Fo'castle Waltz

And that howl was taken up by the rest of the men. A tousle-headed, bright-eyed old Filipino stuck his head in the door and shouted above the melee.

"Shoddop. Soon. Wait."

That served only to increase the volume of the howls. Under cover of the racket, the blond guy spoke to me again.

"Where you from?"

"Here."

"You mean New York?"

I said, "Yeah."

"My name's Al Bricker—this is Mush Miller," and he indicated the tall boy he'd been talking to. I told them my name, then Mush Miller leaned toward me and asked, "You living in New York or studying? I'm from Illinois Prep and Al here is at Indiana State."

"No, I'm an artist."

The blond seemed impressed. Then, out of the corner of his mouth, he tipped me off.

"Steer clear of midships if you want to get along with the crew. I know; I've shipped out before. This is Mush's first trip, but I've been around."

"Thanks. . . . You see, I met Captain Brandt socially and I thought . . ." "Stow it," he said.

A brown, knotty arm banged a heavy plate down in front of me. 'Tor' chop."

I looked up at the grinning face of the Filipino with a huge corncob clinched in his white teeth. Then I looked down at my plate. Two pork chops, slithering around in their own grease, a large water-soaked boiled potato, and a mound of something that might be boiled turnips—not the lunch I'd pick for a hot day.

The rest of the men were already busy with their food; not many were using their forks but, grasping the chops in one grimy fist and a lump of bread in the other, they ate. There were a number of arguments going on. One at the end of the table took my attention. A guy with a face like a black and white Neanderthal—big-jawed and no forehead (his hair didn't seem to grow from his scalp but looked as if it were thatched to it—a coal-black shiny roof that eaved over his jutting frontals)—seemed to be on the defensive. I couldn't make out his opponent's argument, but the Neanderthaler's "Yeah! Yeah!" could be heard above the jangle of talk, clatter of dishes, and the noise of men eating.

The blond guy, Al, said in a low voice, "That's the black gang. The deck crew and engine-room gang don't mix."

One of the black gang (old Pat, the oiler, I found out later) was in the midst of a story; the others quieted down to listen.

He was a chubby, straight-backed, old Irishman with a bellowing beer stimme. I never got the beginning of it, but I gathered he'd applied for a berth aboard the Palestinian Line. They had only two ships.

"Then in I walks. There sits this old Jew guy with his whiskers tied up in a knot to keep them out of the inkwell. Sez I—" and that was lost in the clatter of dishes as Flip crashed into the galley with a load on his tray.

Pat went on with his story. I could tell from his gestures when the old Jew with his knotted whiskers was talking. He'd crouch over, wave his hands, palms up under his chin, and contort his face, trying to get his kilarney pug down to a Semitic beak. When Pat straightened and bellowed a forthright bellow, he was himself—the straight-backed, upstanding, noble Irishman.

"Mother of God—an' there he was with his whiskers tied up in a knot to keep 'em from dippin' in his inkpot."

And Pat banged his open palm down on the table and went off into a gale of raucous, rattling laughter that almost knocked him sideward.

Out of the side of his mouth, Al said, "He just slays him."

Again the knotty brown arm of Flip dipped over my shoulder and slammed down a dish.

"Deserk!" he said with finality.

I whispered to Al:

"What do you think it is?"

"That? That's tapioca . . . tapioca pudding. Those brown spots fool you; they're chunks of apple, old apples left in the icebox since the last trip, I guess."

The argument with the black-thatched Neanderthal at the other end of the table had risen to a noisy crescendo. A scrawny-headed guy with a birdlike neck was shouting across at Black Thatch.

"Well, what d'hell did you wanna bring a stinkin' punk boy into our cabin for?"

All other talk stopped.

Black Thatch, gesturing with his spoon, said, "Da poor kid didn't have no place to sleep. Jeez, you wouldn't want a kid to sleep under the pier, would you?"

"Yeah . . . yeah, you go take yer punk some place else—"

"My punk?" said Black Thatch. His eyebrows disappeared up in the eaves of his hair. "I'm telling ya I let the kid sleep wit me cause he was on the beach. And it ain't his fault he's a punk—he was born that way. He's a p'voit—"

"Yah . . ."

"Yah, a p'voit. Now, listen." Black Thatch leaned his arm across the table, punctuating his talk with his spoon held delicately at end. "I've been goin' to sea fer fifteen years and in all that time I've been readin'—"

"You've been reading! Whyn't you shut up and lissen to them kids down the end of the table," and Birdneck indicated us—Mush, Al, and me—with a flick of his thumb. "They kin tell you more in a minute than you can fin' out in the rest of your life . . . readin'."