I park at the quay in March, before the ships have broken through the ice: a bell rings rhythmically in gusts of wind speeding off of the flat ocean, while workers on the gravel harbour build lobster traps, smoking cigarettes, tearing off pieces of Wonderbread sandwiches in their grizzly open mouths, hammers in hand—slower now the bell, now faster—wind rocking the suspension of my black minivan, the only vehicle at the docks this blinding afternoon; airborne salt crystals tear through the cabin while I light up in solidarity, the working class of intelligentsia, poor in cash but rich in time, and also rich in cash, abstractly (if only one knows how to use it)—not I, entirely—and inhale the smoke of a nameless cigarette, bell ringing.