Cigarettes on the Docks

DuPierre also like to smoke cigarettes as he sat on a rough hewn wooden bench that was set halfway down the long, fishing dock.  Though he had never gone fishing, even as a little boy, DuPierre still enjoyed watching the fishermen mend their nets and ready their boats.  He specially enjoyed the well-worn fishing boats come and go.  The sturdy, little boats looked much like the fishermen who sailed them.    They looked salty and strong, both the boats and men.  Nothing fancy about them, nothing pretty.  They lived out their days getting the job done.

DuPierre would sit some days, for but an hour or so.  Some days, he would spend a good part of the morning.  He smoked Players cigarettes, one after another, flicking the butts over the rail and then watching them fall into the bay.  The fishermen were also smoking their cigarettes as DuPierre smoked his.  The fishermen never said much to the strange little man who watched them work.  Oh, they might salute him with a lift of a cigarette and a nod of the head, but little more.

DuPierre liked to watch the seagulls that pestered the fishermen and begged from the tourists.  He liked to watch them run back and forth, looking for providence of bits of human fare that had gone astray.  The sculptor once thought he might make a seagull of stone, but then thought better of it.  The better part of a seagull is in his strutting about and sculptures of stone do not strut about well.

There is a certain fragrance to a dock, a musky smell, a seaside version of a barn's savory scent.  Some folks don't like it, but DuPierre did.   It somehow made him feel more manly than he knew he actually was.  These fishermen were brawny and tough; DuPierre was calloused and weak.

He also like to hear the horns of the boats as they cleared the end of the jetty, coming home.  That haunting sound caused DuPierre to think of his mortality, somehow.  And he thought about his mortality quite often.

The End

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