Galleon

For whatever reason I decide to end the night by telling an ableist joke, and when I am immediately challenged on it, I then decide to meaninglessly defend it, without reason or ability. I wake the next day hungover and spend the morning idly wondering if it’s easy to have an affair with an older woman, a single mother or teacher type. I nod off and dream about it all in cartoon, which makes me feel less disgusted with myself. I rarely drink, apart from these stupid nights, with people I barely know, and regret immediately on waking. I think about camping as a child with my best friend, Nelson, and his older brother, Jon. At the campfire we made in the sand dunes, Jon gathered us around for a tale; a galleon stranded in unusually calm weather, in the dead of night; the sea is inseparable from the sky. Suddenly, the boatswain on board tears his eye from his spyglass, and calls on the first mate to look out, where they see a galleon stranded in unusually calm weather, in the dead of night; the sea is inseparable from the sky. Suddenly, the boatswain onboard tears his eye from his spyglass, and calls on the first mate to look out, where they see a galleon stranded in unusually calm weather, in the dead of night; the sea is inseparable from the sky. Suddenly, the boatswain on board tears his eye from his spyglass, and calls on the first mate to look out, where they see a galleon stranded… Nelson and Jon chuckled, but I couldn’t sleep later after feigning amusement. Were there two similar galleons, equally confused by the other’s presence? Or an infinity of galleons, each new boatswain looking out in terror at a new galleon in the horrifically large, dark & calm ocean. Or had they reached the end of the known world, marked not by a cliff edge, but a mirror. What was a boatswain, anyway- or a spyglass or galleon for that matter. I don’t live in the town anymore, and neither does Nelson. Jon does, and I often see him when I visit the place. I find him sat on his own in the pub, staring out, unshaven, with the usual washed-out garb; a jumper with a ragged collar, dark trouser, wide shoes. An odd-job man; an odd man job. Occassionally, he weeps at his little table. People mumble that he will kill himself. Thankfully he never does, and probably never wanted to. He is always there, and will always be easy to find. I haven’t seen Nelson in years, bar one Christmas. On my last visit, I enter a dusty antique shop, and instantly pounce on a spyglass. I don’t heed whether I should or shouldn’t handle the ancient merchandise, and put it to my eye. Do I see another galleon, out on a calm dark sea? No, I see a too-close musty corner of the room. Perhaps this is what the first mate sees, (or does he confirm the boatswains vision?) and strikes his boatswain for having impudent hallucinations at such trying times. A day or so later, the wind comes back, and they sail on; though their supplies are short, there is good fishing to be had. The boatswain recovers. They find port in Bombay, where they trade for valuables to take back. The boatswain is shot in the neck by a thief in an alley; as he falls, he cries out desperately for the first mate, his voice stifled by his bubbling, bloody neck, because there before him, reeling into infinity, are galleons, exact copies, mirror copies, on a still and dark night, stranded, infinite, terrified and alone.