his black, boxy head and run my thumb along the groove that runs between his eyes and down the center of his skull. “Good boy.”
Samson’s tail wags. It hits the iron walls with a thunk, thunk, thunk. Besides me and the dog, the bridge is empty. The void allows me to clear my head. It’s a nice reprieve from my cottage, which these days is a fucking mess—littered in crumpled balls of paper, half-empty mugs of hot chocolate, and guitar picks.
Samson snorts and pushes at my hand with his nose. Even from my high perch in the captain’s chair, he stands nearly even with my hip.
“Who’s my good boy? Yeah? You are, aren’t you, boy?”
Never in a million years did I think I’d wind up here, let alone have a giant dog for my best friend. Though I have to remind myself that Samson’s not really mine. He’s Sully O’Hare’s dog. Two years ago I came up to Little Bear Island for a weekend songwriting retreat, coincidentally only days after Sully had a heart attack. No one knew me here, but I had big-boat experience, so I offered to cover Sully’s position on the ferry until they got someone permanent. I’ve been living Sully’s life for him ever since: bunking in his cottage, taking care of his dog, working his job. It’s not horrible being someone else for a while, especially when you’re trying to figure yourself out. Even so, it’s crazy I’m still here.
End is in sight, though, I think as I stare down at the last car boarding the ferry. Sully’s coming back around Christmastime. He called to tell me so a few weeks ago. I bend down and kiss the top of Samson’s head. I’m going to miss this dumb ol’ dog when I finally move on.
“Hey, kid,” says a gravelly voice, and I jump. It’s my boss, Captain John Doyle, standing in the narrow doorway behind me.
“Oh, c’mon, kid. Get a grip. We’re all loaded. Why don’t you take a break from the wheel? I’ll get us over to the mainland.”
Doyle grabs a tin of chewing tobacco out of his back pocket and puts a big leafy wad between his cheek and gum.
“Yeah, sure, Cappy. I could use a break.” This is my tenth trip across the channel today. I surrender the wheel to him and walk down the metal stairway to sit on one of the bottom steps. Thick, wet lines coil at my feet. I rest my elbows on my knees and bow my head. The water stretches across the channel, a deep navy blue, forcing me to think about where I’m going to go once Sully comes back and there’s no good reason to stay here anymore. Probably back to L.A., but God, I hate L.A.
“Hey!” Doyle yells down at me from the door of the bridge. “You forget this, rookie?” The words are barely audible over the engines. He tosses my notebook down to me, and I snag it out of the air with my grease-stained fingers.
Rookie. Kid. Sully’s Replacement. Two years on this island and I have a million nicknames, but no one seems to know my actual name. Not even Doyle, and he signs my paychecks. For a second, I consider skipping L.A. and going home again. But the idea passes quickly. My freedom was too hard won to forfeit now.
“Benny,” says the memory of a small boy’s voice in my head. “Benny, please don’t go. Don’t leave me here alone.” It had almost been enough to make me change my mind.
“It’s only for a little while, Buddy.” When I walked out, he didn’t follow. But the guilt sure did. Reflexively, I massage the crooked little finger on my left hand.
I did try calling home a couple times, the last time not even that long ago. I’d been gone for several years by then, but Mom didn’t even ask how I was doing. I never got to tell her about how I wrote a jingle for a toilet paper commercial, and how I’ve got an agent now and a little bit of backing from a music publisher.
That phone call sucked every creative impulse out of me. Six months later and I’m still working on the same damn song I was back then. Coming up with lyrics is like wading through tar.
I open my notebook, pull a pen from behind my ear, and begin scribbling bits and pieces of the song I’ve been working on. Turning each phrase to see it