Page 3 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
Jackson eyes him over the rim of his mug. Billy does seem unusually serious about this, or at least as serious as Billy ever gets. “Fine. I’ll take a look. If only to prevent Chase from going viral again with one of his shirtless investigative dance routines.”
“There he is!” Billy gives the table a celebratory whack, sending the salt shaker into a nervous little hop. “Knew you still had the fire in your belly somewhere.”
“Is that what that is? I was positive it was from the food here.” He pauses, and tries a little sincerity. “But sure, I’ll poke around a little.”
Grinning from ear to ear, Billy snags Jackson’s notepad and scribbles something down. “You want the captain. His boat’s docked just over there at the marina.” He stands, smoothing his apron. “Catch you later, JJ. Sorry about the coffee, but I know you come here to see moi anyways.”
Jackson watches Billy swan off toward the blue-haired breakfast brigade.
Then it’s laptop closed, bag zipped, money down.
The old itch is back. He doesn’t know if he’s chasing a lead or just chasing the feeling of wanting something to matter again. But at least, for the next few days, he’s got a reason to put off writing about seasonal pie recipes. That alone feels like a minor Christmas miracle.
Chapter 3
Ben
Kent Caldwell, Senior Operations Manager and eternal fixture of the plant, hangs back as the others drift out, travel mugs in hand and small talk fading into the distance. He stays planted, eyes on Ben, looking like he grew out of the concrete.
“How’re you holding up?” Kent asks, trying too hard to sound casual.
He’s pretty sure his father put Kent on Ben-sitting duty. He can’t even muster any resentment; if someone has to watch him flail around, Kent’s probably the best candidate. Truth be told, a statistically significant part of Ben wishes Dad put Kent in charge this week instead of him.
“I’m good,” Ben starts, then quickly corrects himself with a sigh. “A little friction with Tom earlier, but it’s fine.”
Kent frowns. “You sure about that? Tom can be, uh, let’s go with ‘opinionated.’ You want to fill me in?”
“It’s nothing major,” Ben says. “Tom and I just… disagreed on some numbers. I thought the waste totals maybe looked high. Did you notice that?”
“I can look into it if you think it’s an issue. But there was a bigger production run last week. Byproducts go up. I doubt it’s anything more than that.”
“Yeah. That’s more or less what he said, too.” Ben flicks the mouse’s wheel absently, like rolling it might rewind the last few seconds and let him take the dumb question back. He’s starting to worry this week is going to be 10% actually doing work and 90% second-guessing himself. “I just… I don’t want to keep bugging you guys about obvious stuff I should already know.”
“Ben, there’s no shame in asking questions,” Kent says. “You’re learning the ropes. And you’re not the first Whitaker to fuss over details. Your dad was the same way back in the day.”
A faint, disbelieving laugh escapes Ben. “Dad? Hard to imagine he didn’t show up on day one with a ten year plan and a complete audit for efficiencies.”
“Trust me, I’ve seen him sweat. Your dad used to worry himself sick about every little dip in output. It wasn’t as obvious back then that this wasn’t all just going to go away.” Kent shrugs. “He expects a lot from himself, same as he does from you and everyone else here. It’s part of the reason Whitaker Seafood got this big. Just... don’t kill yourself trying to keep up. You’ve got good instincts; don’t beat yourself up if you lean on us old-timers once in a while. We like to feel useful.”
He puts a hand on Ben’s shoulder, a move that’s so paternal it makes Ben simultaneously grateful and mortified. “And as for Tom, don’t let him push you around. You’re in charge this week. You see something that needs changing, you say so. You’re a humble guy, but don’t forget, it’s your name on the building.”
Ben drops his eyes to his half-finished tea, and before he can stop himself, the real issue tumbles out. “It’s just... all this waste. We throw so much away. We should be trying to adopt more eco-friendly practices, do some life-cycle assessments onour products, you know? It’s what the market’s leaning toward. Sustainability sells now,” Ben says. “More than it used to.”
“Maybe in theory. But most folks aren’t thinking about the state of the ocean when they’re standing in the frozen aisle. All that altruism comes with a price tag; we charge too much, we don’t sell and someone less sustainable will push us out of the market. People are trying to make ends meet. We don’t add to their problems.” Kent chuckles, defusing the criticism.
“I really think with the right strategy?—”
“You sound just like your dad thirty years ago: full of ideas, wanting to do everything at once. Listen, kiddo, your father’s proud of this place. So am I. We built it up from nothing. That doesn’t mean we’re opposed to new ideas. But you don’t want to sink resources into trends that are just that… trends. We’ve seen a lot of competitors go under by jumping on every shiny new bandwagon. This works. It will work for the rest of your life if you don’t tinker with it too much.”
Ben forces a nod, swallowing disappointment. Dad’s shot down these ideas before too, the same dismissive, glazed over look on his face whenever Ben mentioned bio-circular economics. “Careful, but open-minded. Right?”
“Exactly. Remember, lot of employees on the floor are counting on us. We don’t gamble with their jobs.” Kent steps back, arms folding like he’s ready to wrap things up. “So we good? Or should I hang around and bore you with more senior-citizen wisdom?”
Ben forces a grin. Kent’s right: bigger, more pressing fish to fry at the moment. “Nah, we’re good. Thanks, Kent.”
“If you need anything, just ask,” Kent says, already halfway out the door. He moves like a man who’s weathered more storms than Ben can name. “Now, let’s get out there and make sure the line’s running right. You know your dad’s gonna want an update by noon.”
Ben grabs his things and follows. In the polished pane of the conference room window, he catches a glimpse of himself looking harried: tie listing, hair flattened, a perfect red hardhat welt stamped across his forehead.
