I was a virgin, no not even a river cruise,
Untouched, it was my very first time,
A cheap little one, how could I refuse?
My mother assured me it will be fine.
At the dock, the ship stood in all her splendour:
Sleek lines, sheer beauty, nothing to phase her,
Me in my Hawaiian shirt so ready to board
And then I read, her name was ‘Funtasia’.
I boarded Funtasia with a sizeable throng:
Young and old, small and tall, filled with glee,
The nearby couple had broken into a song
Then they muttered, 'not much is for free!'
I found my room, a cabin with no view,
Where was the food? I looked for the way,
'Follow the crowd,’ suggested one of the ship’s crew,
Like to Mecca, all converged on a place called 'The Buffet’.
It was a feeding frenzy like gulls to a fry,
I joined the jostle to be the first to the eat,
I gorged myself on all that I could try
For vegans, veggies, and those who like meat.
Just as I finished the ship started swaying,
The horizon moved; my gut sloshed around,
Nausea took hold and I started praying,
I yearned to return to feel solid ground.
As I was retching, I felt a tap on my shoulder,
'Son, you look poorly and kinda green
Don't cave in, you just gotta be bolder
You're obviously new to this cruisin' scene!’
Startled, I turned and in front was an old man:
Wizened, bearded, wearing a captain's hat,
Emblazoned on his shirt was 'I'm a Cruising Fan',
On his forearm I noticed an anchor tatt.
'Are you the captain?’ I said holding back the puke,
‘No son, but I have certainly earned this cap,
My knowledge of the oceans is no fluke,
I even have my own cruise advice app!
‘Call me Salty Ole' Dog or SOD for short,
I will give you some cruise advice for free:
Choose your excursions wisely in every port,
Go hard at the fun whilst you're out at sea.
‘Mingle with other singles, whatever your persuasion,
Karaoke, bingo, casinos, try them all,
Dress up at night for whatever the occasion,
With one or two drinks you will have a ball!’
‘Thank you, Captain SOD!’ my vomit subsided,
He had vanished in front of my very eyes,
I was so indebted for the advice he had provided,
A cruise muse had changed me to my surprise.
With that epiphany, I started my fun foray:
‘Another drink,’ ‘More chips,’ ‘Spin the wheel,'
Day turned to night, the night into day,
I tried my hand at trivia, Deal or No Deal.
My head started spinning, I was feeling faint,
The ship was listing; water was coming in,
Funtasia it was sinking; SOD was no saint!
Engulfed in the water, circling round was a fin.
'Sir, wake up, you are almost at the port.’
Opening my eyes a man resplendent in white,
'No, I am drowning,’ I then uttered my retort,
'Sir, you had a nightmare, you had a big fright!’
I then staggered back to pack my belongings,
Thought of Funtasia, advice of old mate SOD,
What came over me was the weirdest of longings,
I felt accepted on this ship, was this so odd?
Then as I was leaving, my heart it was heaving,
To go home or stay cruising, how to choose?
Funtasia was now home, this I was believing,
So, staying on board, I booked a world cruise.
Glory be to God for all fried things -
For well-done patties full of whatever;
For savs encased in thick, crusted batter;
Oily fish and chips; chicken wings;
Chiko rolls – folded, aromatic, full of flavour;
And other beauties, how can they make you fatter?
All fried things crisp, ooey, gooey, strange;
Whatever raises cholesterol (who knows how?)
With ingredients that must keep you trim;
Let’s buy another scallop with the change:
Praise him.
(Author’s note: Apologies to Gerard Manley Hopkins for the take on ‘Pied Beauty’)
How difficult is it to check if you have a bald spot in the middle of your hair? Sure, you can have a feel around and try to identify some missing hair on the top of your head, but to do a visual test is difficult.
Prufrock was doing just that as we home in on his life. He had learnt that by using only the bathroom mirror it was impossible to do the visual check, as you had to drop your eyes down to enable the mirror to pick up the location of the potential hair void. And if you turned around to show the mirror the area in question, your eyes would be facing the wrong way to see anything.
Now manipulating two small mirrors – one at the back of his head and one in front of him – Prufrock ingeniously (his view) confirmed the murmurs, then mutters: “How his hair is growing thin!”
He sat back dejected. This just added to his funk. Was it mid-life crisis? Was it the onset of depression?
Slumped in the chair he tried to psychoanalyse his feelings. His childhood was rather nondescript. Nothing really there to help explain it, he thought. However, he did feel he had to live in his father’s footsteps – at least, his name. See his father – originally named ‘John Brown’ – had searched for his own identity. May be the malady is hereditary, Prufrock mused.
Father had fallen in love with T.S. Eliot (the famous American poet, long before deceased). He then had some Eliot-driven epiphany involving leaving mother, and him doing several degrees in literature (majoring in the poetry of Eliot) and becoming an Associate Professor of Eliot (sorry, Literature specialising in Eliot) at some obscure overseas university.
Father was so smitten with Eliot that he’d long ago changed his name by deed poll to ‘J. Alfred Prufrock’ – a character in an Eliot poem who was searching for himself. And to make matters worse, just prior to father’s departure, and through some weakened state of mind (e.g. wild sex, drunken stupor), mother had supported the naming of the newly-born child as ‘J. Alfred Prufrock Jnr’.
Mmm, my name could be a factor in my malcontent, the younger Prufrock pondered.
And this given name had been a cross to bear. With literally no father (albeit having a literary father), Prufrock discarded the ‘Jnr’ as soon as he could by deed poll. He had heard that ‘Alfred’ was a relatively common second name (this author’s middle name is Alfred), and not wanting to expand the ‘J.’ (which had to be ‘John’ as per his father’s former name), he thought he would replace ‘Alfred’ with the exotic ‘Rodolfo’ to spice up his image through the juxtaposition of Spanish with Anglo-Saxon words. It might attract some woman (Julio and Enrique Iglesias were big attractions to English-speaking ladies!).
To make matters worse, in his country the use of the nickname was rife. Like a pagan ritual, all males would receive at least one ‘other’ name (some that could not be repeated in this story) in their youth. However, most nicknames were reasonably unimaginative e.g. Daniel = ‘Danno’, Johnson = ‘Johnno’, Smith = ‘Smithy’. There were some more lateral thinkers though, and Prufrock was affectionately dubbed by one: ‘The Skirt’ – derived from the latter syllable of his surname. The name stuck and introductions to ladies went like this: ‘I’m Danno, this is Johnno, this is Smithy and over there is The Skirt’ (he wished they’d call him ‘Rodolfo’). This didn’t help his woman-chasing cause.
So here he was in his thirties, living at home with mother, with a weird-sounding name, an effeminate nickname and without a woman (or even a date). He felt he was going nowhere, like he was wedged in a vice between his past (youth) and his future (old age – ‘shall I wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled?’). Thirties was supposed to be fun according to the ‘Friends’ show on TV. Sometimes he wished he would be a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas (oops, was that a quote from Eliot?).
It was now time for him to act – for decisions, visions and revisions. Break out of the melancholy. He made a list of improvements:
I will be assertive in using my new (real) name; no, it is not ‘The Skirt’, it is ‘Rodolfo’ ladies.
I will get a bachelor pad. Goodbye, mother.
I will forget my past. Goodbye, father
I will get a hair transplant.
But how to actually woo a woman? He had had numerous opportunities – nightclubs, bars; he’d tried them all but to no avail. The result was nil. They didn’t care about a flash name or full head (almost) of hair. They seemed preoccupied. In the room the women come and go talking of Michelangelo (another Eliot-ism, well they talked about something, but not him).
So, he tried online dating. He had posted his profile using a grainy photograph (not too much detail – woman can air brush theirs), highlighted his saucy name in bold and tried to lift his unremarkable past through some imaginative description. And he did get one email reply. Excited he replied. I’ll text you, she said. Sure, he said.
She: OMG u Rodolfo?
He: certainly, Rodolfo is my name. What are you doing?
She: JC
He: what?
She: YSAN
He: what are you saying?
She: 4COL
He: For Col, I’m not Col!
She: LOL @ u
He: LOL oh, you mean Lots of Love. Do you love me already?
She: WTF Go Away!
That love-text didn’t seem to work out. He stood up, emboldened.
Is this shady business? we’re all wearing dark glasses ‘SPAM’ tagged to our chests
For some reason we all have a sneeze or sniffle
In the ante room sitting nervously like at the dentist’s awaiting our fate for someone to hit the ‘Delete’ button
Outcasts – all of us
Let’s listen in to the Trash talking over there the cute blonde I’m Lenin oops I mean Lena cute Russian girl very single seeking man for good times why I here? cough
And across from me that swarthy guy With the warmest of heart and fondest greeting; I trust that our friendship will not be fleeting; I understand that my contact may surprise: If it infringes your privacy, I apologise.
My new dearest one and now most beloved; A moment to tell you of funds I have recovered; Will you offer me your trust and helping hand? My humble name: Dr Nana Nowayaskam.
I am, friend, from the government of Nigeria (or was that Sierra Leone, Ghana or Algeria?); Dear One, listen to my most heartfelt proposition: I trust you will have no barriers or opposition.
I offer you great wealth and a lifetime of riches (what is giving me fever, coughs and those itches?); I know the others are most abrupt and disingenuous But this offer, friend, is nothing short of ingenious.
My colleagues are certain and totally unanimous That you, my friend, are the only one to help us; And so that we can transfer this large amount All we need are details of your bank account.
Then, dearest, you will achieve the greatest wealth, Importance, fond love and the best of health; All this fortune for placing in me your trust; Let us seal the deal now – it has to be a must!
So in considering this my most sincere request, Please think of why it is far better than the rest; There is one reason why it differs from this kind: None of the others have written it in rhyme.
And the others: there’s a guy who rattles with pills whenever he moves another with a roulette wheel another from a bank or two
And me I find it difficult to walk due to several let us say enhancements
Will we end up in a a molten vat or a gas chamber?
whoa! who pressed the ‘Delete’ trapdoor button?
Floating a white light: is this the gateway to cyber-hell?
No, there is a cyber-god! recycled I’m back with a gender change My dear friend let me tell you about myself: I am here to give you the greatest of help; A tale of woe with foreboding I must tell; My humble name: Mrs Betsy Noble La Belle.
See my husband, an upstanding gent from the South Passed away suddenly, from cancer of the mouth, And as I may no longer be here due to ill health I thus wish to dispose of our substantial wealth.
I offer you great wealth and a lifetime of riches (what is giving me fever, coughs and those itches?); I know the others are most abrupt and ingenuous But this offer, friend, is nothing short of ingenious...
Trash or treasure? – trick or treat? What comes around goes around.
Neil Dufty's stories and poems 