Page 1 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
Monday
Chapter 1
Ben
It’s the overwhelming stench of fish that hits you first. But it’s not just the fish; it’s the salt, the damp, the sour thaw-freeze-thaw stink that suffuses the planks of a working dock in winter. To Benjamin Whitaker III, it’s the smell of work done right. Today he’s trying to ignore the subtle afternote of ‘Oh dear lord, I’m absolutely going to screw this up,’ that comes with it.
The sun has barely risen over the bay, but the Whitaker Seafood plant is already in full swing and line workers are elbow deep in bins processing the morning’s catch. Ben, meanwhile, is trying not to chew through his pen cap as he reviews the status of last week’s issues. Water thermocouple? Repaired. Market Basket packaging redesign? Rolled out. Imminent nervous breakdown? Penciled in for Thursday, but he’s open to a reschedule.
Ben fiddles with the ratchet knob on his hardhat like it’s a fidget toy for emotionally repressed adults. It just makes his tension headache feel more official. He’s wearing the boss’ hat this week, and it’s his job to keep things humming until his dad gets back. He sets out onto the production floor, trying to project confidence but mostly just side-stepping errant fish guts.
At the cutting station, Lou Anello, built like a walk-in freezer and just as cool, makes it look easy. He’s slicing up bluefin with huge weathered hands that probably haven’t misaimed a knife since the early ‘00s. Ben tried the job one summer in high school and nearly lost a finger when the blade slipped.
Lou glances up and grins. “Mornin’, Ben.”
“Morning, Lou.” Ben tugs at his collar, the dress shirt stiff against his neck. He’d trade the whole outfit for his old rubber boots and apron back in a heartbeat. Back then, a mistake meant a mess on the floor. Now, if he slips, just once, he might take the town’s whole economy down with him.
“You’re out here early,” Lou observes. “What’s the occasion, recruiting for next year’s charity calendar? I’m in, but this time I’m Mr. July or I walk.”
“We’ll see.” Ben glances at his watch even though he knows exactly what time it is, a new nervous habit that buys him three whole seconds of fabricated control. “Just down here checking that we’re on track. MassDEP audit’s next week, and you know how environmental inspectors get.”
Lou snorts. “Yeah, seagulls in steel-toe boots. Don’t even land fully. Just hover long enough to shit all over everything.”
Ben presses his lips into a line, scanning the floor. A crooked label here, a container not quite sealed there and the whole thing can fall apart. He’s seen places closed for weeks over smaller infractions. No way he’s letting Whitaker Seafood be next.
“Take a breath, kid,” Lou chuckles. “Everything’s running slicker than a buttered eel down here. And from what I hear, you’ve got your end handled upstairs too.”
It sounds good out loud, sure. But part of him wonders if it’s just verbal bubble wrap, kind words to keep the boss’ kid from cracking. He has never been able to shake the feeling that everyone is waiting for him to snap under the weight of his own last name.
Ben feels a flush creeping up his ears. “Sure, Lou.”
“Not just blowing smoke.” Lou sets his knife down. “You got your boots wet early, you keep your eyes open, and you’re here more than any of us. That matters.”
Ben’s nod is half acknowledgment, half self-consciousness. He’s putting in hours, sure, but is he actually beingeffective? He’s read studies on leadership styles; maybe he’s more of a ‘participative leader’ than an ‘authoritative’ one, and maybe that’s not translating into results.
Lou grabs another bluefin, slapping it onto the tray with a wet thud. “Anyways, it’s not all on your shoulders. Don’t work yourself into an ulcer. Been there, done that, and let me tell you, it’s not the badge of honor you think it is.”
Ben lets out a soft laugh despite himself. “I’ll do my best.”
“Glad to hear it,” Lou says, flashing a toothy smile. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to find a patriotic speedo and a tanning lamp for my calendar shoot.”
Ben laughs for real, short, but genuine, and continues down the line. Sure enough, everything looks fine until he reaches the loading docks. There, the high-pitched beep of reversing forklifts sets his teeth on edge, and so does the sight of Tom McKenna, the Logistics manager, bearing down on him.
“Morning,boss,” Tom says in a tone dryer than an unwatered Christmas tree two weeks past New Years. He thrusts a sheaf of manifests at Ben. “Here. Sign.”
Ben scans the documents a little too long for Tom’s liking; the man sighs, pointedly. “Trucks are waiting.”
“Uh, this waste disposal volume…” Ben taps a line with his pen, frowning. “Are we sure this is all from the weekend? It seems… high?”
Tom gives a short laugh, more an exhalation than an engagement of his vocal cords. “Funny thing about numbers, they all go up when we’re slammed. More production, morescraps. Simple math. Or did they skip that at your fancy college?”
Heat floods Ben’s cheeks. “I just think we should double-check?—”
Tom cuts him off with a dismissive scoff. “Yeah, okay, let me drop everything and re-check it all. After twelve years, I definitely have no clue how these things work. I’m sure it will be a great use of everyone’s Monday morning.”
Ben’s pen wavers over the dotted line. “Or,” Tom adds, pretending like it’s helpful, “You could always give your dad a ring. See what he thinks.”
Ben’s already signing. He hands the clipboard back, his name a scratchy surrender. “There. All set.”
