Black Water Rising

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The boat is smaller than he imagined. And dingier. Even at night Jay can tell it needs a paint job.

This is not at all what they discussed. The guy on the phone said “moonlight cruise.” City lights and all that. Jay had pictured something quaint, something with a little romance, like the riv­ erboats on the Pontchartrain in New Orleans, only smaller. But this thing looks like a doctored-up fishing boat, at best. It is flat and wide and ugly—a barge, badly overdressed, like a big girl invited to her first and probably last school dance. There are Christmas lights draped over every corner of the thing and strung in a line framing the cabin door. They’re blinking erratically, somewhat desperately, winking at Jay, promising a good time, wanting him to come on in. Jay stays right where he is, staring at the boat’s cabin: four leaning walls covered with a cheap carport material. The whole thing looks like it was slapped together as an afterthought, a sloppy attempt at decorum, like a hat resting precariously on a drunk’s head.

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