Now, the fact that Pucker-Up’s farm didn’t actually exist outside of the bed on his pickup truck, and that the fruit might actually have come from either the local farmer’s market or A&P’s produce department for that matter, was, in fact, a well-kept secret. It’s not that people didn’t suspect; I mean the fruit was fine, but rarely excellent. However the charm and winsome personality of the man and his vibrant descriptions of each luscious morsel of produce overshadowed any implied misrepresentations, as did his knack for heaping compliments all over the womenfolk, and if their kids were in tow, them too.
In reality, his fruit may not have been the best on the cape, but his sales pitch certainly was!
Never had the island’s women been flattered by such heaping compliments, certainly not by their husbands, and these weren’t just your ordinary garden-variety compliments, no siree Jack, these accolades were heaped on by a Spaniard, an actual Spaniard!! Thick, sexy accent and all! The women certainly couldn’t get enough of him.
Yup, Pucker-Up was certainly a peach. But, who was this guy, really?
DIRCK, THE HANDYMAN:
Dirck was Dutch. A chipper older gentleman, probably mid-60s, perpetually dressed in well-worn overalls, with a number-two pencil taking up permanent residence behind his right ear, and a scratchpad more often than not nested in his rough, calloused hands. His clunky, old toolbox was notoriously huge and heavy, yet he lugged it around from house to house, seemingly with no effort at all.
Dirck was a versatile craftsman; he could set up mouse traps at one home, while building a full wooden deck at another, then fix an outdoor shower head at a third. Whatever it was, if it needed fixing, Dirck was your man! Not only was he your go-to, jack-of-all-trades, fixer-upper specialist, but his many years of trustworthiness had earned him unfettered access, either by key on his clanking key chain, or stashed under the welcome mat, or simply by using an unlocked door, to half the homes on the island.
Yes, Dirck was as pleasant and helpful as a man could be, and a real fixture in Mashnee’s extended community. But what did we really know about him?
Not much.
Not much at all.
SIX-FINGER SAMMY:
First off, yes he really had six fingers, and on both hands mind you! The extra digits were slightly deformed, and the man took great joy in showing them off to small children, who would invariably run to their parents in absolute horror after seeing them! Sammy was a huge man, seemingly as tall as he was wide. Picture a twelve-finger Frankenstein.
Sammy drove the smelly brown garbage truck that went from cottage to cottage every Wednesday like clockwork. He tended to come to Mashnee Island first thing in the morning, so I’d often see him while taking my daybreak jog, and he’d wave like a banshee, that extra pinky flapping in the wind, and each wave would be accompanied by a hideous, bellowing laugh, which tended to freak the living daylights out of all of the kids on the island, including me!
Sammy didn’t just pick up the island’s garbage cans and refuse bins like a normal garbage man, mind you. No, Sammy fought with each trash receptacle, like a gator wrangler determined to wrestle a fearsome, toothy beast into submission. Trash cans stood absolutely no chance against Sammy. To say kids on the island were scared shitless of Sammy and his six fingers would be a major understatement! Fact is, we ran the other way when he came!!
Clearly, this Boris Karloff lookalike belonged on the suspect list.
Perhaps near the top!
BARKEEP BEN:
He yelled at us. A lot!
About everything!
He was always angry!
We cut through HIS bar!
We were too loud just outside HIS bar!
We tracked mud on HIS floors!
We messed up HIS buoy’s room!
We tried to get patrons to buy us drinks (I plead nolo-contendere!).
We cut through HIS bar, again! After being warned!
We were too loud in the game room, which he claimed to hear upstairs!
We cut though HIS bar, yup, for cripes’ sakes, for a third time!
And one time,
WE may possibly have let the air out of all four of HIS tires!
Perhaps it was his daily commute from Plymouth, about which he could not complain enough, or ridiculously long working hours (see complaint #1), or overall resentment toward Mashnee’s “cheapskate” residents, which set off his daily fits of crankiness, but whatever it was, his nastiness permeated the bar.
Did I mention he hated us? The teens I mean. All of the teens. It simply didn’t matter whether you were thirteen or nineteen. Or twenty for that matter. If you were young, he hated you.
No kid who dared step anywhere remotely near his bar could escape his rage.
He had a VERY short fuse. Accidentally set him off, and his blood pressure would skyrocket, causing his normally pale complexion to approach a florid hue, almost matching his flaming red hair. Yet another source of his discontent.
And to make matters worse, we had it on good authority that Mashnee’s crankiest barkeep was a spy for Mr. Knight, engaged in secretly tattling on the island’s raucous teenagers, reporting their nightly activities and detailing their unacceptable behavior.
But we were wise to Mr. Barkeep.
And now this creep was on our list too!
“Circle this guy’s name,” commanded Tommy.
These and other loyally trusted “off-island” characters came and went as they pleased on a daily basis, seamlessly weaving themselves into the linen-textured fabric of Mashnee’s daily life.
They were most assuredly beyond reproach,
