Moby Dick - A Modern Adaptation

To my readers,

This short story is an odd one. Starts out odd and will probably end odd. I cannot explain why I am writing this, so I will not try and justify my quirkiness... It is meant as an odd insight into something that I am trying to explain to myself. A perception of Love, desire, loss but also of unrequited love and the desire to look out across the vast sea or plain and wait for a sign or understanding.

As I have stated in previous writing, I am a romantic fool. Depending on the number of glasses of wine, I can convince myself I am being romantic. One too many, and I prove I am a fool.

All parties represented are over 18 and there is no resemblance to ANYONE alive or dead...

Moby Dick ...a Modern adaptation.

"Call me Ishmael," Drew commented under his breath. He thought about the phrase again and thought, 'Fuck you Melville! Fuck you.'

*

Drew was sitting in class looking at the very shapely behind of the instructor and thinking back to how he had gotten himself into such a mess. He had started writing short stories as a new hobby. He had no idea why he took up the hobby, he had plenty of others, but he seemed driven. All during his lower-level schooling he had always been a solid "C" student in English. His university years were no better.

Yet here he was sitting in an English literature class trying to understand someone else's writing style. Trying to understand tense, punctuation, dialog, and the myriad of other constraints was as close to torture as being married to his ex-wife.

All of this for a hobby?

His jerk neighbor did not help his mood or motivation. Nope not one little bit. He had made the mistake of letting Mr. Gerald Sullivan read one of his stories with promises of assistance. Not Gerry, but always Gerald. He had gotten his masters from Oxford in English literature, but was such a tool, that he could only become tenured at the local junior college.

You would think that Gerald could help Drew with syntax and tense? What a crock of shit. All Gerald did was use it for fodder at the local BBQ and cocktail gatherings. Drew had asked that his writing stay private. But, as Mr. Gerald Sullivan stated, in a very public format, that writers, or in Drew's case 'want to be writers,' needed to grow a thicker skin.

But disagree with him on any normal or obtuse literary item and the last 'word' was always how and when he got his masters, AT OXFORD. He did make one recommendation that Drew decided to take, not that he would admit it to the pompous ass, take an English literature class. And of all classes that still had an opening, Moby Dick.

Of course, that would be the only class open. He remembered reading it in high school. So, it was open, and he thought, 'what can it hurt?' It turns out a lot. A lot, a lot.

It was painful listening to the continued diatribe about the religious connotations of Melville's writing. Of course, it had religious overtones. You could not write anything without religious connotations until the beginning of 19^th century. You could still be jailed for disagreeing with the Church, hung, keel-hauled or whatnot.

Religion was how humanity was described, until Charles Darwin started to blow up the world knowledge with his 'Origins of Species' about 10 years after the publication of Moby Dick. Then came Freud, and Jung, defining how screwed up we are as a species. And now we have Dr. Phil...God help us all.

Drew sat in class trying not openly check out the little hotties that surrounded him. It was a lot more fun than trying not to hear the twisted explanation of Melville's Queequeg. In our sad little 'woke' world we could still not simply explain that the author and the society he was writing for, was racist, sexist and generally backward folk, that still used distilled urine to clean stuff.

Drew felt we needed to judge people in the context of their defined society. In our understanding of life, Queequeg was a displaced royal from an island paradise. He was part islander, African, and native that was comfortable with Christian, Islamic and spiritual guidance. To Melville and the society he was selling his story to, Queequeg was a heathen.

Ishmael was the 'romantic' as define by old world romanticism. He was the WHITE wide-eyed innocent that thought the world was completely ordained by God. In Ishmael's world all things had their place in the Christian categorization of the world that should be.

In some ways Ishmael and Queequeg were the Ying and the Yang. Alleged white Christian purity banging up hard against the horror of heathen beliefs and mongrel birth.

And yet, the little brunette in front of him, kept him half hard during each class. She would lean forward to gossip with the blond in front of her. Her sundress, bunched up from her constant shifting to the front and back of her seat, would stay bunched up and provide quite the view of her bare ass cheeks with the beautiful streak of color running down her crack.

When she slid back down in her seat, he found, depending on the time of the class, and outside lighting, the full wall window would reflect her visage. So, he sometimes got the full upskirt panty shot as she played on her phone ignoring the teacher and spreading her thighs without thinking.

Or maybe she knew and did not care? Or did she wanted to tease the 'old guy' that sat behind her?

'NAH! She does not even know I am alive' thought Drew. But he was male, and all the parts still worked, so he would look and dream of the day when one of the cuties had a 'daddy complex.'

***

After NOT being invited by the group of students going to the local Pub for the 3^rd or 4^th time after class, Drew set up to meet a friend instead. Jonathan and Drew had been friends for over 20 years and had lived through multiple girlfriends, breakups, and the pain and agony of dating.

"So, what's up old man?" Jonathan intoned as usual, sliding into the booth across from Drew. Jonathan was 10 years younger, but when both parties were over 50 and 60 respectively, the age difference became moot.

Well, 'moot except for the demographics of what his dating options were at 60,' Drew thought. The women in his age group either looked like his great aunt or were so bitter about life, ex's or turned so uber conservative in their politics, that conversation became painful. He did realize that as he became older, he was one of the few that had become more tolerant, more liberal, and easier to get along with.

"Got a sonar hit from my submarine in LA" Drew quietly said, knowing there would be blowback.

"Fuck dude, why do you do this to yourself?" Jonathan just asked the question and stared at him. With Drew not meeting Jonathan's stare, he continued.

"Brother, I know the sex is great and I know about her being your muse for your sculptures. But the energy you expend on a dead-end emotional train wreck is hard to watch each time." Jonathan paused in his haranguing waiting on Drews response.

"It's even worse this time my brother. She texted that this trip would not be about sex and to not expect anything." Drew paused for a second and then shut his mouth. He opened his phone and passed over the text he had received.

Jonathan read it, just shaking his head.

From HER, "I am not sure if it came across last night that this is not about sex. In fact, and nothing against you, but that is not what I am looking for. I just really want a change of scenery, good conversation to renew my soul."

"So, you are now back to being a 'Supreme Fluffer' and a free B&B?" Jonathan asked using his euphemism from Drews previous relationship (different woman) where Drew did all the paying, provided all the orgasms, completed all the DYI work for very little, if any, return on investment (ROI).

The two male friends had spent many drunken hours talking about the equality and balance of life. And while the concept of ROI, seemed stark, crass, and negative at first, the dawning that all the time and effort spent with and for someone you loved, was an investment of sorts. All of us invest our time and energy in a relationship and there is either a defined, or unspoken return that is hoped for, a ROI.

Something clicked in Drews mind, 'The hunt for Moby Dick was a relationship. The relationship between the men on the ship. But also, the relationship between each of them and the 'force of nature' they were hunting. The ROI in their case was life and riches or death." Drews mind kept churning, but he needed to respond to his staring friend.

"What can I say? The romantic lives on. I think I am pulling away from the 'submarine' nomenclature and going to use the euphemism of the Great White Whale instead. In honor of my class on Moby Dick. And you are my Queequeg by the way." Drew ashamedly responded.

Jonathan got quiet for a moment. He really understood the force of nature that was driving Drew. He just did not want to see Drew driven on to the rocks again and dashed and dashed again by waives of self-pity or lack of self-worth. He knew Drew loved HER from the first time he saw her 40 years ago. Jonathan had helped him over the hump when she dumped him right before his 50^th birthday, only to find out she had dumped him on his 21^st BD too.

Jonathan had heard this song for so many years that he knew that Drew would play whatever tune she needed him to play.

"Drew, my brother, please remember that the romantics from the age of Moby Dick wrote about falling in love and pinning away for a woman they saw on a dock as they sailed past. Never to know her, never to touch her, never to kiss her. Only a glimpse and then falling into a deep depression, on the deep cold ocean, for the rest of their lives." Jonathan paused and then conceded within himself that talking about this subject was a lost cause for Drew.

"Go do your weekend my brother, and then we will meet and discuss it and your stupidity over good whiskey. Your buying," Jonathan paused again. "And fuck you for the Queequeg reference."

"Now let's talk about that stupid bet you made on inflation..."

***

Drew sat emersed in his hot tub. The red wine he had chosen was from a local winery, a nice deep red Syrah. He had lots to think about. He had a paper to complete and an oral presentation of the paper to organize and practice. The previous weekend had been 'interesting' for him and something of a paradigm shift inside himself. Not the weekend per se, but the actions and emotions that lead up to the weekend. It was the trailing aftermath he was still trying to categorize.

*

Of all things, his paper on Melville was a catalyst to a slight change in his own emotional patterns. He had sat in the same location in the hot tub on the Thursday night before HER arrival. He had finished his evening volunteer work and decided a good hot soak would do him good. Of course, a hot tub soak without alcohol was sacrilege.

He thought again about the relationships of Melville's characters and their definitive actions and constraints within the story. He related it to his own life. Well, his life regarding HER, as a focus and fulcrum point. In their early relationship in their early twenties, he had been more Captain Ahab than Ishmael.

SHE as always was her own woman, a force of nature, just like the Great White Whale. She could not be captured, owned, or coerced. She went when she wanted to go, where she wanted to go and how she wanted to go.

There was not a romantic bone in her beautiful body.

Since the moment he laid eyes on her, he had wanted her, desired her, loved her.

SHE was the epitome of beauty and grace in his eyes. They shared a love of books, history, and conversation on deeper subjects than the movie or sports stars of the day. SHE aspired to a career and helped point the way for him to find his. SHE was accepted to a well-known university and he to community college.

He loved HER with all the passion of a youthful fledgling romantic, and she dumped him.

And so, he began his first decent on to the rocks. His soul was ripped asunder (ok Drew had to be trite for one moment) and then after a bit, he built mental and emotional stone walls around the hurt and continued with life. But the stone walls not only contained the hurt but also the love that was needed for other relationships.

Just as Ahab used his hate and single drive to find the whale, Drew used his stone walls to protect himself.

There would be many more 'loves' over the years. He started a pattern of looking for broken doves he could languish his time and love on. They of course would be grateful for his help and emotional support and love him back with all their souls.

Yea...no! It never worked that way.

But Ahab never went away. He was always in the background looking far and wide for his great white whale. After a 7-year relationship had grounded itself on the beach on the East Coast, Drew had made a fateful phone call. He called Moby Dick and left a message. Moby Dick called back. That started a torrid two-year relationship that ended with him aground again, splintered on the rocks, just before his 50^th Birthday.

Ahab never gives up. Death or the conquering of the 'Force of nature' are the only avenues for Ahab. So, over the years, a new ship would be bought, fitted out and set to sail. Moby Dick would be hunted, played with and Drew would end up floating on a deck hatch or timber until he could reach land. Usually, Jonathan would be there to drag his sorry ass to the sand, dust him off and make him buy drinks.

That is what friends are for. Drew had done it for Jonathan several times too.

Since he had landed home, ashore, in a beautiful California central coast town, Moby Dick had come to him. But something had changed in Drew as he looked at himself through the lens of the characters in the book. He had strived to become more Ishmael. Drew wanted and strived to look at the world in a more open-eyed, innocent way. He wanted to smell the roses and walk the piers of his community. He wanted to sit in his hot tub and look at Betelguese in the constellation of Orion and wonder about the forces at play.

But he wanted to do all of that with HER. But the HER he imagined did not exist. The HER he knew, was always going to be a distant force of nature that would swim by when she had a need. If he fulfilled that need, she would play. If it were a desire of his, her lack of romantic intention would turn her away and send her back out into deep water. This insight caused a shift, small but meaningful.

He somehow knew that it was always going to be fleeting with her. Just like the other character (much less discussed) of Captain Boomer of the other whaling ship that had tangled with Moby Dick. Captain Boomer had learned his lesson and turned his ship towards home. Captain Boomer, while losing a limb, was grateful he and his crew had survived.

And that is what Drew needed to be, grateful for the time, grateful for the energy she brought to his art and grateful for emotionally surviving the encounter.

Drew needed HER to swim away back to the warm waters of LA.

He just needed to survive.

Once SHE was gone back to the waters of southern Cali, he wanted to have the deck below his feet, deep water around his hull and fair winds to maneuver.

***

On a certain Friday morning he received a text that his Great White Whale was swimming north. He politely left work to complete tidying up his cottage for her arrival. He changed the sheets to be polite and braced the dog for an incoming visitor. SHE arrived at noon and with a chaste kiss on the lips and was welcomed into his home. She had been there before, but it had been a much more passionate arrival.

As always, she was the epitome of beauty in his eyes. Her long sculpted legs, even at her age, looked amazing in her short shorts. There was something so much more intrinsic in seeing her, she touched something deeper in his soul and therefore his artistic fire. She was his Muse.

But with the shift, came the ability to see the pain. The eyes that had held and had elevated lust in past circumstances, now held pain and an overall tired quality. Her shoulders that held up such magnificent breasts were a bit more rounded.

Drew stowed her gear in his room, and they ventured off to the Port to enjoy lunch at a seaside restaurant. They ate and joked. They started their long conversations on why she headed north. She had just lost a close friend to cancer. She needed a friend not a lover so she could talk in adult speak. She knew him and that he would not judge or belittle her feelings. He was the perfect fluffer for that lunch. She did not sit close and did not want to be touched in public.

They shared one drink each and past food between the two plates. They left the restaurant and walked the adjacent pier. He showed her the route that he kayaked from the Port out to a small, secluded beach. He told stories of the sea denizens he had encountered during his many paddles. He talked about the wind and waves, and he could see her body start to relax.

They headed back to the car and then drove just a few miles to one of his favorite small boutique wineries. As Drew explained, it was like drinking wine in your neighbors back yard. They bought a sample package and began the tasting. The peacocks blared from the rooftop of the winery. The home dogs came out and begged for food. Other guests brought their dogs and soon there was a happy calliope of multiple dogs trying to play amongst the tables.

He could see the good wine and cider working their magic. He could see her slouch a bit in the chair and some of the pain leave her eyes. The dogs coming around for pats on the head and to mooch food made her smile. She started to smile at him and that included her smiling with her eyes.

They bought a couple of bottles of the vintage they liked, so she could take a taste of the central coast back to LA. They left his favorite little hidden winery and headed back to his place. They continued the adult talk of politics and the stupidity of people. They seemed to enjoy each other's company.

Upon arrival at the house, they were in his galley kitchen putting things away when Drew was thrown back against the kitchen cabinets with Her mouth firmly affixed to his. He always loved the taste of her, and this moment was no exception.

She broke lip contact to aske a silly question, "Why am I kissing you?"

"I don't know but I am not complaining," was Drew's simple reply.

Drew was surprised but hardly unwilling. Her hands lifted his shirt, and he then did the same for hers. She pulled her bra off as he unsnapped the button on her shorts. She turned grabbing his hand and pulling him into his bedroom. He stopped to go pee along the route and by the time he made the 10 feet to his room, her shorts and thong were a puddle on the floor on top of her sneakers.

She was naked in bed with arms and hands waiving him forward. He climbed in next to her and the kissing started all over. After untold time tasting her lips, Drew started to work down her neck. The moaning had started. She always had the most sensitive body. The moaning as he kissed down her neck intensified and became downright loud when he reached her nipples.

Her nipples were always large, even as a B-cup when they first met. Her breast enlargement, done after three children, had boosted her to over a large D cup and luckily her nipples had stayed as sensitive as when she had been her younger self. She moaned louder and gripped the back of his head, drawing him in.

Drew spent quite a bit of time pleasing her nipples and breasts and then traveled south. The scars of her past tummy tuck were overly sensitive too and caused her to wriggle and lift to meet his lips. As he sifted lower trying to reach her swollen lower lips, she grabbed his hair and stopped his decent.