The Signtist
"Can't you read?" the voice rang out. "The sign says go away! I'm thinking!"
Noah had rowed Sir Barksalot and himself five miles through the islands just to prove he could. His only reason for stopping was to take a picture. The coastline he had come to was all new. His grandfather Little Mac had taught him, with regard to photography, to look for the moment of things, and he had judged that the little barn-shaped stage before them - faded from red to pink, hinges rusted, shingles worn, dock collapsing - was in a rare moment altogether.
He had shipped his oars and was taking out his camera when the warning came from inside the windowless shed, setting Sir Barksalot off in all his staccato glory at the bow of the dory. "It's all right," he said, shushing his voluble little companion. "They're probably scareder 'n we are."
"I don't mean to be a bother," he shouted back at the stage. "I just want a picture. And I don't see any sign!"
"You want ... you don't ... what are you, blind!" the voice shot back. You can't read blood-red letters thirteen inches high!"
"It ain't there!" Noah said. "It must of blowed away! How long you been in there?"
"How long? That's none of your, that's ..." the voice faltered. The door opened slowly, the hinges groaning. A man's bandanna-bound bald head shot out like a turtle's and craned back to look at the front of the door. "That's ... well, dang it to heck, it ain't there after all. I mustta notta made it yet. Dang! Dang it to heck and back!"
What happened after that was something Noah would remember as long as he lived. The skinny little old man jerked the door wide open and ran out and dived off the end of the dock and swam to the dory where he put two bony hands on the port gunwale just forward of the oarlock and hauled himself in. He was naked from the waist up, his black jeans streamed water, and his bare feet were both missing their little toes.
"If you want to be friends," he spluttered, spitting water overboard, "put that camera away and go back to rowing. Don't worry. I ain't agonna hurt ya. I'm a signtist and signtists don't hurt nobody."
"You're a scientist?"
"No, bud, a signtist. Which is even better. Scientists know things but nobody believes 'em. Signtists, we don't know much but airbody thinks we know it all. Say, you got a sweater handy? I might catch a chill. You know, while we're gettin' to know each other. Now, row! Row! And tell me yer story first afore I tell you mine. And don't tell me no lies or I won't give you no sign."
(to be continued)
23 March 2022
Texas Jim
Lower Prospect, Nova Scotia
www.granitecoast.ca