I was working as a struggling artist in Paris when I first heard of the unsinkable ship called “Titanic.”
Amazed at the sheer enormity, luxury and unsinkability of the ship, I packed up my crayons and headed to Liverpool shortly. There, I won my ticket from some Scandinavian guy--on a lucky hand in a game of “Go Fish.” Two tickets--one for me, one for my stereotypically goofy Italian best friend, Alessio. “That’s a spicy-a meatball,” Alessio said after we’d acquired our tickets.
The trouble started summarily.
For some reason at inspection, Alessio was let right through. But, despite my insistence that I was an American and thus lice-free, the inspectors inspected me scrupulously, digging through my beard with gloved hands and administering the skin test, which seemed to me quite similar to an Indian sunburn. Another guy came along and started poking me in the eye. I protested that I didn’t think that was a very good gauge of my personal cleanliness, but he just stared at me and kept right on a-pokin.’ The guy combing my beard found a bag of chips and a flask of whiskey in there, and he confiscated the items.
“This stuff could be dangerous to the others,” he said, washing down a handful of my chips with my whiskey.
The guy who was poking me in the eye finally stopped, and instead began knocking on the top of my head and studying the shape of my skull. Phrenology buff, I guessed.
The first guy polished off the rest of my chips and whiskey and began combing my beard again. “You got anything else in here that I could confiscate? Some jewelry maybe, or a rare painting?” I told him I didn’t think so, but he just kept at it. He found a Rembrandt eventually and got really excited at first. Then he threw the painting on the ground and glowered at me. “Who do you think you’re fooling here, buddy?” he said.
“That guy?” I guessed, pointing over his shoulder to a random passenger.
“That’s nothing but a cheap reprint.” He spat on the painting, and on me, then on me again.
“Puh. Puh. Puh.”
“Can I go now?” I asked. “I’ll give you some of my artwork.”
I produced my portfolio. He eyed the stick figures, and the stink lines that emanated from most of them. “This is no fake Rembrandt,” he said. “No, these are amateurish at best.”
“I could do a new one,” I said. “Just imagine: You, combing my beard and prodding at my eyes as the sun sits high in the sky, smiling from behind a pair of sunglasses.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “You’re pretty filthy.”
I protested again, but he pointed out that I was covered in spit.
The horn sounded, signaling that the great ship was about to depart.
“Well, I’ve enjoyed our chat,” he said. “But it looks like we’ve run out of time.”
“Could I at least get a refund on my ticket?”
He took the ticket and quickly stuffed it in his mouth. He swallowed with a gulp, and then said, “What ticket?” holding his hands out at his sides.
I hung my head.
“Yeah, it’s a shame,” he said. “Say, do you have any more whiskey? That ticket made me parched.”
“If you haven’t found any by now, I wouldn’t Imagine so.”
“Too bad.”
With the help of the amateur phrenologist, he tossed me from the ship. I landed can-first on the dock, and the crowd that had gathered to watch the ship depart pointed and laughed. “It’s called a delousing station,” someone cried. “Use one.”
I scratched my beard and a fist-sized rock fell out. I threw it at the slowly departing ship. It hit my friend Alessio in the head. “That’s a painful-a rock!” he said.
