Slip 51 – Part 2

Leaps of Faith

At 6:51 am CDT, somewhere over Lake Erie, I reclined in my coach seat and drew a deep breath. The scramble of the morning – lugging three bags packed with clothes out to Midway Airport at 5 am in my roommate's jeep – and the preceding days of packing and goodbyes was already taking its toll. Yet the adventure was just beginning. Because in less than two hours, I would have to find my way to a marina I'd never been to, identify a boat that I had only seen from grainy JPEGs, and then break into it in order to move in.

Three weeks. That's how long it had been since I had sent my first $900 to LD. Since that time, the entire arrangement began to change from a can't-miss opportunity to an utter leap of faith, all due to a bizarre string of events that cast a shadow over the entire adventure.

The first of this bizarre string was my first face-to-face with my landlord at the WG's office in New York. My boss and I flew out to Manhattan for the sole purpose of meeting LD, who was pitching the media buying services of one of his "side projects." LD's first move in this curious dance was to blow the one o'clock meeting altogether. No call. No message. No nothing. Around 2:30, he called my NY friend to tell him that he was stuck in a meeting and would be late. At four o'clock, he finally arrived, dressed all in black, save for a strange-looking gray terrycloth robe-jacket. He looked like he had just come from a taping of Sprockets. He had the slightest look of being "on something" as my dad would say, but it was minor enough that it really could have been caused by anything, including a NYC cab ride. This look did not go unnoticed, nor did it need to. Because in short order, LD laid out a preposterous deal that would totally screw our firm, made a couple cryptic, off-color remarks to my boss about killing his family if the deal went bad, and then hit the road – with the second $900 check I had prepared for him for the boat.

This was not comforting.

Before his arrival, I was eager to give him the check, just to keep the boat arrangement in motion. But after our "business" meeting, I was reluctant to give him anything. Unfortunately, he had expected the check, and there really was no withholding it without some explanation, which I could not at that moment provide. (Yeah, on account of your being such a scumbag, I'll have to give this more thought. Do you mind if I keep the check for a few extra days while I figure out if you're going to fuck me over?) So he was off. With my money.

But my NY supporter continued to hold firm. Yes, his behavior was ridiculous, but he's a good guy. He's going through a tough time. He's different outside of the business world, etc. All of this helped soothe my nerves a bit – but not for long. Because on the following Monday, my NY supporter got a call from LD's partner in the media buying firm. "Partner? [LD] isn't my partner! He doesn't own a cent of my firm. We merely give him a 2% referral when he directs overflow from his agency to ours."

So that was his game! He was going to hook us up with a resource alright, but not without trying to get his cut as a middle man - even if it meant falsely representing himself as a principal of the firm. Whether this was the most ballsy or the most asinine stunt I had ever borne witness to, I couldn't say. But it didn't bode well for my "investment," one way or another. Even my NY guy seemed a bit shocked at the audacity of his friend's maneuver. To wit: now they "used to be friends," but LD's erratic behavior of late had driven a wedge between them. Oh. Good to know.

At this point, I had heard enough. I promptly called my bank and stopped payment on the two checks that I had written to him (or at least so I thought – one was actually my real rent check, which I had to scramble to reinstate) and sent him a message explaining somewhat vaguely that I couldn't move to New York after all. At the time, it felt like a great "gut" call, but after only a few hours, I began to second-guess it.

Mostly, I had grown too averse to the consequences of not moving: staying at my current office longer. This I could not handle. In fact, I don't think I could have dragged ass into that office for another day of work without the prospect of this move. My daily ETA had slipped perilously close to 10 a.m. In another month I'd be waking everyday around 11:00 with a hangover and a taste for dorm chicken patties.

Yes, I had begun to explore some other opportunities, but was probably still months away from taking another position. And the vast majority of new positions certainly didn't offer the New York window of opportunity like the WG did. And that was the key. If I didn't jump on this now, I'd have to wait until October – which was simply longer than I could conceivably continue working in the WG Chicago. Sure, the risk involved with the boat situation certainly seemed high, but the price of letting it go was even higher.

So within three hours of putting a halt to the entire operation, I frantically kicked it back into gear by notifying LD that the stop was a false alarm and by calling the bank to reinstate checks. Despite the ridiculous transaction fees, the checks went through without a hitch, and of course, LD did not seem to bat an eyelash over the whole thing. Of course he had left me a message of laughable gravity when he heard that I had stopped payment on the checks – something about how he would not "tolerate" the kind of transaction fees the cancelled checks would create for his bank account (in hindsight I think he dreaded the attention that would be drawn to the account) – and asked for some compensation due to the "good faith" nature of the arrangement. But this was all seemingly swept under the rug by my renewal of interest in the boat and the reinstatement of the checks.

With three weeks to go, everything seemed to be back on track. I had worked out the details of the move with the WG and my roommates, and began to pack here and there in earnest. But with one week to go, I had yet to work out the moving day details with LD. Directions. Keys. Little tips and hints. These important items remains unresolved, and I hadn't contacted LD since the check flap. So on the Wednesday before my intended move, I sent him a message asking how he wanted to work the key exchange. I was scheduled to arrive the next Monday afternoon, and did not expect him to take time off work to meet me. Therefore, I needed directions and the keys to the boat in advance. LD complied with some sketchy directions, but the keys were another issue altogether.

Initially, we agreed that he would messenger them to the WG NY office on Thursday, so that my colleagues could then drop them in a package with some other items that were bound for Chicago (bills, expense reports, payroll stubs, etc.) But when I called the office at the end of the day on Thursday, the keys had not arrived. Puzzled, I sent a message to LD asking that he please messenger them on Friday, so that the NY office could send them to me for Saturday delivery to my apartment (which I would now have to pay for). As Friday drew to a close, the keys had still not made it to the NY office. I left a message for LD asking what had happened, and reiterating how important the keys were to my very carefully laid plans. His reply, which came well after the close-of-business in New York and Chicago, explained that he would be overseas for the weekend, but that he would leave the keys on the kitchen counter of the boat, and that I could simply break in by jiggling the sliding glass door handle a bit. "Don't worry," he said. "It's easy."

Forget about the obvious safety implications of the place I was about to move into. The prospect of lugging three 50-pound bags across half the country and ending up sitting on some fucking pier in either the heat or the rain did not appeal to me. Still, though, I remained undaunted. I had broken into my parents' old house many times through the sliding glass door. As long as there was no additional lock or pole to keep the door in place, breaking in was pretty easy. If anything, I thought, it might make for an interesting story. Plus, I could always call my friends in neighboring Hoboken when they got home from work in the evening if my efforts failed.

Which brings us up to speed. Now I was on the ground at Newark International Airport and ready to put myself, my dreams and my lock-picking skills to the test. I grabbed my bags from the baggage claim and jumped in a taxi. The driver did not know immediately where the marina was, but felt confident that he could find the address. He did, and hurdle number one was done. The second, finding the boat, was equally simple. Both security gates at the marina were open, as LD had anticipated. There weren't many boats in the docks, either, so LD's stuck out like a sore thumb in Slip 10. The third hurdle, breaking in, was moot. I could see the keys through the tinted glass of the door, as well as the other amenities LD had advertised: TV, VCR stereo, glassware. But when I took my first crack at the door, I found that it was simply unlocked already. I guessed LD felt it was pretty safe here after all.

After dropping my bags on the bed and checking the boat for drugs (my dad's suggestion), I plopped myself down on the couch, and reflected on the day's events with some amazement. For a day that seemed ripe with potential adversity, things had gone remarkably well. No delay on the flight. No problem finding the marina or the boat. No problem getting in. This was an anti-story, if anything. Everything was here, as promised. The keys and parking card. The appliances. And the view. Wow, it was one hell of a view. The ease of the whole adventure was almost a let down.

The big challenges of the day were behind me, but the smaller ones that cropped up as the day wore on began to tell a different story. Although LD had said that he would transfer the phone to my name, that had not happened. And when I tried to call my friend to let her know that I had arrived safely, I received a message from an operator explaining that the call could not be accepted because the line I was using had a "blocked" identity. This was a bit of a problem, as this was the number I would be calling the most over the next few weeks. Therefore, I had to make sure I had enough change each day to use the payphone at the marina entrance.

Another problem was a lack of space on the boat. LD was right when he said the boat was furnished, but it was also full of a lot of his other crap, too. I found everything from clothing and food down to toiletries and pocket change. There were even pictures of his family on the fridge and on the walls. He had said I was welcome to eat any food that I found, but the majority of it was in the form of canned spinach and canned clams, not two of my favorites. I also found numerous bathrobes – one of which was rayon,paisley and very short – which only added to the Larry Dallas quotient. Who was Sonny Crockett here – me or him?

A third, more ominous problem was the vibe I was getting as I walked around the marina. It had an office and clubhouse, as well as shower and laundry facilities. All of these displayed signs outlining a rather strict policy of use by "members only," and requests that all guests check in at arrival and departure. I wasn't hassled much when I got there, but then again it was the middle of the day, and there was a restaurant at the end of the pier that was open to the public. But still, I found it hard to believe that a members-only club would be receptive to an arrangement like the one I had just entered into with LD. In fact, it seemed to be in direct opposition to the exclusivity upon which such clubs are based. All of this made we wonder whether or not my arrangement with him was above-the-board.

The next morning I sent him a message explaining these concerns. In fact, I specifically asked whether I should tell the guards, neighbors, etc. that I was a tenant or a guest. He replied to the message by saying that he was coming out to the boat on Saturday to move his things to his other boat, which was docked next to the one I was on, and that my boat was to be moved out to Slip 51, where it would stay for the summer. He recommended I order phone service in my name to that slip, and that should just about cover it. The question of my status at the marina, and how it should be handled, was not addressed. I wasn't too concerned, however. I would see him on Saturday, and we could work it out then. In the meantime, I would simply say that I was a guest.

LD did show up on Saturday, as expected, and we were able to work out some details. He was dressed like an average middle-aged guy, and was very warm and friendly. Not only did he move his things off the boat and give me some tips on working some of the boat's appliances, but he also assured me that the marina knew that I was a tenant and that I could start having mail delivered there. Finally, here was the nice guy at heart that everyone was talking about. The good guy going through some tough times. So I did my best to communicate to him in an indirrect way that I understood that he was a nice guy, and that I was one, too.

LD did not, however, move the boat out to Slip 51, explaining that the marina was having a sea wall built out there and that it would be better to move it the next weekend instead, when the wall would be complete. I had already scheduled the phone service to be installed at Slip 51, but I really didn't mind the delay. Little did I know that the bizarre string was not over, but rather had only begun.

The following Sunday afternoon, a fat guy and a skinny guy (they were brothers or something) whom I recognized as other marina residents came to move the boat. They had enlisted the help of one of the marina workers, a Rastafarian dullard whose sole duty seemed to be washing selected boats down each day with a garden hose. The fat guy tried to start the engine, but it barely sputtered. Both men admitted to not knowing how to operate this particular engine, but both agreed that it sounded flooded and that it could probably use about 20 minutes to drain out. I told them that sounded reasonable, and they left to quickly take care of something else while I waited.

Four hours later, there was still no sign of them. I had been hanging around the boat all that time, in case they came back, but my Sunday night chores (laundry, grocery shopping, etc.) could no longer wait. So I locked the boat and headed out. When I returned an hour later, I could see two men walking around the perimeter of the boat. The Skipper Twins had returned, and were trying to break in so that they could move the boat. With some irritation, I opened the boat and let the process proceed. This time, the engine sputtered to life, and it appeared that we would be able to move it after all. I helped unhook the power and phone cables, as well as the tie lines (which were badly deteriorated and judged unsafe by both men). In fact, only my firm grip held the boat in place while the fat guy readied the boat for launch. But instead of lurching forward, the boat stayed put and the engine shut down. The fat guy emerged from the boat and informed me that the steering mechanism was not working. LD had not moved the boat all winter, and both men concluded that the controls had "frozen" due to inaction. Simply put: the boat wasn't going anywhere. So there we were, at 10:30 p.m., re-tying the boat to the slip and reconnecting all the cords. The calls I had planned to make would have to wait, along with the laundry I had put in the dryer up at the clubhouse. I was not amused.

That Monday I sent LD a message explaining the botched move. I received no reply, but figured I was in for another week at Slip 10. That is until Tuesday morning, when I was awakened at 7:30 am by voices outside the back door and the sound of the power cord being dragged across the top of the boat. Quickly, I scurried to grab my gym bag and work clothes and came out of the front door. Standing there by the power grid was Rasta, along with a small Hispanic kid that also worked at the marina. I saw this kid every day, but I had yet to hear him speak a single word. Like Rasta, he seemed pretty slow on the up-take. I could not imagine that anything good could come out of this situation.

"What the hell are you guys doing?" I asked.

"We move boat," responded Rasta, basically confirming that they were planning to move the boat without checking to see if anyone was inside.

"What are you talking about? Is Larry here?"

"No."

"Well, how are you going to move it? The steering wheel is frozen."

The Rastafarian pointed to a small motor boat tied across the pier. "We tow it."

"That's not going to do any good," I explained. "The motor works fine. But the steering wheel is busted. Even if you get the boat moving, you won't be able to control where it goes. You won't be able to guide it into the other slip right."

This did not seem to register. Again, Rasta pointed toward the motor boat. I looked at the Hispanic kid and asked him if he understood the problem, but he merely grinned sheepishly. Jesus. I explained the problem again, but it made no difference. By this time, I was running the risk of being late for work. So I left them to figure it out for themselves – which I thought was an inevitability – and headed for the gym, and then on to the office.

As I walked up the pier that evening, on my way home from work, I could tell from a distance that something wasn't quite right. The boat was still afloat, but now it was in Slip 9. Backwards. With no water. And of course, no phone.

As I stood there on the pier, contemplating this new arrangement, I wondered if the boat would ever make it to Slip 51. Coincidence and incompetence had again conspired to keep me from it. But why? I walked down the pier to Slip 51, partly to see if I could catch some vibe. And partly to see if it really existed.

As I counted down the slip numbers, I actually got a little nervous. It was windy and dark, with the waves from the wind and the NY Waterway ferry lapping hard against the pier, and the ropes on the sailboats clanging against their masts. In my mind, Slip 51 seemed more like Area 51, the legendary secret Air Force base in Nevada where the government supposedly kept the remains of UFOs that had fallen to earth. The place was steeped in mystery and myth, and residents routinely reported strange, unexplainable phenomena. Those who learned too much often met with foul play (at least according to a legion of crackpot web sites, and, of course, the Fox television network). The whole idea of the place was creepy.

But Slip 51 told me nothing that evening. It was empty and dark, as were the slips on each side. I bent down and placed my fingers into the water, but then remembered what LD had said about most residents ignoring the rule against emptying their latrine tanks into the water, and quickly pulled them out. Again there were no answers, only uncertainty – and of course, a fair degree of annoyance. After all, I would have to go all the way back up to the clubhouse just to wash my fucking fingers.

As for Slip 51 – it would have to wait at least another day.

Next week in Part 3: Slip 51 gets angry, and false hope reigns briefly, before the unwanted guest is banished and the cover-up begins.