More Waterfront Stories - Liam

Writing is something to which I am drawn. It's never easy for me. This blog post has been downright painful. But Life, real Life, is not all lightness, not all rainbows and butterflies. It's sometimes dark. I struggled with this one. Still, it is real Life and I watched it unfold on the waterfront.

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We would discover later that Liam was not his real name, but this technicality was insignificant among the wreckage of his life, later revealed.

His friendly smile, cautious eyes, and small, muscular physique earned him a job on the dock loading boats and trucks with 400 pound barrels on lobster bait; salted herring and poggies, redfish and skate. He showed up on time and worked hard doing backbreaking, dirty, honest labor among a crew of a dozen men. We worked from 4:00 AM until the job was done, typically 10-12 hours a day, six days a week. When the sun blazed, we sweltered in the heat. When the rain came and the wind blew, we shivered in our oil-skins.

There was no complaining. They were grateful for the work, appreciated the opportunity to feel pride, to feel productive in a world where welfare was all that society seemed to offer. And, for these men, there was no pride in that. There had been hard lessons in their past, most had spent time in jail, most struggled with some form of substance abuse, but most of these events were overlooked on the waterfront... most, but not all.

Liam rode with me three or four times on bait deliveries. We would head up the road in the early morning light to some fishing shanty on the coast, stopping on the way for diesel fuel and steaming hot coffee, and we would talk. He gazed out the window at the beauty of the sunrises, the ocean inlets and marshes, as he told his story; half Cherokee Indian, born on the California coast, learned to surf, moved to Phoenix during high school. He joined the Army and became a "tanker" for a couple years, driving massive Abram tanks, loading munitions. He loved to play guitar and write music, lamented that his prized Martin guitar was destroyed by a jealous girlfriend.He was 34, single, had "too many" girlfriends.He had been clean and sober for 12 months, didn't smoke. His dream was to buy a Harley Davidson and travel the country working the waterfront up and down the East and West coasts. "Waterfront work suits me." he explained. I liked him.

Liam seemed to fit in with the crew. He worked hard, didn't complain and didn't tolerate the petty criticisms of others who often would attempt to elevate their status by denigrating another. He wasn't looking for trouble... but trouble found him.

Most of the guys are wired... that is, they have cell phones, sometimes ipods, but one of the crew had a smart phone with internet access. It's an enigma of our time that someone without a home, without health insurance or a vehicle, who's worldly possessions would fit into a box, would spend his limited resources for a data plan and access to the web . But he did.

I arrived back at the bait shop from a run to Boothbay Harbor and backed the monster truck into the loading dock. It was always a relief to feel the thud of the truck body snugging up to the dock and know that I had not hit anything or anyone this trip. Unfortunately that was not true for all my runs. But, as they say, what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. Still, a smooth run brought a sense of satisfaction.

I swung the door open to find Allen standing there with his smart phone in his hand. "Everybody knows about it already. Look at this." he spoke in a low voice. I scanned the screen. It was the website of the Maine Sexual Offender Registry. Oh shit, this can't be good, I thought. There was Liam's picture with a description of his convictions, numerous unlawful sexual contacts with a minor under the age of 14, and his prison record, 6 years in the Maine State Penitentiary.

There is no tolerance on the waterfront for sex offenders. And violation of a minor is deemed the lowest of the low. They call them "skinners". In prison, I am told, skinners go through a special kind of hell. They are tormented and attacked. When they are released, they are required to register with the local police, report their place of residence and any change in residence. The have great difficulty finding work. Child molesters are not allowed to be within 500 feet of any school or playground. There lives are destroyed. For their offense, perhaps this is fitting... justice. Still, it is cruel to see.

I walked into the foreman's office to find him in conversation with the owner. "Close the door", he said. "We've got a situation here and I want your thoughts on it. You were a Human Resources director at the paper mill."

"I have already heard about it on the floor. Has anyone objected to working with him?" I asked

"Yeah, we've got complaints." said the owner

The foreman said "It's already a problem. None of the men will work with him."

I took a deep breath. "Then, by law, you are required to take expedient action. Failure to do so could lead to charges of sexual harassment against you, the employer. It's Employment Law: 101. If you deem it possible, he could be reasonable accommodated, reassigned to an area where he is not in contact with other workers who object to working with him. Failing that, you should terminate him. Document all your conversations and action."

The owner just shook his head.

I never saw Liam again. He drifted into that place where the damned go to live or to die, no one seeming to care which. I do not know, nor do I care to know, the details of his offense. Perhaps he is a cruel predator, a selfish sociopath capable of smiling into the faces of the unsuspecting and destroying lives. Perhaps there were mitigating circumstances, God knows what those might be. The jury found him guilty. I will never know.

I am conflicted. I liked him. And because I did, I glimpsed his damnation. I glimpsed his hell on earth. Tragedy... all around.

It ain't all lightness, rainbows and butterflies.