"There it is—I bet we're awash." (I wasn't sure what that meant, but I thought it would do.)
Cockeye snarled his disgust.
"Listen, you kids, you go to sleep. That noise is water slapping up against the hull. And that other noise is some loose paint buckets stored up here."
"Well, we just wanted to do what we could in case—"
"Watsa matter with you guys? What y'noivous about? Didn'cha ever loin to swim?"
"Sure . . ."
"So what you worried about? We're only three miles away from land."
"Three miles away . . . ?"
"Yeh, just three miles." Then he pointed. "Straight down."
He haw-haw'd and hustled back to the prow to look out for real danger. We went back to our cabin and undressed in the darkness.
In spite of the crashing of the cans, the cockeyed guy's assurance had dissipated Mush's fears, and soon he snored. It wasn't so easy for me to get to sleep.
Out on deck the S.S. Hermanita had seemed like a pretty flimsy bit of dry security. Her deck felt thin and frail under my feet, as if those rusty plates floated and buckled directly on the immensity of the black ocean, as if there were no hold underneath. The tremendous vaulting heavens did nothing to help; their scale suggested the futility of individual prayer.
Vaguely, I recall, I consoled myself with the thought—we had a Minion. According to Hebraic law, a formal petition of prayer to the Lord must be made by at least ten men met together for that purpose. That is called a Minion. He will listen to no less on important issues.
Our deck crew, this vigilant cockeyed guy up on the prow, the blond Polack from Baltimore, the old man with the pink eyelids, the ripply-muscled bullet-headed fellow, the slim Georgia Boy, the big guy named Joe, the fat Sailing Man, Al, Mush, and I—we already made up a Minion. The little Bos'n and that big Russian could act as alternates. I'd explain the Hebraic law to them quickly if we were shipwrecked and the Captain said, "All is lost—let us pray. . . ."
Then I, too, must have fallen asleep.
6. Soogie Moogie
WAKING UP IN A SHIP AT SEA IS LIKE AWAKENING in a cabin in a mountain forest. There's the fresh, clear air, and the flickering of the reflection from the water on the overhead recalls the play of light through the leaves of a tree. It seems the steady-throb of the engines doesn't stir the peaceful quiet any more than the rustling of the leaves or the wood noises you hear in the mountains.
It had been pleasant to hear the man on watch bang away at the ship's bell on the deck overhead through the night.
I took a deep breath, stretched, and looked out the porthole— a nice clean bright day. Then I looked down to Mush's bunk.
"Morning, Mush. How'd you sleep?"
His head appeared slowly. He was a faint, yellowish-green color, and his bulgy eyes rolled up at me like two cold blue hard-boiled eggs. The blubbery mouth (for which he was named Mushmouth) sagged loose and wet. He looked up a moment and then groaned.
Mush was seasick!
And looking down at him, I felt strangely squeamish in the pit of my stomach. I quickly averted my eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to forget those boiled-egg eyes. When my stomach settled, I carefully climbed down, pulled on my dungarees (keeping my eyes from him), and got out on deck.
I went around the bulkhead and shouted in at him through the porthole that faced the deck.
"Hey, Mush, you better get dressed and come get breakfast."
He just groaned—something like I'm gonna die or something. Anyway, there was death in it. Mush stayed in his bunk.
I didn't have time to shave. From the looks of things we were late again. In the mess the Bos'n said, "The man on watch will have to wake you guys. We turn to at eight—we day men."
I mumbled I was very sorry, explained about Mush, and sat down to breakfast.
Flip slapped a plate down in front of me. "Ste'k," he said.
It sure was—a leathery dark strip of something glittering with a varnish of grease. Now I've always had a cosmopolitan tolerance for breakfast menus. In fact, I've experimented—in the Automat, Coffeepots, one-armed cafeterias, and such restaurants as I patronize in New York—with any new arrangements I've heard or read of concerning the varied food rites practiced in breaking the long night fast in preparation for the new day.
I've tried the New England idea—cold apple pie and leftover pork and beans; the French croissant dunked in a lukewarm bowl of cafe au lait; the Southern Negro stunt of a couple of dewy ripe tomatoes fresh from the field; the English grilled kippers or a bloater that is not so far removed from my Galician aunt's bit of lox or a fragment of gefuelte; the Italian cup of bitter black coffee with a shot of grappa; the Dutch cold cuts and cheese on rye with your morning cocoa; the Russian nibble of herring and a slug of vodka or is it a dab of kashe; and our own all-American griddle cakes, waffles, sausages, cold sawdust cereals (with all the variations advertised on the package), and the grilled or fried slices of pig—but until then never had I eaten steak for breakfast or had it offered me.
I weakly asked, "Flip, can't I have something else?"
Flip's eyes widened. "What's matta? Dat's good ste'k."
"It's good—but I feel a little funny."
"Maybe. I look in galley. Maybe ketch. . . ." Then his face lit up in a hopeful grin. "You want maybe two nice, col' har'-boil eggs?"
I thought of Mush's eyes, gulped down some hot coffee, mumbled no thanks, and went to work.
The Bos'n, Al, and the Fat Man were doing something with the forward winch. As I climbed over the hatch to join them, the Bos'n turned and asked:
"Kid, how you with a shovel?"
"Shovel? Pretty good, I guess. Used to have a lot of snow up state—got a lot of practice. Once worked as a fireman in an apartment house."
I didn't think to add I was fired after I'd shoveled coal for half a day with the handle of the thing twisting in my hand so I threw more coal into the ashpit below the furnace than I got on the grate.
"Good enough. Take this shovel and shovel that stuff piled up back aft overside." He grinned as he handed it to me.
That "stuff" was a mountain of garbage piled high on the afterdeck. I guess big ships pay to have their garbage picked up by the garbage scows, but little tubs like this S.S. Hermanita can't afford that luxury, and since you're not permitted to dump your garbage in the New York harbor, the stuff was piled up high on deck and shoveled off when the ships got out at sea. I'd noticed our pile getting higher and higher until it reached the messdeck, and made its presence felt even up on the bridge. I had some vague thought they might be drying it out to sell as fertilizer.
I shouldered my shovel and went back and got to work. All morning I shoveled. But the elements were against me. The wind kept blowing the stuff back at me and back on deck. A few A.B.'s and some of the black gang sat on the hatch and watched my Herculean struggle and cracked wise.
"Use your teeth, kid."
"Push it over."
And one cackling bon mot from old Pat, the oiler who had joined my audience, sent them rolling.
"That's sure shoveling it 'ginst the tide. Hey, boy?"
About noon I finished and went forward to our cabin to pick up some cigarettes and console Mush. He was still abed, his face to the bulkhead.
"How you doin', Mush?" I greeted him cheerily.
"Feel a little better, I guess. Guess I'll get out."
Then he turned his pale face to me.