The Voyage of the Rose City

by John Moynihan

  I climbed down off the dock and into the launch, where two of the kids were sitting. It wasn’t scheduled to leave for the ship for another hour, and I was going to have to wait. On the dock above, Ali and his friends, some twenty-five of them by now, collected. I still refused to give him money, and he shouted that I was an asshole.

  I sat silently on the deck with the two kids. They were nervous. Suddenly a huge rock hit the deck and shattered in front of me, missing my head by inches. I looked up and saw Ali glaring down at me.

  “You have friends? I have friends. You have knife? I have knife. C’mon, let’s go, we fight.”

  I stared up at him. He had drawn a knife. His crowd gathered closer. Then a miracle happened, and the divine agents were Miguel and Joe. Just as the tension had reached the snapping point, the two of them showed up on the quay, grogged out of their minds and singing at the top of their voices. As Ali and the gang turned their heads in unison to see what the racket was all about, I skirted along the underside of the dock, beneath my foes, and scrambled up on the quay to join my mates.

  Ali and company were frozen with puzzlement. This was an unforeseen factor. Now I, too, had friends, and I was not trapped on the launch. It was deus ex machina at its finest.

  In a minute I told them what was going on. Miguel was too drunk to hear, but Joe, through his bloody eyes, showed a limited comprehension. Meanwhile the kids had silently punted the launch over to where the three of us were standing and anxiously ushered us into its tiny cabin. The captain, my eleven-year-old friend, told me to stay inside unless I wanted “monkey business.” I complied.

  It was an odd stalemate. Ali and his friends collected at the dock nearest to us. The kids had moved the launch out of reach, but still wouldn’t take us until the proper time. So we were trapped in the cabin, sweating it out.

  Miguel promptly passed out in the bow. Joe and I sat up, watching as best we could the dark figures on the dock. Every now and then they’d throw a rock at us.

  The cool blue-white glare of the streetlights reflected off the water and played on the roof of the cabin. Joe was reflective. I asked him why he’d never gotten married.

  “Oh, hell, I was married once, but … it didn’t work out.”

  We waited in the tense night. The kids were getting worried and decided they’d best get us out to the ship before trouble started. On the way out, I asked Joe if he’d ever smoked pot. He smiled and said, “Show me a sailor who says he hasn’t smoked pot and I’ll show you a fucking liar!”

  On the dock Ali faded from view. I realized I couldn’t go ashore again and expect to come back alive.

  With my escapades in town I achieved a new standing with the crew. I was indoctrinated into the right sacred order of the DSL (Dumai Shit List) and became the subject of quite a bit of talk. The crew was outraged that the “motherfucking gook rag-heads” would try a stunt like attacking one of the crew. They were also glad to see I had come out of it all right.

  The morning watch after the incident was a long one. It didn’t get light until seven or so, and I was still jumpy. Billy missed the first two hours, showing up in the launch at six, drunk and full of song. He was enjoying himself too much at Susie’s to return on time.

  In the afternoon I saw the kids again and asked them what was up. They said Ali was waiting for me. In short, they said that to go ashore was suicide. This was a town where you could get a man killed for ten dollars. Only two weeks before, a Korean sailor had been found drowned, presumably for his Seaman’s Papers, which sell for as much as $1,000 on the black market. Seamen made good money, and these people were desperate.

  Resigned to my river exile, I took watches for some of the others so they could go ashore. The bow at night was a quiet and foreboding spot. It was raining a lot now and I rigged a makeshift tent in the anchor block to keep us dry. With every bump and clang of the ship I jumped. I had visions of Ali climbing up the anchor chain with a knife firmly wedged in his teeth.

  Conrad’s Heart of Darkness kept me company. I read in the pale port light, trusty ax by my side. The wail of the mullahs echoed across the endless jungle that stretched out on either side of the river. Foot-long bats chased huge flying insects overhead. In the dark alleyways of the shimmering town across the water menacing figures preyed upon human quarry.

  The next morning the crew was all charged up. Jimmy was so drunk on pirate watch that he had stumbled and fallen down by the hawse pipe. How it was that he didn’t fall right through to the water and kill himself was a mystery. He was also so drunk that he stood the rest of his watch without realizing the damage he’d done to himself, for the next morning when he was sober he couldn’t walk.

  That wrote Jimmy out of the rest of the voyage. As soon as we got to Singapore to pick up bunkers (fuel for our engines), he was going to be flown home. That suited him just fine; he had a girlfriend he was dying to see.

  True, Jimmy had been in the whorehouse, but seamen had ways of rationalizing that. As Jim himself said, “My tubes are getting rusty; gotta clean ’em out.”

  The other major event of the night was Miguel’s brawl ashore. When I came off watch and went into the lounge, Miguel and Ned were the center of a controversy, and the Mexican was jumpy. I asked Miguel what the hell was going on.

  “I don’t know. I think I coulda kill somebody. Motherfucker starts trying to start a fight, so I hit him.”

  I sat Miguel down and asked him to tell the whole story. Miguel may have been one of the best-intentioned and kindest people I’d met, but he had a temper that would pop the pennies off a dead Irishman.

  “I go with Ned to Happy Gardens last night, and that place we were before, when this cocksucker start banging on my door and asking for money for lunch. I’m from Mexico and so I say sure and give him some, but the motherfucker comes back five minutes later asking for more. I tell him to be quiet, the girl had a little baby in the corner of the room. He starts yelling at me, so I say sure, I give you money. I put on my pants like this and BOOM! I give him a left hook and BOOM! I hit him with my right. The motherfucker goes down like that. So I piss on his head.” He started laughing at this point. “I run to Ned and say, ‘Ned, Ned, I think I kill somebody.’ And we get out of there. But then the cops come and stop us. They take a look at the motherfucker and say no problem, he is a troublemaker.” Miguel was getting all worked up, reliving the experience. “Goddamn long-haired motherfucker.”

  Long-haired?

  I asked Miguel to describe him.

  “He was a tall guy, kinda like you. His name was Ali, or some bullshit like that.”

  I burst into laughter and, jumping up and down, told Miguel it was the same guy who’d tried to knife me the night before. Miguel looked at me with a huge grin on his face. This was even better—now he’d nailed two birds with one stone. The rest of the crew was equally pleased, and all that day there was a celebration.

  But not for everybody. Billy was in an angry mood. He was tired of the ship and was worked up about his wife and kid. He started drinking in the early afternoon. He was in the lounge when the Chief showed up. Billy had had enough. He started telling the Chief a thing or two in a loud and bitter voice. It wasn’t long before he was shouting at the Chief. And the Chief loved it. He stared at Billy and egged him on, saying, “Yeah! Oh yeah?” He hated Billy and was baiting him. Jake jumped up and got between them. Billy was going wild and started jabbing the mate with his finger. Jake pushed the mate aside and forced Billy out the door, while the Chief stood there, waiting and baiting, sticking his pudgy Kentucky face out and sneering. Just as Jake slammed the door shut, Billy let go with a right hook that connected with the wired-glass window between him and the Chief. Jake led him, screaming, back to his cabin.

  The Chief was very pleased with himself. He’d almost managed to get Billy to strike an officer (which would result in the confiscation of his papers by the Coast Guard), but threatening an officer was good enough. He turned to me and Jimmy and said, “You’re witnesses.
”

  We looked at him and shook our heads. “Didn’t see a thing, Mate.”

  So Billy was in trouble. That afternoon I was called off standby and ordered to report to the gangway. The Chief said Billy had left his post. He was there, but he had fallen asleep behind the king post. The Second was brought out as a witness. The Chief wanted as much support as possible for the upcoming case against the troublemaker from Philadelphia.

  We shifted from the river to the dock at nine that night. For some reason the Indonesian dockworkers were the most uncooperative people in the world. They absolutely refused to hear us or do anything they were supposed to. This made for strong feelings on both ends of the sea lines.

  In order to get a line down to the tugs or the stevedores, a thin rope is attached to the eye of the line. At the end of the rope is a “monkey fist,” “or monkey ball,” a four-inch Gordian knot. Gathering up the thin rope in one hand, the seaman swings the monkey fist like a sling and casts it to the desired spot. The worker at the other end can then pull the rope and grab hold of the line.

  Bud was especially good at this. When the Indonesian tugs were maneuvering us into the port and calling for the lines, Bud took careful aim. Just as we were closing in, he came running up to the bow. “Ha! I got a fucking gook right on the head.” Everyone laughed heartily.

  We worked until four in the morning, and then Billy, Jake, and I had to go on watch. The dockworkers were so frustrating that we were spitting and yelling obscenities at them as loud as possible. They returned the sentiments in kind. Finally, after twenty-eight hours of work (I’d been doing overtime), the cargo lines were hooked up to the manifold and we could catch some sleep.

  We let go in the afternoon, but as it was getting dark we anchored in the river overnight; after we’d had it fixed in Japan, the radar had gone on the blink again. Even our captain wasn’t ready to navigate the sandbars of inland Sumatran waterways at night.

  On the bow, Jake and the Bosun worked the winch, while Billy and I broke our backs towing and hauling the lines.

  Singapore. 1°17’N 103°51’E. Aptly deemed the “Crossroads of the World.”

  It took half a day to get there from Dumai. We anchored in Tanker Alley and waited for bunkers. The ship was only going to be there for eighteen hours.

  We leaned on the rail and watched the sun reflecting the shimmer off the buildings in town, two miles distant. It seemed a shame to let it go to waste. We had buckets of money and we were sure that the friendly natives of the island would be happy to take it off our hands.

  The Bosun said something about a supply launch coming up that evening. I turned to Tony, and he turned to Billy. Billy turned to Ned, and Ned turned to Miguel. Miguel turned to the steward, and the steward turned to Spider. Spider turned to Charlie, and Charlie turned to me. It was decided then: We were going to jump ship and go ashore, just to see the sights.

  Loaded with money and beer, we piled into the launch as soon as it arrived and sped away from the ship. The night was just settling and the boat was fast. We were ready to go.

  After a forty-minute ride we arrived at Singapore Station and jumped onto land. Taxis were awaiting us and, dividing our numbers, we secured two rides and told the drivers to take us to where the action was.

  Now, this was a town. These people were fast paced, well oiled, and out for a good time. In the careening cars we taunted one another, each cab trying to overtake the other. Ned mooned our car out the window. One cheek read U.S. PRIME GRADE BEEF. The other read YOUR NAME. The reason for this was so that he could go up to chicks in bars and tell them, “I’ve got your name tattooed on my ass.” And when they didn’t believe him, he’d drop his pants and show them.

  The taxis pulled up in front of a modern house somewhere in the suburbs of the city. It was, according to the drivers, the best place in town. No surprise—they were getting a commission, so as far as they were concerned no joint could beat it.

  We went upstairs and were greeted by a friendly Indian gent with a waxed mustache and a flair for entertaining his customers. He sat us down on some couches and brought us beers.

  We were waiting, not really knowing what was going on, when Papa-san returned. He stood to one side of the room and, with a sweep of his hand, ushered in a lineup of some twenty girls, all for the taking. We felt like Arab viziers at a slave market, sitting back on our cushions and sipping only the finest ambrosia.

  Unfortunately, these girls looked like the cast from Night of the Living Dead.

  Billy eyed Papa-san suspiciously. We had seen some Swedes in another room with good-looking girls. But, thinking quickly, he pointed to the best-looking of the bunch and called her over to his side. After a bit, the others chose partners. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it; this was a bit much. Before long I was left alone in the room with the steward and his girl (a heavyset black woman slightly younger than he was), who were going to eat dinner. The stew was a romantic at heart.

  Papa-san was flustered by my refusal to take any of the girls. He told me to hang on and disappeared. Moments later he returned with a beauty. She looked at me and rolled her eyes; I was way under her league—she was a high-class hooker. But Papa-san made the rules around here and made her get me a beer. She found this highly dubious. She returned with the beer and a scowl. I told Papa-san I wasn’t interested. She made a nasty face at him, as if to say, “Why are you wasting my time? I told you so.” He in turn frowned at me. Miguel had come on the scene and said the kid wants a nice girl. Papa-san split.

  Miguel and I drank a beer together. He was concerned—didn’t I want to get laid? I shrugged.

  Tony returned, all smiles. He described his exploits and lit up his pipe. But the good time was not to last for long. The steward had left to get some food, but returned to say that Billy and Ned had gotten into a fight with Papa-san. It figured; they could start a fight in an empty room. Tony, Miguel, and I went downstairs and found the two of them waiting outside. Billy was incensed that the girls wanted to go drinking and dancing first, and Ned was infuriated that he couldn’t make them perform certain sexual positions.

  Not wanting to beat a dead horse, we jumped into a taxi, leaving Spider and the steward, and told our driver to take us to another place.

  After a two-minute ride we stopped before a similar-looking building, only this one was more run-down. We went in and were ushered into a bare room with a single red overhead light and a few pieces of shabby furniture. We looked at one another dubiously.

  The proprietor brought in three pathetic girls with faces like ten miles of bad road. There was no way. Ned started demanding other girls. The three ladies were ushered out, and a new one was brought in. Ned smiled and said he’d take her. They disappeared into a room across the hall. The four of us sat there, wondering what to do. We didn’t want to wait around for Ned all night, but we couldn’t spoil his fun.

  Just then a nice young fellow came into the room. He was remarkably cheerful and seemed to live in the place. He asked us if we needed anything, to which Miguel replied he wanted some food. The fellow knew just the place, only a few blocks away. Within a minute we were off into the night.

  The town was a strange mixture of Oriental and European, with broad, well-paved avenues lined with small huts and hawkers. The eatery where we ended up looked like a Parisian café—tiled, beautiful brass fixtures, and spotless—but was filled with families and old men hunched over squid tempura.

  We sat down at a table and let our guide and Miguel do the ordering. Frogs’ legs, chicken breasts, spring mushrooms. We were living like kings. At one point in the meal we looked up to see the Indian from the first whorehouse stroll in with a stunning woman on each arm. He was as surprised to see us as we were to see him, and waved hello. We laughed—not even Billy could hold a grudge tonight.

  It was two in the morning when we returned to the whorehouse to get Ned. I waited with Tony and Miguel outside while Billy dragged him out of bed. An odd little shrine stood by the front door.
In front of a picture of the Buddha were an incense burner and a stack of paper money. They were printed with HELL BANK NOTES, CURRENCY FOR THE OTHER WORLD.

  We gave our friend a tip. He was a little taken aback and didn’t really want it; he was just being friendly. Saying good-bye, we grabbed another cab and went in search of a hotel. The Imperial had been recommended to Tony, and although I suggested Raffles, I consented.

  We swaggered through the smoked-glass doors and entered the ultra-deluxe modern lobby. Tony and I took control of the room situation: “Yes, that’s right, my good man, we’d like two of your finest rooms. Right, then. Have a good evening.”

  Sneaking Miguel, Ned, and Billy upstairs in the back elevator, we cruised the top floor and let ourselves into one of the rooms. Ned stood there openmouthed.

  “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. Look at this place! Can you believe it?”

  I immediately went to the refrigerator and opened her up. My mates were speechless; there was a fully stocked bar, anything we could ever hope to drink.

  We set to work. Billy and Ned were still amazed by the surroundings. The closest they had ever come to luxury before was the Olympia Movie Palace in North Philadelphia. They jumped on the beds and started hooting. Tony mixed the drinks.

  The party continued for hours. I noticed that Miguel had disappeared and looked around for him. I found him curled up with a pillow in the closet. I asked him what in the world he was doing and he replied that he was tired but didn’t want to spoil the party. Ned walked him over to the other room.

  Miguel was going to get up in time to make it back for his watch, but the four of us had unanimously decided to blow it off. Let the Old Man take a piggyback ride on a buzz saw.