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Smokey Joe

by Marian Allen

Guys, I got nothin. I was gonna tell you about this guy called Smokey Joe, but I can’t tell you about him, cause I don’t know nothin about him. He lives somewhere down by the beach, I guess, cause he comes into Mulligan’s about twice a month and eats like he hadn’t eaten since the last time he come in. He always brings smoked fish to trade for the food, and Hannah Mulligan serves it and I’ve had some and it’s good.

Only thing wrong with it is the fish and Smokey Joe smell pretty much the same, and that’s kinda creepy, don’t you think?

I guess you don’t smoke fish without smelling like smoked fish, but most people who smell like fish of any kind generally also smell like strong soap, but Smokey Joe didn’t. He didn’t smell sour like dirty people smell, though, just smokey and fishy. Almost appetizing. Like I said: creepy.

One time, I was tottering toward my house down the beach and a bunch of kids come running towards me.

“Don’t go that way!” one of em yelled, running past me like his hair was on fire and his ass was catching.

Another one stopped and bent over, hands on knees, gasping for air.

I nudged him. “Mad dog, or what? Ax murderer? Clown?”

“Smokey Joe,” he managed. After another couple of gasps, he took a real breath and straightened up. “We was follerin him. Wanted to see where he lived. Cranston said he lives in a smokehouse no biggern a tool shed, and Walter said he lives in a old cistern with driftwood over the top to keep out the rain, and….” He wasn’t scared once he started going over the theory of it.

I’d heard em all. They was the same ones kids had had since I wandered into Rat-Trap thirty years ago. They inherited em from their big brothers and sisters. A Berringer always thought he lived in a cave. A Granbrier always thought he lived in a gigantic hollow tree dead and on its side.

“So you wanted to see,” I said. “And you follered him and lost him in the Rocky Dunes.”

“No!” The kid’s eyes got wide and he started to gasp again. “He turnt around and snarled like a dog! And his teeth was sharp! Like a barracuda!”

So that’s all I know about Smokey Joe. This crop of kids don’t foller him no more. They give him a wide berth, and he has a new story they tell about him, though nobody don’t know any more about him than I do.

He’s a barracuda. They don’t steer clear of him because they think he’s a fish and a monster. They steer clear of him because they think he’s a fish and a cannibal.

As good a reason as any.

MY PROMPT FOR TODAY: Some days I just can’t get started. My inspiration today was this smoked butternut squash I made on my pellet grill. I couldn’t do a story, though, so I just started typing. and the above is what came out. When in doubt, go to Rat-Trap.

Smoked butternut squash and a salad of kale, shaved Brussels sprouts, and cherry tomatoes.