Author (#32)March 2006 Archives
The phone rings at an ungodly hour of the night. Ned Devine's Pub picks up.
Ned Devine's Pub: (groggy and whispering) Hello.
Eater X: Hey. It's me. Are you asleep?
Ned Devine's Pub: What time is it?!?
Eater X: I don't know. Three. Maybe four-something.
Ned Devine's Pub: Why are you calling so late?
Eater X: I miss you. I can't get you out of my mind. Ever since I called you on Monday, you're all I can think about.
Ned Devine's Pub: And on Tuesday, too. You called me on Tuesday.
Eater X: And on Tuesday. You're right. I called you on Tuesday.
Ned Devine's Pub: Five times. You called me five times on Tuesday.
Eater X: I know. I did. I called you five times on Tuesday.
Ned Devine's Pub: During the dinner rush. You called me five times during the dinner rush on Tuesday.
Eater X: I know. I couldn't wait. I missed you so much.
Ned Devine's Pub: I missed you, too.
Eater X: (sensing something unusual in Ned Devine's Pub's voice) What's wrong?
Ned Devine's Pub: It's just that...nevermind.
Eater X: What?
Ned Devine's Pub: It's nothing. Forget about it.
Eater X: No, no. What's wrong? What's bothering you?
Ned Devine's Pub: It's just that we shouldn't even be talking to each other. You got Kate's email. You're not allowed to call me. Ours is a forbidden love, a love of which we cannot speak, a love that...
Eater X: I love it when you talk that way.
Ned Devine's Pub: What way?
Eater X: That way. Like you're acting in a period piece or something. Like you learned to speak in the 17th Century. (Imitating Ned Devine's Pub) Ours is a forbidden love, a love of which cannot speak.
Ned Devine's Pub: Come on. Be serious for a second.
Eater X: I am being serious. I love the way you talk. I love the things you say. I love you, Ned Devine's Pub.
Ned Devine's Pub: I love you, too.
(long silence)
Ned Devine's Pub: Alright. I have to get some sleep now. It's late.
Eater X: Okay. I'll see you Thursday. I'll call you when I get on the road. Good night.
Ned Devine's Pub: Good night.
I've spent countless hours hanging over the piers of Gloucester, staring into her bilgy waters, mumbling those desperate words, but I haven't a found a mermaid yet. As my copy of Fishes: A Guide to Fresh and Salt-Water Species conspicuously omits mermaids from its study, I can only speculate as to the reason for my unanswered pleas: I'm guessing that the water distorts my voice.
I bought my copy of Fishes on a vacation to Nantucket when I was a kid. It was published in 1987, which seems like forever ago. I should probably buy a newer edition because I bet we know more about mermaids now than we did back then.
I've heard many times that the mark of a fool is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result, so rather than continue to waste my precious time and breath whispering to a mermaid who probably can't even hear me, I'm going to write her a letter. I will laminate it and place it inside of a large bottle and tie it to a rock and drop it into the ocean from Pier 15. It will be succinct, like a good business letter, because I don't want a busy mermaid to get bored and throw it away before she's finished reading it. It will include my name, a self-addressed stamped envelope, and a photoshopped picture of me kickboarding confidently in the surf off Cape Ann. I beg you, dear reader, if you find it while spongediving or harvesting shellfish or whatever it is that you down there, please leave my bottled letter alone. It doesn't belong to you anyway, jerk! If you're so interested, here's what my letter will say.
Dear Mermaid,
If you were my sweetheart, I'd write you a letter every day to let you know that I love you. I would write that I love you at least 23 times per letter because I don't think it's possible to tell someone you love that you love them too many times in one day. I would seal each letter with a kiss, like in that old song by Gary Lewis and The Playboys, which you've probably never heard because you've been living underwater. I'll tell you what: I'll burn you a copy and hope that it sinks. Heads up!
If you were my sweetheart, I'd take you to a steakhouse every Sunday night. I'd order steak for 5, and we'd eat so much of it that our bellies would swell up big and handsome. Your belly would get so big, it'd hurt, and I'd pet it and lay my head on top of it and cry. As the pain got worse, you'd ask me to pop it, but I wouldn't pop it because I'd know what was good for you. A few minutes later, you'd swear to God you were going to die because, really, you'd have eaten far too much than is healthy for a body to eat, but I still wouldn't pop it for you. You'd leave the room and go the kitchen and get a knife to pop it yourself, but I'd take hold of you gently and put you in a box and lock it until the pain had subsided. I'd poke air holes in the top of the box so that you could breathe, and I'd talk to you and sing you songs to keep you calm. You like college fight songs, right? Good. 'Cause that's what I know.
If you were my sweetheart, every Saturday night would be Date Night. We'd do something different each week. And then we'd go home and play Good Touch/Bad Touch until the sun came up.
"How do you play Good Touch/Bad Touch?" you'd ask on our very first date.
And I'd show you with a "good" touch
"Oh," you'd say, surprised. "That's not so bad."
And then I'd show you with a "bad" touch.
And you'd slap my face and cross your arms and stare off into space and then--- Pffffffft!---blow the hair away from your eyes with your mouth.
"Bad touch?" I'd ask sheepishly.
If you were my sweetheart, I'd hire a hansom cab to drive us all around the city at night. I'd pay him to drive his horses for hours until we found another hansom cab willing to race us. We'd pull alongside that other cab, and our driver would nod at the other driver, and the other driver would nod back at him.
"On the count of three," I'd tell them both. "One. Three!" And I'd skip the number two altogether because my driver and I would have planned it that way.
We'd pull out to a huge lead because of our quick start, but the other driver would pull himself back into the race. We'd yell at our horses to go even faster, and we'd tuck our heads down low to reduce the wind drag of our cab. I'd cop a feel when we rolled over a bump in the road. "Good touch?" I'd ask.
"Good touch," you'd say with a smile because by now we'd have gone on several dates.
After we'd won the race, I'd pay the hansom cab driver to go over that bump again and again and again because we'd have figured it out by then, that we were meant to be.
Love,
The Whaler
When in Rome...
Bonus Fun Fact: Eater X and his buddy Joe Donahoe won't go see a movie together if its title is a single word that cannot be shortened.