No Story To Tell?

by Miguel San Miguel

Late at night, the radio playing an impersonation of the old blues, sounds drift in. Windows opening and shutting; trucks unloaded; couples, lovers and roomies walking the stairs chatting, arguing, discussing the stupid people at work. The neighbor's cat on the ledge again, mewing and rubbing against the panes. In a barely lit room, reading a book of an old sailor's stories, he sits alone except for the filtered cigarette between his lips.

Sailor's stories. He thinks of St. Louis, New Orleans, San Francisco, Galveston and… hmph, the docks… Pull on a green-bottled beer… funny how that sounds: docks. It's not shore leave. It's hard work, hard living and plenty of sailor's stories. Not a lot of dockworker stories …what if instead: Buenos Aires, Singapore, Hong Kong, London… the life of a seaman.

Sure there had been travel of sorts. Ignore local dialects and one set of docks is the same as any other isn't it? Met lots of interesting people; well lots of people with stories anyway. There had been a few interesting people over the last twenty odd years. Sailors who had taken time off at various destinations, soaked up the foreignness; real stories to tell, stories about life and living. He had listened. Always the listener. No stories to tell, not of his own.

The lone dim bulb fights to be greater than itself as he stretches his arms before him. The sounds have all faded save for a faint noise like a woman somewhere having sex and enjoying it. But that dies quickly. He considers that his hands still look good if like a worker's. If the eyes are windows to the soul, then maybe the hands are a measure of how the flesh stands. Still strong, if tired, worn but not gone to seed yet. Oh, God.

He considers also that he wishes he'd done something in his youth. Remembers accompanying a Seeds record on a beat up Sears 6 string, writhing till he almost fell out of his window back in high school. Such energy and hope. —I am by no means near old now, but … —he thinks. A snip of a vague song…the years have got behind. After another pull of beer he lights another cigarette and lays it in the ashtray. Reaching past the lamp he picks up the revolver, opens his mouth and slides the barrel in.