fisherman

you decide you want
to work on a fishing
boat and so join a crew
heading out into
the north atlantic
to catch cod and
flounder. it's a stinky
job, to say the least.
lots of swearing
and drinking and
smoking. everyone
has a beard and a lazy
eye or limp, and smells
like a barrel of
anchovies. they make fun
of your black knit
crew sweater from
calvin klein, and
chinos, but you
ignore them. you're a
fisherman, damn it.
they have a rookie
initiation which you
don't know about until
you have sailed fifty
miles from shore. they
string you up from
the mast with fishing
lines and swing you
around the boat, dunking
you into the water
when a school of sharks
appear. it's fun for
everyone, although you
can feel that your
sunscreen is being washed
off with each dip into
the salty ocean. your
favorite pair of black framed
raybans with polarized
lenses ends up in
the mouth of a tiger shark.
they finally
let you down when you toss
your breakfast and it
goes everywhere like a
busted pinata. it's
a long hard day, and
the hull is full of iced
down haddock, but you
learned how to filet fish,
tie a knot and tell stories
about your conquests of
women, although most of
those stories are made
up and embellished under
the influence of rum
and jugs of wine. you
like the camraderie of
your crew mates, singing
billy joel songs
on the way home as the
sun sets into the sea,
sharpening their knives,
letting out gas,
but you feel like this is
your last day, maybe
this job isn't for you
afterall. your hands
are bubbled with blisters
and your penny loafers
are covererd with gills
and something yellowish
and gooey. maybe there's
an opening at barnes
and noble.