Log0021

"Dan"

“Dan” from what I’d heard wasn’t even his real name. Still, it suited him.

You could always rely on a message from Dan late Sunday afternoon. He let you know what he’d sourced that week and where the drop off was. There were generally two spots he’d go to sell his product out the back of his car.

Down at the docks where he sourced his stuff had to have been the place to get the freshest product; close to the port, and not too far from the border. But not anyone could go there and buy. The suppliers knew Dan, and knew was he a middleman, so he’d buy in bulk for a short price. Given this, the price I then got from him was better than anywhere else. His product also was top tier, as fresh as you could get outside of Mexico.

Our trade was simple. A text would come in. You’d reply with what you needed and how many ounces. Usually, I just bought for myself and friends. Then come Tuesdays we’d meet at one of two places for the drop off. For me it was wildly inconvenient leaving work at 3pm to pick up. Then I definitely couldn’t take it to the office, so I’d have to go home before returning to work. Though I guess this wasn’t a problem for most of Dan’s clientele, as they’d likely describe themselves as “Unemployed” or “retired”.

I don’t know how Dan would describe himself, self-employed maybe?

He always wore flipflops, jeans and a tee – the uniform of SoCal – it suited him and his perpetually tan skin. I had to think when he wasn’t doing this, he spent all the rest of his time sitting in the water catching waves. The man was fit as all hell.

From his stories I learnt he’d made many a trip to South and Central America. At first, I had thought for business, but he told me that was only recreational consumption, and he really went there just to surf. In fact, this whole bootlegged operation appeared to be a way to keep him closer to the water.

The last time I saw Dan was at a gas station. It wasn’t our usual drop, and it wasn’t his usual car. I could tell he was in a hurry by the way he almost forgot to take my cash. He’d roared up in an old pickup truck. The single cab with bald tires and rusted paneling was as you’d expect to see. He jumped out, phone in hand. Often easy going and willing to chat, I figured he was late for his next drop.

He’d already handed me the bag, so I pushed the forty into his hand, as a way to remind him I’d paid. Then he was outta there. Quick as that.

Strolling home, I checked the bag to make sure it was all there. Sword and Seabass. Good man. Dan the Fishman always had the stuff.

The surfing fishmonger had better connections with any of the boats than the commercial grocery stores. They took what was left from the fishermen after he’d had his pick and by the time they saw the fish he would already be back out in the water.