Yearning for a Livelihood More Brutal

 

‘One simply must marvel

at the strength and plasticity

of a skeletal system

able to feed itself

by such slow, deliberate constriction.

This is the gift of the boa alone,

a strategy honed century

after cent—‘

 

‘IT’S CRITICAL TO GET THE POTS

OUT QUICKLY AND NOT CROSS

THE LINES. IF THAT HAPPENS,

WE’LL HAVE HELL TO PAY

TRYIN’ TO HAUL ‘EM IN

WHEN WE COME BACK ‘ROUND.

UP THERE, YOU CAN SEE RICKY

SLEDGIN’ AWAY AT THAT ICE.

THAT SHIT’S STUCK ON THERE

LIKE FROSTING ON A GODDAMN CAKE

THAT’S BEEN SITTIN’ IN THE FREEZER.

HEY, RICK?! RICK — ‘

 

“Dammit, Jim, you ever want

somethin’ like that for yourself?”

He ventured to his friend,

carefully setting the remote aside.

 

“Not sure I know exactly

what you mean, Greg. Somethin’ like what?”

 

“Like these crab guys, scrapin’

a livin’ on a boat off the coast

of fuckin’ Alaska. Takin’ calipers

and measurin’ each individual

crab before tossin’ it in the tank,

tryin’ to avoid the claws.

All just so some tech kid

in Frisco can impress

a chick he wants with an expensive dinner.

In many ways, it seems pointless,

but it’s gotta build character

or somethin’, right? Out there

in the blackest pitch black imaginable

gettin’ frostbit, losin’ feelin’, pilin’

callous on top’a callous. That shit

is physical, it’s elemental, primal

raw man’s work. Meantime,

there I am, sittin’ in a chair

all week to sell two policies

to buy this flatscreen for us

to watch a snake eat a bullfrog

whole while we wolf brats.”

 

“Yeah, I get what you’re sayin’,

at least a bit. There’s that hunger

for some sort of battle - bullets,

barbed wire, seastorms, somethin’

that maybe forces ya to learn

yourself more, or the world more,

even if you don’t get known for it.

Then again, I would bet you

ask any of those crabmen

and they’d say they’d trade

what they got for what you got.

And I gotta say - you ever heard

anything really profound come

outta one of those guy’s mouths?

It’s not like they got the inside

story on the mysteries of the universe

just from seein’ no sunlight

and dodgin’ ice boulders. The captain

ain’t some kinda modern prophet! Hell,

those guys ain’t even at the top

of the ocean professions.

You ever see a documentary

on whaling? THAT shit’s insane.

At least the crabs can’t kill ya,

but a whale sure as hell can,

probably wants to, at a point,

and that’s in addition to the sea.

All of which is just mindin’ its own,

really. What ever made us

want to try to kill a fuckin’ whale

to begin with? You’d have to be

outta your fuckin’ mind!”

 

“Probably luck, just like most

other things - good or bad,

I dunno. Tough to say. Think

about it, some ancient tribe

just sittin’ around and one day,

to their surprise and delight,

a dead whale washes up on the beach.

Somethin’ they probably thought

was pure god or sea spirit or somethin’

is just layin’ there for the takin’!

And once they realized it wadn’t immortal —

well, ‘Let’s see if we can hunt this sucker!’

Bein’ honest, you and I’d probably do the same.

And after a bunch of ‘em die,

with that whale throwin’ ‘em around

like they didn’t weigh more’n wet leaves,

it gets its god-status back.

Which just makes ‘em want to kill it

all the more, ‘cause they fear it.

You’re right, though - those whale

guys are mad and bad to the pits of their souls.

You ever read that book

about whales, Moby-Dick?”

 

“Ah, only parts. Never got more’n

a hundred pages in probably. And that was

in high school, or maybe college,

one of those pointless required classes.

That Melville guy who wrote it, though,

I remember they said he was a whaler,

he was writin’ from actual experience.

Wrote some books before that one

people really seemed to like —

adventure stuff, made a lot of money,

too, I heard. He tried to get

all philosophical and shit with Moby-Dick,

and no one liked that - basically

unreadable is what they said, I think,

and kinda hard to disagree with, for my part.

And that sunk the guy’s confidence,

guess he didn’t write much of anything

for the next twenty years. Imagine —

goin’ from bein’ some famous writer

to bein’ a nobody, barely gettin’ by.

And then once you’re dead, everyone starts

readin’ your shit again, claimin’

you’re some kinda genius!”

 

“Yeah, that’s one gig I wouldn’t want —

bein’ a writer. Even if you’re great,

odds are you won’t ever make

any money at it. That might be

the toughest job there is, in a way —

tryin’ to do somethin’ creative and visionary.

You could spend your whole life

workin’ on it and never see

a single shred of reward or recognition —

not many things you can say that for.

Least you get paid for the crabs.

You ever think about tryin’ somethin’ like that?”

 

“Nah, not really. Dabbled with guitar

a bit when I was younger, but never

really ‘got it.’ Even if I could

be a painter or poet or somethin’ —

and I probably could, when you see

some of these drip paintings, or single

colors, or two line poems, or whatever —

I wouldn’t want to. Would rather grab

somethin’ that’s got at least a paycheck

somewhat regular, and gets me outside,

workin’ with my hands,

not thinkin’ too much.”

 

“Everyone’s gotta work

in their own field, a field

of their own choosin’, I guess.

That’s what keeps the sun

comin’ up, it seems.”

 

‘THIS SUNDAY, AS THE JETS

TAKE ON THE BRUINS FOR A PLACE

IN THE STANLEY CUP FINALS…’

 

“Ya know, the Winnipeg Jets

used to be the Hartford Whalers.

People loved the Whalers.

Still wear the hats and shirts…”