Fo'castle Waltz

It was evident that our use of knives and forks, our subdued conversation, and my gold-rimmed specs had impressed Bird-neck with our gentility. We silently picked up our spoons and dug into the tapioca.

"Readin' . . . yas, readin'!" bellowed Black Thatch. "Fer fifteen years I've been goin' to sea and readin' books. Books on sex and sex'al p'voision. An' I could tell you an' dem tings you never heard of. Betcha you don't know—yas, an' dey don't know for all dere education—dere's people what eats—" His voice was lost again in a sharp hiss.

Birdneck looked across for a moment. Then he said:

"Aw-w, shut up."

Al, Mush, and I had brought our first spoonful of brown-specked tapioca almost up to our mouths. We carefully put our spoons down and quietly left the table.

3. Moving-Picture Sailor

THE THREE OF US SAT ON THE RIM of the open hatch and lit cigarettes. One by one, the rest of the crew climbed down to the deck. Now and again one of them would let out an uninhibited belch. A few of the older men sat down alongside us; others drifted over to the rail and smoked and spat over the side.

The fat, ferocious man pointed the stem of his pipe toward the ship docked alongside.

"There's a ship that feeds good."

A young guy with a strong Hell's Kitchen accent said, "Yeah, can't be any woise than this tub. This ship feeds lousy. Christ! Dere was—woims in the—oatmeal this mornin'!"

As I turned in my mind this picture of amorous worms cavorting in bowls of lumpy porridge, Al sneered, "And that guy's brother's a Phi Beta Kappa."

The tallest man aboard, a huge, shirtless Slav who wore a pair of overalls and an incongruous hard straw hat dipped forward over his eyes, joined the group leaning over the rail. He hadn't spoken all through lunch, and for the first time I heard his voice.

"If she feed like oder Limey ships, her grub's lousy, too." He paused a bit and then went on. "Them Lambert Holt ships keep their course not by compass. They watch for floating prune pit in oder Lambert Holt ship's wake."

The Fat Man scowled at him. "I'm telling you, that ship feeds good."

For a moment nothing was said. Then from the upper deck a strident voice shouted, "All right, now—all right. Turn to."

We all looked up at the man with the yachtsman's cap. Al muttered, "That's the Mate—First Mate. He's a Swede."

The Fat Man squinted up at the Mate and hollered, "T'ain't one o'clock yet."

The Mate snapped a watch from his pants pocket, studied it a moment, then shouted, "Go ahead—turn to. It is."

Slowly the men shuffled over to that twisted pile of gear and rigging they had been working on. The stuff was being stowed in the shelter deck (this terminology I found out later). I made a number of trips back and forth, loaded down with ropes and block and fall, and had returned to the pile to be loaded again when a factory whistle near the docks let out a blast. The Fat Man growled under his breath.

"The goddam liar, that's one o'clock now," and he scowled up at the Mate astride the upper deck, his hands grasping the rails. The Mate returned a cold blue eye to the sweaty fat man and me.

All through that hot afternoon we lugged, pushed, and pulled gear until my back was sore, my hands grease-black and flecked with blood from the frayed wire cable—and did I have a headache!

It was one endless, painful, red blur until the Mate reluctantly growled, "All right. Knock off."

Al showed me where I could wash up, and I wearily dragged myself to the fo'castle and started changing my clothes.

"Where you goin'?" asked Mush.

"Home," I said.

"Ain't you gonna eat aboard? It's part of your pay."

I couldn't eat that slop again that day. I'd have to start slowly. I picked my bunk, too, with Al's advice—an upper near a porthole, as he'd suggested.

Al and Mush walked me to the gangplank when I was dressed—or rather, to the section of the rail where the gangplank had been. Now it was one continuous rail. I looked over the side.

"Hey, what happened to the ocean?"

"We're in the river."

"But where's the water?"

We looked down over the side—a long way down. We were high and dry!

"We're in drydock," said Al.

"But how am I going to get home?"

"Climb down that ladder," and he pointed to a long thin connecting ladder lashed to the side that led down to the dock. It looked awfully thin and precarious. But I had brought along only a pair of dungarees and a pair of work shoes—no pajamas and no toothbrush. I couldn't sleep aboard ship. The boys had been too polite to tell me nobody slept in pajamas.

I climbed over and, clinging to that long ladder with my sore, puffy hands, I carefully inched my way down to the dock.