Looking for Garbo

by Jon James Miller

  Seth looked over at me. The setting sun in the window behind me fired his pupils, like a golden-hued key light in an old Hollywood melodrama.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Wow.”

  4. SCARS IN THE ATMOSPHERE SETH

  The Athenia crept ever closer to port while the gaggle of reporters crowding the Promenade Deck all jockeyed for position. Everyone wanted to be first man off. The tip on Garbo being onboard was a bust, so it was every shutterbug for himself. Every hack with a Kodak was now looking for a story prior to deadline to earn his keep. Everybody but me. I just wanted to keep my toes.

  A tab reporter’s life was to always be one step ahead. But this was one time being out front wouldn’t pay. I shrank back from the railing and moved to the rear of the wolf pack, shunning the refracted light coming off the water’s surface like some bottom dweller might. If Toes wanted my toes, he’d have to come on board to get them.

  My strategic retreat lured some unwelcome attention. I felt a presence from behind me. I knew it couldn’t be Toes, because we hadn’t made port yet. But that didn’t make me any less jumpy.

  “Moseley,” a voice said over my left shoulder.

  I turned to see Bill Evans, a mick from The Mirror, a rival tabloid rag. A harmless, dim-witted general pain-in-the-ass who I’d neither the time nor the patience to deal with.

  “You look like forty-miles of rough road,” he cackled.

  “Shove off, Evans,” I said. “Don’t bother me.”

  “What’s the matter, you hang over the railing, too long?” he said and laughed. “Hangover, get it?”

  I got it all right, and I would have finished it, too, if I had the—That’s it! He’d be just the diversion I needed. I glared at Evans and smiled. The schmuck was made-to-order.

  “Funny,” I said. “You write your own material? Or did The Mirror hire a monkey to do it for you?”

  Evans had the kind of sarcastic smirk I would have been only too happy to remove with the business end of a shovel. Instead, I sharpened my tongue and hoped to inflict just enough injury to provoke the moron. I was a gambling man, after all, and I now had my money on Evans taking a fall and creating enough of a disturbance for me to disappear, toes intact.

  “Haven’t seen you around much,” he said while several fellow hacks turned toward us, smelling trouble. “You been on a case, Moseley?” Then Evans licked his lips, his tell just before delivering a punch line. “A case of Scotch?”

  Evans laughed a high-pitched hyena laugh. I let him enjoy himself. I found when engaged in verbal sparring, it was always good to let your opponent draw first blood. Or think they did. Evans had been nipping at my ankles for years. Now it was time to teach him a lesson and, at the same time, use him to save my own tail.

  “That’s a knee-slapper, all right,” I encouraged him. “But ya know, you should be more thankful.”

  “How’s that?” Evans mocked.

  We had an audience. The reporters crowded around us, while I took a glance at the port looming ever closer. In a minute we’d be docked. Bernie and Toes would be looking for me. I had to buy myself some time to sneak away. Make myself scarce long enough to skip town or come up with the scratch to pay back Johnnie Roses, my marker. I turned back to Evans.

  “God gave you opposable thumbs,” I said. “So you can wipe your own ass and work a typewriter once in awhile.” Then I went in for the kill. “Not that you could tell them apart with the crap copy you write.”

  The crowd erupted in gales of haughty laughter. The grin on Evan’s face faded. I’d gotten to him. But I had to make sure he went for the bait. No time to lose.

  “Crap,” I added. “Get it?”

  I could see in Evans’s eyes that I’d succeeded in drawing a line in the sand. Now all I had to do was make sure he stepped over it. The smart man would have given up in the face of a superior intellect. But Evans wasn’t smart. As I predicted, he pressed on with a losing concern.

  “I guess what they say about you is true,” he said. “You’re all washed up. A has-been.”

  The crowd took a collective groan. They knew, as I did, where Evans was headed with this. They just didn’t know I had led him there. I visually bristled and braced myself. Already had a line on what was coming next.

  “Like your man Lindbergh,” Evans said.

  Now the crowd gasped in unison, drew back and gave Evans and me a wide berth. That was my cue. Evans knew, as did every man and woman on that deck, my history with the famous aviator. Lindbergh had given me the story of the century. My big break when I was still a greenhorn reporter. But that was a story for another day. Right now I had other pressing matters. Like getting into a fistfight without getting my own teeth knocked out.

  I knew my limitations. My upper body strength had not been taxed for some time beyond lifting a pint glass. Evans, on the other hand, was built like an Irish ox. I eyeballed his stocky six-foot frame and decided the best course of action was an uppercut. But I’d have to be quick and use the element of surprise to my full advantage. I’d only get one shot.

  “You can lead a horse to water,” I said, then motioned to turn away. “But you can’t get him to shut the fuck up.”

  I was lucky. The air horn of the Athenia sounded above us and I took the opportunity to whip my right fist up under Evan’s chin. A deafening siren accompanied the crowd of reporters as they made way for Evans, reeling back on his heels. They parted like the Red Sea as the Irishman hit the deck like 250-plus pounds of dead weight.

  I felt the ship lurch to a halt as the ship’s air horn continued to blow. And while everyone stood around, gawking at Evans slithering in pain on the deck, I made tracks for the first exit off that deck I could find.

  My plan had been more pragmatic than elaborate. I’d succeeded in distracting the mob of reporters. Now I had to find a place to hide and wait out the goons waiting for me in port. My hand ached while I ran down a mahogany-lined hallway with chandeliers, plush red carpeting, and bevel-mirrored walls. My desperate visage stared back at me in the looking glass, like a bum who had stumbled his way into a foreign palace.

  My stomach dropped when a young porter suddenly came out of a stateroom at the other end of the hallway. I put on the brakes and broke into an uneasy smile. To my surprise, instead of ringing the ship’s alarm, the young porter waved a white-gloved hand in a practiced, welcoming gesture.

  “May I be of assistance,” he said in English with a heavy and, I assumed, Swedish accent.

  “Bathroom?” I said in a winded, plaintive voice.

  “Of course, sir,” he said. “There is a gentleman’s room at the other end of the hall.” Then he turned and gestured with the same hand for me to follow him. “Right this way.”

  “Excellent,” I said.

  We were both off like a shot down the hallway. He brought me, key in hand, to an overly ornate door adorned in black-lacquered high relief with cherubs and naked water nymphs. I didn’t think I was about to enter a john as much as a church sanctuary.

  The porter inserted the key and opened the door. I didn’t have a plugged nickel to tip him, so I saluted him instead. He gave a confused smile in return. I piled into the black-and-white-tiled room while he looked on. I made my way over to the wash basin, feigning illness.

  “Oh, gaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwddd!” I fake-vomited, the porcelain basin amplifying the sound.

  “You’ll be requiring of your privacy, sir,” the porter said from the doorway. “I’ll lock the door from the inside, so no one need disturbs you.”

  This kid was the answer to my immediate prayers. He turned the lock on the inside of the door for me, then proceeded to close it. I couldn’t have come up with a better solution to my situation myself. Things were looking up.

  “Much appreciated,” I said.

  The porter gone, I leaned up and took a look at myself in the mirror. I decided I wasn’t such a chump after all. A little soap, a little cash and a lot of luck, and Seth Moseley would be back on top. I proceeded to turn on the water
faucet and grabbed a fresh bar of soap on the basin. I was gonna start turning things around that very minute. Cleanliness was next to Godliness, something like that.

  The bathroom was both nicely appointed and bigger than my apartment back in Hell’s Kitchen. The daylight and sea air streaming in through the porthole over my right shoulder was delightful. I laughed at the idea of making this joint my new permanent address. Throw in room service, and I’d never leave.

  Then I glanced up in the mirror and saw movement. Like an eclipse, something had passed in front of the porthole and obstructed the light. I turned in time to register someone dressed in a black cape, black floppy hat and velvet gloves with green piping standing before me. They must have been hiding in one of the stalls because I remember the porter had locked me in from the inside.

  “Who the hell are you?” I said, my face and hands covered in soap lather.

  My assailant—let’s call him the masked musketeer just for shits-and-giggles—came at me wielding an object strikingly similar to a wrench. Swung down and caught me right in the noggin. Next thing I knew I was on my knees, staring down at the black-and-white floor tiles, now spinning like pinwheels blown by the hot winds of hell.

  Hit over the head for the second time that day. The odds of a permanent mark, not to mention brain damage, were high. I fell to the floor like a rag doll. Gob-smacked the tile floor with my face. My ears heard the sickening thud my flesh made against the floor, while my eyes glared down into a rotating dark abyss. My gateway into oblivion.

  The first thing I noticed when I regained consciousness was that the light in the room had changed. The second was that I had apparently pissed myself. A nasty habit I was determined to break myself of. Once people stopped accosting me, of course.

  The cacophony of pain in my head couldn’t be worse if somebody had ripped the two hemispheres of my brain apart and smashed them together like cymbals. My eyes ached in direct proportion to the light in the room. I had taken to the recessed shadows of a darkened bar for so long, my eyes had become allergic to light. And to getting my own porch lights punched out one too many times.

  I got up on all fours and stared up at the porthole above me. A shimmering shaft of daylight now shot straight across the room. Even in my diminished capacity I deduced it must be around noon. The sun was on the rise. But I’d have to wait to take in the view. First, I had to figure out how to get myself up off the floor.

  My stomach, back, and head all screamed at me in unison. I looked down at my hands and noticed the smallest vibration coming through the tile floor. It was like it was alive. I pondered this as I crawled my way back to the bank of basins, hoisted myself up on my knees, then theoretically to my feet. The whole procedure took far too long, but I wasn’t in any position to argue the point.

  I didn’t bother looking in the mirror when I finally made it to my feet. I knew what I must have looked like and didn’t need the stark truth to confirm it. So much for cleaning myself up. Someone obviously had taken exception to my appearance. Tried to wipe the smile off my face with a wrench.

  I rested my haunches on the basin and faced the porthole. Gazed upon it as if in a trance. The color of the light had a beautiful pink tinge to it. My mouth hung open as I stared at the round disk of sky in front of me. Like the fancy dinner plates my mother had hung on the wall of our dining room. I used to stare up at them when I was a little sprig, eating my cream of mushroom soup.

  My spell of nostalgia was broken when something flew by on the other side of the porthole, temporarily obstructing the light. Something big. Was that a … was that an albatross? No. No such bird existed on the Atlantic Ocean.

  I got to my feet and slowly, oh, so slowly walked towards the porthole, careful to mind the light beam. I felt like a direct shot of sunlight might cause my head to spontaneously combust. I was already spinning. I didn’t want to be on fire as well.

  I came up to the edge of the open window and gingerly stared out. What I saw was not what I expected. No dock. No port of New York. In fact, nothing but open sea with pink and purple cotton-candy clouds above a continuous horizon. Then I looked at the sun. It wasn’t morning, but late afternoon into early evening. The sun had aligned with the porthole on its descent into the west.

  Holy shit. The ship was at sea. Headed towards Sweden. I was now officially a stowaway. I broke into a smile for the first time in a long time. Toes had figured I’d jump ship. He hadn’t considered I’d stow away. Neither had I, for that matter. Someone had made that decision for me. I had no idea who or what the reason could possibly be, but I was thankful I was still intact. For the most part.

  I stared out at the placid sea, a sheet of glass mirroring the heavens above. A reflection of the first star of the night bobbed on the surface. Like it had fallen there but was too hot to be extinguished. No. Not a star. The planet Venus.

  Yeah, my world had been turned upside down, all right. In the last couple hours, I had been transported to another world entirely. This new one was more exotic, bigger and covered entirely with water. The Athenia encompassed my reality now. In order to survive, I’d have to get to know the floating city and her crew intimately. Once she stopped spinning.

  5. VELVET GLOVES & SCREAMING MEEMIES SETH

  When I emerged from the men’s room that evening, I was a little worse for wear. I walked down the mirrored hallway of First Class suites and immediately noticed my hair. Getting hit in the head with a wrench had given me a permanent part. I was also pretty sure my new coif broke some obscenity law. Mashed together, my black locks looked like a big fist giving me the finger in the mirror. Or a demented rooster.

  The Athenia’s Promenade Deck was abuzz with activity, what with the dining saloons just letting out. Mothers lined the railing, gossiping, with babes in arms, their older children playing games, while husbands had repaired to the bar for cigars and digestives. The sea remained smooth as plate glass.

  The ocean air on the open deck didn’t revive as much as nauseate me. My skin had the ghostly pallor of a husk shed by a rattlesnake. What I needed to make myself right was a cigarette and a drink, both in the ship’s salon. This was a tricky proposition, though. I wasn’t a paying passenger and looked it. I hoped the ship’s salon accepted American greenbacks and no questions asked. I made my way through a gaggle of mothers and children, trying to avoid their stares.

  I stepped into the ornate art-deco establishment made of glass and hardwood and felt eyes fall on me like bricks. You’d think I’d be good at walking into a bar with all the practice I’d had recently. But this joint was different. This was the kind of place guys like me entered through the kitchen to make a delivery or work the hot line. It had that rarified air I found suffocating. I felt as welcome as a spare prick in a honeymoon suite. But since I had nowhere else to go and solace lay just behind the bar, I pressed on.

  I’d practiced grinning in the hall mirror before I came in. I thought a smile might improve my appearance, but I ended up looking like an idiot. Whoever said, “Smile and the world smiles with you,” was a lying sack of shit. All cadavers smiled once their lips got eaten away. I was doing a bang-up impression of one when the barmaid approached me. It’s to her credit she didn’t start screaming right off the bat. Instead, she led me to an empty table in the corner.

  “What may I get for you, sir?” the Swede said in pitch-perfect English.

  “Bourbon and a beer chaser.” I literally fell into the chair she kindly pulled out for me.

  “Lager or pilsner?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said and placed my hands flat on the table top.

  The raven-haired barmaid turned, and I caught a look at her shapely buttocks as she walked away. This was an encouraging sign. I hadn’t expired yet, though you couldn’t tell to smell me. She was back in the time it took the barkeep to draw the spirits and then placed them before me. I looked up at the young woman’s open face and flashed my corpse smile.

  “What’s your name, beautiful?” I asked.

/>   “Ingrid.” She had a beautiful Swedish accent.

  “I didn’t know Swedes came in colors other than blonde.”

  “Some of us even keep our spots when we grow up.” Her delivery so quick and deadpan that I almost did a double take.

  “I guess I’m not the first Joe to crack wise to you today, huh?”

  “That would depend.”

  “Depend on what?” I said.

  “On whether your name is Joe.”

  Ingrid turned and left me to my libations before I could come up with a snappy rejoinder. For the next half hour, I watched her help other patrons as I downed the shot, then the pints. I couldn’t help but admire how she charmed patrons without condescending to them. I especially liked the way she met people’s gaze head on with a pleasant yet serious nature. She carried herself with a confidence and countenance that belied her apparent youth. By the time she came back to me, I was spreading my newfound sea legs and eager to enter into another round of spirited conversation.

  “Another round?” Ingrid asked.

  “Only if you’ll join me.”

  She shook her head. “We aren’t permitted to fraternize with the passengers.”

  “What about when you get off?”

  “Then I go to bed.”

  “You’re the boss,” I replied.

  Ingrid let the comment hang in the air. I felt like a trapeze artist high up on a tightrope about to lose his balance. I held my breath, unsure whether I’d gone over the line. She could tell her pause was having the desired effect and let me dangle there another few seconds. It served me right for working without a net.

  “Maybe this one time,” she said, “I can make an exception.”

  “Wonderful.” I exhaled.

  “What is your name?”

  She put both her hands on the table and gave me a nice view of her cleavage. I stared into the dark-v her bosom created, drew a momentary blank on my own moniker. The power women possessed was stunning. I moved my eyes back to her face, rallied at the last minute.