square banner that we shackled to the top of a Fotex water tower one fragrant spring evening. It was simple: a skull and crossbones with the international circle/slash drawn over it in red.
Given the same assignment, I would have written a twenty-five word manifesto with a little picture down in the corner. Debbie said the same thing with a picture. I was impressed. When drunk, I referred to it as the Toxic Jolly Roger. The next time I went down to my Zodiac, someone had been there and attached a little fiberglass pole to the transom, a segment of a fishing rod. A little hand-sewn nylon flag was flying from it: black, with the skull and crossbones in white and the circle/slash in red. That was when I knew this woman liked me.
Then she came up with the idea of making a big one for the
Blowfish
. For some reason, I had to help, so we went to fabric stores and I loitered among the heavy, manly fabrics in the canvas section and scared off business while she charged up yards of ripstop nylon on a credit card that turned out to be mine. Then we laid it all out on the floor of her living room and drew the patterns. She had to educate me in basic cloth facts: if you draw the pattern on a chunk of cloth that is stretched out of shape, the pattern will be messed up. Then we had to seal the edges against fraying by running them through a candle flame, filling the apartment with every toxic fume known to man; I could feel the dissolved brain cells dribbling out my ears. Debbie insisted that no operation connected with sewing could really be toxic. And finally we ran it through her fucking Singer. I just went to the other room and watched the static from the sewing machine tear across the screen of her television. I donât like sewing machines. I donât understand how a needle with a thread going through the tip of it can interlock the thread by jamming itself into a little goddamn spool. Itâs contrary to nature and it irritates me.
So when we presented it to Jim, everyone applauded Debbie, and I just sat there like a turd on a platter. Then it was time for boy stuff. I cranked on the shipâs generator and started ripping open boxes.
We drilled holes in bowls until 11 P.M ., when I went to sleep. Debbie and I crammed ourselves into a berth meant for one. That was okay, since today was our first time. But in a week or so weâd need a kingsize waterbed. Fisk hung out on the deck in a sleepingbag, drinking brandy and making Artemis laugh. Jim just curled up next to the tiller, looking at the stars and thinking about whatever a forty-five-year-old sea drifter thinks about. The Atlantic rocked us to sleep, even as it was killing some more dolphins. The Toxic Jolly Roger grinned down over one and all.
And I woke up in the middle of the night sweating and panting like a pesticide victim, Dolmacherâs slack skull-face staring at me.
Itâs the Holy Grail, as far as youâre concerned
.
âWhat are you thinking about?â Debbie asked.
I hate that fucking question. Didnât answer.
Up there, a couple hundred miles north of us, Dolmacher was upâI knew he was still awake, still at the lab at two in the morningâtinkering around with genes. Looking for the Holy Grail.
Iâd never play with genes. Wouldnât touch them. Any molecule more complicated than ethanol is too scary for me; bigger than that and you never know what theyâll do. But Dolmacher
was
fucking with them. And the thing of it was: I always got higher scores on exams than him. Iâm smarter than Dolmacher.
10
That was the last sleep I got for about twenty-four hours. At four in the morning, I got up, destroyed the rest of the cake and chased it down with two cans of Jolt. Got a scuba outfit all ready, tromped around on top of the boat to get people awake and moving, then got into the best Zode with Artemis and we took off. At the last minute Fisk woke up and joined us.
The rent-a-dicks were lurking nearby in an open
Given the same assignment, I would have written a twenty-five word manifesto with a little picture down in the corner. Debbie said the same thing with a picture. I was impressed. When drunk, I referred to it as the Toxic Jolly Roger. The next time I went down to my Zodiac, someone had been there and attached a little fiberglass pole to the transom, a segment of a fishing rod. A little hand-sewn nylon flag was flying from it: black, with the skull and crossbones in white and the circle/slash in red. That was when I knew this woman liked me.
Then she came up with the idea of making a big one for the
Blowfish
. For some reason, I had to help, so we went to fabric stores and I loitered among the heavy, manly fabrics in the canvas section and scared off business while she charged up yards of ripstop nylon on a credit card that turned out to be mine. Then we laid it all out on the floor of her living room and drew the patterns. She had to educate me in basic cloth facts: if you draw the pattern on a chunk of cloth that is stretched out of shape, the pattern will be messed up. Then we had to seal the edges against fraying by running them through a candle flame, filling the apartment with every toxic fume known to man; I could feel the dissolved brain cells dribbling out my ears. Debbie insisted that no operation connected with sewing could really be toxic. And finally we ran it through her fucking Singer. I just went to the other room and watched the static from the sewing machine tear across the screen of her television. I donât like sewing machines. I donât understand how a needle with a thread going through the tip of it can interlock the thread by jamming itself into a little goddamn spool. Itâs contrary to nature and it irritates me.
So when we presented it to Jim, everyone applauded Debbie, and I just sat there like a turd on a platter. Then it was time for boy stuff. I cranked on the shipâs generator and started ripping open boxes.
We drilled holes in bowls until 11 P.M ., when I went to sleep. Debbie and I crammed ourselves into a berth meant for one. That was okay, since today was our first time. But in a week or so weâd need a kingsize waterbed. Fisk hung out on the deck in a sleepingbag, drinking brandy and making Artemis laugh. Jim just curled up next to the tiller, looking at the stars and thinking about whatever a forty-five-year-old sea drifter thinks about. The Atlantic rocked us to sleep, even as it was killing some more dolphins. The Toxic Jolly Roger grinned down over one and all.
And I woke up in the middle of the night sweating and panting like a pesticide victim, Dolmacherâs slack skull-face staring at me.
Itâs the Holy Grail, as far as youâre concerned
.
âWhat are you thinking about?â Debbie asked.
I hate that fucking question. Didnât answer.
Up there, a couple hundred miles north of us, Dolmacher was upâI knew he was still awake, still at the lab at two in the morningâtinkering around with genes. Looking for the Holy Grail.
Iâd never play with genes. Wouldnât touch them. Any molecule more complicated than ethanol is too scary for me; bigger than that and you never know what theyâll do. But Dolmacher
was
fucking with them. And the thing of it was: I always got higher scores on exams than him. Iâm smarter than Dolmacher.
10
That was the last sleep I got for about twenty-four hours. At four in the morning, I got up, destroyed the rest of the cake and chased it down with two cans of Jolt. Got a scuba outfit all ready, tromped around on top of the boat to get people awake and moving, then got into the best Zode with Artemis and we took off. At the last minute Fisk woke up and joined us.
The rent-a-dicks were lurking nearby in an open
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