked the door.
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