In Laymon's Terms

For reasons I’m not sure of, Dick had a hyper-developed sense of what is fair and what is right. This sense, paired with obvious contention building up within the Horror Writers Association’s membership hierarchy, is what drove Dick to run for, and win, the presidency of the organization. From his first day he involved members from every corner: new blood and old dogs, perennial midlisters and best sellers, actives, associates, and affiliates. We all got to play. Dick proved to me that every member was equal as a writer and a human being in his eyes. I read a sign once that said “Every person is worth exactly one point.” That’s exactly what Dick believed, and it showed.

So, on those days when the muse is on vacation and my mailbox is stuffed with rejection letters, when it’s easy to dream about deleting all my stories and envision taking up competitive ping-pong as a good use of my extra time, all I have to do is remember that Dick Laymon, a man with an arm-long bibliography, treated me as an equal. Treated me like one full point. And knowing that is enough to keep me writing forever.

Michael T. Huyck, Jr.

MACKING THE TAXI’S yellow fender, Jong cupped his closest ear and bulged his eyes at the driver. When it only earned him a shake of the head in response, Jong pouted.

On the far side a door opened, releasing a burly gentleman with peppered hair and conservatism pasted to his suit. His briefcase came next, followed by a whip of a lady decorated in pleats and blonde tresses. The two walked away from the taxi, the driver, and the bouncing fool dressed in layers of newspaper. Without pausing they entered a meager white shed guarding the fenced mouth of the dock, shutting the door behind them.

When Jong approached again, the taxi driver climbed out of his car and leaned his bulk against the door. He stared at Jong, arms crossed and eyes slitted. Jong paused, all ten of his fingertips drumming a bit of headline stretched taut over his right thigh. He made popping noises with his lips, then clapped in final exclamation. The taxi driver didn’t move.

“You,” Jong observed, “are very quiet.”

“And you,” the taxi driver replied, “are very noisy. And you smell. Go away.”

“But this is my...” Jong started, pirouetting on one foot. He didn’t finish. Not the sentence or the pirouette. He faded and fell back when the taxi driver stood straight up and walked towards him. After three steps Jong chose to close his act with a retreat to the chain link fence surrounding the harbor. He collapsed, rolling beneath the slack in the links, then popped back up on the other side. With exaggerated flops of his feet, he headed down the decaying pier.

“On contract...yes...it’s true.” The guy in the blue overalls nodded at the people entering his shack and rolled his eyes at the cell phone. The lady smiled.

“Listen, there’s...right. I’ve work to do. Goodbye.” He flapped a heavy thumb across the face of the phone and fiddled to get it hung on the lip of his right front pocket. “Mr. Genuit? Ms. Jolson?” He offered a broad greasy palm, but reconsidered when the older gentleman raised one eyebrow. “Uhm, I’d offer you a place to sit, but NDRF (he pronounced it inderf) never bought this Overseer no chairs. Twenty-two years rattling around in their rusty old ships and I’ve never had a chair. Except the toilet.”

The gentleman stepped forward and clasped the Overseer’s shoulder. “Mr...” he peered at the nametag sewn to the overalls “...Willy...we don’t need to sit. Ms. Jolson would like to look the ship over, though, if you don’t mind. Perhaps then I can settle the paperwork with the government and we can get the Deep Dawn out of your hair.”

“Deep Dawn?”

“Ms. Jolson is renaming the ship. The label of letters and numbers the United States Navy previously anointed it with do little for her aesthetic vision.”

The workman smiled, nodded, and motioned for them to follow.

The wood deck of the pier, split and splintered as it was by years of sea service, still thudded solidly beneath their feet. Willy led them across the main artery of travel: a sidewalk constructed of thick planks, rusting iron gussets, worn tires, and welded steel pontoons. To the left, beyond a ten foot expanse of fetid bay water and encased in double rows of chain link and razor wire, sat an open field of naval scrap. To the right, in broad slips smeared with oil slick rainbows, floated rows of crusted bows fronting a line of government-stored ships of every size and use.

“Yours is second to last. Way out there.” Willy waddled surprisingly fast, the droops in his baggy clothes ever threatening to toss off the open-ended wrench jostling about in one rear pocket. Mr. Genuit and Ms. Jolson kept pace behind.

The LST tilted in its slip, its bow sunken several feet below the stern. Ms. Jolson tugged Mr. Genuit’s elbow and pointed at the tip of the ship, where the seam of the bow doors stood open nearly a foot. The lawyer nodded at it and looked to the Overseer.