The Adventures of Dingleberry Finn
Adam Matson
Duffy’s shitty van broke down about a block from Pier Park, so that’s where they lived. Finn liked waking up each morning in the sleepy village of St. Johns, the furthest outpost of North Portland, where the Willamette River churned into the mighty Columbia. It was summer, the days were hot, but the nights were cool, and she and Shaye shared a single worn quilt, curled up in the gutted cabin of the van. Finn liked to be the big spoon. Shaye was older than her, but smaller, and Finn felt her companion needed protection.
In the mornings they drank cold tea. Finn poured water from one of their gallon jugs into a pair of mugs they had liberated from the hostel in Boulder. She dropped a tea bag from their pouch of random teas into each one. She liked to open the door of the van and sit quietly with her tea. Shaye generally slept later than Finn, but when she did wake up, she was instantly wide awake. Shaye sat down beside her and kicked her ankle. “What are we doing today?”
“I’m taking you to get a shower,” Finn said.
“Sick of my natural aroma?”
“Nope. Just general maintenance.”
Shaye pulled her tee shirt up over her nose. “I don’t suppose we have enough change for laundry?”
“Not yet.”
“Where we gonna shower?”
“Heather’s.”
The Heather House was a women’s shelter in St. Johns. Finn showered there two or three times a week. She made a mission out of showering somewhere almost every day, if only because it kept life somewhat civilized. When you stopped showering, and brushing your teeth, things broke down. They could be homeless, unemployed, stray balloons drifting across the continent, but that didn’t mean they needed to court bacteria or parasites.
For breakfast they ate bananas, and semi-stale bagels with peanut butter. Finn and Shaye volunteered at several farmer’s markets and soup kitchens around Portland, accumulating enough leftovers each week to eat reasonably well.
“It’s beautiful here in the mornings,” Shaye said.
“I agree.”
“Should we turn the key, for shits and giggles?”
“It hasn’t started in a month.”
“Well,” Shaye said, sighing. “Duffy gave it to us for nothing, so I guess we’re not obligated to fix it.”
Finn knew very little about automotive maintenance. Back east, whenever her car had broken down, she’d taken it to the shop, and her parents had usually helped with the bill. She wished she were more reliable with machines.
Shaye generally went with the flow. Free van from the guy at the ski resort? Awesome. Road trip to Oregon for the summer? Great. Van won’t start one day, without any warning? Fine. Life on the road.
After breakfast they folded up the quilt, stashed it, along with their pillow, and all of their possessions, under the ratty green tarp in the back of the van. The idea was to discourage theft. When they’d first arrived in Portland, they’d parked downtown, where many of the services were. But people kept stealing their stuff. Finn missed their hot plate the most. Since the van wouldn’t start anyway, the hot plate would be useless now. All she had left was a duffel bag full of clothes, her skis, and her guitar. She didn’t need much else. The one possession she definitely could not lose was the guitar. For Shaye it was her surfboard, strapped to the roof of the van.
They walked across St. Johns to the Heather House. Shaye sauntered along the sidewalk, looking at everything, grinning often, saying “Hey” to strangers. Shaye was from California. For her the world was one big beach picnic. Finn stared straight ahead, turning over song lyrics in her head. Other musicians’, and her own. Fresh rhymes came easily in the mornings.
There was a line for the showers at the Heather House. Finn and Shaye took a number, and waited their turn in the lobby. Finn liked to rotate her shower locations. There were several shelters around the city she used. Sometimes she showered at the YWCA. There was a nice LGBTQ-only shelter in Southeast where she’d felt most comfortable, when they’d parked briefly near Mt. Tabor Park, but that was a lengthy hike from St. Johns.
The receptionist called their number. Finn and Shaye accepted thin, complimentary towels, then hit the bathrooms. Every morning Finn meticulously brushed her teeth.
The shower stalls were designed for one person, with plastic curtains separating them. Women occupied two of the three stalls, fuzzy pinkish shapes moving behind the curtains. Finn and Shaye squeezed into the third stall together.
Shaye turned the water on full blast and plunged her face into the stream. “Holy shit, that feels good,” she murmured.
Finn glanced back through the curtain to make sure their clothes and shoes were easily within sight and reach, waiting for her turn under the water.
“I definitely needed this,” Shaye said, smelling her own armpit. “God. Damn.” She pulled Finn under the stream, leaned in close to Finn’s neck. “You smell better than I do.”
Finn smiled and put her finger to her lips. Technically they were not supposed to share stalls. Shaye mimed exaggerated shock, reaching for Finn with teasing fingers. They stood only a few feet apart, scrubbing themselves with handfuls of watered-down body wash. Shaye poured shampoo onto each of their heads, dug her fingers into her hair. Finn kept her hair short, efficient, but Shaye had a mane of sun-bleached dreadlocks. Finn had grown to enjoy their musky smell.
Shaye’s body was covered with tattoos. Her arms, thighs, back, the space just above her butt, all decorated with little flecks of art. She had stretch marks above her abdomen. Finn knew there was a baby somewhere back in San Diego. Shaye talked about her daughter often, with casual pride, but never once mentioned returning home to see the girl. Finn thought about her own simple life back east. College, then grad school, then: dissatisfaction. She wanted to sing and write songs. Needed material to write about. Hit the road with her guitar and her duffel bag. Told her parents she’d be back when she was ready. Shaye’s life was more like a song than hers, but Finn hoped that would change.
***
When they arrived back at the van, a young man was snooping around. Finn’s mind went to her guitar.
“What’s up, man?” Shaye asked, completely unconcerned.
He nodded at them. “This thing dead?”
“More like in a coma.”
“I’m looking for parts.”
“For a van?”
“For a boat.”
“Sorry, we sold our boat for the van.”
The man half-smiled. He looked to be in his twenties, Finn thought, maybe a little older than her, but it was hard to tell. His skin was bronzed from the sun, his clothes greasy and stiff. Looked like he lived outside.
“Does that work?” Finn asked. “Car parts for a boat?”
“I just need a few hoses,” he said.
“We accept interesting trades,” Shaye said.
Finn didn’t like it when Shaye spoke for both of them, but that was the price of admission with Shaye.
“I don’t have much money,” the man said. “I live down by the river in Cathedral Park. Last week a boat washed up. I’m fixing it up.”
“What kind of boat?” Shaye asked.
“Yamaha jetboat. Older model. Pretty beat up. Looks like it broke loose from someone’s mooring, and got banged around in the river.”
“Someone’s boat just washed up onshore?” Finn asked.
The man shrugged. “I get it working, I’m going to California.”
Shaye grinned at Finn, then turned her suddenly-steely eyes on the man. “I want to see this fuckin’ boat, dude,” she said. “Boats don’t just wash up after a hard rain. You trying to rob us? I got a fuckin’ switchblade in my boot.”
Finn just stood there. Shaye was sometimes a shit-talker. There was no switchblade.
The man scoffed. “Come down to the park and see it,” he said.
“We’re busy this morning,” Shaye said. “Maybe this afternoon.”
The man nodded. “My name’s Brigman,” he said, and he walked away.
Finn stood next to Shaye, watching the young man leave. “What are we doing this morning?” she asked.
“Fucking with him,” Shaye said. “I’m not just giving some dude parts out of the van. We’re getting something in return.”
Finn wondered what a homeless man with a broken motor boat might have to offer.
***
In the afternoon they walked down to Cathedral Park. Finn carried her guitar, slung over her back. She brought her notebook too. The river always inspired her. If the man with the boat turned out to be bullshit, she at least could sit by the water and write.
The temperature was around 80 degrees, but there was a nice breeze down by the river. Picnickers and sunbathers were sprawled out in the grass at the park. Finn stared up at the St. Johns Bridge, towering above the river, the line of cars and trucks trundling out of the city toward the forested hills. One thing she loved about Portland was how close the wilderness was to civilization. There was a song in there somewhere.
They walked along the river. Shaye took off her shoes and dipped her feet in the brownish water. Finn picked up rocks in the sand, studied them. Seabirds bobbed in the gentle current.
“Shit, there he is,” Shaye said. “There actually is a boat.”
About a hundred yards up from the bridge, a battered speedboat sat beached along the bank. It looked empty, abandoned. Finn thought it did not look like somebody’s weekend pleasure boat had simply come unmoored. It looked like it had been drifting along the Willamette since 1987.
“Hey, Brigman,” Shaye called.
The young man looked up, shirtless, from inside the cockpit, his chest streaked with grime. He squinted at them for a moment, then nodded.
“You know how to fix this thing, or you just fuckin’ around?” Shaye asked.
“I know what I’m doing,” Brigman said. “I was a mechanic in Idaho.”
“You find your hoses yet?”
“Nope.”
Shaye glanced at Finn, then hopped up into the cockpit. The boat swayed as she moved, creaking against the rocks of the river shore. “It’s actually not too bad,” she observed.
Finn leaned against the gunnels and peered into the boat. There was a small cabin with a short bunk. Inside Brigman had piled a bunch of stuff, backpacks and hiking gear and random tools. Finn ran her hands across the serial numbers on the side of the hull.
“This belongs to someone,” she said.
Brigman looked at her. “Finders keepers,” he said. “I’m trying to get it running, so I can get the hell out of here.”
“Where you going?”
“Los Angeles.”
“That’s like a thousand miles,” Shaye said.
Brigman shrugged. “Free boat.”
“What else do you need besides hoses?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“Well, we’re marooned,” Shaye said. “That piece of shit van broke down a month ago, and we don’t give a shit about it. We’ll sell you a hose or two.”
“I don’t have much money.”
“Who does?”
Shaye looped her arm through Finn’s. “That’s our offer, man. You know where to find us.” She turned them both around, and steered Finn back across the park.
***
It was a nice day. Finn felt like thinking about her songs, so she walked the several miles to N. Mississippi Ave, spent the afternoon busking in the crowded shopping district. Whenever she wanted a few extra bucks, she set up on a busy street corner and played guitar. She considered herself a fair guitarist. Her father had taught her. He was the real musician. She’d cut her teeth singing backup for his various bands when she was in high school. She knew her voice was her real gift. Her songs were pretty rudimentary, folksy with a hint of blues, a few decent covers. People stopped on the sidewalk and listened to her. It was the West Coast, so nobody tipped much, but when they did, they usually gave her more than just pocket change. She smiled mid-song as benefactors dropped small bills into her upturned sun hat, always thanked whoever was listening when she finished. By evening she had enough money for some decent food, plus bus fare back to St. Johns. She stopped at a food truck, bought burritos for herself and Shaye, then headed back across town to the van.
“Aw, thanks, baby girl,” Shaye said, when she saw the burritos. She kissed Finn, long and deep. Her mouth tasted like marijuana. No matter how broke they were, they always had weed. They smoked a thin joint in the long dusk, then went to Pier Park to eat their burritos.
“That guy Brigman showed up again,” Shaye said. “I sold him a few hoses, and a couple other parts.”
Another unilateral decision.
“So that’s it for the van?”
Shaye shrugged. “Might as well get what we can.”
“What did he pay?”
“Nothing. He had no money. I traded for a favor.”
“What favor?”
“When he gets that boat running, he’s taking us with him.”
“Taking us where?”
“California. I decided I want to go surfing before the summer’s over.”
“And you think he’ll take us there? In that little boat?”
“I think he’ll take us there.” Shaye winked.
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him we were broke and broke down, and needed a ride. I insinuated that there might be something in it for him if he took us along.”
“Something like what?”
“I didn’t promise anything specific. He showed up, and we smoked some weed, and talked about shit. And I casually mentioned that at various times in the past I had participated in, and quite enjoyed, threesomes.”
Shaye’s pixie grin flickered in the evening shadows. Finn stared at the darkening trees of the park. “You told him we would have a threesome with him?”
“I didn’t say that exactly. I just said I had had threesomes in the past. That’s all you need to say. Just to whet his appetite. Now he’ll definitely take us with him.”
“I’m not having a threesome with anybody,” Finn said.
“No shit, Dingleberry. We just have to act like it might be a possibility. He’ll take us as far as we want to go. Once we get to Santa Barbara, or somewhere, we’ll ditch his ass.”
Shaye laughed, started rolling a fresh joint. Finn held her guitar tightly in her lap, did not play anything.
“I wouldn’t want to share you with anyone, Shaye,” she said eventually.
Shaye leaned against Finn’s arm. “You’re such a cutie,” she said. “You’ve never had a threesome?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Have you?”
“Of course.”
“With men?”
“Of course.” Shaye lit the joint, took a long hit, handed it to Finn. “Finn. My love. Tell me. Have you really never been with a man?”
Finn took a hit. They had had this conversation before. “I really never have.”
She knew bits and pieces of Shaye’s sexual history. When they’d met in Denver, she’d assumed Shaye was just a cool, lesbian ski bum. Then the truth became more elaborate. The stretch marks, for example, which Finn had noticed the first time they’d had sex, but hadn’t fully comprehended until later. Finn’s own sex life was straight-forward: she liked girls. Always had. Shaye made her feel simple, almost an East Coast prude. But she had just never wanted a man.
“I’m not having a threesome with that guy, or anyone,” she said again, greedily hogging the joint.
“You’re missing the point, kid.”
“Don’t call me a kid.”
Shaye leaned back and rested her head in Finn’s lap. “I’ve been on the road for three years, man,” she said. “You want to make it, you have to run a game on people now and again. I’m not going to fuck that guy. He’s dirty and gross. But if you want free rides, or free meals, or a place to stay when it fucking rains, you have to get into character.”
Finn wondered, not for the first time, if Shaye was running some kind of game on her. She consoled herself with the knowledge that she had almost nothing to offer, except companionship. No money, no possessions to speak of, except her guitar and her shitty skis. Finn had made no promises. The road was just more fun with Shaye.
“What do you want to do when it gets cold?” Shaye asked. “I’m asking you seriously. We could go back to Colorado and be ski bums. Or we could sit out the winter in California, going to the beach. My vote is for the beach. I can teach you to surf.”
“I would like to surf,” Finn admitted. “You make it sound cool.”
“It is cool. It’s like skiing on water.”
“So we’re going to California?”
“Just smile at that idiot Brigman once in a while, and we get a free ride to Surf City.”
Finn stroked Shaye’s bristly hair. “I’ll be watching you,” she said.
Shaye reached her hand back, massaged the crotch of Finn’s jeans. “I hope so.”
***
The word “untethered” floated around Finn’s mind, as Brigman shoved the boat away from the shore at Cathedral Park. Shaye sat on the bow in her sports bra, waving at picnickers. Brigman hopped aboard, and the boat drifted into the northbound current of the Willamette.
“Now for the moment of truth,” he muttered. There was no key in the ignition, so he had exposed the wires beneath the steering console. Now he crouched down to hotwire the starter.
Finn watched a few other boats out on the river, wondered if other vessels would recognize them as a pirate ship. The engine caught with a deep-throated roar. Shaye cheered.
They had scrounged enough money for ten gallons of gas, and pumped the gas into the engine with a length of hose and a manual air compressor. Finn had no idea how far ten gallons would take them in the battered Yamaha. Certainly not to California.
All of her worldly possessions were crammed into the tight cabin, her clothes, guitar, and skis, along with Shaye’s things. The surfboard was kind of jammed into the cockpit, its tail sticking into the air. Finn kept a journal full of her song lyrics, as well as her various impressions from the road, and this she had secured carefully inside two zip-locked plastic bags, along with her ID. They had a couple of grocery bags full of food. Brigman contributed a case of beer.
Brigman took the helm, guiding them into the shipping channel. Finn leaned forward toward the bow, where Shaye was sprawled in the morning sun.
“What about the van?” she asked.
“What about it?”
“We just left it there. Can’t we get in trouble? Legally?”
“Duffy never gave us a pink slip,” Shaye said. “He just said take it, he didn’t want it anymore. I never registered it. There’s nothing about it that could be linked to us.”
“Except the things we left behind.”
“There are hundreds of homeless people in Portland. Someone will move in and take it over. It’s still a good shelter.”
Finn smiled. This was one thing she liked about Shaye. The earth, and everything on it, belonged to everyone. Abandoning a dead van became a favor to a destitute stranger.
The boat cruised along at a casual clip. Brigman did not want to push the engine until he was convinced that it wouldn’t stall, or start spewing black smoke, or leak oil everywhere. Finn sat in the stern, watching their wake for leakage. Shaye sunbathed on the bow.
They cracked open the beer once they reached the Columbia.
“No turning back now!” Brigman cried. He drank his first beer seemingly in one long swig, then opened another.
The current on the Columbia was strong and choppy. Finn realized she had no idea how rough the Pacific Ocean was going to be. The hint of danger thrilled her. Someday this adventure would make a terrific song.
***
They spent the first night camping on an island, just south of Longview, Washington. Finn played songs on her guitar, while Shaye and Brigman finished the beer. For supper they ate pita bread filled with falafel and guacamole. Brigman was wary of building a fire, since they were camping on the island illegally.
When night fell, Brigman pitched a domed tent, claiming it was big enough for all three of them. Shaye took him by the arm and told him, quietly but without ambiguity, that both she and Finn had their periods, and requested they be left in the tent alone. Brigman grudgingly agreed to sleep in the single bunk in the boat’s tight cabin.
Finn and Shaye curled up beneath their quilt in the cool night air.
“He won’t believe that excuse every night,” Finn said.
“It’ll work for a few days,” Shaye said. “Then we’ll think of something different.”
They waited half an hour, spooning in the dark.
“You think he’s asleep?” Shaye asked.
“I have no idea.”
Shaye turned and began rubbing Finn’s legs. Then they quietly had sex, covering each other’s mouths with kisses to prevent waking Brigman with their giggling or orgasms.
In the morning they puttered up to a dock on the Washington side of the river. They were almost out of money, so Finn and Shaye walked into Longview, and Finn spent a few hours busking downtown. They used the cash she made to buy gas at Wal-Mart, lugging their 5-gallon gas tank back to the boat. It was mid-afternoon when they set off again. Brigman cruised gently along for a couple of hours, until they reached Brownsmead, where the Columbia widened significantly. Again, they picked a deserted island and made camp.
“I guess tomorrow we’ll see what the boat can do,” Brigman said. “The water gets a lot rougher from here.”
Finn went to bed with butterflies in her stomach. Tomorrow they would become true pirates.
***
The Columbia River looked more like a lake, its choppy sprawl pushing Oregon and Washington apart. Brigman steered into the middle of the river. Enormous freighters cruised the shipping channels like space ships from science fiction movies.
“Let’s see how close we can get!” Shaye cried above the hum of the engine.
Brigman pulled into the wake of a westbound freighter. The transom towered over them. Finn shielded her eyes from the sun, squinted up at the aft portholes.
“You want to flash some seamen?” Shaye asked, pinching Finn’s shirt.
“Not really,” Finn said. The wind blew gusty punches across the small boat. She worried any piece of clothing she took off might blow away.
“I’d like to see that!” Brigman shouted.
Shaye blew him a kiss. Finn turned and stared at the far shores of the river. It was probably a mile or more to either Oregon or Washington. She did not like to be riding the freighter’s wake.
“Come on,” Brigman said, tossing his own tee shirt into the cabin. “Let’s flash some tit.”
“You’ll see some, if you’re good,” Shaye said.
Brigman frowned. Their boat was less than a hundred feet from the stern of the freighter. Finn gripped the gunnels, thinking about her guitar.
Suddenly Brigman punched the throttle, and the boat soared forward. He jerked the wheel, launching them off the crest of the wake. Shaye stumbled backward, into Finn’s arms. Finn gripped her friend around the chest, whispered: “Are you okay?”
Shaye nodded. “What the fuck are you doing, dude?” she shouted at their captain.
“I’m gonna show you what this thing was built for!” Brigman yelled. He turned toward Oregon, pressing the throttle fully forward.
They charged across the water, taking the deep waves broadside. The boat heaved and plunged, splashing around like a bathtub toy. Finn clutched Shaye tightly. Shaye turned and rolled her eyes, but Finn could see that Shaye too was holding on to whatever she could find.
A freighter with a bright red hull chugged up the river. Brigman headed directly for it.
“Take it easy, man!” Shaye called out.
Brigman’s expression was dark and inscrutable. His narrow eyes fixed straight ahead. Every crash of the boat rippled through Finn’s body.
Brigman turned the wheel, heading for the freighter’s stern. “Hold on!”
“Oh, Jesus,” Finn muttered. If this was how the entire trip to California was going to go, she wasn’t going to make it.
Shaye crouched down in the seats in the stern, clutching her surfboard with one hand, gripping the waistband of Finn’s jeans with the other.
“This fucking douchebag is going to kill us,” Finn whispered in Shaye’s ear.
“Hold onto me, babe,” Shaye said.
Finn laced her fingers through Shaye’s.
“Get ready!” Brigman cried.
The boat cut a sharp diagonal across the freighter’s stern. Brigman aimed straight for the crest of the ship’s wake, hitting it with the jetboat’s portside bow. They launched into the air. Finn wasn’t sure how long they were suspended above the water, but her stomach turned over, then dropped out from under her as they crashed back into the river.
“Shit,” Brigman said.
The boat dipped deep into the freighter’s wake. A white wave crashed over the bow, drenching them with cold water. Shaye shrieked, her shoulder plowing into her surfboard.
“Brigman, you fucking asshole!” she shouted.
The whole boat seemed to disappear beneath the surface of the river, bobbing up just in time to swallow a fresh wave from the freighter’s wake. This time the water cascaded over the stern, swamping the cabin, throwing Finn and Shaye to the floor. They heard a choking, sputtering noise, as the engine died. The boat began to list to port.
Finn stood up, wiping water from her face. She touched her body instinctively, feeling for injury. Everything felt intact. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. She saw that she was still wearing her sneakers. She pulled Shaye to her feet.
“Are you all right?”
Shaye did not reply, but nodded vigorously, her wild eyes glancing around the cockpit. The cabin had flooded. Random possessions bobbed around them.
“Fuck,” Brigman said, crouching chest-deep beneath the helm. He slapped two wet wires together. A spark jumped onto his chest. “Fuck!” he cried again.
“Can you start it?” Finn asked.
“I fuckin’ shorted it,” Brigman grumbled.
“You what?” Shaye cried.
“We can’t start it.”
“Oh, shit.” Shaye grabbed her dreadlocks, brushed water from her face. “Oh, shit. We’re going down.”
Finn’s heart pounded. She glanced desperately around the boat. There were no life jackets. No paddles. The seat cushions were soggy and rotted.
Waves crashed over the portside gunnels. The boat floated barely a foot above the surface of the river.
Shaye grabbed Finn’s face with both hands. “We’re going to have to swim,” she said.
“Are you fucking serious?” Finn cried.
“You can swim, right?”
“Yes, I can fucking swim!”
“Just stay with me.”
Brigman disappeared into the cabin, ducking beneath the water.
“Where’s he going?” Finn asked.
“Fuck him,” Shaye said.
She jerked her surfboard out of the cockpit.
Finn realized everything she owned was in the cabin. Her skis, her clothes, her extra shoes, all expendable. But her guitar. Her father’s guitar. It was crammed into the bow. She lunged forward, belly-deep in water. The cabin was a black mess of gear and water. Inside she could see Brigman thrashing around, throwing things out into the cockpit. Finn could not see her guitar.
She leaned into the cabin. The plastic baggie appeared, containing her notebook and her ID. She grabbed it, stuffed it down the back of her jeans.
Shaye grabbed her shoulder. “Come on!”
“My guitar!”
Shaye looked momentarily apologetic, but did not release her grip on Finn. “Is it worth drowning for?”
Finn said nothing. This was unforgivable. She would have to tell her father what had happened. Losing an instrument was not like losing a pair of fucking sunglasses.
Shaye heaved her surfboard over the side, then jumped into the river. Finn choked back a single, deep sob, and leapt in after her. Shaye pulled her to the surfboard.
“Just hold on,” she said. “It won’t sink. Keep your head up, and kick toward shore.”
“What about Brigman?”
Shaye turned angrily. “Brigman!”
They were already twenty or thirty feet from the boat. The tip of the bow floated above the surface, along with a few pieces of debris, but the rest of boat was sinking fast. Brigman surfaced, spitting water.
“Come on, you fucking dipshit!” Shaye called to him.
Brigman glanced one final time at the boat, then started swimming toward them. Finn and Shaye floated by the surfboard, letting him catch up. He reached the board and grabbed ahold, coughing as the waves washed into his face.
“I was looking for my phone,” he stammered.
“Fuck your phone, and fuck you!” Shaye said.
They started kicking toward shore. Pushing the surfboard sideways proved exhausting. Shaye pointed the board toward the Oregon shoreline, floating on one side, while Finn floated on the other. Brigman floated at the back of the board. Together they held on and kicked forward.
The current washed them more than a mile downstream. Distantly they could see the old fishing piers on the outskirts of Astoria. The water was freezing. The sun provided no warmth.
By the time they reached shore, Finn was exhausted. She dragged herself up onto the rocky bank. Shaye pulled the surfboard from the river and collapsed beside her. She crawled over to Finn, took Finn’s face in her hands. “Are you okay?” she asked.
Finn nodded, too tired to speak. Shaye’s cold lips kissed her face. For a long time they lay together, holding each other.
Eventually they all sat up in the sun, considered their options. Finn stared out at the river. Everything she owned was now at the bottom of the Columbia, including her guitar. She pulled the plastic baggie out of her jeans. Mercifully the notebook inside was still dry. She clutched the bag to her chest.
“My buddy Rob lives in Astoria,” Brigman said. “I can walk into town, bring back his car.”
“Fuck you,” Shaye said, her voice hoarse and panting. “I’m going with you. You aren’t ditching us, bro.”
Shaye and Brigman slowly stood up.
“You coming, Finn?” Shaye asked.
Finn shook her head.
“Will you watch my board?”
“Are you coming back?” Finn asked, not looking at her.
“Of course.”
Finn gestured toward the board and nodded. Shaye gave her a hug, then she and Brigman started walking toward Astoria.
Finn spent the afternoon sitting by the river. She took off her shoes and clothes, set them on the rocks to dry in the sun. There was no one around, so she took off her underwear too. She didn’t care if anyone saw her naked. She was exhausted and hungry and mad. She had had her guitar since she was sixteen. It was not just some instrument. Her father had played gigs with it. She had gigged with it. She had fed herself with it. It had expressed things her voice and her words could not.
Shaye and Brigman returned a couple hours later in a dented Jeep Wrangler. Finn’s skin and hair and clothes were dry, and she sat on a rock next to the surfboard, watching them approach.
Shaye was wearing a fresh set of clothes when she hopped out of the Jeep. “Sorry we were gone so long,” she said. “It took us a while to track down Brigman’s bro. Then we went back to his place, and he let us get cleaned up a bit.” She handed Finn a sandwich and a can of beer.
Finn thanked her for the food. Together they loaded the surfboard into the Jeep.
“So, we’re gonna head back to town,” Shaye said. “Stay with Rob tonight.”
“Then what?”
Shaye looked at Brigman.
“My buddy wants to go to California too,” Brigman said. “He lost his job, and he’s just sitting around, not doing shit. We can head down to L.A. in the Jeep. It’ll only take about two days.”
Finn said nothing, climbed into the Jeep.
They drove into town, turning up Astoria’s steep hills. They parked in front of a three-story wood-frame house that badly needed a paint job. From the street they could see the broad, blue Columbia, in all its glory, the freighters moored like model ships in the shimmering water.
Shaye got out of the car and wrapped her arms around Finn. “I’m so sorry about everything, babe. We can get new clothes tomorrow. Tonight we’re crashing on the couch. Is that cool?”
Finn gave Shaye a long hug, then stepped back. “I’m going my own way, Shaye.”
“What? For real?”
“I’m not ready for California yet.”
Shaye stared at her, her eyes narrow, almost hurt. “Where are you going to go?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Brigman watched them for a moment, the usual unreadable expression on his face. Then he trotted up the steps to the house.
“You’re really leaving?” Shaye asked.
“I am. It’s been fun. Maybe I’ll find you again.”
Finn had never seen Shaye cry, and she thought this might finally be the moment, but after staring at the ground for a few seconds, Shaye rallied, flashing her pixie grin. They kissed one more time, and Shaye reminded Finn that they had each other’s phone numbers.
“You know,” she said, sort of nodding toward the river. “Once we get new phones.”
New phones. New clothes. New guitar. Finn smiled. She told Shaye she would be okay, and a few minutes later she walked away, heading back down the hill toward the river. She did actually know where she was headed, at least in the short term: back to Portland. Where she had a few routines, places to shower, ways to find food. She would post an ad online, see if she could get a couple hundred for the van.
First order of business was to earn bus fare to Portland. She had no money, and no resources, except her notebook of songs, and her first and last instrument, her voice.
She found a busy street corner in downtown Astoria, stood in the orange light of the afternoon sun. Pedestrians and shoppers strolled casually past. She opened her notebook, held it out in front of her.
She began to sing.
Adam Matson’s fiction has appeared internationally in over twenty magazines, including The Oddville Press, Black Scat Review, Soundings East, and Terror House Journal.