The Crate

“But it’s right here on the manifest,” Professor Jacob Dorr protested, shaking the document as if it would do some good.

“Don’t care,” the longshoreman’s jowls swayed as he shook his head, scowling at Jake. “T’aint comin’ in t’ mah harbor.” And that was the final word. The longshoreman turned his protruding belly and stalked away, deeper into the warehouse.

Jake’s eyes narrowed in the dim light, following the obese man waddling away. “Don’t care,” he mimicked (poorly), “but this crate IS comin’ in to yah harbor,” Jake smirked rebelliously. If he had yet been a child, no doubt he would have waggled his tongue at the longshoreman. But Jake was a scientist and above such petty immaturity.

Jake looked around. No one. Not even the pattering steps of the longshoreman off in the distance. Jake was alone, with naught but his thoughts, the crate, and the crumpled up manifest he still gripped in his fist.

Quickly, before he could change his usually-law-abiding mind, Jake wrenched the crate from its stack, plopped it unceremoniously on an empty grey dolly and began wheeling it through the stacks and toward the warehouse exit. As he hurried along, Jake was consciously aware of the thudding of his racing heart, keenly listening for the heavy steps of the longshoreman. But as the exit loomed large, no one stopped him.

Jake hauled the crate and dolly into the night air and up the hill toward the University’s waiting van. Halfway up the rise, he turned and glanced back triumphantly, the adrenaline and glow of his illicit adventure coursing through his system. Jake smirked and stuck his tongue out at the warehouse. “Ha!” he gloated.

“I told you, t’aint comin’ in t’ mah harbor,” the deep baritone of the longshoreman echoed behind Jake. Jake turned, startled, and gazed into the angry red eyes of the gargantuan longshoreman standing, imposingly, not two feet away, his cannonball hands gripped tightly into fists.

How did he get here?! How did Jake not see or hear him?!

“But, but . . . “ Jake began, stammering and scared.

“It’s on the manifest?” the longshoreman finished. “No matter. Ain’t comin’ in t’ mah harbor, I tol’ you that already. That crate be mine.” He reached out and grabbed Jake, squeezing and crunching into Jake’s shoulderblades.

“Nothin’ comes into mah harbor without mah say-so,” the giant whispered, “And no one leaves mah place without mah permission,” he trailed off . . . .

The graduate students huddled in the idling van, anxiously awaiting the return of Professor Dorr.

A large man trundled up to their van and rapped aggressively on the window. “C’aint park here, s’private property,” he growled.

“We’re waiting for . . . .” one of the grad students began.

“Don’t care, get out of here,” the behemoth scowled at them and turned away, pushing two crates on a battered gray dolly off toward the warehouse in the distance.