Christian Clarity Review

Seattle
The docks:

Driving with one hand and filling his cup with the other, Izzy brakes as the road begins to curve. The truck illuminates the falling snow in a small tunnel of light against the rough, gravel road and the darkness as the wipers whine and bump back and forth.

Five minutes ago he had begun to think he had made a wrong turn. The woman on the phone had said it was the last building on the point. You can’t miss it.

He decides against calling again, sips the hot coffee carefully and keeps on driving.

A sign ahead appears in the safety orange reflectance of “Dead End” in the haze. The truck bounces roughly from an unseen pot-hole as he turns the corner. The coffee in the cup holder sloshes over the papers in the seat.

Beautiful.

He places both hands on the wheel. The lights pick out a loading dock, a flat-topped, square building with large, dirty windows and small, shell covered parking lot emoty of vehicles. Rust streaks creep up the walls of the building; paint covers the windows; the fog over the harbor water breaks long enough for him to see the water’s edge between the dock and the building. The loading dock to his front is dimly lit by an overhead light fixed to a wire that is swinging in the wind. Shadows in the fog rise and fall at random.

The dock is full of hand tools: shovels of every description, axes, rakes, pry bars, and sledge hammers are piled against the edges of the concrete. Tall, rubber boots in various stages of repair and dirty gloves lay in bunches on the gravel.

There is no one outside.

Light streams out the cracks of the white-washed windows. As he parks he sees a handwritten sign taped to one of the windows as one of the corners flaps in the wind. It reads ‘Day Labor Here’. Another beside it in wide, block letters declares ‘No sleeping on the premises!’ from behind the glass.

Izzy steps out of the truck, bracing himself against the cold and pulling the parka closer around him. He rubs his hands together for warmth.

It is five a.m. and thirteen degrees.

Passing a flower box full of cigarette butts and chysanthamums still showing yellow through the frost, he goes inside. The smell of the damp cold, fish, old shells, sea air, used oil and machinery is immediately replaced by a smell that makes him feel he is too close. Sweat days old, stale cigarette smoke, beer, popurrie, and cleaning supplies hit him with a force that make it difficult not to make a face. The warm draft from the central heating recirculates the same air.

Standing just inside the door, he takes in the room. There is a line of men behind one man who is reaching into a jar. Others are showing the numbers they have drawn to another man who is writing the numbers down. Those who have already drawn and had their numbers recorded are walking toward the chairs. Some are reading newspapers. Some are just sitting, staring at nothing. Some are talking in low, casual tones to each other. Dressed in work clothes under layered, thin coats and heavy boots, a few look up in cautious hope as he appears in the back.

A heavy-set, short girl with curly, brown hair and neatly layered make-up comes out from behind a partition as soon as the men are finished with the numbers. She leans onto the counter facing the men with several papers in her hand and pretends to read while casting serruptitious glances over the whole room. Wearing an oversized, gray sweatshirt with a bright, white turtleneck underneath, her eyeglasses hang from a thin gold chain.

Izzy senses disappointment in the men. There is a shadow behind the partition.

He waits for his job to be annouced, already with a sense of who he wants as he watches the men. The perfume of the girl is a little overwhelming even from the back.

She toys with her hair for a moment, reading the papers, then speaks abruptly: “Okay! Listen up! I gotta job,” she says, pointing at nothing and reading from the first paper, “…with an employer. Handin’ out handbills at the airport. That means you gotta’ have transportation.” She adjusts her gum. “Okay, it also pays six an hour, check at the end of the job.”

“How many guys?” asks one man.

“Uh, says here, ” she squints and put her glasses up to her eyes, “…four! Needs four guys.”

“How many hours?” asks someone else.

She looks again. “Just says all day.”

A number of men raise their hands. As she points to them they answer with a number.

“Fifteen!”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Twelve.”

“Seventeen!”

“Twenty-two.”

“Here!” says a startled voice.

There are several snickers.

“It never stops. That it? Okay..twelve, fifteen, fourteen and seventeen…”

Twenty-two stands up and walks forward. “Damn right it never stops. Nobody said fourteen.”
The girl is surprised, “Whatever.”

The men walk forward to show the numbers they had drawn next to their names. The numbers are scratched off on the big board one by one.

The door opens suddenly behind Izzy. The cold comes in with a blast.

Izzy, who has pushed back his cap and unzipped his parka, shudders.

A breathless, young man, thin with long, greasy hair and carrying an old, green knapsack brushes by Izzy. “‘Scues me there, buddy.” he says without looking back.

“Alright I got one more.” says the woman in a louder voice. “It’s with an employer. Says …six guys, four hours, seven dollars an hour. Over on one twenty-fifth and Madison. Construction clean-up. Cash at the end of the job. Their van will be here in ten minutes.”

“That van ain’t got no heater.” Says a man up front as he sips steaming coffee.

A few raise their hands and the same procedure is repeated.

The young man doesn’t raise his hand but instead says, “Listen everybody! I gotta job–it’s with an employer too! Handin’ out towels in the girls locker room. Pay sucks and the hours aren’t steady. But the view is great!”

The room responded with smiles and a few whistles. Somebody raises a hand.

“Hey, I got another one!” he says, “Need a rocket scientist! Pay is great–but you gotta have your own tools!”

There is laughter. The guy has obviously been there before and they all know him. They laugh easily at the old jokes.

Izzy watches them, thinking they will easily laugh at anything.

“Jimmy you missed the draw!” calls the girl from the front, “You can’t bid on no jobs today.”

“Who cares?!” shoots back the young man as he ties his hair up with a rubber band, “Today is my day! I got faith. You always gotta’ have faith!” He spots Izzy looking at him and knows instantly Baxter isn’t looking for work–he is hiring. Izzy is standing in the back as if he doesn’t want to sit. He is too clean.

“Hey mister. You need a solid citizen for a good day’s work? That’s me!” he says hopefully.

“You’re hired.” Izzy says. To the rest of the room he says, “I need nine more men. No alcohol or drugs…”

There is genuine laughter.

The girl looks through the papers quickly.

“Twelve dollars an hour…”

The laughter subsides.

“…all day, maybe into the night. Loading boxes on a ship. Stacking and net work. The longshoremen will run the cranes, you do the lifting from there. It’ll take a strong back. But meals are provided, all the hot coffee you can drink, overtime over eight and cash at the end of the job.”

Everyone freezes. The numbers are no good for this. Hands fly up as eager faces look toward him.

Izzy picks the men he needs, along with several extra and turns to go.

“Hey, that’s not fair! What about the draw? I got a good number today! I stood in line this mornin’ for an hour! Like to froze my butt…” complains someone from the front. But Izzy is already outside and pointing toward the truck.

The young man follows close on his heels. “Man, I knew today was my day! I said “Jimmy, you gotta try to work today.” But when I knew I was gonna be late I almost didn’t come. I knew it! What’s for lunch?”

“Breakfast first–and whatever you get.” Says Izzy, shaking his head as he climbs in the driver’s side. He motions Jimmy to get in the other side. “What’s the deal with saying the jobs are with an employer?” He watches in the side mirror until all the men have piled in the back, one pulls the flap for the rear compartment and pops the side to let him know they are ready.

Jimmy looks at him as if at an alien, then nods. “Some people–like you? They just call or drive up and need some guys.” He sniffs and rubs his nose, then holds his fingers next to the heater. “They just need what they need on the spot, you know? But the people that got their own business, they hire people all the time. They’re employers. See?”

Izzy nods but says nothing.

Jimmy sniffs and nods again, looking at the interior of the pick up. “These things are like jet cockpits inside, huh? All green and neon gizmo controls.” He frames the dash with his hands like a camera. “Everything in its place! And seems important because its all individually lit from behind. Light and dark places in order. Very exact. Nifty.” He looks at the coffee stain on the upholdstered seat. “If it makes you feel better, you guys usually pay better. This all your heater’s got?”

Izzy contains a smile as he pulls the handle on the gear shift. The smooth action puts the truck in reverse with a small jolt and a deeper sound from the engine, while the back-up lights illuminate the area behind it and the exhaust as white smoke in the cold.

———

They arrive at the ship after a half hour on the road. The longshoremen are standing around impatiently, stamping their feet at the cold.

Everyone is waiting on the cargo to arrive.

Izzy shows the men to the galley with directions on how the loading will proceed, then checks on the rest of the preparations.

Everything is behind schedule. By ten o’clock the subterrene still hasn’t arrived. Izzy pulls out the cell phone again, then replaces it in his pocket when he sees the three oversized tractor trailer rigs rolling down the gravel road toward them and a departing limosuine.

He is halfway down the gangplank before he notices a tall, thin man in sweats and tennis shoes and pulling a rolling duffle behind, crossing the dock between all the loading gear. The man approaches the walk.

“I was told to meet a Mister, uh,..” He parks the baggage and takes a piece of paper out of his pocket. “..Baxter, here?” He looks at Izzy. “Dr. Reynolds said..”

Izzy nods. “You’re the paleobiologist.” He extends his hand; they shake.

“Actually I prefer paleoenvironmentalist–sounds more interdisciplinary.” Mike says, adjusting his politburo glasses as if by instinct and smiling with relief that he is at the right place.

“Whatever. Look, right now is a bad time. Go on up. Dr. Black is in forward cabin number twelve. Your cabin is fourteen, next door. C deck–the next set of steps up once you get to the top of this gangplank. Look to the left as you go, you can’t miss it. Store your personal stuff in the storage lockers on the left. The cabins are on the right. I’ll be with you as soon as we’re loaded and ready. Good?”

Mike repeats, “C-deck. Number fourteen” and moves up the steps.

Izzy calls after him. “Dr. Johnson!”

“Yes?”

“What were you laughing about the other day?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The other day I was up to see Dr. Reynolds and heard you laughing. What was that all about?”

The question always makes Mike uncomfortable. “Oh, I couldn’t explain it now. Never can.” He searches for words but nothing comes. He wants to give Baxter something for asking with no ill intent. “I’m sorry I can’t. Wouldn’t be funny now, I guess.”

Izzy nods and turns back down the gangplank. Regretting having asked he says under his breath, “I didn’t think it was funny.” His attention moves to the loading, which is in the middle of being fouled up. “Don’t use the crane on that! You know it won’t lift it! Open the outer doors. Do I have to do everything? C’mon…!”

——-

Dinner that night is an informal affair. There is a radio playing hip hop in the background, accompanied by the sound of low conversation, dishes and silverware. The smell of coffee, fruit flavored drinks and industrial meatloaf float over the room as crewman and laborers eat with gusto.

At a table near the back of the galley, introductions are underway:

“Crew number two, baby! Nothin’ but the best! Bill Hayt!” I’ll be the dirt devil for the rest of our journey.” A large man in a green jump suit, he grins as he speaks and thrusts his hand out to everyone. “You know–dirt devil–thing that eats dirt? That’s an old mining joke. I’m a mining engineer by trade, geologist by choice!”

Mike watches him warily.

“I can see you’re a quiet one.” Hayt says as he squeezes Mike’s hand mercilessly. “Well, nothin’ wrong with that.”

Mike looks uncomfortable. But he manages to smile, glad to have his hand back in one piece.

“Oh, don’t mind me. Everybody says I’m too friendly. Boistrous!” Hayt enjoys himself. “I’m just an ol’ Missouri farm boy lookin’ for a good time. I have a good time and I like to see the people around me have it as well. And I know we’re gonna have a hell of a time on this one!”

He sits down as he asks Gregg Bilbo, a muscular, young man with close cropped hair, glasses and in a grey sweat shirt, to move over.

“Gotta have elbow room, you know.”

Bilbo smirks as he pours katsup to one side of his fries. “Arr, Matey.” He ignores Hayt’s look as he dips the fries one by one and eats them. An expensive, steel divers watch he wears loose and with the face turned under his wrist flashes as he dips and eats.

Hayt smiles. “Like the flash, huh? Nothin’ wrong with that.”

—-

Izzy ducks under the hatch and into the galley. Bilbo waves to catch his attention. He catches the gesture and nods as he picks up a tray and gets in line.

On his way over Mary notices he shakes hands with several of the crew and checks to make sure they are getting enough to eat. All the men seem to look up to him.

“Everyone met?” Izzy says as he stands by the table.
There are several nods and murmurs. But some lowered heads as well. “Why don’t we move into the cabin at the end of the hall here. I’m pretty sure its just for us.”

Inside, he begins the introductions again.

“This is Bill Hayt in case you’ve missed him so far, ” he says closing the door and pointing to Hayt. “He’s the geologist and mining expert—the guy who’s gonna tell us where to dig. He’ll do most of the driving. But we’ll spell him in shifts.”

“Next to him is Gregg Bilbo. He’s with the National Science Federation. He’ll be in charge of most of the experiments we’ll be running as well as the collection of any data found on site.” Bilbo nods and give a quick smile but says nothing.

“On the other side of him is Dr. Mary Black. She’s a physical anthropologist that will be in charge of whatever we find that’s weird.” A look from Gregg to Hayt stops him. “I mean…” He stops and starts over. “Dr. Black.”

Mary nods.

The man across from Mary looks up expectantly. “Johnathan James Albrite at your service. Call me James.” he says quickly.

“Dr. Albrite will be in charge of any lost ruins we come across. He’s the archeologist.”.

“You obviously don’t see the need for an archeologist. But the discovery of the hand and the plate puts Antarctica in quite a different light than before, eh? What if…”

“Oh, c’mon, doc. It’s never what if but what else with you guys. Let it rest.”

“That sounds fine. But really—what if there is much more down there than we know of? We’ve got a hand and an artifact. Where there is a body there was once a mind. And that artifact and those bones are the only thing there?”

“And in all the reports sent back not even one mention has been made of anything other than what was expected. Until now.” Izzy turns to Mike. “This is Dr. Micheal Johnson. The Astrobiology Institute insisted a paleobiologist come with us. He and Dr. Reynolds are responsible for the now famous recognition of the hand. They’ll be assisting each other as well as various tasks as they come up.”

“A go-for.” Mary looks indignant.

“Everybody is a multi-purpose person, doctor. That’s just the way of it. Everybody is a doctor of something as well except me. I merely have a handful of degrees.”

Mike says hello to everyone; shakes the hands he missed. There are nods all around.

“When will we see this subterrene? I’d like a chance to at least be familiar with it before we go under. And I thought we were flying. What’s with the ship?” Bilbo asks.

“All of you will see it in about four or five days if I figure right. Before that I wouldn’t be able to keep your attention.” Izzy says with a wry smile. “The new subterrene was too big for the C-Five-A. The ship is the best we’ve got.”

——-

Twenty-four hours later an understanding medic is explaining sea sickness to crew number two: “You can take the pills but you’ll still be sick–only not as bad as you would’ve been if you hadn’t taken anything. You can use the patch–it goes behind the ear and you’ll still be sick only not as much as with the pills. If you don’t take anything you’ll be sick as a dog for three to four days and then you’ll be over it. For a trip this long ‘d advise not taking anything and getting over it. If you opt for the pills or the patch you’ll probably be sick to some degree the whole way there. There’s really no way around it. Three percent of first time ocean goers don’t get sick. I’ve heard of them but I have yet to meet one. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. The cook will have his little joke and serve sushi or spaghetti or some other slimy kind of food. My advice is just to eat saltine crackers and drink water. Even if you don’t feel bad now it’s best not to eat anything unless you’re starving. It’ll only come back up and taste worse the second time. That’s about it.” he says with a sympathetic shrug of his shoulders, “The rest is just endurance and the memory of better times.”

Sleeping as much as possible helps but doesn’t cure the nausea. They grow sicker every day and impatient as the days go by.

——————————————————————————–

Jer 33:3 Call unto me, and I will answer thee, and I will shew thee great and hidden things, which thou knowest not.

In the Name of Jesus Christ, Amen