Sharkyshark
Just chillin'
The oil-seller happily handed over a small jar of the thick, fishy-smelling goop. Pocketing the money, he tried to take the photo but found himself unable to pull it from her grip. After another unsuccessful tug, he frowned and leaned over to look.
“Pretty girl,” he said. “And I’ve seen a dog like that! Down in front of the bakery, used to sit in front of the door and sniff people as they walked by. Good pup. Barky was his name, I think. Or maybe Bart or Barnaby or Buck...I dunno, I don’t remember. He was young Iggy Stilman’s dog, fine lad. Poor kid never came back from the war, though. That dog of his was never quite the same. They buried the dog out back behind the store in ‘72 or ‘73. Come to think of it, I don’t think that dog looked very much like your friend’s dog at all. It was brown with spots, not grey. I don’t think I’ve seen that one anywhere.”
The other man looked at the camera and snorted, shaking his head.
“Mainlanders,” he said. “What makes you think our whale festival is your business? If you really want to talk to someone, talk to ol’ Mainland Tim. He always wants to talk, whether you want to listen or not. Look, there he is.”
He gestured off the balcony to a filthy, bearded man sitting on the pavement in front of a saltwater taffy shop. The man seemed to be trying to explain something to a tourist woman, who seemed to be trying to ignore him as she edged slowly away.
“Go talk to him,” said the man, laughing. “He’ll talk to you mainlanders all day long. Hell, I bet he even knows what happened to your dog. He probably ate it!”
“Pretty girl,” he said. “And I’ve seen a dog like that! Down in front of the bakery, used to sit in front of the door and sniff people as they walked by. Good pup. Barky was his name, I think. Or maybe Bart or Barnaby or Buck...I dunno, I don’t remember. He was young Iggy Stilman’s dog, fine lad. Poor kid never came back from the war, though. That dog of his was never quite the same. They buried the dog out back behind the store in ‘72 or ‘73. Come to think of it, I don’t think that dog looked very much like your friend’s dog at all. It was brown with spots, not grey. I don’t think I’ve seen that one anywhere.”
The other man looked at the camera and snorted, shaking his head.
“Mainlanders,” he said. “What makes you think our whale festival is your business? If you really want to talk to someone, talk to ol’ Mainland Tim. He always wants to talk, whether you want to listen or not. Look, there he is.”
He gestured off the balcony to a filthy, bearded man sitting on the pavement in front of a saltwater taffy shop. The man seemed to be trying to explain something to a tourist woman, who seemed to be trying to ignore him as she edged slowly away.
“Go talk to him,” said the man, laughing. “He’ll talk to you mainlanders all day long. Hell, I bet he even knows what happened to your dog. He probably ate it!”