Where the Fishes Live

Where the Fishes Live

This sloppy fella walking along the promenade deck is muttering to himself. He nearly walks into me, before I step aside. I’d normally get angry and say something sharp about courtesy, but on turning to glare at him, I see the back of his loud Hawaiian shirt has a big rip in it, from collar to his outsized waist, exposing part of his hairy back. He’s clearly nuts, gone round the bend, so I let it go.

Back up in my stateroom on the cruise ship, Queen of the Bay, a half hour later, I finish my slice of pizza out on the balcony, while looking at the blue sea sparkling with whitecaps. I chuckle at myself, a vigorous walk on the promenade deck round the massive ship to burn off a few hundred calories, then hit the food courts to wolf down eight hundred calories of pizza and hot dogs.

My wife is out at one of the pools, working on her tan, but I’ve come to realize that my favorite thing is just hanging out on my balcony, admiring the blue sea and sky. I spot a few flying fish leaping across waves. Fantastic. I’m up literally ten stories high, and I look down at the promenade deck five stories below, when I see that sloppy fella again. He’s changed his shirt. That’s good. Wearing an I Heart Jamaica t-shirt over his massive belly, and Bermuda shorts, the fella walks right through the life-sized chess game where the players are picking up and walking their chess piece to the new position. He’s got a long dirty gray beard, no eyebrows, his white hair is shorn unevenly bald, patchy, a nasty scab where the razor’s cut away part of his scalp. He walks right across the chess board, knocks over a castle, and the players, a man and a boy, likely father and son, yell at him. The fella walks on. I shake my head. Weird.

At formal dinner that evening Carla, my wife, and I, join our friends at our table, when I see him again, the sloppy fella, walk into the plush dining room. He’s wearing a heavy red nylon winter coat and dirty shorts.

“Look at that dude,” I advise my friends. We all watch, pretty much everyone in the dining room, as security confronts the man at the entrance. The fella begins swearing loudly, saying he’s hungry, don’t need no reservation. As he’s being led away, he yanks a crumpled hat from his coat pocket and plops it over his scalp. A stocking cap with a big wool fish, like a trout, sewn onto the crown of the cap.

By this time everyone is laughing softly, and the four of us crack up when Carla quips, “I think that’s what they call a fish out of water.”

The following day the four of us are on an excursion to see Mayan ruins in Yucatan. We’re on a small bus. Wonderfully air-conditioned because it’s in the high nineties. I love the cultural and historical sites, and seeing the everyday people of this interesting part of the world. Passing through a picturesque village we gaze out the window at people hawking tamales and souvenirs and trinkets along the dusty street, when whom do I see but my crazy fella, wearing his winter coat, his bloated face streaming sweat.

He’s arguing with a group of people, towering over them, bellowing at them, waving his hands in the air. A police officer has been summoned, a thin, diminutive cop, who just stares at the fella with a puzzled expression. The bus has come to a stop because of the traffic jam our crazy gringo has caused.

The crazy gringo is wearing dirty cargo shorts again, and I notice a large tattoo on his right calf, of Marilyn Monroe, from that famous pic of her standing over an air grate, her dress billowing up round her. But the fella’s calves are thick, fat, tree trunks, so that Marilyn’s waist and legs appear much wider than reality. It’s an unpleasant image.

Car horns are honking up and down the congested street and he turns, sees the bus, sees us gawking, and literally screams, a high-pitched squeal that sends chills through me. He pushes aside the crowd and marches toward us in the bus. He stands outside our window, points at me, and yells: “You, again! You did it. It’s your fault. You’ve ruined everything. I’ll get you, man!”

As he speaks spit flies from his scaly mouth, spattering the window. I shrink back from the glass, thoroughly bewildered. Alarmed. His eyes are bright blue Paul Newman eyes in a grotesque face. I’m shaking my head. Carla is asking what he means.

While raising my palms up in a WTF is wrong with you gesture, the short-statured police officer grabs hold of the fella’s arm to turn him, while calmy addressing him. But the fella yanks his arm away, and wildly throws a punch at the cop. The big little policeman grabs the fella’s arm, spins him round, flips him in the air, (It’s like in slow motion) and the fella hits the pavement hard, his head hitting a fraction of a second sooner than the rest. The brilliant cop is on the perp’s back yanking his arms and slipping handcuffs on. Really cool. We drive on and explore the ruins, though it’s hard for me to get a feel for what Mayan life was really like.

At one Mayan temple or palace, I think I see the fella up on top of the pyramidal structure, but no.

Glad to get back to our stateroom and sit sipping margaritas on the balcony, the four of us talk about the hot day, and look at the harbor town, palm trees and brightly colored homes, bars and shops, and the long pier leading to the ship. We are broadside to this.

Our good friend, Karen, suddenly sits forward, spills a bit of her drink. “Look what’s coming.” She points.

A police car has stopped at the end of the wharf, and our fella spills out of the back seat, and the cops drive away. He runs like a bull toward the ship, tumbles over a vendor’s little stand, scattering his wares, and even from up here we hear him yelling, in a strangely high-pitched voice.

“This guy is a nightmare,” I say. “He’s ruining this trip. He’s such a loathsome creature. My God.”

My wife and friends say to just avoid him. They assure me nothing will happen. We watch as two cruise line security people talk to the guy, one of them pointing his finger at the fella. Good. So, they’re aware of his charming personality.

By bedtime I’m somewhat reassured, but have nightmares. Wake up round three and can’t get back to sleep. That guy frightens me. I admit it. I’ve lived a fairly peaceful straightforward life. Haven’t been in a fight since eighth grade. Mostly smooth sailing, but this guy has rattled me. I seem to be sailing in uncharted waters here. I sit out on the balcony, a cool breeze across the Caribbean, just enough light to see some whitecaps. I think about walking up a deck to get a beer or something but fear I’ll run into him. Doze off.

I mostly stick to my stateroom for the next two days, disappointing my wife and our friends a little. They think I’m ridiculous, and I do feel like a pussy, excuse the expression. I see him walk past on the promenade deck below a number of times, challenging people to get out of the way. A promenade hog. He looks up at the balconies and I shrink back into the shadows.

But, with two days to go on the cruise I venture out for dinner with my group, in suit and tie. Prime rib and lobster. I’m sitting with my back to the large dining room, against my better judgement, but I’m enjoying the food, when there is a loud crash close behind. I nearly have a stroke, leap from my chair, knocking it over, and spin to see a cart full of cakes and pies splattering across the carpeted floor. No sign of the fella. Just two freaked out servers with reddening faces apologizing loudly for their careless crash.

We chuckle about it on the way to a bar for an after-dinner drink. Passing by a photographer taking group or couples portraits of diners, against a large backdrop of painted palm trees and blue seas I gasp when I see the present subject of the photographer. He looks worse than ever, scabs on his nose and forehead. He’s wearing another loud Hawaiian shirt with the tails tied below his sternum, leaving his chubby, hairy belly exposed. The photographer is clearly nonplussed, embarrassed, because people passing by are giggling at the sight. The fella, puts his fingers under his chin in a dainty pose, hollers, “Take the damn picture, moron!”

When his eyes light on me his pasty cheeks redden, he points and yells, “And I ain’t forgot about you, doctor!”

We hurry on, and I don’t sleep well that night. I listen at our door in the wee hours of morning, swear I hear him passing back and forth in the carpeted hallway, muttering to himself.

The last day. The ship is steaming back toward New Orleans, and the shuttle to transport us to the airport. I’m so fed up, finally refuse to be intimidated by that lout.

We enjoy a hardy buffet breakfast, the four of us. I eat way too much crisp bacon. Afterwards a soak in a sea deck hot tub. No sign of the fella. We laugh about it now. I’m tired, but determined a half-hour jog round the promenade will restore me. I’m sluggish after hiding out for the past couple days.

In shorts, t-shirt and sneakers I set out at a leisurely pace, pass by those big enclosed orange life boats on their davits, and round the stern and along the sea-side, the Caribbean the most beautiful blue I’ve ever seen. I pass by a series of chaise lounges occupied by two beautiful, skimpy-clad women, and the fella! I nearly freeze, but he doesn’t see me. He’s wearing his red winter coat and fish hat, and shorts, and making the two young ladies uncomfortable.

I trot on, faster. Round the bow, into a strong wind, and back along the port side. I’m breathing deeply, and enjoying myself, coming alive again. I give some thought to not going round the starboard side again, but hell with it. When I approach those chaise lounges, just past that life-size chess lay-out, I see that everyone’s gone. The girls, probably creeped out, have vanished, and my fella, with no one to terrorize, has vanished as well.

I chuckle, increase my gait, when he lunges out from behind the casino’s bay doors. Wraps his thick arms round me, grunting, “Got you, bastard.” He knocks me off balance and lugs me to the outer railing. I claw at his arms and holler for help, but he’s hoisting me into the air and over the side, the churning sea five stories below. I grab hold of the railing for my life, but he’s climbing over the side with me, and we both fall.

Again, like slow motion we drop, and I have time to think, shit, this is bad. He let’s go of me and we fall separately. He’s grinning at me until we hit. He smacks the sea a fraction sooner, but pain rips through me, from the soles of my feet to my brain.

I descend several fathoms into the Caribbean Sea, marveling at what’s happened to me, before buoyancy returns and I struggle to the surface. Burst forth gasping for air. The view of the gigantic ship passing by above is the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. I don’t see the fella. He bursts from the waves a few feet away, panting and cursing.

I see tiny people pointing and yelling on the sea decks, can’t hear them, but thankful they’ve seen us. Then the wake of the cruise ship hits, lifts us, rolls us over several times, slaps us against the surface and into a trough before we stabilize. I’ve swallowed a pint of sea water and gag and cough, but fortunately, I’m a pretty good swimmer. I hurt all over, but keep treading water.

The fella is floundering, slapping at the waves. Staring at me with pained eyes. I note tendrils of blood in the water. One of us, or both, tore skin when we hit, and I think of sharks.

Suddenly the fella yells out, “I’m so sorry, man! I lost my mind. Thought you were somebody else!” A wave washes over us and he swallows a quart. He’s slipping under, slapping at the water, trying to get horizontal, but can’t. He’s sobbing. “Help me!” he cries. “I’m sorry!”

The ship seems to be slowing. “What’s your name?” I ask for some reason.

He spits out a gob of water, gasping for life. “Dale, man, Dale Jablonski.”

I swim to him, just as he goes under, get my right arm under his left arm, and tread water while we bob up and down. He pulls me under, but I fight to the surface and think I see a shark fin a few yards off.

We wait for rescue. I tell him to paddle his feet like riding a bicycle, and he actually does. While we tread he tells me his wife died last year and, in his psychosis, convinced himself I’d been the treating doctor. “I couldn’t live anymore,” he continues, gasping and spitting water. “Miss her every second. I’m a mess and she’s the only person who ever cared about me. I’m lost.”

Keeping an eye on that shark fin, circling us, I tell him I’m not a doctor, I’m a history teacher.

“I know, man. I know now. Shit, you don’t even look like ‘im. My shrink said to go on a leisurely cruise, relax and meditate. When I saw you walking along, I flipped, thought sure…” he gives way to sobs.

From the port side of the ship a boat appears round the stern, a captain’s launch, or something. Thank God. I see the shark’s pointed snout underwater, a couple feet away. It’s overcome its caution. Using Dale for balance and torque I kick out, plant my soggy sneaker right on its nose, and it peels away.

“What was that? What’re you doing?”

“Nothing, Dale,” I say. “A boat’s coming. We’re saved.”

That evening, I eat voraciously, and I’m something of a celebrity, meet the captain, tour the bridge. We take in an adults-only comedy show. I’m in a great mood, despite my aching body, and my wife never looked more beautiful.

Before turning in I decide to go find the brig, somewhere down near crews’ quarters. I’d like to talk to Dale if I can, see how he’s doing.

END