MOBY DICK'S LAST DIVE
“Well, if they’re wearing too much makeup, or have face-filters that make them look like a painted egg, then it’s a no. I’m not saying it’s deceptive, exactly, but it makes me think of Dorian Gray for some reason.”
My friend, a modest man of bearish strength, smiles:
“I understand. You just want to see the real person.”
“Yeah…”
I sigh, gazing out of the window. It was going to be a long trip after all…
“Also, no lip-filler. I don’t want to worry what your PSI every time you do the duck face – and, on that note; no expressions that wouldn’t last five minutes in a zombie apocalypse.
Next, we need to discuss your workouts. Yes, it’s good you want to keep in shape, but that doesn’t excuse snaps of you in lycra, looking like you’re auditioning for a human nutcracker.
…And that reminds me: I don’t want to see you squatting or benching heavy loads. You surely can’t outlift me, and if you can; well then that’s my ego melted down and used for pigfeed.
No jet-skis, sky- diving, and definitely no golf. I might make an exception for mini-golf, though there’s no guarantees. Now, on to holidays. Yes, we take them sometimes, but I don’t want to see any yachts, dune-buggies or depressed camels.
Please, go easy on the urban landscapes: Too many skyscrapers will definitely make me question your integrity. If I see you in Dubai or Abu Dhabi, in front of the world’s tallest anything – worse still, actually inside it?! Oh, you are so gone, baby.
No landmarks, you hear? No London Bridges, Golden Gates, Twin – oh…well, anyway, you catch my drift. Oh, very funny, how original; you’re pushing over the Torre di Pisa – never seen that before. Oh, and absolutely no Eifel tower: That’s a hard, nuclear no from me!”
“Anything else?”
“Let me think…”
We were hardly moving now anyway:
“…By sobbing Christ almighty, I don’t want to see what’s on your plate. Yes, I understand we must eat at least once every thirty days, but why do I have to witness it? Especially on the no-go list: sea food, including all shell fish and sushi, Italian cuisine, two or more side dishes; deserts such as cheesecakes are acceptable, but without your phone on the table. If featured, alcohol consumption must be kept to a minimum and with muted enthusiasm.
The following beverages are strictly banned: Aperol, champaign, wine glasses over thirty-decilitres, or cocktail containing more than one umbrella. I don’t think I really need to underline this, but if I ever catch you with a Big Mac, KFC, Starbucks, or any of the other human pollutant, you’re done – bye-bye – that’s a trapdoor out of my life, straight into the hell of some other guy.”
“She’ll never fall in love again.”
“Well, not with any mammals of the two-legged variety, which reminds me…
Pets: Of course, we all like our furry friends, but when that furry friend is a bug-eyed vanity mutation? I have to question what primeval puddle you wish to drag me back into! No pugs or chihuahua. Jack Russell? – Yes, I might give you a pass there, but no accessories!
Same goes for the big breeds: I don’t want your ravenous half-wolf castrating me in a jealous rage. Oh, so you’re an artist? Well, just make sure you’re not a poet, dancer, content creator, conceptual twerker, or a walking glowstick. No rights, solidarity, or protests; and no threats or ultimatums, or else!”
“You’ve got to vet them carefully,” says my friend, as I take a swig of water.
“And another thing: I don’t want to see too much sitting down at festivals, surrounded by more than four items of plastic, or in clubs with marble, chrome, or mirror décor. No yoga on mountain-tops, nose rings, chest or neck inking…”
“But other tattoos are ok?”
“My God, man! They all have at least one these days. Find me one without and we’ll make our fortune! Roll up, roll up! Come and see the astonishing untattooed woman!”
“Fair enough.”
“Now where was I? No ‘cat moms,’ headphones, blue hair, crazy eyes, sunglasses in more than one pic, or the same expression every time. No selfies in elevators, planes, cars, or next to any electrical appliances other than a toaster. Houseplants – nice to see, but I don’t want to see your stringy cactus, perfect orchid, or sad fern….
Did I mention the Eifel tower yet?”
“Only once already.”
“Ok, well, no crypto scammers, scooters, or marathon runners. I want to know I can play kiss-chase without suffering a cardiac arrest! I’ll also be watching for excessive mouth opening, nostril flaring, sarcasm or vaping. Honestly, I’ve seen less ink clouds from escaping squid! Though I’m sure I’ve missed something…”
“Take your time.”
“Well…no bad books. Here’s a list of banned authors…”
I nudge him across the aisle: “Hey, you still awake?”
“Just resting my eyes. Was I out for long?”
“Long enough to reach Poland. So, as I was saying; if you pass all these tests, then here I am…”
I hold up my phone to reveal a rather lopsided and semi homeless looking individual, in a hoodie and camouflage trousers, posing under a photoshopped picture of a flat earth.
“Oh, and no spinning monkey ball enthusiasts either. What do you think about it?”
“I don’t have a problem with it,” he says, turning back to resume snuggling with his wife.
…
In the next lane is an army truck towing a large container, two soldiers up front; the epitome of superpower cool in their polaroid sunglasses and pristine uniforms, while I peek out from behind the dusty blue curtain. What are they transporting through the colony? Missiles? Bio-weapons? An inflatable gay disco?
I resume my Moby Dick audiobook, attempting to drift away with the epic journey, while checking the messages from my muse, who has meanwhile decided to escalate things:
‘Looking hot in your uniform there, mister. Where you hiding your real gun though?’
‘I’m afraid that’s an official state secret.’
‘Oh, come on – not shy, are we? Anyway, I should at least see where my taxes go…’
My word, the huntress was hungry today!
I hear Captain Boomer’s jovial voice echoing across the pier:
So, you want to come aboard, eh, woman?! Tell me, how many have you caught before?
Good sir, a lady does not simply catch and tell. But I’ll say this; there isn’t a blubbery beast who didn’t regret the day it reared up before me!
Ah, looks like we’ve got a real killer here, boys! Welcome aboard, Miss!
…
At the polish border control, the man in the booth is mildly curious about my quest. He asks me a few questions, before deeming me a harmless fool.
“Go-Go power rangers,” he says, motioning me through.
Obviously, there is no threat from us. I mean, what are we going to do - shuffle them to death? None of this is our fault anyway; the stiff, silent children of a bitter divorce, wondering just how long we have to wait, and praying the whole house doesn’t burn down in the meantime.
At long last, we’re all done and back in our seats, chugging across the section of nowhere land between two nations.
A guard steps aboard for an initial document check; everything seems to be in order so far.
Now more waiting as they process the busses ahead of us. I close my eyes, transported back to a different time, a better place; without borders or queues; the salty wind in our faces, the wild romance of the unknown...
This monster is like no other; ruthless, cunning. Just when you think you know his habits, he’ll come crashing into your rear to sink your dreams! One wicked eye has he, and a curiously misty spout too! And in his heart a hate as deep as the ocean itself! Yah, I shudder when I think of him, flapping around down there, searching for his next victim!
Have you considered that he simply doesn’t like men?
What gibberish do you speak of, wench?! He liked me plenty enough to take my leg!
I implore you, Captain; give me the harpoon! I’ll show thee this dirty ol’ spurter is no different than the rest!
…
Almost there now, as I stare up into the camera, putting on my best nice guy impression. But something is wrong. The middle-aged woman in the booth is unsatisfied with something beyond just her husband. Her eyes have not left the crinkly pages of my passport, nor have her features yet softened; a smile appearing like a rainbow of trust after the initial storm of suspicion, as she realises that unlike the eerily over-eager, and slightly constipated face in the passport, the real me – yes, hello – standing right here – is actually far nicer and more reasonable, and really good with children too.
She looks up, firing a few questions at me, as my mouth gapes in telling silence.
“He’s with me,” says my friend, but even this does not help. She speaks strange words into a receiver, summoning a higher power. It’s time for a little sit down on the sofa of truth.
…
What am I here for?
“Just a holiday.” I motion to my friend, who explains that everything has been arranged. I have a visa, a place to stay, a whole week of cultural enrichment ahead of me, and nothing but good intentions, of course.
“And what do you do?”
“Well, I’m a teacher mainly, literature – yeah, all the classics: Dostoevsky - oh, huge fan by the way – ‘War and Peace,’ I mean, what an absolute thriller!”
My friend winces, taking a while to translate. It is three in the morning and here we are, discussing my supposed life.
The official gives a neutral nod, intuitively knowing to give me enough line…
He’s going to surface at any moment, Captain, I can feel it in my bosom!
Aye, and what a fine ol’ mess he’s going to make!
“Oh, and I’m a writer too,” I blurt out, unable to resist trying to impress a man in uniform.
He blinks, absorbing this new intel.
“And what do you write about?”
“Er…sort of, like, sci-fi…” I need a more universal topic to bond over…
“Also, women…sci-fi women.”
“Show me.”
…
“That’s the ‘Man Who Knew One Thing.’ It’s about a man who knows one thing.” His finger glides across the screen: “Oh, that’s about a bad sex doll; a parable of our absurd times. Ah, now that’s the story how I bought a Ferrari and a tiger and crashed into my parent’s house, hence why insurance is important. I mean, of course it’s all…”
I trail off.
Story time is indeed over, as he commandeers my phone to go through my photos. It doesn’t take long before his jaw tightens.
There he blows, Captain! I told you my plan would work!
Well, don’t just stand there! Harpoon the slippery bugger!
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind explaining this?” he says, turning the phone to reveal everything wrong with me in one degenerate selfie.
My face pales.
“Ok, I admit it: I’m a postmodern mess! But I swear, it’s not what you think! She made me send that picture to her! And the uniform…well, yes, I know we’re technically enemies now, but I mean, can’t we all just get along?!”
It’s no good. He’s looking at me like an animal he’s never seen before.
Even my friend has stopped translating and is staring in horror at the picture.
He shakes his head in disgust, scrolling down into the darkness. Here is a man who loves his family, his country; a sense duty shadowing his every step.
And then there’s me, naked apart from my beret, two grenades barely covering my –
“Wait here.”
He walks off, leaving my friend and I sitting side by side.
“I’m fucked, aren’t I?”
My friend nods.
“Though perhaps he quite liked the –”
He shakes his head, as we hear a woman’s shriek of laughter.
“Maybe if I do my speech?”
“Definitely not.”
The man returns: “You may continue with your journey,” he tells my friend.
“But you must leave now and never return,” he says to me.
I stand up: “Well, no hard feelings…Under different circumstances we’d be enjoying a pint together, right?”
He glances at my outstretched hand as if it has a triple dose of monkey-pox.
“Follow me, please.”
Like a disappointed father returning from parents’ evening, he marches sternly ahead, with me struggling to keep up.
Could do better, could do better; that’s all we seem to ever hear!
He turns to face me, as I notice the pink scar of dawn behind his shoulder. Here’s my last chance to make a good impression, or at least salvage some of my reputation to a man who has already seen me in a variety of poses.
“Listen, I just want you to know: I hate McDonalds too.”
He sighs, handing me my passport as the minibus arrives.
“Please, just go now.”