The Eden Express_ A Memoir of Insanity - Mark Vonnegut [108]
Apology—maybe if he had read more, paid attention to that sort of thing, he might have been able to understand more of the things I was saying. Regret that he had missed something. Accusation that we, the upper middle class, the intellectual elite, were leaving him out. If the secret of life, the real goodies of one sort or another, depend on a liberal arts education, if little parts of the puzzle were squirreled away in War and Peace, Shakespeare, here and there in a combination that only someone like me would have a chance of coming upon, it wasn’t very fair.
“My father never read anything. He had an eighth-grade education.”
My answer to Joe on all counts was a crash course.
“Well, old man,” I said affectionately, putting my arm around him, and started reciting Moby Dick from memory. It seemed like as good a place to start as any.
I had only read Moby Dick once and hadn’t made any effort to memorize it. I had been going on for about five minutes before I realized what I was doing. “Incredible, I’m reciting Moby Dick from memory. How can this be?” But there it was, and the more I relaxed, the more it came.
It was a stall. I wanted a story that took a while to finish. The length of Moby Dick was a big point in its favor. I had already done “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” but that went too fast. Somehow I figured the world would keep going or I would keep going as long as I had things to do.
War and Peace wouldn’t have held his attention as well. I could get to it later depending on how Moby Dick went. Too much history and other background stuff was necessary for War and Peace.
I remembered Mary, a few months before, rapping on drunkenly, “Why do I love this lout? It’s not just that he has a cock that stretches from here to here,” she said, stretching her arms as if telling a fish story. Moby Dick was just right in lots of ways.
So I took Joe to the chapel and we listened to the sermon. We went on board and set out in search of whales and adventure. We lived through tempests in the hold with sperm lamps flickering. The smell of ropes and salt and tar. We breathed the close air of the holds and the brisk salt air on the deck. We sailed through the tropics to the Arctic Circle. We slaughtered whales, thrilled to the chase, thrilled to the dangers. Wept together over dead friends. Bitched about the food and the captain. Dreamed about what we’d do with our pay. We’d be rich men some day, owning land and boats. Mansions and big families on Nantucket. Telling whaling stories to our grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It was a good life. He lost a finger in the ropes. I lost three toes to a harpoon. In the end, we drowned in each other’s arms when the Pequod went down.
Some was done with gesture, some with words, some was done in ways that can only be called psychic.
I remember feeling his hand on my arm, shaking me. And then, slowly, the sea and the Pequod went away and we were back in his cabin. “I think I understand, Mark. Thank you. No one’s ever done anything like that for me before.” There were tears in his eyes and in mine too.
“But I can’t let you go on. I’m afraid of what it’s doing to you. Take this.” He handed me one of the pills that Dr. Miller had prescribed if things got rough.
“Well, so this is it. It’s all right, Joe, I understand you have to do it.” I recognized the pill. It was exactly like one a greaser hippie in Philly had laid on me a couple of years earlier. I had thrown the damn thing away. “Yes,” I said, looking at it. “I was supposed to take this a long time ago. I hope no one minds too much that I overstayed my welcome. I guess I just didn’t want to leave. Good-by, Joe. No blame.”
“Good night, Mark. No blame.”
The pill went down easily and took effect quickly. My breathing, my pulse, my heart all became softer and softer and softer until