Trouble in the Water

He pulled up outside the office, in a white panel van. The crisp lettering on the side read:

NATHAN EATS SQUID

He eased over to the passenger side and hauled himself out, clutching a brace of crutches. He manoeuvred through the sliding doors with a look up and a half smile, as if grateful for their accommodation. Sitting down awkwardly opposite me, he introduced himself as Nathan - Nathan Eats. A pleasant looking, blonde white man in his early thirties, he was dressed calmly in a light blue shirt, which matched his eyes.

He explained his compensation claim: a waterskiing accident. His skis had caught fire, causing second degree burns to his feet. He just needed some assistance while unable to work.

Somewhat surprised, I asked if this had happened before.

“Only once.” He said.

“Water can catch on fire y’know. Not many people realize that.”

I inquired as to whether this was a work or recreational accident. He raised both hands.

“Little of column A”, he said. “I was scouting fresh fishing waters, and had a bit of recreation time while I was at it. Wasn’t expecting the pyrotechnics.”

His paperwork was all in order, so I duly filed it and advised him it should be processed within the next two to three business days. He looked satisfied, if not overjoyed.

Something a little out of character: I don’t know, it was a nice day out, around my lunch time, and frankly he looked and seemed halfway decent - and a little intriguing I guess. So I invited him for lunch at the cafe next door. On me. He accepted, and we made our way there slowly.

We decided to eat a la carte, and al fresco. Sitting in the courtyard, I ordered a house white of some sort, Nathan a rum and coke. Looking at the menu, I jokingly presumed he would like the calamari.

His face darkened. “No.” He said.

“No, I don’t eat squid.”

He proceeded to order the eggs benedict, while I had a rather nice chicken salad. Hadn’t ordered it before; it had croutons.

Now, being naturally curious by nature, I just couldn’t not say what I’d been wondering: to wit, whether his business name was somehow ironic.

He chewed vigorously before answering.

“Nope. It just describes what I do. My name’s Nathan Eats. I catch, kill, and sell squid. But I don’t eat ‘em.”

I didn’t pursue that further, and we passed my lunch break pleasantly. On parting, I gave him my card and advised him to call or message me if there were any issues. Or even if not, I said to myself.

And there weren’t. But he did. To invite me for dinner. At a beer and steak joint on the outskirts of town. I declined his offer of a ride, and next evening, dressed fairly clean and casual, drove out to meet him. He was standing outside, smoking, and stubbed his cigarette out with his heel on the gravel when he saw me. He was dressed in a denim tuxedo, with cowboy boots even, and gave me a bright smile.

He ushered me within, and so there we went, and found a booth which he had booked. It seemed he was a regular here: people greeted him with good cheer. Before long he had a beer and I had a brandy before me, and we were ordering. He had a sirloin steak; I ordered a burger and fries.The fries were really good: boiled before deep frying, so crispy outside and soft within. The burger was good too, with beetroot and a lightly toasted bun, with sesame seeds. We were a long way from seafood at least.

After his steak and wedges, and a lip service to salad, he leaned back on his side of the booth. Not much later, he leaned forward again. The music had been veering between loud country rock and quieter ballads: it was during one of these lulls that he chose to answer the question I wanted to, but had not yet asked.

“My mother was killed by a giant squid.”

I took a deep breath and exhaled, because I knew this might be an epic tale. I didn’t need to press further, as he pressed on.

“We were out laying cray pots, and it just came up and pulled her out of the boat. Took three guys to haul her out of its grip. She was drowned by the time they got her up. The squid swam off.”

He pushed his empty plate aside and finished his beer.

“I’ve been hunting it ever since.”

As fresh drinks were magically served and his familiarity with the local scene, he became more relaxed. As did those around us. A burly man came by and clapped Nathan on the shoulder.

“Hey Nate, how’s it feel fucking squids?”

‘Nate’ laughed. “Try it and see.”

One more drink down, and it was decided we should adjourn to my place. In our separate cars, and Nathan having had a few, I decided I would lead the way and set the pace. Thus we made it there without mishap.

Once home, we didn’t waste much time. Naked, on the bed, arched, under low lights, he whispered, hot, in my ear -

“Yeah. This is how it feels.”

Which I did find mildly disturbing, but let it slide.

Later, as we lay on my bed, and later still, as we laid together over many more nights, he managed to confide in me. Me: I didn’t have much to confide, beyond a very vanilla, Anglican upbringing. Nathan talked of an abusive father, who died, evil siblings and a stolen inheritance, the loss of his mother to a monster from the deep. Pretty epic really.

Some people are better at turning their lives into stories than me I guess.

Every confession drew me closer to him, but perversely: I couldn’t be sure about the truth of them. Loving his passion, I wanted to believe his lies.

His phone made a peculiar sound every so often: he explained he received notifications any time the giant squid might have been spotted. They could come any time, day or night - mostly red herrings though, so to speak.

So we relaxed mostly. I got on with the job, and Nathan’s feet healed. He could hobble around just fine, and even cooked the odd meal for me: simple stuff, like chicken breast and corn fritters, with a rhubarb sauce which was new on me, and very nice.

The nights were long and languid. Nathan talked of getting back on the boat, but I didn’t want to think of that. Wanted to think about dinner: and gods help me, I was starting to think of us as a couple.

But he was obsessed: he talked of the giant squid like it was a certain whale. And how it somehow represented his mother, which was a bit beyond me. He swore revenge: I suggested vengeance, which he thought equally good. Forgiveness was of course out of the question.

Then one morning, after a resoundingly hot night, I heard that peculiar sound. Shortly thereafter, I found myself alone in bed, listening to the sound of the shower at four AM.

Nathan came out of the bathroom, naked. He pulled on his worst clothes and proceeded to fill the pack he kept while he stayed with me. When I asked, he explained, as the dawn crept in:

“Got a reliable sighting: it’s off the coast of Peru. I’ve alerted the crew, they’re standing by. We’re off there today.”

No time for breakfast even: dawn broke as he made his way out. Following him to the van, I questioned the point of this Melvillian mission.

“Man’s gotta do what a -”

“Cut that out!” I shouted, finally pissed off with his cowboy bullshit. At last I expressed my feelings for him, open and honest, thinking, like a fool, it might make him stay.

He gave me that same half smile I first saw on him, only a little rueful this time.

“Well, you know what they say.” As he packed his bag into the van -

“The only really perfect love - ”

as he got in and wound the window down and looked around -

“Is the one that gets away.”