ALAN LELCHUK
615
Sam of course, when he saw it at dinner, asked if I had purchased it
"hot" uptown somewhere, "How'd you save that kind of money?"
"Overtime," I assured him, "plus a good poker game."
He laughed at that. "Yeah, you poker.
It
probably would be the best
thing for you actually."
On Tuesday I took a longer sidetrack, before work. In downtown
Brooklyn I got off the train, and walked along Atlantic Avenue to an
anonymous-looking brick building on a narrow street. There, in a large ball–
room-sized room, thirty or forty fellows lounged about, many scraggly look–
ing, dirty blonde, youngish. A stubble-bearded fellow pointed out the tiny of–
fice in one corner, where a small sign said, Scandinavian Seaman's Institute.
At the counter I waited, and asked the gentleman how I could get a boat out.
"Ships, they're called," he corrected me. "You have your American
passport?"
"Not yet," I murmured, reddening at my mistake.
"Get that first," he said in singsong English, "Then you can have a look
at the board over here. Ships and jobs are listed on the cards." And he turned
away.
On a hung cork bulletin board alongside the office, 3 x 5 cards were
posted, listing not merely the ships and jobs, but also, dreams. They were
called: Dakar and Lagos, Yokohama and Rotterdam, Oslo and Hamburg.
Right there in the heart of Brooklyn! When my brain and heart stopped
ferris-wheeling, in a few minutes, I noted the positions and returned to the
busy, brusque man.
"Excuse me again," I interrupted him, "but which of these am I quali–
fied for?" "With a passport, you can be deck boy, kitchen helper, engine room
assistant."
"Is
dekksgutt
the deck boy? What's he do?"
He nodded at the first query, and advised me to ask one of the seamen
about the tasks involved, and turned back brusquely to his business.
I found a blonde fellow of thirty, an "AB" (or "able-bodied seaman," as
he explained), who told me about the
dekksgutt
chores: helping out on deck
everywhere, chipping paint, cleaning latrines, handling ropes, "Maybe taking
a watch," whatever the "bozzen" wanted.
I gulped it all in, too excited to ask all the details. As I was leaving, he
stopped me, and said very solemnly, "Sign on for one trip, maybe three or
four months, but not longer. Then you come ashore before you sign on again.
You understand?"
"Yes. But why?"
"Because otherwise you get too use to sea, and to ships, and you can't
never stay on land for too long. It's not a good life.
So,"
he smiled gaptoothed,
