Memories of Emily: Attack of the Az Part 3

Poop Deck (cont.) & Second Grade

Baltimoron’s hold a deep affinity for the crab, although the crab probably doesn’t feel the same towards the Baltimoron. Somewhere in every Baltimoron home, there is some form of crab décor celebrating this one-sided relationship, and as long as I could remember, the crab had a presence in life, starting before the arrival of my stepfather with vague recollections of people eating or talking about crabs. 

Left unregulated, Baltimorons would eat crabs the way the Japanese eat rice, and this hunger inspires many Baltimorons to master crabbing the way the Japanese master Tenkara fishing. My uncle Clyde taught me crabbing, which was not a complex fishing practice but more of a hunting skill since knowing where to crab made for the sport's true challenge. 

Essential tools for crabbing include bushel baskets, leftover fried chicken, crab pots, and beer which I helped my uncle Three-Point load in his El Camino before dawn on Saturday morning before driving to the boat. Three-Point’s small powerboat elicited fears about boating, but my uncle alleviated these worries. “Put on a life preserver. Good. Now, hand me a beer. Thanks. Now take a piece of chicken out of the cooler and fasten it inside the crab pot like this. Good. You got it. Now we have to go drop the pots.” 

Pushing the boat away from the dock, we motored into the Chesapeake Bay with my uncle yelling above the motor’s din. “Hand me a beer. Thanks. Now, I have some spots marked with yellow floats. Once we spot them, we’ll raise the pot and empty the crabs into the baskets. You got to be careful because the crabs will try to climb out of the basket. Crabs are fast, mean, and tough, and if one gets out, he’ll try to pinch you with his claw. You wouldn’t think it, but a crab will cut your finger off as quick as look at you.” 

With the fear of water all around, I focused on crabbing to not lose digits. As my uncle predicted, the crabs tried to escape the wire cages as we emptied them into wooden baskets, but my uncle packed them in tight. We made our rounds on the Chesapeake raising and lowering pots until returning home with almost a bushel of crabs. 

My grandmother waited with a steamer filled with Old Bay and spices while holding a beer to pour into the mix. In the afternoon, some neighbors unexpectedly visited, and upon seeing them, my grandmother nudged me as we worked in the kitchen. “It’s no great mystery these people pop over whenever crabs are on the menu.” 

Unlike other meals, old newspapers covered the table, and steamed crabs piled the center. Rather than utensils, everyone used nutcrackers and wood mallets to break the shells of the crabs to access the meat interior that my grandmother instructed me either to eat or not eat. 

Doing as she said, I honed my crab-eating, although the Baltimoron fascination for crabs escaped me in the effort needed to eat them. I could eat them all day and still be hungry, but this was the way of the Baltimorons, so being a Baltimoron, I ate crabs and listened to everyone peacefully discuss life, work, and politics while drinking beer. 

One Sunday, my uncles drank beer in the backyard and told stories of life in Florida, mentioning a childhood incident involving my mother. The details escaped me, except the part of the story revealing my mother’s nickname “Poop Deck.” Three-Point stood on his motorcycle’s footpegs, motioning his arm up and down as if pulling a steam whistle cord. “Poop Deck on the pickle boat! Toot, toot, toot!” 

Monday afternoon, my mother entered the house, and I greeted her at the door. “Poop Deck! Mamam an I made crab casserole fer youd to take home.” 

My mother grabbed my shoulder, digging nails into my skin. “That’s nice.” 

She told me to get my things and wait by the front door while she and my grandparents had words. Pulling me out the door by the shoulder, she yanked my body towards the car's direction down the street. I walked and looked back to see my grandmother shaking her head while standing on the stoop. As soon as we rounded the corner into the alley where my father waited in the car, my mother pulled my hair and smacked my face so hard my jaw felt jarred out of place. Barely holding the crab casserole as I reeled, my mother snatched the food tray from my hands and pitched it in the neighbor’s trash can. “Get in the car.” 

The drive home filled with irate discussion. 

“You should have heard the way he spoke to me: like white trash.” 

“Smarting off to your mother isn’t wise. We’ll fix that when we get home.” 

When we arrived home, my stepfather dragged me by the back of my shirt into the house and threw me into the basement, but I managed to balance myself before toppling down the stairs. Remaining near the top of the stairs, I watched the light under the door while listening to the heated discussion grow distant as they left the vicinity of the door. The basement windows dimmed, and the dropping temperature of the evening made the walls creak as I remained by the door, not wanting to anger my stepfather further by turning on the light. 

Swinging open the door, he surprised me, having not heard his approach. “Get the hell off the stairs.” 

Entering the dark basement, he followed me into the moonlight from the hopper windows until I stopped at the ping pong table. Thrusting his finger at me, preparing to say something, I flinched, raising fists as my uncle taught me, which sent my stepfather into a frenzy, grabbing a ping pong paddle and swinging wildly, delivering each smack to the bone. “You think you’re man enough to fight, Bo, then you must be man enough to take a beating, Bo. Don’t you fucking cry, Bo. If you cry, Bo, I swear I’ll knock your teeth out, Bo.” 

Falling to the floor, pissing myself, he stopped, noticing the wet floor. “You’re disgusting.” 

He resumed punishment exhausting all rage, then left. I fought the lump on the cold concrete, succumbing to sleep when exhaustion outweighed pain. 

Second Grade 

Emily crashed through the window of penmanship class, sending Miss Redge and all the students, except me, into a panic. Hair floated on the wind’s eddies as the petite, well-formed warrior tossed the laser pistol while drawing another gun holstered at her hip. Catching the weapon, I readied for action. “What’s going on?”  

“The Az have returned.” 

“My god, Emily.” We began evacuating the classroom as thoughts churned in disbelief. How long had it been since I heard that name: perhaps an eon? The Az came to pillage the earth when humans could barely write on cave walls, the responsibility of earth's defense fell to the Atlanteans, and after waging a brief war, the Az retreated to their world. 

The air raid siren blared as we ushered the children downstairs to the school bus parked at the building’s front. Two scout-ships of the Az vanguard rapidly descended and hovered near the bus, which Emily fired upon, halving one ship in a white light beam that dropped the broken remains in a fiery hail. Seeing the ships, a panicked Miss Redge hysterically ran from the melee into the second ship's line of fire as I outstretched a hand to stop her. “No!” But she didn’t hear me.  

Miss Redge’s body incinerated in the second Az ship’s lasers, to which Emily volleyed light beams, tearing the alien craft to metal shreds. Turning to me with a look of dread, Emily reflected my fear of being outnumbered despite possessing advanced weaponry. Doing the only thing we could, we directed the children into the bus as the mighty US military waged war with the Az in the distance. Soon to fall along with all the armies of earth, the military may provide the time needed to save the children.  

“Go! Go!” I motioned the children into the bus, recalling my grade school history teacher lecturing about the predatory race of aliens bent on galactic domination. Arriving when primitive humans peacefully foraged vegetables and fed on simple foods like crabs, the Atlanteans stopped the Az. As thanks for saving them, humans soon descended into barbarism, earning them the name Chromag as they tried to conquer the Atlanteans with sticks and stones. The democratic and just principles guiding Atlantis would not allow them to destroy the Chromags, so Atlantis moved its civilization to the west, hiding the great city in the Bermuda Triangle. 

The Great Move establishing West Atlantis occurred when Emily and I attended school. We often joked with our chums about the primitiveness of the Chromags, who continued searching for Atlantis long after the city relocated. We laughed from our viewscreens as they stupidly searched the same places for generations, believing they might miraculously find a city. The jokes lost humor as we now faced an unassailable foe with only the Chromags as our ally. 

I would have conquered the Chromags either through industry or military might, whichever proved easier. I despised the Chromags, and hiding amongst them only deepened my hatred. Since our advanced Atlantean physiologies slowed the aging process to a near standstill, we inserted ourselves into a family as kids, which provided the perfect cover but proved a tiring intellectual adolescent theater to fool the inferiors. Lucky for the Chromags, Emily continuously reminded me of the Atlantean Prime Directive I swore to uphold: a principle that sometimes escaped me when faced with the Chromags’ relativistic ethics.  

Their inconceivable survival amidst the constant changing of rules served to confuse and infuriate since they clearly could not discern the difference between right and wrong. I shook my head in frustration as the school emptied of children. 

Distant, thunderous explosions sounded the death knell of the US military and signaled the impending waves of foot soldiers who would sweep across the city supported by a vast fleet of ships. Enemy implosion missiles raced across the sky seeking unprotected targets, with one arcing into the school, buckling the earth, nearly knocking us off our feet as Do Unto Others crushed into itself. Swirling dust filled the air, blinding and choking us as I covered my eyes, feeling the missiles’ concussive effect stealing a moment of consciousness… 

“Rhyming’s not easy, Emily, I regret”
Looking sideways at me, “I’ll take that bet”  
Inventing lyrics, she danced scaling chords 
Pretending to pull the steam whistle cord,  

Poop deck on the pickle boat
Toot! Toot! Toot!

Did you hear that sound? 
It’s all around
They say love’s a verb, but it’s a noun 

Poop deck on the pickle boat
Toot! Toot! Toot! 

Love doesn’t just ring
Love doesn’t ding
Love is just a person, place, or thing 

Poop deck on the pickle boat
Toot! Toot! Toot!

Did you read the blurb?
Life does perturb
Life they claim’s a noun, but it’s a verb 

Poop deck on the pickle boat
Toot! Toot! Toot!

Life’s a word that’s heard
Life’s often blurred
Life is just the fastest action-word

Poop deck on the pickle boat
Toot! Toot! Toot! 

Did you hear words said?
Words from pages read
Words sure don’t live, but they’re sure not dead 

Poop deck on the pickle boat
Toot! Toot! Toot! 

Words take you higher
Words do inspire
Words burn you, sometimes just like fire 

Poop deck on the pickle boat
Toot! Toot! Toot! 

She smiled, “You owe me now a Tastykake
“I told you I could sing it in one take.”
Rolling about the floor in laughter’s cries
Stinging my broken lip and blackened eyes 

…before shrugging off dizziness and peering through dust. Emily appeared, coughing and pointing to a figure on the far side of the rubble-filled schoolyard. War’s cloud parted, revealing Earl in the garb of the enemy as he led Az’s foot soldiers. Treachery! I should have known, but the newly discovered treason only worsened as my adopted parents appeared, still dressed in their business attire, brandishing weapons of the invaders. 

Thoughts turned in confusion, trying to figure out how this occurred. By some stroke of bad luck or by the devil's mischief, I unknowingly planted myself in the home of the harbingers of earth’s doom, which explained everything: their vicious temperaments, their hatred of the Baltimorons, and their insatiable thirst for business conquest. I was a fool, having missed the signs. 

My adopted father hissed, and more treacherous humans appeared behind him as he held a laser rifle aloft, screaming, “I have killed the Baltimorons! You have no allies. Surrender, and we’ll grant you a quick death.” 

Emily touched my arm, and when I turned to my right, a fleet of alien ships rapidly approached. Surrounded by death and trying to shield the busload of weeping children, we clicked our pistols on auto-fire. “Never.” 

Silence devoured the world just before the air flashed with light and filled with screams as the hell of war erupted.