Flat Earther

Sitting on a rock in a hard place. The sun casts its face down, admiring its own glistening reflection in the undulating mirror below. It watches coldly as floating forests jockey for real estate in the few rays refracting down to them. It dozes, seemingly unaware of the folks held so precariously in its orbit.

I’m thinking of the time Donny tried to peel me off that dock. We spent over an hour setting up the works: two poles strung and at the ready, an army of writhing bait, the peaceful backdrop of nature with no one in sight, and some sort of perfect weather that only comes along once in a blue moon. Everything lay in wait, but the die had yet to be cast.

He was acting particularly peculiar that day - more so than usual - something I couldn’t put my finger on. To compensate, I plucked a lucky winner out of the plastic container beside me and squashed it under my thumb, smearing the guts across the wooden boards and flicking them into the water.

“Frank …,” he looks on in disgust.

I shrug, “Those miserable buggers all end up in the same place eventually.”

Penny for his thoughts? Another moment of idle silence stretches on and our breaths begin to converse. His exhales rush out in heavy sighs while mine self-regulate, staying thin and controlled as I become increasingly aware of them.

Donny’s the only person in town who can hold my attention for more than a breath, perhaps because he’s the only person I know who thinks. Occasionally, he conjures up theories to amuse me - an act of benevolence and utility. Why else would I keep a crazy bastard like him around?

“I’m going to start living life as a flat earther,” he suddenly declares.

I said Donny thinks, I didn’t say he’s sane. I’ll humour him.

“Can you elaborate please,” I sigh.

“Just about everyone I know seems to live their lives as a rounder, when most of them have never been to space to see the bigger picture. It’s ridiculous how far this ideology has managed to spread across the globe,” he presents, dead serious, before rushing out the last bit, “Please excuse the pun.”

“Doesn’t science tell us the earth is round?” I laugh, “The moon, the stars, Columbus and his mythical journey.”

He interjects, “That’s good and all. Science is great. But the problem is, I can’t seem to quench this desire to search for the end of the world! Look out there Frank,” he pulls me to sit on the edge of the dock.

“Look at the horizon, at how the sun seems to disappear behind the water! If the end of the world did exist, it would be here.”

I scowl at the brightness in confusion. It scowls back as clouds start to form ahead of us.

“Donny,” I say with absolute sincerity, “What brought this on?”

“Listen,” he reaches into his musty tackle box, carefully extracting a small black book wrapped in a sandwich bag.

“This is Prufrock’s last known diary. I finally got my hands on it at the rare items auction in St. John’s,” he presents it proudly.

“Who?”

“What do you mean, who.” Donny exclaims. “This man, wrote one of the greatest love songs of all time. Legendary.”

“I know who Prufrock is, but he’s a fictional character.”

“No, no. I was assured this is the real deal,” he insists. I’ve heard the character was based off an actual person: an explorer who searched for the end of the world.”

“An explorer? That doesn’t sound Prufrock,” I scoff.

“I have heard the mermaids singing … We have lingered in the chambers of the sea by sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown, ” Donny attacks with a quote from T.S. Eliot's poem.

“Till human voices wake us, and we drown,” I parry.

Curiosity piqued, I snatch the book out of his hands, noting the straight tears and manufactured tea stains, and open it up to find a foreword.

Perpetual motion, round and round, sheltered from the ups and downs. The weight of time is leached away, as I stay hidden among the fray.

“Cryptic,” I shake my head dubiously before continuing onto the first entry.

I boarded the DawnTreader many years ago, but have not forgotten the goal to which I was wed. My overwhelming question. Beware! The environment is dangerously cyclical and Mundane seduces at every turn. Prince Caspian and the others had begun to question our pact as hope in our search dwindled, that is, until they nearly fell victim to enchantment on Ramandu’s island. There, we found three others who had already fallen asleep and were told by the Star to continue sailing to the end of the world and wake them.

I stop abruptly to inquire, “I’m confused”

Donny parries, “I told you. Prufrock was searching for the end of the world.”

“And did he ever find it,” I challenge.

“Flip to the end of the book. You’ll find the map,” he points.

I chuckle at the intricate illustrations carved into the back cover, and yet a chill has set into my spine. “This was good Donny! You’ve outdone yourself this time, with the cartography and all.”

His story puzzled me, but I was intrigued and would spend the rest of the week pondering. Money well spent. I reach into my bag to pay him his hourly fee.

Donny grabs my hands, “Wait. Today is my last day, I’ve decided to quit. Keep it and come with me.”

“What?”

“I’m going out there to find him!” he points excitedly out at the water.

“Righto! Have fun. I’ll watch you from here.” I go along, admiring his dedication to the act.

He stares at me with a disappointed smile. “Alright, I’ll be off then...”

“Last chance,” he pleads.

I shake my head and Donny packs up his gear, stepping off the dock and onto his boat to leave.

He starts up the engine, and yells over the incessant hum, “Just think about it and come join me when you’re ready!”

Turning his back on me to face the sun, he drives off.

What a guy. I shake my head in amazement and pack up my equipment as well. As I open my tackle box to put in the hooks, I find a cheque for twenty thousand dollars folded neatly inside. All that I had paid Donny up till now. On the back is a hand-drawn version of the map from the notebook.

I considered that he might be serious about quitting, but why return the money?

We do this every weekend. Donny’s the only person in town who can hold my attention for more than a breath, perhaps because he’s the only person I know who thinks, granted, for a fee. We drive out to the middle of nowhere on the pretence of fishing, he uses that hyperactive brain of his to conjure up stories to amuse me, and I pay him - an act of benevolence and utility. It’s why I bother to keep the crazy bastard around.

I came back to our spot the next week to check if he would show up and he didn’t. He never did.