CATCH OF THE DAY

“So, what’s the catch today? Would you be the Skip in Skipper?”

“Ahoy! You must be the new owner of the Rustic Scup.”

“That’s me. I’m Chet. I hear you’re the man to see for seafood.  You the Skip?”

“Last I looked. How do, Chet. So, I hear you’re also the chef, that right?”

“Guilty.”

“Well, then, that’s what I’ll be calling you. Welcome to Skipper’s Slip, Maine’s finest, at least here in our little hamlet called Limerick. So, Chef, what’s your pleasure?”

“I’ll just go back to the beginning. What’s the catch today, Skip?”

“Well now, this is opportune for you. We just got back from the morning haul.”

“Lucky me!”

“And, well, you won’t believe it, Chef. The halibut was all but jumpin’ in the boat!”

“Wow, that’s great! I . . .”

“But . . . there’s a catch.”

“What’s the catch?”

“Well, then they’s sorta jumped back out again. Like I says, Chef, all BUT.”

“Oh. Uhm, okay. So, what else you got?”

“Well, now, I ain’t lyin’, Chef. The pollock was all sputterin’ and spattered about like paint blotchin’ on a giant canvas! I ain’t never seen nothing like it!”

“Uh, really?  Well, uhm, okay.”

“But there’s a catch. They’s all too fast for the like of our lures and we didn’ set the nets in time. And then, before you could flip a flapjack, they was gone! You know how it is.”

“Uh, oh well, I guess . . .”

“You slow or something, Chef?”

“Uh, no! I’m . . .”

“I’m trying to tell you what it’s like, what you can expect so you know what you’re doing. This area’s got its own way of operatin’ and you, being an outsider and all, I’m trying to give you the inside low-down.”

“Okay. Well, thanks?”

“Now, back to today’s catch. You with me?”

“That’s why I’m here. What . . .”

“I’m gettin’ to it, Chef. We’ll get there. You ain’t in the city no more so just lower it a gear and try to enjoy the view. ‘Round Coral Bend, we seen packs of wolffish, churnin’ barrels of butterfish and an ocean floor of tilefish!”

“And . . .”

“Whelk, the catch is we didn’t. Catch any of ‘em, I mean.”

“So, what do you have? And, please, no more fish tales!”

“Well, and that’s a cryin’ shame ‘cause that’s just what I got for ye, Chef! I got yellowtail comin’ out me ears!”

“I almost hate to ask, but . . . is there a catch?”

“Whatcha got in your ears, Chef? I just said I got ye yellowtail.”

“You mean in the boat? Ready for sale?”

“Whatcha sayin’, Chef? They ain’t sailing nowhere. They’re all yours if you want ‘em.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll take all you got. What else?”

“Boy howdy! You should have seen the bluefin tuna, the bluefish, the blueback herring, the brown trout, the striped bass!”

“What color?”

“Uh, what ya mean there, Chef?”

“Nothing. Any catch there?”

“Nah, that’s why I say you should have seen ‘em, because we sure don’t have ‘em. Slippery devils.”

“Give me strength. How ‘bout flounder?”

“Ain’t I flounderin’ enough for ya, Chef?”

“The catch! The catch! You know what I mean!”

“Aye. There’s summer flounder, winter founder, witch flounder.”

“Which do you have?”

“I just told ye, Chef. Pay attention, would ya?”

“Well, which?”

 “Yah, you bet.”

“Flounder! The fish, flounder fish? Have you any?”

“Well, they be out there somewhere. We couldn’t catch ‘em. Maybe we’ll have better luck tomorrow.”

“What have I . . . you got crabs?”

“Nah, I got a prescription.”

“Ha-ha-ha, very funny. Couldn’t see that coming. Now, look, Skipper, I don’t have all day.”

“You wouldn’t think it so funny if was you got the skeevies.”

“What are you . . .”

“Hmm. You’re wound pretty tight there, Chef. Now, ya know I’m just havin’ a little fun here.”

“I’m talking about crabs, the crustacean, with the shell. You eat them in restaurants!”

“I know me crabs, son! I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.”

“Let’s try again. Please. Do you have any shellfish?”

“So, now, if you didn’t want crab, why’d ya ask me about ‘em?”

“I do want your crabs!”

“Ach, you do not, me boy! They itch like a son of a . . .”

“Skipper!  Look me in the eye and answer this one simple question. Please! Today, this very day, did you happen to catch any of those delectable green crabs, or blue crabs, that I would like very much to serve in my restaurant, the one I just bought with my last dollar in hopes of starting a new life, and what, so far, has kept me from jumping off the nearest building? And are they on your boat this very minute ready to sell to a paying customer such as myself?”

“That’s two questions, boy. Where’d you go to school? Hey! Where ya goin’?”

* * *

“Ahoy, Chef! That you again now?”

“Thought I’d give it another try, Skip. I got a little overheated earlier, I’m afraid, but there’s still time to prepare for tonight’s service and you happen to be the only game in town.”

“Whelk, thanks, Chef. That’s kind of you to say.”

“So, let’s just start over. You still have that yellowtail you told me about?”

“Sure, and what might you be thinkin’? Them being without cab fare or a thumb to hitch a ride, they ought be right where I left them.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll take all you got. How many do you have?”

“Well, now, let me put me thinkin’ cap on. Better yet, I’ll go take a look-see.”

“That’s all right. Just give me what you’ve got and tell me what else you have.”

“Harkenin’ back to our prior banter, Chef, am I correct in thinkin’ you be wantin’ them crusty critters the tourist-types come all this way to pay a king’s ransom for?”

“Any and all you have, Skip. Fresh today, right?”

“Now, don’t you go gettin’ all hoity-toity fresh on me, Chef. The very idea I’d sell you, my new favorite customer, anything what’s more than an hour’s time out the water, it hurts me sensibilities.”

“Skipper, I was here before over two hours ago.”

“That’s just what I meant to say! Did I say an hour? You misheard me, boy. Still got something cloggin’ up your ears?  I’d see someone ‘bout that, I was you. I got a doctor . . .”

“Never mind, never mind. What do you have for shellfish? Clams? Any clams?”

“Got clams.”

“Scallops?”

“Got scallops.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Lobster?”

“Booyah!  A fine day for lobster, if ever there was one!”

“You’re all right, Skipper. I take it all back.  How ‘bout mussels?”

“Whelk, they ain’t what they used to be, me gettin’ on in years, a bit long in the tooth, as they say . . . “

“Focus, please, Skipper. I’m talking the kind of mussels I plan to steam with garlic, lemon, white wine. Ring a bell?”

“Ah, you’re meaning Mediterranean-like, are ya?”

“That's exactly . . . wait, what? Did you mean to make sense just now?”

“I’m joshin’ ya, Chef. You’re too young to be so serious like. Put a little skip in your own step, why doncha. Smell the roses, me boy!”

“I think I’d like to know what you’ve been smelling.”

“Nah, no smelt today, Chef. If I'd knowed you be wanting ‘em, I would have told you right off we ain’t got ‘em.”

“Right, right. Well, anyway . . . where the heck was I?”

“Ya know, they have gin pills to help you with memory, if you be needin’ a boost. I take the liquid myself and look at me!  Sharp as a needle in a hat rack. Why you countin’ numbers again? Didn’t you learn all that in kindygarden?”

“Okay. Let’s just do this as calmly and as efficiently as we can, all right? Are you with me?”

“Whelk, I . . .”

“Skipper!  If it’s all right with you, let’s try something. I will ask you a very simple question, and you do your very best to answer me with one word, just one. Can we try that? Think you can manage that?”

“You want me to dumb this down for ye, is that what you’re . . .”

“ONE word . . . please.”

“Shoot.”

“Too easy . . . “

“What’d you say there, Chef?”

“Nothing. Now, Skip, do you have any of the shellfish known as mussels for sale?”

“Hoo-boy!”

“Do you have shrimp?”

“Jumbo!”

“Do you have oysters?”

“Cowabunga!”

“Do you have squid?”

“Holy Mackerel!”

“Do you have any . . .”

“No.”

“. . . eel?”

“Yes, sirree!”

“Sounds like we hit the jackpot, Skipper! There’ll be some fine dining at the Rustic Scup tonight!”

“What time should I be there?”

“Haha! Now, that’s better! Whew!  Will you box it all up and deliver it to the Scup before noon? We’ll take inventory and I’ll have the checkbook out.”

“Your word is good, Chef, I’m sure. ‘Course, cash is always better.”

“Bring it around before noon and they’ll be something extra in it for you.”

“You got it, Chef.”

* * *

After Skip watched Chet’s vehicle drive off, he turned to look at his boat while thinking how best to go about delivering his catch.

“You want me to take this one, Skip?”

Brody was Skip’s second mate, a local kid who’d opted for the sea over school.

“Nah, Brody.  Just another silver spoon comin’ to take what’s ours. I’ll get her boxed meself and then I’ll be needin’ your young bulk to help load the truck.”

“Sure thing. Just give a yell when you need me.”

“Well, now, where you been?” 

A matted orange tabby with a missing ear had sidled up next to Skip and, following a single full body side-swipe, sat nearby, eyes glued to his old friend.

“You here to lend a claw, are ye? Bring any of your mangy sidekicks along?”

Skip looked beyond the tabby and could pick out several sets of familiar cat eyes behind pillars, carts and crates. 

“Well, now, I kin remember a time when this town took pride in its own; man, beast and everthin’ in between. We used to tend to those needin’ it and not just turn a blind eye, ‘cause it’s easier. ‘Tis a travesty, ‘tis.  Just how many town hall meetin’s I got to stir up to get something done round here worth doin'?”

Skip bent to give the tabby a friendly scratch.

“C’mon then if ye want to make yourself a fish head or two. Bring your friends.”

* * *

When Chet pulled into the Rustic Scup parking lot, he recognized his old college roommate’s car.  Henry lived in a neighboring town and had promised Chet he’d visit the restaurant once he’d gotten settled.

“Henry! Glad you made it.”

“I’ve been coming to the Scup for years, Chet. Had to see for myself that you really bought it, and make sure you know what you’re doing. I happen to like this place.”

The two men exchanged a manly half-hug and back-slap.

“How do you like the blueberry state so far?”

“I’ll take that coastline any day, and just knowing water that cold produces the best seafood.”

“You got your catch for tonight?”

“Not yet. It’s coming.”

“So, you’ve been to see Skip?”

“Oh yeah.”

“And what do you think of the resident fishmonger?”

“Ah, yeah, he’s different. Impossible to get a straight answer. How well do you know him?”

“Not very. What I hear though, he’s been around since the place opened. Means well, but then that’s what they always say when there’s nothing else you can say.”

“I imagine he’s an acquired taste.”

“He’s a fixture. Hasn’t ever known anything else.”

“Well, if his wares are as fresh as these waters, I don’t care if he’s Donald Duck.”

“Ha! Careful what you wish for!  Say, speak of the . . .”

A dilapidated old truck with the words Skipper’s Seafood hand-painted on the sides of the truck bed pulled up near the kitchen entrance and parked. A skinny kid with long unwashed hair poking out from under a knit cap was squinting in the direction of the two men.

“I’m Brody, from Skip’s?”

“Great!  Let’s see what we’ve got.”

The men marched together on crushed seashells, a sharp crunch accompanying every step as they made their way to the truck. Brody jumped onto the back cabin and began to open one of the crates with a prybar wedged under the lid. He popped the lid open and quickly jumped back.

“What the . . .”

The instant the lid was off, a great clowder of cats jumped out of the crate like a dozen or more feline jacks-in-the-box.  They hissed, spat and scattered in all directions. The men looked at each other, speechless.   

They both turned to look at the boy, who looked as baffled as they both felt. He nervously turned his tools and attention to the next crate. 

One by one, each of the four giant wooden containers in the back of the truck revealed cluster after cluster of irritated, indignant felines of every size and description. They all quickly disappeared from sight to parts unknown as Chet and Henry looked on, eyes wide and mouths agape.

Once the crates were emptied, their contents dispersed, and they could again hear themselves think, the two men turned to the boy. He was digging in his front overall pockets.

“Skip told me to give you this.” Brody handed Chet a crinkled piece of stained paper with some writing scratched on it.

“Sorry, Chef. Cats got to the ketch afore you did. Try to be qicker next time, will ya?”

Chet shoved the paper into Henry’s chest before heading back into the kitchen, stiff, white, and with eyes glazed. 

Henry read. He then turned to the boy, still looking dazed and frozen on the back of the truck.

“You waiting for a tip or something?”

Brody took the hint and jumped from the bed, slammed the tailgate shut and hightailed it to the driver’s seat. By the time he got the engine started, Henry was already back in the kitchen with Chet.

“Just what in hell’s name am I supposed to do now?”

“Calm down, Chet. I’ve heard this sort of thing has happened before.”

“What?”

“And there’s a supermarket the next town over.”

“There’s a what?”

“If you’re going to . . .”

“There’s a what?”

“Breathe, Chet. Deep breath. Do it with me. One, two . . .”

“Henry, talk to me before I start throwing things!”

“First, just how well did you read the Title when you bought this place, Chet?”

“I’ve gotta sit down.”

“Okay. But if you don’t mind . . . I’ll be right back.”

Henry quickly walked out of the kitchen through swinging doors. Chet heard the clinking of glassware. Henry returned with a shot glass in one hand, a bottle of rum in the other.

“Yes, I know where the bar is. Drink this.”

Chet bypassed the glass and took the bottle, tipping it back. After setting the bottle down, he closed his eyes and shook his head like a wet dog.  When he opened them again, he seemed slightly calmer.

“Talk to me.”

“It’s a well-established fact around here, Skip’s eccentric ways. Small town, old school. Guys like him are an integral part of Maine’s character and . . . charm.”

“But is he really the only game in town?”

“Well, there’s something else that’s also well-established."

“What’s that?”

“The Scup’s title, was there any small print you think you may have skimmed through?”

“What are you saying?”

“When you bought this place?”

“Probably.  Why?”

“Well, I happen to know this because I have a friend who handles local real estate, and it's fairly well-known that Skip comes with the Scup.”

Chet stared at the bottle of rum and frowned.

“How?”

“Skip was apparently the first owner of the Scup back in the day and, well, sort of got carried along, grandfathered you might say, as part of a package deal from then on.”

Chet narrowed his gaze to Henry.

“How?”

“All the seafood served at the Rustic Scup shall heretofore be provided exclusively by . . .”

“No!”

“Yes."

"Well, so what am I supposed to do now?"

"There's an exception, the catch.”

“Let me guess.”

“The supermarket in the next town. Reread the title, I'd suggest.”

“So, looks like I'm caught.”

Henry nodded. “Yep, though Skip is probably the biggest catch of them all.”

Chet sighed.

"This supermarket. Where is it?”