On the Waters Somewhere...

Dear Tom,

I have a problem. My “Blue Valentine” and I moved in together last month. At first it was great, but now we can’t agree on anything. We’re fighting all the time. What should I do?

Concerned in Philadelphia

***

CiP,

When I was a filthy-eared mongrel boy of thirteen I worked on the spice caravans departing Lisbon for the Oriental shipping lanes. We flew Salazar’s flag. We were each to a man bereft and in search of fortunes of the soul. Our captain was a one-legged prostitute from Marseilles who chuckled in madrigal tones like she were casting a spell—which, of course, she was. She took me under her wing, taught me how to tie a knot; to hum a tune; and, most importantly, to cook a meal. The moon was a silver plate on a black tablecloth; the ship a knife through the ocean.

That summer was the summer of dreams, the squall of steams, the freak of screams. And by summer’s end my captain and I were partnered, even as I descended the plank to Lisboetan cobblestone with nary a look back, a new monkey on my shoulder and a dwarf parrot on his. To this day I wonder still if that mongrel boy is out there—on the waters somewhere.

I hope this helps.

T. Waits