By hook and by crook
All good men have to suffer, the ones who work with their hands. It’s what makes them the men that they are. They are born of a natural violence and leave by the same token. Surrender to nothing. In the end, nothing is pretty, it’s all spit and grit. You take your turn, then move on to your heavenly estate. Irish Catholic, or a common Polish Ski, ain’t it all just the same? Then death comes and collects their souls, the men of God’s great ocean. And if they happen to be seaman, well then it’s by hook and by crook. The soul is dragged back into the ocean where all of its memories and sins were left behind. Both lust and desire then come in waves taking their turn smashing the old seaman, guts and glory being washed out to sea.
I knew an old man, he was of the sea and smoked a pipe but was no blood relative to me. I’d call him father, brother or whatever shall be. He was a good Christian, and I’m the one who swore like a sailor. He was not like me in that regard. Some days he would tell me that he’d acted like an ass and spin a tall tale. He was an enthusiast of westerns and the like. Shot himself in the leg, took a ride in the ambulance, got his name into the local newspaper too. Famous for doing something dumb. I did plenty of stupid shit too, just never got caught like the old guy did. You know, like getting tossed into the back of a squad car, then later being released. But I have no rap sheet to speak of. My brother however, that is a different story. Lives fifteen miles away, and doesn’t speak to me, what a mess. “Be a man” I said, take some objections. He didn’t like my thoughts, but what can you say. Look or don’t look, brother, it’s your life after all. I am not your keeper. That man too, chased blonds, booze, loose women and venereal disease. I was the ant and he the grasshopper. When to cold rain comes, I at least know where to go.
The old man was faithful in his own way, a submariner, he worshiped the sea. Me, I’m just another middle class blue collar hero. “Don’t drink your pay check” he warned me one time. “Pay the bills on time and save a little money for bad weather.” I wonder what it was to be like him in his prime, on a boat of a hundred souls, riding beneath the placid sea. One thing he recounted most was the smell. Sailors would board just after the last crew left, no way to describe the horrid smell of human sweat and diesel fuel oil. A black tin can beneath the heavens, “ain’t no darkness like the sea,” he would tell me.
Three weeks ago I called him. “Ishmael, is that you?” He greeted me back with his fake Indian language, couldn’t tell if it were a truth or a lie. The sentiment was warmth and love, a likeness to respect. Just the same we spoke of God, love, his death and respect for the sea. But it was some months ago that I felt his spark had faded somehow. There was a thing that shifted in the old man of the deep sea. Maybe this Hemingway type took his last sip? Perhaps the torch was set to go out? Or perhaps there was a quiet sadness one faced silently alone at the end of their life. Not one of regret, but one one of longing to go back home, to God’s great country. Maybe for him there’s an angel, one who knew his song of the dark waters. He often reminded me how men have two angels. There’s one of light and one of wicked darkness. Men are always at odds within themselves trying to be a better men. I’ve got dark secrets too, and so did he. A big collection of sins to fill both my pockets. But this is what makes life so fun. Kick up your heels and don’t give a flying fart, throw your hat into the breeze.
How does a man get ready to die anyway? It’s his own right to contemplate the end and see its discovery. I went up to room 525B that cold Sunday morning. The old bird wasn’t there so we could have a moment free from her hurtful gaze. I sat there by myself and prayed for his swift release. Speaking softly, “Johnny, it’s time, it’s time, it’s okay. Please my friend, stop fighting death.” He was a stubborn old bastard, fought with his death angel for three long days. I might of done the same thing, too. Real men don’t go quietly, and neither did he. God bless his mortal soul. Kicking and screaming he came and went, and I cried. No one saw me do it, not a soul.
As I sat there and prayed, his eyes fluttered, the mouth was dry longing for moisture. The morphine drip didn’t push him any closer. Johnny kept kicking the sheets off, exposing an off-white hospital gown. The sheets fell by his waist, I had to turn my head when he exposed himself. My humanity felt embarrassed for the nudity, but in the end we’re all men. I was reminded there of my daughters birth. The birth process is violent and so why shouldn’t death be, too? I was glad I went, just one more time to reflect with my old friend, a gladiator to the end. It’s funny though how he used to say how he fought with his senile wife everyday. He called it the “arena,” and some days he used the net, and the others a trident and shield. That old bitch was sicker than she admitted. One day she just decided that she hated me so. And just like him, we were now both gladiators in the arena. The Cesar never did give us a pardon, both doomed to fight to the death. Both men were to fight to the end. A tough exit to go home.