TYING THE TALE
(my day)
Twenty-four strokes a minute, that old steamboat
plugged slowly through the thick water - it ran like
blood through a lazy, deep harbor. Frazzled nerves,
like prism-lines in a blistering sun, were everywhere.
Even the Deck Captain wouldn't take a seat. 'If we
get past this without incident, I'm going to drink
myself dry.' The tanker, on the other hand, seemed
fighting mad. 'We were waiting for you, fourteen
hours off the Hook and then another two at the
Verrazano Strait - how the Hell does anything
get done?' Tough Germans are, when angry.
This guy was a Mr. Bremen himself. Not
knowing what tongue he understood, we
just muttered - 'Over there and shut
the fuck yourself up okay.'
-
It gets funny in these waters - like a ukelele
playing at some backyard grill, no one wants
really to hear it. 'Oil and water,' I said, 'oil
and water never do mix. We shouldn't
handle these damned tankers.'
-
A thousand fly-off handles, and the guys below
deck are hungry now - they want food, they want
money, they want women too. 'How's that then
for visiting New York? You can't get in and you
can't get out.' I said that no one but Mr. Bremen,
and he understood right off. 'I've seen more
sugar-cane than this in Cuba, and better
women in Hamburg for sure.'
No comments:
Post a Comment