Lost Time Incident

March 09, 2003

Salt Gets In

"You think your life is hard, sailor? You think you've got it bad, having to strap yourself to the main masts to avoid the call of the mermaid? Oh, sure, you have treasures to claim, vast new continents to explore, decks to mop... heaven forbid any beautiful creature of the sea try to share a moment of affection with you before drowning you and feeding you to her young.

"But trust me, king of the surface of the sea, it could be worse. You could be married to one. Of all the creatures of the Earth, who is more deserving of pity than the lowly and humble merman? Huh?

"Have you ever seen one? No. Why? Because they keep us at home, watching the fish-tailed brats and chasing hermit crabs off the front porch."

I gave this speech once a week at the Hollow Anchor, a wharf-neighboring dock where I'd found gainful employment as part of the entertainment. The rough crew that blew in with each tall-masted ship stopped first at their captain's cabin to get paid then came straight to the Anchor. The bar served a wide variety of questionable liquids that could burn the smell of months of sea salt out of your nose.

Sweat ran down my legs underneath the heavy quilted fish tail that I wore as part of my costume. Few of the bearded faces in the place were turned in my direction and that was fine. I just told my jokes about mermen, octopi, sailors and the difficulties of washing scales while surrounded by water.

After my set, a man approached me, well into his cups. Though the bar was lit with no more than a scattering of candles, he squinted as if it were as bright as noon.

"Merman," he said. "Merman."

I sighed, removed the coconut bra I wore for my act and replied, "Yes?"

"What is your real name?"

"Daniel Orejas. But you don't need to know my name to buy me a drink, do you?"

His beard was a dark blonde with a peppering of black. His lips were thin, still chapped from months at sea. His eyes, however, were bright even in the half light.

He bought me a drink so I kicked off my merman tail and sipped while he talked.

"It's a joke for you, is it?" he asked.

"Pardon?"

"This mermaid thing you do. All a joke."

"People laugh," I said, "so I must be on to something." They didn't laugh often, it was true, but work was hard to come by in this town. If you had enough money, you could put your stake into a business that sold what sailors need: drink, clothes, supplies, women.

If you didn't have enough money, but are full of craft and violence, you could find work as a recruiter. A pocketful of drugs for drinks, a stought wooden handle for persuasion, and you're set to earn money delivering men to the captains that need them.

And if you lack the stomach for delivery work, you just might end up like me, strapping on a coconut bra and hustling drinks from lonely drunks.

"It's not a joke," he told me. "There are mermaids. And they're as dangerous as can be."

"Oh yeah?" I said. I sipped slowly.

He leaned towards me, almost resting his forehead on mine. "We tell you people that they're not real because we don't want you to worry."

"That's thoughtful of you," I said.

"But I've seen them. I've heard them. On this last voyage, I heard them." His eyes went out-of-focus, then he finished off his mug. "And what no one tells you is that their singing, the singing-- they try to lure you off the ship, but what no one tells you is that they speak Spanish."

"Spanish? That's ridiculous," I said. "And where would they have learned it, hmm? Are these mermaids you claim to have seen all native to the coasts off of Iberia? Do they take language lessons with the locals? Perhaps they have better luck luring the Spaniards over the sides of ships and learn what they can of the sailors' Latin tongue inbetween the flailing and gasping of the drowning men?"

He shook his shaggy head. "I don't know where they learned it. And what they say didn't make any sense to me. But it was Spanish, I tell you."

Laughter erupted from another table, a group of sailors talking about something else, the barmaid staying just out of reach of grasping hands. I was thinking about whether or not I'd be able to earn some more spending money from that lively table when he began singing.

"No me gusta la sal ni el cielo. No me gusta la sal ni el cielo." Tears ran down his face as he sang and I knew from experience that once the tears start, the drinks dry up.

I patted him on the back, rose and walked over the other table. There, I was greeted by laughing faces, hands quick to part with months of earnings, and a smile from a young, beardless boy that might mean something later. While they drank and sang, I closed my eyes and tried to come up with jokes for my merman routine that might be based on Spanish-speaking mermaids.

I didn't try very hard.

Posted by Michael at March 09, 2003 10:47 AM