An Imperfect Union

Russ tried to keep his knees from shaking as he looked out onto the harbor at Galveston Bay. Ships at this time of day appeared as sleeping hogs with inactive tugboats resembling piglets, resting in residues of their excrement and discarded slop. Men and machine sneak on top of the water, looking for the open ocean and escape. They hide themselves among the pilings, then dart out to the freedom of the sea, only to be caught by the hands of waves and roughly slapped back.

A broke and broken Russ pondered his need to break loose from Texas’ cold windy plains, then wondered if this was an interlude to his suffering until he succumbed to either the forces of nature or the cruelty of man.

Russ’ appearance was quite normal in most ways and wasn’t the sort to stand out in a crowd. His most winning feature was a smile that always looked ready to turn into a laugh—a naïve, look. He had always depended on his smile and good humor to get by, and although he had success with a few fellow students, his smile did not impress his teacher, and when he failed and had nothing to look forward to at home, he took off in search of adventure. Through an acquaintance he secured a job on the merchant ship the SSME Lomardi bound to Baltimore from Galveston.

“The job’s the good news,” his friend had said, “bad news is that one, it’s a union ship and they’ll be expecting you to pay dues, and two, there’s a history of trouble on board.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Last time they arrived with a man in chains—accused of three counts of felony.”

“Can the captain make charges?”

“A captain has Godlike power once a ship is out of port. This is different though. Scuttle is that this ship is jinxed, and no one wanted the job. You’ll be taking the place of a seaman who left in a straitjacket.”

Russ consider this but was still determined to take the job.

Russ made it to port and waited on his duffel bag until he saw some sign of life among the ships. His eye caught the sight of a sailor, short, blond with Popeye arms and chest hair glistening from the V of his open shirt. A moment later, as if a bell had rung, the pace quickened. Men appeared from everywhere, seemingly out of nowhere. Russ was given permission to board. A sailor introduced himself, “I’m Clarence Cousins. Welcome to the family. You’ll be staying with me and mine. Call me Cuz.”

Russ saw the sneer behind the forced smile as Cuz crushed his extended hand, and then snatched Russ’ bag. He was down the passageway before Russ knew what to do, so he followed. Cuz disappeared into a hatch. Russ caught up just as Cuz threw Russ’ duffel on one of two top bunks.

He pointed below to a man who was reading as he casually cleaned his fingernails with a six inch switchblade. “That’s Plato.” Cuz disappeared back through the hatch.

“I’m Russ Douglas.”

Without looking up, the man closed and slipped his knife into a sheath hidden underneath his sock. “My name is Judd, but they call me ‘Plato’.”

“What’s with Cuz?” Russ asked.

“Are you in the union?”

“No, should I be?”

“When in Rome, do as the Romans,” Plato said.

Russ was not sure what that meant and asked about the other two bunk mates.

“Cuz and Appleby,” Plato said, “the gingham dog and the calico cat, side by side on the table sat; was half past twelve and what do you think, not one nor the other had slept a wink.”

Russ couldn’t figure why the man spoke in riddles, so decided to go and explore his new home.

Russ spent the next few days establishing a positive relationship with Cuz and trying to find his niche on board the Lombardi. When Cuz pressed him on the union, Russ lied and said he believed in the union, which he would join in Baltimore. “I promised my dear-departed grandfather, I would.”

Cuz seemed to buy his story. He took Russ under his wing, an uncomfortable but secure place. Union continued unabated.

“Little brother, the union is everything. Everything and everyone might desert you, but not the union. You take care of the union, and the union takes care of you.”

“I hear you man. Ah…, what happens if someone pays late?”

Cuz gave him a wicked smile and slapped him so hard on the back, his teeth rattled. His face turned red, and his jaw muscles flexed through strained lips, “They don’t pay late, not unless they don’t want to work for six months. Son, we don’t work for the shipping company. We work the union. The union calls the shots.”

“What if someone forgets to pay his dues?”

“No one forgets…ever. Everyone pays one way or another. If not in dues, they pay to the Goon Crew.”

“The Goon Crew?”

“They may appear to be a bunch of out of work derelicts, but they’re the union’s soldiers. If a ‘Judas’ doesn’t pay, the Goon Crew comes and breaks something—finger, arm, leg, according to how upset big brother is.”

“What do they do about the law, Cuz?”

The union is the law. “They testify to the judge that the ‘Judas’ called him a son-of-a-bitch for a finger, patted his wife on the ass for an arm, and caught him in bed with her for a broken leg.”

“Doesn’t the law know different?”

“Sure it knows different, but what can it do? The Goons are paid in cash. They don’t show up on any record as union members. The big brother knows all the answers. Besides, the judge is just elected official and election contributions are what a portion of our due goes towards.”

Traditionally, the purpose of lookout was to identify objects in the water and ring a brass bell to alert the quartermaster. Now a days, the Lombardi and all ships had sophisticated radar and sonar that could pick up even small objects miles beyond the sight of the human eye. The lookout jobs continued because of pressure from the union.

Russ’s favorite shift was lookout from midnight to 6:00 a.m. It was his time of reverie—completely alone in the ship’s most private area where his mind could wander and whirl with the wet wind as he thought about his three bunk mates.

Cuz was a cruel, powerful man who only understood the code of loyalty and obedience to the union. Appleby was a scrawny cowardly sort with hollow green eyes and his back always to a wall, not daring to let a monster sneak behind him. He never spoke or smiled. Judd always talked in meaningless rhymes. All three men were dangerous. Cuz had a trigger temper and would strangle someone on the command of “big brother.” Appleby would blow someone’s brains out from a safe distance with a forty-five, and Judd could cut your guts out merely for philosophical reasons. Russ could not sleep, and he dared not speak, for fear he would be beaten, shot, or stabbed.

A few days out of the Gulf of Mexico, Russ was at his early morning hours on lookout. The ocean was calm, with a broad silver band flickering across the surface. It seemed to be tied to the bow, at one end, and the moon at the other. Russ thought he saw a ship, maybe two, but it was beginning to mist. Realizing that his duty to ring the bell had long since become obsolete, he did nothing. If ships were in the vicinity, the radar and sonar had detected them hours ago. The misty moonlit night brought erotic, uncomfortable thoughts. He knew, as all men knew of the eternal affliction, that masturbation was the remedy. Any man who said otherwise was a liar, but where could he beat-off on the ship? He was on lookout, the only place he might get away with it, but he doubted he could keep a fantasy intact long enough to finish. No one was around, and he decided to take care of the matter where he stood with one hand on the rail, and the other on his dick through his unzipped pants.

Without warning, two strong hands clasped each shoulder blade, the muscles of the assailant’s hands and forearms working like a vise at its tightest position, squeezing and mashing his muscles. Russ’ fingers involuntarily loosened from the rails. His mouth opened wide in agony; his voice was paralyzed as his head jerked back.

Cuz’s menacing voice spat through closed teeth, “Drop your pants and bend over, you sleazy whore. Daddy’s going to fuck you.”

Excruciating, paralyzing pain was overcome by revulsion, indignation, and shame. In that instance, Russ learned compassion, humiliation, and perception of something he had previously thought he would never know—how a woman must feel during rape.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, you little pansy,” Cuz hissed.

From deep in his throat in an unrecognizably high, childlike voice rasped, “I’m Russ.”

Cuz howled.

The vise sprang loose. Russ ran down the portside, through the hatch, and into his room without looking back. He climbed onto his upper bunk, instinctively pulling the green army blanket over him as he huddled to the bulkhead in the fetal position. His mind whirled. He heard voices outside his door and pissed himself.

Cuz entered and dragged Russ down from his bunk and threw him to the floor. “You fuckin’ pansy…you keep your fuckin’ mouth shut, or I’ll shove my dick down your throat, you understand me, pansy?” We all know you’re nothing but a pansy. Do you understand what I’m telling you?” Cuz had him by the hair and made his head bob up and down like a puppet.

Russ remained crumpled on the floor, unable to climb back up to his bunk. He wondered if the previous man to hold this job—the one who left in a straitjacket—had been sodomized. Is sodomy at sea a felony he wondered? But to who would he report the crime? His sphincter crawled, trying desperately for control as he shit himself.

Judd came in kicked him in the ribs and said, “Bad smell! This is dustbin of royal Earth! No; they are famished corpse, stranded on hollow eye shore!”

Russ crawled on hands and knees to the head. He stripped out of his putrid clothes and tried his best to clean himself up. He sat with his back against the locked door and prayed he could make it back to his bunk without further assault. His time for waiting ran out. He gathered his composure and proceeded to his bunk, hoping the quarters would be empty.

Russ resumed his watch schedule. There was only one more hour before he and Cuz would be in the same place. He knew he couldn’t handle it. He decided he’d go to the mess before Cruz arrived. The mess was empty except for occasional coffee customers from the engine room. He looked desperately for one that might wear a badge, a priestly white collar, or even a gray beard. Russ spent from 4:00 a.m. to 7:00 a.m. almost alone. Occasional coffee drinkers came and went, but soon men would be coming in for breakfast. He was sure they all knew about the attack, but none seemed interested in him and went about their business without comment. Their silence was another type of torture.

When he returned from the mess, Judd was on the bottom bunk, reading a book as was his habit.

“Hear about the trouble last night”” Russ began.

Plato replied, “Oh, a trouble is a ton or trouble is an ounce, or trouble is what you make it. And it isn’t the fact that you’re down that counts, but only how did you take it.”

“I have a question.”

“I don’t want to know your question, but the answer is ‘to thine own self be true’ and it must follow as night follows day, thou cans’t not then be false to any man.”

“What?”

You are the master of your fate. You are the captain of your soul.”

Russ went to find somewhere on deck where he could think, but he ran into Cuz.

“Morning, Russ.” Cuz grinned his menacing grin. “Missed you at breakfast, little brother. Be sure you to keep up your strength so you can do your watch. Big brother is watching. If you don’t have you strength, you might cause an accident. The union doesn’t take kindly to accidents. You haven’t forgotten about your dues, have you?” Cuz remained arrogant, but controlled, as if he knew the end of the story that was unfolding.

Russ thought about not reporting to his watch that night, but did report to his station. At 3:00 a.m., Cuz joined him next to the rail and said, “We can do this rough, or you can submit now. I would recommend the latter. Get down on your knees,” he said and unzipped his pants.

Russ tried to ignore him, but the big beefy hand went to his shoulder pushed him to his knees and forced his face into Cuz’s crotch.

Russ had started carrying a screwdriver, but fear outweighed hate and he was unable to fend off Cuz’s nightly assaults. The harassment continued.

“About your dues, little brother,” Cuz threatened.

“I’m not paying dues.”

“The union won’t like that. Come with me,” he commanded and led Russ to a small room behind the galley. “Union meeting.”

Men sat on rickety chairs or leaned against the wall. There was a little man in front of the room who shouted as he spoke. He wore a black silk suit and diamond rings on both hands. “We have a new member, I’m told,” the man said. He looked at Russ, “Your dues will be half your pay, plush fines for paying late.

After the meeting, Russ joined the line of sailors to the purser’s cabin where they signed releases and received their checks. Then they endorsed their checks for cash and were dismissed.

Russ stuffed the money in his pants’ pocket, hoping they’d soon be in Baltimore where he could leave his short life as a sailor forever.

He heard a voice call out, “Want to talk to you, son.”

Russ began to run as the men in uniform pursued him. He stopped at the railing.

“You’re under arrested for sodomy,” the man in the black silk suit said.

With no escape in sight, Russ climbed the rail and plunged overboard into the sea.