Half-way through to Gaspé. As we’re getting close to the 70º degree West of Longitude, tonight we go back one hour. One more hour...
I’ve got planned
a good glass of Cabernet Sauvignon: Columbia Valley, 2008 vintage. Henry Miller
for a company and one more hour... one
more precious hour.
Only a
couple more things to do on the office and the night is mine. My own.
Tonight I concede to
the luxury of using the elevator for what in any other night would be a quick
run up the staircase.
Only two floors, but why not? I’ve got one more
hour...
Ding!
Three steps
in. Don’t even bother to press the usual closing doors button.
Ding!
Slowly
direct myself to the door that separates the white and otherwise naked crew
area, from the light shaded brown, carpeted and cozy guest area.
I have a special appreciation for this door. It leads to one of my favorite paintings in
the whole ship. Severely under noticed and misplaced. All the more reasons to
love it.
As I pull
down the handle to open the door, I notice that the band Is still playing in
the Club. I can hear the muffled sounds of the base. The new Base player is
good. A little cocky, but good.
I open the
door. Head down. Noticing the change in patterns of the carpet as the areas
go...
But.. the
last time I was here there was not a pair of legs on the floor. Or the body
attached to them.
Or that much blood.
Oh my....
Although
conscious, the gentleman on the floor seemed a little numb. He was fighting
hard to keep his head off the floor, out of dignity I would assume. His blood
had something different in mind though. Hard not to remember the sound of his
breaths. Like trying to breathe under water. The sound of an insisting straw at the bottom
of a finished drink.
What
followed was the established procedure for such an occasion:
Phone,
Code Alpha,
Nurse,
Wheel Chair,
Medical Center.
And what
has previously been planned as a relaxing quality time with Mr. Miller and the
Tropic of Capricorn, turned to be a Medical Escort till 02:45am with Mr. J.
Interesting
how a square foot of marble can break your nose, five teeth and put a dozen stitches
on your upper lip.
And break
your pride to pieces.
Now Mr. J, please stop talking... we’re trying to stick a needle up your lip.
