Call Me Ishmael

By Erick Flaig

How can you save the universe if it won't hold still?

If these critics existed, this is what they might say:

"...shows a complete lack of understanding of quantum physics and string theory..." North American Institute of Physicists and Theorists.

"...we are...not amused." Her Imperial Majesty, Queen Victoria

"Seems calculated to undermine public trust in the fairness and constitutionality of the federal tax code." IRS Home-Oriented Compliance Task Force

"Sweet mother of all conspiracy theories!!!" Name withheld

"...paints an inaccurate portrait of school bus drivers." School Bus Driver Anti-defamation League

"It is clear the author has never seen, much less held, a steam-powered style flamethrower. They are much cooler." Center for Scientific Accuracy in SteamPunk Fiction

"There is an 11.1% chance that the author has indeed discovered the last digit in pi..." Society for Rounding Numbers to Rational Numbers of Integers

"Where are the sparkly vampires?" www. facebook.com/everybookneedssparklyvampires

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erick Flaig
• Release date: Oct 14, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458125194

Erick Flaig

Due to the sensitive nature of the novel, the author is currently in the Witless Protection Program.

Book preview

Call Me Ishmael

e. flaig

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Erick C. Flaig

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the works of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. And highly unlikely.

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

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Call Me Ishmael

Chapter One

Call me Ishmael. No, I'm not the first one to write that sentence. But this book has nothing to do with a whale, white or otherwise, although a ship features prominently. So humor me, and call me Ishmael.

It was rare for me to have a day free from work, and there was nothing needing done around the homestead, which was rarer still. My lawn was cut, there was no paint peeling, and the windows were all unstuck. My bills were paid or could wait a while longer, so I had tossed them to the back of the desk and left the house.

The sun beat bright and hard, a polished diamond in an azure sky. Earlier in the summer, I had crafted a tiny boat from a single sheet of plywood; cutting, bending, and gluing, to see if it could be done. To my surprise, a boat sprang from my fingers like Athena from Zeus’ brow. It fit one person nicely, and fit in the back of my small pickup. As I possessed the perfect boat for impromptu trips, I threw it on the truck like a faded summer leaf and left the house behind.

Within an hour after my departure, I was a world away, floating on nearby Lake Erie. The sun warmed my body like a microwave sandwich in a browning tray, while the breeze cooled things perfectly.

Call me Ishmael, I murmured. The breeze gusted just enough to turn the nose of my small craft this way and that without turning the thing into an amusement park ride. I found the motion very soothing. Before long, I dropped my anchor and ignored the fishing rod by my feet. I abandoned myself to inertia, like a newborn babe, but without the necessity of frequent diaper changes; I dozed in the watery cradle. It was, in many respects, a perfect day.

Left to my own devices, I dreamed on while my midget boat drifted the length of the anchor line. Time passed.

Ahoy!

I became dimly aware of a shout, somewhere to my left; and then another, and then another. The third was decidedly urgent sounding.

Ahoy there!

I stirred and pulled my head up from the slumbering depths, only to drop it when I could not focus my attention on waking up. It was such a perfect day for sleeping in a boat. I couldn't imagine anything effecting my repose. There was more shouting, which irritated me until I opened my eyes to see what all of the hubbub was about. Immediately I realized how deeply I had been sleeping.

There was water in my boat. Any amount of water in any boat, where it is not supposed to be, is not a good thing.

Holy cow! I shouted, and at once thought better of it. As if in response to my cry, the stern glue gave way and the entire port side of the good ship Pequod sprang to starboard. I scrambled back away from the surging water, but the space for scrambling was quite small, and the water followed me. In fairness, there was less than three feet for it to traverse.

I heard another shout. Automatically, I turned my head, to locate the source, and almost smacked my groggy noggin against the side of a large, fiberglass hull. The smooth white surface was close enough for me to reach out and touch it, so I did. It was as smooth as it looked, and, unlike my boat, did not appear to be sinking. I heard another shout, which was closer, and came from above me; I looked up.

On the deck, about three feet from my face, was the beautiful, down-turned face of an angel. I gazed at this vision of loveliness, forgetting the water deepening around my seat.

I think you’re sinking! she shouted.

I had to be ten years her senior, so she obviously considered me deaf. I think you may be right. It was all I could think to say; I wanted to be witty and sharp, but found that hard to pull off in a sinking boat. The water now completely swamped my small craft, and despite the buoyancy of plywood, the Pequod was headed under the waves. Slowly, yes; rather grandly, perhaps, but doubtlessly, down. Not good.

Are you alright? She asked the question with a breathless urgency.

Well, no, not really. I could not bring myself to get upset or frantic. I made up my mind that if I were going to sink in front of this lovely creature, I would do it with a quiet dignity, like the Titanic's band playing as that great ship slid into the watery deep. I tried to stand up, but the boat refused to cooperate, and my tiny boat was no more.

I heard another voice, a man's. From his throat, then, had come the shouting. I instantly hated him, and searched the looming yacht for the speaker, ready to size up my rival. I found only a vacant-faced man, leaning on the rail next to the blonde angel, goggling at me. He laughed at her, and then at me, before laughing in a general way at the world at large.

What sort of dashed question is that, Finnie? I mean, what with his boat sinking and all. Of course he’s not all right. A total cretin can see that. One is most decidedly not all right in a sinking boat.

The beautiful girl crossed her perfect arms and spun away from him. Niles, you’re a cad. And who likes you, anyway? Not me.

Niles laughed. I wanted to throttle the polished clot for daring to chortle like that; his Adam's apple bounced up and down, poking fun at the beautiful woman, this goddess whom I had fallen in love with so quickly and so thoroughly. I chewed on my thoughts as he addressed me again.

Would you care to come aboard? I mean, you are sinking, and there is the law of the sea and all that rot. Even though this is just a jolly old lake, I guess, the sense of the thing would seem to be to offer one’s assistance.

Thank you. I spit lake water from my mouth. I found Erie cleaner than it used to be, but the taste was still swill. Even with the PFD, it’d be a long swim back to the shore. Besides, I thought, I would be a little closer to the glowing Finnie.

The what? Niles blinked.

PFD. Personal Flotation Device. Life preserver. I tapped the synthetic, padded jacket. I pushed the sodden plywood away from me and made my way toward the yacht.

Niles' eyes blinked as he considered my words. Oh, yes, PFDs. Never wear the beastly things. Too, oh, I don’t know. Too something or other. A bother, really, though we keep several on board, I suppose. Just for emergencies, they tell me. But you come aboard, at any rate.

The Pequod had completely fallen apart, and drifted away from me in several pieces. The anchor rope trailed out, long, lonesome, and completely useless. I grabbed it as it drifted by. Just as quickly I dropped it back in the water. There was not much sense in pulling the anchor in now. Instead, I paddled to the side of the polished, fiberglass, boat. When I reached her, I saw she had a name, a real name, stenciled on the side and painted with real marine paint, the kind that doesn't fade or chip. The yacht was as different from my homemade boat as two things could be, and still be the same thing. The yacht's name was Finnie’s Line. A few feet above me, Niles walked awkwardly, clearly without his sea-legs, and made suggestions as to how I could improve my swimming technique.

There, use your arms properly. In this fashion, perhaps. He made swimming motions, and I swallowed a another good-sized portion of Lake Erie struggling to grab hold of the side of Finnie’s Line as it bobbed about me.

I could use a little help, Niles, if that is your name. Perhaps you could find a rope, or something. I was at the side of the boat, but there was no ladder or step to ease my climb.

Niles put his hands deeply in the pockets of his pleated trousers. I didn't need to see them to know there were no calluses on them, and he probably didn't know how to drop a line over the side of his own boat. Sorry. Really, dreadfully sorry. But I really don’t like to touch the lake water. Germs, you know. And really, I think you’re doing a smashing job. Just work your way to the rear of the ship, and there are some steps back there.

Stern. This came from the beautiful girl, the angel who graced the deck. She drank from a large stainless steel glass, and wiped milk from her perfect lip with a delicate hand. It's called the stern, Niles.

Well, yes, Finnie, I know that. But I didn't know if he knew that, you see. Just trying to avoid any misunderstandings, you know.

I made my way to the stern and found the steps. The boat was quite still by this time, and I hauled myself easily aboard the Finnie’s Line. Niles finished his perambulation around the side of the boat as I pulled myself erect.

Good show. Now then, let’s have your name.

Call me Ishmael. This was the first time I said that, out loud. It just came out. Ishmael was not the name my mother called me, even when she was upset. But something, or someone, put it in my head, and it came out of my mouth. Aliens, maybe. I didn’t know. It just seemed like the right thing to say right then. At any rate, it was not the wrong thing; even though I didn’t know it then, I would have no reason to regret it later.

Ishmael. My, that’s quite a moniker, eh? Has sort of a middle-eastern, dangerous flare to it. Not ticking, then? Sorry, that bomb humor may be bad taste. I never know, just say the first thing that pops into the old bean sometimes.

I had a good bit of water in my ears, so it took me a half-beat to be sure I had heard Niles correctly. I decided it didn't matter. Don't worry about it. Listen, can I get a towel or something? I'm dripping all over your deck. I shook my head; one ear unclogged with a pop I felt to the middle part of my stomach. I ran my hands through my water-drenched hair and shook again, trying to do the same to the other.

I felt uncomfortable, but it took me a moment to pinpoint the source of that discomfort. It was Finnie, looking me up and down. I returned the favor, and dropped my PFD to the deck to give her a better look. No doubt she was impressed by my flowered shirt, tattered shorts and water shoes; the smartly dressed men were all wearing them. She, on the other hand, was drop-dead gorgeous, with honey-blond hair spilling from the top of her head all the way to where it ended. I couldn’t get a read on the exact location, but I tried. I really tried. There are things it makes sense to do a good job of, and looking at Finnie was one of them.

Excuse me for saying so, but you have a beautiful... I hesitated. Head of hair? Mop of hair? I couldn't think. Boat, I said, going with the safe answer. It did not seem that my choice really mattered.

Well, you smell like a stinky fish, Ishmael. She wrinkled her nose and I nearly tumbled off the boat. How in the world, I wondered, could wrinkling her nose make it appear more perfect, straighter, prouder, than it was already? And yet it had. It most certainly had. I was so moved by her appearance that it was a few seconds until the words sunk in.

I sagged. No human chattel in the ancient markets ever felt lower than I did at that moment. There was nothing left to do but to shrug, so I shrugged. Sorry.

Niles made a weak little sound, and I realized he was trying to laugh. Finnie, he said, Really, girl, you should learn to be a little more nice. Ishmael—that was your name, wasn’t it, old thing? Ishmael, that is, came out of the water there, and it is positively polluted with fish. Of course he smells like a fish. He very nearly was one, almost. Don’t hold that smell against him. Although, really, you know, it is a bit much.

I looked up, hopefully. I did not know what, if any, influence Niles had on Finnie. She answered the question. She again wrinkled her dainty nose in my direction. Yuck, she said, and strutted forward to the bow. I watched her leave. I couldn't help it. She moved like a symphony plays, like a force of nature, like all the stars and moons of all the planets. She made me want to stink worse, so she would leave again, and maybe again. She had that kind of leave-taking.

I said nothing.

Well, said Niles. This is awkward, rather. I guess the saintly thing to do is to put you ashore at the first opportunity. I’ll just turn us back to the marina and get you on your way.

Thanks. I do appreciate it. Even though I felt like a bit of garbage, Niles and Finnie were doing me a favor. I knew that in their world, I was just a story to tell back at the yacht club. I shook like a wet dog and looked at the water-logged pieces of my boat, rising and falling with the waves. I was disappointed it had fallen apart. Things like that made me wonder if there is a purpose in the universe, a master plan of some kind. I sighed and kicked at the deck; Finnie glanced at me and quickly looked away, whipping her hair like a checkered flag at the end of a race. I stared at her bare shoulder, right where her hair pulled away.

Suddenly I felt sixteen again, and I was riding in the back of my mother’s Plymouth station wagon, the one with the fake wooden sides and the eight-track player. We were driving west, going home from vacation, and crossing the Chesapeake Bay. Mom and dad were listening to the Bee Gees, and my kid sister was whining. Nothing new, nothing special. I was staring out the window, wishing I were anywhere but there. It had been my sixteenth birthday, and I was riding in a hot, smelly car, listening to lame music with an annoying sister. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. Sleep fled, and I opened my eyes. Then, in the water, I had spotted her. I had forgotten until the flash of Finnie’s sun-bronzed shoulder brought it back to me.

It had been a sloop, a long, elegant boat, white and gleaming in the sun. I remembered surging forward before the seat-belt snatched me back, and then craning my neck, turning in my seat, trying to keep her in view for as long as I could. I never saw it again, just that one glimpse from the dirty window