The Ordinary Seaman Read Online Free

and bite the anchor.”
    “Bueno.”
    “Or drink gasoline.”
    They didn’t talk much after that, though neither pretended to sleep either. The movie was eliciting an almost unbroken riot of yelping laughter and swooning squeals of
Ay qué Undo
from the passengers. Esteban put on his headphones. A huge, slobby dog was in love with another huge, slobby dog wearing a pink bow in her collar, and because the two dogs didn’t want to be apart, the smiling, teary-eyed families who owned each dog had to decide what to do about this awkward situation, but then the dogs ran away together. They all lived in that usual America-land of big white houses, each in the middle of its own tree-shaded park. The enemy is the government and its warring policies, not the American people, no? When Esteban removed his headphones, Bernardo immediately turned to him and asked: “Have you fathered any children?”
    “Pues, no.” Esteban scowled.
    Eventually even the light in the window had paled. Esteban forced himself into a long, methodical daydream of female flesh and love-making. It didn’t work; he felt miserable, not at all aroused, trying to remember her and the way it had been in Quilalí, the last girl he’d fucked and one of only three he’d ever fucked but the only one who’d ever let him do it up the culito, buried in jungle earth now, something of him still inside her scientifically if invisibly still inside her mixing into the rotting earth, verdad? In another half century he’d be this old waiter’s age. Puta, would it have stopped by then? This death blotting out love whenever he tries to conjure love, totally fucked up: like with that whore in Corinto last week, when she was naked on her burdel bedand suddenly all he could think of was
her
perfumed, satiny flesh and blood ripped apart sprayed through green underbrush while on her bed she rolled over on her belly like a dog thrusting hard round smooth little buttocks up at him,
No te preocupas, amorcito, no pasa nada chúpame aquí
—smiling! If that putita had known what he was thinking, it would have been
her
getting the hell out of there as fast she could, no?
No pasa nada.
Ni verga. No pasa nada, mi amor … Was there a girl in one of the ports they’d be stopping at, maybe even someone he’d meet over the next few days in New York, or someone out there in their voyage along that part of the world where city and ocean air intermix, where people live caressed inside and out by opposite kinds of air and breezes, which is why they’re incapable of keeping things in, of keeping love hidden, no? Was there a girl who was going to bring love back to him, fill him with love as he swallowed the warm breath of her kisses, who was waiting for him right now in a shimmery haze of hot city and ocean air without even knowing him yet? He sat purposefully and suspensefully still, trying to imagine her. Should I make her older or younger? Rich or poor? Light or dark? What’s her name? What language does she speak? Should she pull her shirt off over her head herself, her chichis suddenly blooming and bouncing from under her elbows going up in a band of cloth, or will I unbutton … He turned his head away, staring down at the aisle so the viejo wouldn’t see the hot, wet stinging in his eyes—I’m ruined, no good for anything …
    Later, when there was turbulence, Bernardo told him about chairs lashed to the legs of the officers’ mess dining table during rough seas and that the way to keep plates and glasses and silverware from sliding off was to soak the tablecloth with water, and even better than that, water that rice had been boiled in, if the galley cook had had the discipline and foresight to save it.
    “A man who plans ahead is worth two, muchacho. But not this one. This cook drinks too much. First day on the job, and look, he’s arriving drunk. Have you seen how many rum and cokes he’s already taken?”
    Maybe I’ll get a tattoo, thought Esteban. Should I get a