I kind of lapsed into clams

A wave of relief washed over Timothy as he spotted the empty bench on the leeward side of the ferry’s pilothouse. Gloom chased passengers below deck, where they crammed onto the already overflowing main deck, searching desperately for any empty seat. The prospect of solitude for the journey from the island to the mainland filled Timothy with a sense of longing. A bench in the open air offered considerably less discomfort than any annoyance that would arise of mixing at close quarters with others. From his vantage point the pilothouse obstructed the forward view, yet Timothy keenly observed the vehicles on the ferry’s rear open deck. Timothy settled in for a chilly journey. Timothy found the cool air tolerable; there remained little prospect of sudden outburst of rain.

The ferry’s departure klaxon sounded causing the ring-billed gulls on the railing opposite Timothy to take flight. Catching a glance across the upper deck to ensure he held the deck alone, Timothy shut his eyes hoping for a catnap.

Moments later Timothy heard the loud sigh of a person who completed a laboured climb up the staircase. Timothy’s solitude suddenly ceased. He opened his eyes and observed as the person – a man nudging sixty years of age – crossed the deck to take a seat on the same bench as Timothy.

“Hey mate”, stated the man.

“Hello”, Timothy replied. (While Timothy later appreciated that his curt response perhaps upset the man, he remembered being pleased at that instant that the conversation concluded).

Where silence of voice prevailed, the odour from the man; an unpleasant blend of diesel, perspiration and seafood, was a journal of its own. A grimace contorted Timothy's face as the overpowering smell hit him, a reaction the man couldn't miss. The man instinctively shifted further away, a nonverbal expression of regret for the unpleasant aroma. To be fair on the man, Timothy expected that the man chose the upper deck as a means of keeping distant from the mass of passengers. In any instance, the freely flowing cool air did little to dispense the odour.

“That’s my truck there at the rear. The old white refrigerated four-tonner one with the blue signage on the side. She ain’t much but she runs good.”

Timothy slowly glanced over to the vehicles on the rear deck. He hoped his slovenly response indicated his indifference. There he saw a single truck amongst the numerous cars. Indeed, the truck swayed at the very rear of the tightly parked vehicles – it was the last of the vehicles boarded.

“The ferry captain allows me on last as he appreciates that I like being first away that I may complete my deliveries. Time is money and all. The customers like their clams fresh. Every weekday but Sunday I'm on this ferry. Occasionally, I slip captain a tray of clams to keep him happy.”

Timothy glanced again to focus on the truck’s signage. He recognised amongst the blue lettering the words ‘Spofforth’s fresh clams’. Timothy drew a connection from the truck to the fresh seafood and diesel elements of the man’s odour.

Timothy turned back to the man. Timothy was unsure of how to respond or if indeed a response was due. Any chance of contributing to the conversation immediately dissipated as the man continued his monologue. Later Timothy would reflect on how the man never offered his name. The prospect that the man was named Mister Spofforth would remain a matter of speculation.

“For years I delivered all sorts of things to many places. Lumber, whitegoods, soft drinks, laundry powder, cattle, you name it. I crossed the whole country through rain, snow and sunshine. I replaced punctured tyres and pumped diesel at many a petrol station. Occasionally, I got lost on a new route or sometimes I’d take a different route than usual just for the heck of it. I often travelled away for days or weeks; hearing my wife’s voice only on the telephone. At times I drove my own truck and at other times a company’s fleet truck. I ate poorly at truck-stops. I slept badly in the truck’s cab or in cheap roadside motels. Life was hard.”

Timothy noted that the journey was at a point where the island was no longer in sight. The man's voice thrummed with an undercurrent of determination as he continued his story. At the current rate the man would likely speak for the whole of the crossing. At a point within two hundred metres of the mainland destination, Timothy again tuned his ears to the man's story. The man said:

“Then I woke up one day and it dawned on me. Clams. Lots of them. Clams all about me. I’d lived all my life on an island that harvested and sold clams. I’d enjoyed eating the clams. My wife loves cooking and eating clams. Middens of clam shells left by the island’s original inhabitants. An annual island clam harvest festival in Summer that included the crowning of that year’s bikini-clad Miss Clam.

And then, I said to myself ‘why not be the one to deliver the clams?’. My own truck, local pick-up, local delivery, a standard daily schedule, restaurants that require daily supplies of chilled clams, home each night to dinner with my wife. My! I could even have clams for dinner each night – clam casino, clam chowder, linguine with clams, vongole al vino bianco.”

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Sensing the slowing of the ferry as it approached the dock, Timothy chose the opportunity to thank the man for his story. Timothy stood to make his way to down to the main deck. He observed the clam truck man looking up with a glance that indicated that the story’s conclusion must be told. The man reached out to Timothy and briefly held the sleeve of Timothy’s shirt to express the last words of the exchange:

"You see, after years of long distance trucking,

I found my peace in clams"

 --==--

Written as an extension of part of an encounter the main character has on returning from a 1958 summer job on Long Island (Within the novel: A Widow for One Year, by John Irving). In Irving’s story (page 184 of the Bloomsbury hard cover edition) the trucker finishes with the words: “I kind of lapsed into clams, you might say”. I used Google’s AI engine, Gemini, to generate the list of clam meals.

 

Shalom,

Ozhamada