Bells and Whistles

Bells and Whistles

a Ted ‘Shaper’ Carrol story

Stephen Brooke ©2025

 

Just a dream, I told myself, as I stumbled to the bathroom and peered at my reflection —

Okay, we all know not to start a story with those cliches. But I did have to wake up or there wouldn’t be a story at all. And maybe I just like to look at myself. I might even have flexed a little for the mirror.

The dream I had completely forgotten by that point so you might as well too.

Start a beard? I asked. Nah, not today. Not unless I cut my hair shorter. Shave, splash some water, go start the coffee and wander across the road as it brews. Checking the surf is as essential to my morning routine as all the rest. Maybe more essential.

When had that happened? Sometime in the couple years I’d lived here, since I’d moved into this old concrete-block ‘Florida house’ and opened my shop. At this hour, the place was only a black mass, with one dimly-lit window near the rear announcing anyone was awake. Or even alive.

Even less light shone on the horizon. I walked the half-block north to cross Highway A-1-A and another block east to the beach. To my left lay the Easy Breezes motel, dark at this hour. Three or four cars were pulled in by the rooms. Not the season for full occupancy. Not in the mid-week.

Graffiti adorned the retaining wall beside my way, a wall rising higher as it approached the sand. Mostly the work of the kids who frequented my shop, I suspected. This wasn’t the best spot to surf in the area but it was convenient for a lot of them. For me, too, sometimes. I didn’t always feel ambitious enough to drive up to the pier.

Definitely not this morning. Tiny waves dribbled onto the shore — typical summer surf for the Atlantic. Also typical was the still, humid, warm air. It didn’t get much opportunity to cool off overnight when the ocean itself was like bathwater. I peered toward the peach-smudged horizon a few moments more before turning home.

Home and coffee and breakfast. The start of my day’s routine. I like routine, you understand; maybe a little too much. I’d work on building surfboards or running errands, then open the door of the shop for the day. A quiet evening, early to bed. Repeat tomorrow.

Unless, of course, there was surf. That always changed things.

Something was going on at the house at the corner, the one catty-cornered from the motel, two up from my place. Lights, a pickup truck. A dog came bounding out of the gloom when I reached the cracked sidewalk.

A friendly dog that did no more than sniff at me. I knelt and scratched behind an ear. The dog’s ear, that is. “Who are you, boy? Or is that girl?” It was too dark to tell. A mutt of some sort, dark brown and short of hair.

Someone whistled. The pooch only turned its head. Maybe it wanted the other ear scratched.

A few seconds later a little girl, maybe eleven or twelve, came around the house. “There you are, Bumper.” She gave me an up-and-down. “You must be the surf shop guy.” My board shorts and tee — emblazoned with Cully Beach Surf Shop — might have given me away.

“So I am,” I admitted.

“I’m a surfer,” she proclaimed. “Have you ever surfed at the jetties at Venice?”

I assumed she had and, moreover, took some pride in it. “Many times. I grew up on that side of the state.”

“Cool,” she decided. “Dad! Mister Surf Shop is out here!”

Pretty loud for such a little thing. “I’m Jan,” she informed me. “And this is Bumper.” Bumper introduced himself with a lick of my face. I rose as someone else approached.

Short. Shorter than me and I’m average at best. Stocky. The hair was long and he wore a mustache. He extended a squarish hand. “Rick Bell. I guess you can see we’re moving in.”

“Either that or I surprised you in the middle of a robbery. I’m Ted Carrol.”

“The kids here call him Shaper,” chimed in Jan. “’Cause he shapes surfboards.”

Her father acknowledged that with a nod. I doubted he’d start using my nickname or title or whatever it was. “We’re opening a shop. My wife is. I try to keep out of her way.”

Jan informed me, “Dad builds things. Just like you!”

“Things made out of wood. I’m a carpenter.” Rick followed that statement with a shrug. “Though I’ll take pretty much any construction work available.”

There was always some of that going on. More up the road at Banner Beach.

We had no reason to discuss that, at least not at the moment. “A shop, huh? Do I have a competitor moving in?”

“Only if you sell local crafts and second-hand clothing and that sort of thing.” Rick looked like he wasn’t completely sure.

“Then we’re likely to be helpful to each other. Draw more potential customers to the area.”

“Hmm, I suppose. Kay would know better’n me about that sort of thing.”

“He means my mom,” explained Jan. I’d figured that out, kid.

“Yeah, Kay is the wife. She’s been talking about opening a boutique for years and here we are, finally doing it. She fell in love with this town when we drove over from Sarasota.”

“And it has waves,” added Jan.

“That it does,” I agreed. “I can tell about the same story as your Kay. Loved the town and moved from Genoa to open my shop here.”

Jan perked up at the mention of the shop. “Can I work there?”

“Maybe when you’re tall enough to see over the counter.”

“Gee, Shaper. Why don’t you just get a lower counter?”

I had no answer for that other than a laugh. Who knows? Maybe I would hire her someday. I might get busy or something.

“It would be better if you called our neighbor Mister Carrol,” Rick told her. Gently. I suspected he was a pretty lenient dad and and easy-going guy all around.

“Okay, Dad.” I also suspected it wouldn’t stick and I’d soon be Shaper again. As I was to most of the kids who came to my shop.

I looked at the house before me. I had learned it was built on the same plan as mine but with a wooden second story above the concrete ground floor. Whether originally like that or added to, no one seemed sure. “Are you going to be upstairs, Jan?” I asked.

“Yep. My brother too. He’s seven.”

“And begging for his own surfboard,” Rick informed me. “I surf a little too. Not as much as I used to.” He didn’t sound happy about that.

“Well, Jan, you’ll be able to see the surf from your window up there first thing in the morning. If it’s up, go wake up your dad and tell him to ditch work, like any true surfer.”

“Right, Shaper, I mean, Mister Carrol.”

I couldn’t tell whether Rick approved of the idea. It was unlikely the absent wife would. “I’ll let you get back to moving things here and there,” I told him. “I open my door at nine or ten, but feel free to drop by anytime. You too, Jan.”

“Bye!” She and Bumper ran off somewhere.

Rick might have lingered a few seconds after I started south. A move gives one things to think about, and he and his family had made a pretty major one. I passed the house that lay between us. It was empty again — rented for the season, abandoned come summer. The place was Sixties ugly whereas mine was Fifties ugly. Neighbors had come and gone there.

And I hadn’t cared that much. Not about the comings and goings at the Bell’s house, either. The Bell’s house, now. It would be good if I could keep calling it that.

Who knows? I might finally have neighbors I actually liked. Friends, even. I could see some of my old routines and habits going out the window.

I hoped they didn’t break it.