“Think about it, Lamar. This is a museum. A tourist attraction. How long have you lived in Baltimore?”
I shrugged. “All my life.”
“And in all that time you never took a tour of the ships? Not even when the Taney was here?”
“No. I mean, I knew about them. Knew a little of their history. But I never toured one.”
“Damn. Well, I guess I can’t say anything. All the years I lived in Towson, I never came downtown and visited Edgar Allan Foe’s grave.”
That told me something about him. Towson was the suburbs, way out on the edge of the city. I wondered what had brought Mitch down into Fells Point.
“Were you a fan of Foe’s?” I asked.
“Sure. Read the shit out of him when I was in the ninth grade. My grandfather gave me a big collection of all his stories. My favorite was always “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym.’” He chuckled. “It takes place on a boat, now that I think about it—a ship sailing to the South Pole.”
“So if you dug the man’s work, why not visit his grave?”
“Didn’t feel like getting shot. That’s a bad area of town, isn’t it?”
I shrugged again. “When you actually live down here in the city, all of it’s a bad area, Mitch. That’s just how things are. You get used to it.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I can see that.”
But I knew he’d never really understand it. He couldn’t. He had no frame of reference; only what he’d watched on episodes of Homicide or The Wire. Tasha and Malik knew it, too. They didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. The expressions on their faces said enough. Mitch was from a different world.
“Well,” Mitch continued, “the Spratling has always been a pretty popular attraction. Not just with tourists, either. They do weddings and stuff onboard, too. So there are a lot of people that have tromped through here over the years. When people come aboard this thing, they want to experience exactly what it was like for the men who served. They’d board via the gangplank, just like we did. Then, the tour guide would take them around above deck and show them everything. Answer all their questions. Then they’d go below, down the original stairways—except on a ship they’re called ladders—just like the crew would. And just like any other museum, there’d be stuff all around on the tour: old photos, the captain’s log, shit like that. And of course, they’d keep the racks made up just as they would have been when the Spratling was still on active duty.”
“You mean—”
“That’s right. Your pillow stinks because thousands of tourists have walked through here over the years and got their funk on it. Housewives from Illinois saying, ‘Hey, George, lay down on the bed just like a sailor would and I’ll take your picture with the kids.’ Think about it.”
My nose wrinkled. “That’s gross.”
Exhausted from our ordeal, Tasha and Malik fell asleep soon after. Mitch and I lay there in the darkness, not speaking, not wanting to disturb them. The kids had the top racks on each side. Mitch and I had taken the bottom bunks. The other two beds remained empty, and I figured there must be enough berthing areas that we wouldn’t have to share our quarters with two more strangers. Tasha snored softly, and Malik cried out once, and then was still. I wondered what they were dreaming about. Were they reliving the day or creating zombies out of loved ones in their sleep? I’d done that in the past-pondered the dreams of various partners as they slept beside me, presuming to know and understand their dreams and nightmares since I didn’t have any of my own.
Eventually, Mitch crawled out of his bunk and flashed a pack of cigarettes, indicating that he was going outside for a smoke. I nodded, and he tiptoed to the door and opened the hatch. Despite his efforts to be quiet, the steel door clanged when he shut it behind him. The kids didn’t stir.
The ship rocked gently back and forth. You didn’t really notice it unless you tried to walk around or if you were lying on your back. That was when the sensation became strongest. It was a constant, steady swaying. My stomach lurched each time it rolled. Sour bile burned the back of my throat. My eardrums throbbed. I wondered if it was just seasickness or some kind of delayed shock from the night’s events. I was exhausted, but didn’t think I’d be able to sleep. And then I did. Fell asleep thinking about Alan and the supermarket and the bitch I’d shot in the head.
If I dreamed, I don’t remember it.
I never did.
The next day, I saw for myself what Mitch had meant. The Spratling really was nothing more than a floating museum. All of the ship’s original interior features had been restored, but much of the equipment was inactivated. I wondered what worked and what didn’t. Luckily for us, it was still able to sail. Throughout the ship were framed mementos of its years of service: uniforms, replicas of weaponry, old photographs, pages from the ship’s logs, menus, and other things. Many of these were set up behind glass displays complete with recorded sound effects and narration, and red velvet ropes to keep the tourists from getting too close.
We found the showers easily enough, but they weren’t working. A white guy named Murphy was standing at the sink, peering into a cracked mirror as he shaved with no soap, water, or shaving cream. He winced with each scrape of the dry razor. His big nose was lined with the red veins of alcoholism. After introducing himself, he gave us a bottle of spring water so that we could at least brush our teeth. Mitch had a tube of toothpaste in his backpack. Tasha, Malik, and I used our fingers for toothbrushes. We didn’t have any clean clothes, either. My pants felt crusty and stiff. If I’d leaned them up in the corner, they could have stood by themselves. A middle-aged white woman in the next berthing compartment, who introduced herself as Joan Barnett, lent Tasha a T-shirt, but Malik and I were shit out of luck. Mitch had one spare pair of clean underwear in his backpack, but that was all. I noticed that after he’d washed up and dressed, he holstered a pistol at his side. The other weapons were still stashed in our berthing compartment.
Most of the people onboard the ship had gathered in the galley. A guy named Cleveland Hooper and an Asian dude named Tran were serving breakfast—little boxes of cereal, canned pineapple, granola bars, and Jell-O. No bacon or eggs or pancakes or fresh fruit; that would have all spoiled by now. There was coffee but no milk; just the little packets of sugar and powdered creamer. They had plenty of bottled water, though, and concentrated orange juice, which tasted better than anything I’d ever drunk in my life. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had orange juice.
“Good to see you, brother,” Hooper said as he put some pineapple chunks on my tray.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“’Cause we the only two niggas onboard this ship. Everyone else is white, except for Tran here, and he don’t speak no English. It’s just you and me, player. We can divide up the women. Show them some good dick.”
“Yeah?” I feigned heterosexuality and tried to sound interested, but all I really wanted to do was eat. The sooner I could get out of this conversation, the better.
“Hell, yeah, man. It’s pussy central, brother. There’s some honeys onboard. Just hope half of ’em ain’t dykes. Know what I’m saying?”
My expression hardened. “No, I don’t know what you’re saying. And I’m not your brother. Don’t call me that again.”
Hooper put down his ladle. “What’s your problem, dog?”
“You. You’re my fucking problem.”
I walked away, rather than let it turn into a fight. Behind me, I heard him muttering that I was an Uncle Tom. I sat down next to Mitch. Tasha and Malik sat on the other side of us. My shoulders felt tense, my jaw tight. The ship continued to roll.