The Waking

by H. M. Mann

  “Take a break, Emmanuel,” Rose tells me, my soapy arms forearm-deep in a pot that held veal scaloppini or linguini or something ending in the letter “I.”

  “I’m okay.” And I am. I could work all night as wired as I am from the doughnuts and angel food cake.

  She pulls me away and hands me a towel. “Go out and deliver some of your brownies.”

  I dry my hands and take off my hairnet, gloves, and apron. “Just … take a tray out there?”

  “Best way to get your bearings, to learn where everything is on the boat. I didn’t get a chance to take you for the full tour. Just take a walk. As soon as those brownies disappear, and they will, come back for more then go out again a different way.” She steps closer and sniffs my clothes. “You smell like chicken.”

  “I like chicken.” I smile.

  Rose doesn’t smile.

  “I like chicken, ma’am.”

  She flicks some chicken batter from my vest. “I’ll wrap you up some.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Just don’t let Rufus get at ‘em. He can tear him up some chicken.”

  Then I wander around the American Queen. I go up first to the sun deck where lots of folks, all of them white and most of them at least sixty-five, are taking pictures of the sunset and sipping mixed drinks, soaking in the pool, or playing an extremely slow game of ping pong. My tray of brownies disappears in less than five minutes, and one old guy even tips me five dollars. After taking a wrong turn at the Mark Twain Gallery, which looks like some rich person’s living room with enough wooden furniture to build a small house, I bring my empty tray back to the kitchen and get another load of brownies.

  I serve folks playing cards and singing at the Engine Room Bar right near that spinning red paddlewheel. I empty another tray along what they call “The Front Porch of America” where folks rock on rockers or swing on porch swings. I get swarmed by some wonderful little old ladies in the Ladies Parlor playing bridge, and I even leave a tray for the cigar-smoking men to “munch on later” in the Gentlemen’s Card Room. Each time I return to the galley, I do it faster and more efficiently.

  “Getting any tips?” Rose asks, and I show her a roll of small bills. “They like you, Emmanuel. They don’t take to everyone, you know.”

  “They like the brownies, not me.”

  “Which you made. Don’t sell yourself short. They’re tasting the love you put into making them because you wanted to make them. There’s a difference, you know.”

  “All I did was stir them.” I didn’t make them with love. I made them with muscle and sweat.

  “And some of your love spilled over into the mix.”

  I don’t believe that. I squeeze the money, and then I hand it to her. “Could you keep this for me until the bank opens?”

  She nods. “Is money your trigger?”

  “My what?”

  “Your trigger, what gets you thinking about it.”

  It has to be. “Yeah, I mean, yes ma’am. If I don’t have it on me …”

  “You won’t want it in you. I get you.” She pockets the money. “I’ll hold it for you.” She checks her watch. “My trigger’s a holiday, but I won’t tell you which one.” She looks down. “Used to like too much gin, so I know what you’re going through.”

  This kindly grandmamma was a drunk? “How long, um, have you—”

  “Been clean and sober?”

  “Twenty-two years, but every time that holiday comes along ...” She sighs. “You already put in eight straight hours. Call it a night.” She points at a paper bag, grease soaking through at the bottom. “Don’t forget your chicken.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” I grab the bag.

  “And be back here by sunrise.”

  “Sunrise? When’s that?”

  She steps closer. “Boy, ain’t you noticed? This ship is full of old folks who can’t take enough pictures of sunrises and sunsets, and half of ‘em think they’re bird-watchers about to discover some new species. They get up mighty early every single morning, so we got to get up mighty earlier.”

  Got to get up mighty … earlier. Get up mighty. I like that phrase. “I don’t have an alarm clock.”

  “Rufus is your alarm clock. When he comes in from his shift, it’ll be time for you to shower and get up here. And do me a favor.”

  “Yes ma’am?”

  “Get lots of sleep. Don’t stay up any later than you have to. You’re going to have at least a twelve-hour day tomorrow.”

  I won’t ask what for. “Yes ma’am.”

  “Good night, Emmanuel.”

  “Good night, ma’am.”

  But I can’t go to sleep yet. It can’t be later than nine o’clock, and because I haven’t seen the entire ship, I wander around. I find that the American Queen has a beauty salon, a theater, two elevators, and an athletic club. It’s like downtown Pittsburgh, like a little city chugging down the river. And the view from the back rail of the Promenade Deck next to the Calliope Bar is priceless. With the ship lit up more like a wedding cake than any birthday cake with all those tiers and the lights of the towns passing by, it’s like “Silent Night, Holy Night” or something and—

  “Hey,” a voice says.

  I look beside me to see Penny smoking a cigarette. “Hey.”

  She takes a long drag and blows out a stream of smoke. “You’re not supposed to be out here off duty, you know.”

  “I’m not?”

  She shakes her head. “Ma’am didn’t tell you? Rose is like that, you know. She forgets to tell you stuff, and then when you get into trouble for not knowing, she says, ‘You should have known better.’ Passengers aren’t supposed to see us unless we’re working.”

  “You’re out here.”

  She flicks her cigarette into the paddlewheel. “Just getting a smoke, yo. Who died and made you the po-lice?”

  Penny’s cute, with her corn-fed, rosy cheeks and freckles. But the cornrows and the pierced nose … and is that a pierced eyebrow? This girl is a long way from Iowa or wherever that accent’s from. I guess if you darkened her up some, she’d be all right. The girl needs a tan, but then again, so do I.

  She unwraps a stick of Juicy Fruit and sticks it in her mouth. “Emmanuel, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That your real name?”

  “Yeah. Is Penny yours?”

  “What you think? Shoot.”

  Nice attitude. “So where are you from, Penny?”

  “Kansas City.”

  I was close. Iowa’s over there somewhere, I think.

  “How ‘bout you?” she asks.

  “Pittsburgh.”

  She turns and puts her back on the railing, the diamond stud in her nose gleaming. “We was just up there a few days ago. Nothin’ much happenin’ though. Nowhere to party. Too much rain.” She cracks her gum several times. “You, uh, you like to party, Emmanuel?”

  “I don’t, um, I don’t party anymore.”

  She turns back to the railing and drapes her arms over the edge. “That’s not what I heard.”

  Man, this ship is like small neighborhood or something. “What’d you hear?”

  “I heard that you were some OG from the East Coast on the run from the po-po.”

  OG? Po-po? What bad movies has Cornbread Penny here been watching? “You heard wrong.”

  “Uh-huh. Right. You just happened to get on a steamboat in a hick town in Ohio with nothin’ but some borrowed clothes and some boots that don’t even match.” Penny’s been stalking me. “They even said that you didn’t have no draws on and you got tattoos all over your body.”

  What? “Who’s been telling you all this?”

  “You’ll never know, unless …” She smiles and licks her lower lip.

  I can’t tell if she’s serious or not, but I’m not about to ask “Unless what?” because I already know the answer. “What you got?”

  “A little ecstasy, a little weed, a little wine,” she whispers. “We’ll have us a good time.”r />
  And that’s how it gets started, though I never did ecstasy. I sold a lot of it to the white boys who came over from the University of Pittsburgh, many of them asking for GHB, that date rape drug. Penny needs a wakeup call, and I’m just the one to do it. “I used to smoke weed and drink a lot.” I pause. “When I was your age.”

  “I’m twenty-nine, yo.”

  “You ain’t older than eighteen,” I say.

  Her shoulders slump. “Shoulda said twenty-two.”

  I unbutton my right cuff. “Wanna see my tattoos, Penny?”

  “Not now.” She spits her gum toward the paddlewheel and pulls out a pack of Newports.

  “They’re special tattoos, ones I made myself.” Even though I know more of my story will be floating around on this boat, I push up the sleeve to reveal my scars.

  She stiffens so fast that I think she’s having a seizure. “What the—”

  I see some of the passengers looking our way, so I roll the sleeve back down. “And it all started with some cigarettes, a little weed, and a little wine.”

  She looks away. “I’d never do that shit.”

  “You already like piercing your skin,” I say. “I’ll bet you have a few tattoos, too.”

  Her hands shake as she tries to light her cigarette. She blows a fit of smoke. “Only the one in my eyebrow’s pierced. The one in my nose is just a magnet, and so what if I got a tattoo? It don’t mean I’m gonna be a junkie like you.”

  “I hope not,” I say. “Just be careful what you buy, especially weed. You never really know what you’re getting.”

  “I know what I’m getting, yo.”

  “You can’t ever know exactly what you’re getting, especially if you’re getting it in strange little towns from people you don’t know.”

  She sucks harder on her cigarette.

  I have her scared, but she isn’t scared enough. “I used to sling weed along with a little bit of everything else, all from the same supplier. Stuff gets mixed up sometimes, dust flies everywhere, you understand? You might have already smoked a little cocaine, a little crack, a little PCP, and even a little heroin. It’s how we get you without meaning to.”

  She flicks her cigarette into the wind. “I gotta go.”

  “Be careful, Penny.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “I mean it.”

  She rolls her eyes and walks away, and hopefully I’ve ruined her evening so she won’t ruin her life.

  I used to be a lot like Penny. Couldn’t no one tell me nothing I didn’t think I already knew, when I didn’t really know a single thing. I looked up to a bunch of junkies on Centre Avenue for guidance and wisdom when I should have stayed in school, listened more to Auntie June, and stayed straight, even gone to church more often. I got nothing against the street life, just that it ain’t The Life for probably ninety-nine percent of the folks on the street. Just like me, they want something better, but the street, as hard as it is, is easier to understand. Funny, but I could always count on the street, even though most of what the street gave me was pain and suffering.

  I have to be exhausted. I ain’t no philosopher. Just something about this peaceful ride and all those stars that seem to call it up out of me.

  I go to my cabin, peel off my clothes, hit that bunk, and I am gone into a drowsy, dreamless sleep.

  But for only about seven hours.

  I wake up to bright light and a shaking bunk. “What’s happening?”

  Rufus’s sweaty, smiling face is inches from mine, and I catch the strongest whiff of country boy stank. “Manny Mann, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m Rufus Cobb, your roommate. How you doin’?”

  It’s still dark in here. Oh, that’s just Rufus. “What time is it?”

  “Time for you to get up, city boy.” He unzips his coveralls, and I get a full view of those angry pit bull arms of his. One of them even has a brand of a circle with an X in the middle. “Rose is already in the galley crackin’ eggs and crackin’ heads. You don’t ever want to keep Rose waitin’, so get you a shower and get crackin’.”

  I slide out of bed. “What’s that on your arm?”

  He flexes it for me, and the X explodes into view. “My older brother Kenny burnt it in when I was little.” Rufus was never little. “Kinda grew as I did.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “All my brothers got one just like it.” He drops to his bed, and I swear the entire boat tilts some. Bet the people upstairs just fell out of bed. He digs into a bag of chicken. Rose must take care of us all. “Hurt like crazy, let me tell you. Same brand we got on our hogs. We got us a hog farm down in Mississippi.”

  Why doesn’t this surprise me? “But you’re here on this boat.”

  “Sure am.” He sucks the skin off a drumstick. “But I got five big brothers and my mama and daddy runnin’ things down there. They don’t need me till we gotta slaughter ‘em in August, so I work here till then.” I can’t imagine brothers bigger than Rufus. “You best be gettin’ in the shower, boy. Time’s a-wastin’.”

  I stand and stretch. “It still dark out?”

  “Yeah.” His eyes narrow. “Man, what you got on your arms? And your leg? You get bit?”

  I don’t feel like explaining, but I’m sure they don’t have folks like me down on the farm in Mississippi. “Needle marks and scars.”

  He blinks.

  “From shooting heroin.”

  His eyes pop. “You do that mess?”

  “Not anymore. I’m clean.” Six days clean. Tomorrow will be a week.

  He stands and looks over the scars on my arm with chubby, greasy hands. “Look like you tried to hide ‘em with that snake there.”

  “Yeah.” I can’t remember the guy’s name at County who tried to connect all the dots for me. It took him a couple days to make it.

  “When we get to Cincy, I know of a tattoo place that’ll make ‘em all disappear.” He pulls up his shirt and turns so I can see his back. An eagle or a vulture or something is tattooed over some angry-looking scars. “Got run over by a mad hog when I was little, chewed on me pretty good.” He pulls his shirt off completely and gets into his bed. “They’ll fix you up.”

  “Maybe.” I don’t know if I should be messing with any kind of needles just yet.

  I take a lukewarm shower, and the water ruins the dressing on my leg. I rip off the dressing and hope the postage stamp heals on its own. By the time I’m dressed, Rufus is sound asleep and snoring, well, like a hog. And I can’t stop yawning. I haven’t gotten up mighty this morning. And once out in the corridor, I realize I’m alone. I expected to see at least a few passengers rolling on out at the same time as me.

  Unless I’m late.

  I hustle down to the galley and run straight into Rose and an apron. “You’ve got egg duty, Emmanuel.”

  I tie on the apron. “Yes ma’am.”

  “And you’re late.”

  “Sorry. Ma’am.”

  “Don’t let it happen again.”

  “I won’t, ma’am.”

  Here I am in a hairnet with plastic gloves cracking and stirring dozens of eggs in a big pot that Penny, once again, drains little by little with a plastic pitcher and carries to the huge griddle. It isn’t fun at all. This must be some kind of punishment for being late. Crack and stir, crack and stir. That’s all I do while others frost pastries, turn sausage links, flip sausage patties, chop green and red peppers and onions for omelets, scrape scrambled eggs, and turn bacon that sizzles and pops. My stomach is screaming for food. Those brown biscuits and some of that gravy would be enough.

  “Emmanuel!” Rose calls.

  “Yes ma’am?” I remove my plastic gloves, hairnet, and apron.

  “Bus tables!”

  Shoot. I thought it was breakfast break. “Yes ma’am.”

  I get a gray plastic container I saw the other busboys using the night before.

  “And make haste slowly,” Rose says.

  “Yes ma’am.”

/>   The J. M. White dining room is about as big as the infield of a baseball diamond, and it’s incredibly crowded. I have trouble getting through all the chairs to tables where folks are waiting for me to do the clearing. I’m not even sure what to do except slide everything I see into the container. As soon as I clear one place, a server plunks down a napkin filled with silverware and a glass filled with ice water.

  “Go on,” a tall skinny white server named Tammi tells me.

  So I go on, table to table until my container’s full, then back to the kitchen to get another … and another. In, out, in, out, and I’m about to pass out.

  “Is it always this crazy?” I ask a busboy rushing by.

  “It’s raining again.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t noticed.

  As the dining room starts to thin out around ten-thirty, I stumble and nearly drop my container. I need something to eat right now. I walk through the galley doors, slam down my container near the sink, and head for a basket of biscuits. I grab one and rip it open, but before I can dump some jam on it, I hear, “Emmanuel!”

  I don’t even see Rose anywhere. “Yes ma’am?”

  “Get an apron and help out with the dishes.” She’s standing right next to me.

  I am so out of it. “Could I eat something first? I’m about to fall out.” And I’ve been working at least six hours straight without a break. I know that ain’t right.

  “Got to eat on the run around here, Emmanuel. I thought you knew that.” She takes the jar of jam from me and dumps a glob onto the biscuit. “Eat quick then go knock out those dishes.”

  One biscuit isn’t enough, and I find myself wanting the leftover food on the plates as I scrape them and put them in boiling hot dishwater. I need some grease or something!

  “Yo,” I ask the dishwasher to my left, a tall dark-skinned man, “when do we get a break?”

  “We don’t.” He swipes another plate.

  “What?”

  “We only get breaks when Rose says we do.”

  “What about days off?” I ask.