Carpooling with Carlos, Chapter 2

 

At fifteen minutes past midnight, the green Southern

Bell telephone on the wall of the kitchen at 744 Main Street in Patterson, La., rang loudly, shattering the silence and the good night’s sleep Thomas Messina was enjoying. Barely a month into the summer after graduating high school, he was already employed and earning a living, while his classmates passed the time fishing and water-skiing in the Lower Atchafalaya. Oil rigs, sugarcane fields, shrimp boats, welding school, and for a few, college, awaited his classmates at the end of the summer.  For Thomas, adulthood came faster than he wanted. Sadly, he was not given a choice in the matter…and although Messina was not the valedictorian of his class, he wasn’t dumb enough to turn down this offer to work in the family business.

A call this late at night meant only one thing; time for the young man to go to work. The conversation was very brief. In fact, the only words Thomas uttered were, “Yes, I understand.” The caller said little more himself, only an address and time where Messina needed to be.

After a quick shower and putting on his uniform for the day—blue jeans and a white tee shirt—he walked outside his parent’s house, climbed into his car, and then made the short drive down Main Street to the instructed destination.

In Patterson, the brownish green water of the Lower Atchafalaya was central to the livelihood of half of the working adults of the incorporated town of 6,000. Whether working on some type of commercial vessel, or at a land-based industry that was connected to these boats, this slow flowing bayou was tied to the prosperity of the town.

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At 1:00 am, Messina pulled his black, 1958 Chevrolet Impala behind the Patterson Shrimp Company, turned off the ignition, killed the headlights, and waited. Even with both windows rolled down, the humidity and heat of a South Louisiana night stuck to him like a paper cone and cotton candy at a Catholic church fair. Slapping mosquitos that landed on his arms and neck, Messina sat wishing he could finish this job and head back home and return to his bed.

The green glow from the hands on the Timex that his father gave him for graduation showed 1:15 am. Fifteen minutes before the package arrived.

He wanted to listen to music and nearly turned on the AM radio, but knew that was frowned upon in this line of work. He’d have to wait until later to listen to that new group with the funny haircuts from England.

He took another look at his watch. 1:20 am. Ten minutes before the package arrived.

Sweat was rolling down Messina’s back causing his white tee shirt to cling to his skin and leather seat. The young driver was restless. Maybe even nervous. Maybe he was too naïve to realize what really was at stake if things didn’t go as planned. He was barely 18, and like everyone else his age, Thomas Messina didn’t think anything could happen to him.

He needed to get out of the car. 1:25 am. Five minutes before the package arrived.

Pulling the key from the ignition, Thomas looked in the rear view mirror one last time before reaching for the door handle to exit the car. The well-oiled door silently pushed away from the car’s body, and his black Chuck Taylor high tops pressed down on the crushed oyster shells that served as the parking lot. A single lamp hung from the top of a creosote pole, illuminating the side of the wooden structure and part of the loading dock. Shells crunching under the rubber soles interrupted the stillness of the night. Rounding the corner of the building, he quickly climbed the steps of the massive dock and loading area that connected the building to the wharf where shrimp boats docked and unloaded. In a few hours, this area would be alive with activity as men wearing slicker suits and white shrimp boots crisscrossed these ancient timbers. Tonight however, the most activity was the buzzing of mosquitoes and moths fighting for a space in the glow of the lamp and a spot on Messina’s skin.

In the distance, a faint, low hum of an engine signaled the approach of a single boat moving toward the dock. The package was arriving.

A low hanging moon peaked between gray clouds pulling back the black curtain of the dark night—exposing ripples traveling across the surface of the bayou.

Unrecognizable whispers drifted toward Messina but flickered out quickly as a confident man with a rucksack in his hand stepped off the boat and onto the wharf. The man’s eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, but seeing his driver, he made a direct path toward Messina. When the older man was about five feet away, he slung the sack in the air toward Thomas who caught the heavy cotton bag before it hit the ground.

“Good catch Thomas,” the man said. “Now move your James Dean wannabe ass so I can get home.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Marcello,” was all he said, as he hurried on ahead to open the door of the Impala for his passenger.

Thomas Messina knew you always said yes sir to the family.