A Like-​​minded Friend

Turn­ing, I caught sight of this dude stand­ing there, with his dun­ga­ree pants cut into rib­bons from the knees down. Shocked, I approached him. “What hap­pened to your pants?“ I asked with a slight snicker.

“I cut ’em up,“ he arro­gantly replied, “to protest the deplorable con­di­tion in which my clothes repeat­edly come back to me from the ship’s laundry—chewed up, torn, wrin­kled and often unwashed.“

I laughed aloud.

“It’s not a laugh­ing mat­ter,“ he responded with raised brows and a wrin­kled forehead.

“I know,“ I replied with a chuckle. “For many of my own clothes have got­ten lost in the laun­dry. In fact, I’m down to my last pair of dun­ga­rees. And I don’t have the money to buy another pair.“

“You see!“ he added. “I’m sick ’n’ tired of it all.“

“But what d’ya hope to accom­plish by paradin’ around with your pants all cut up?“ I asked.

“Well,“ he exclaimed, “I may not accom­plish a damn thing, other than the ven­ti­la­tion of a lit­tle steam. And that’s okay too. After hav­ing failed to elicit a response from the god­damn lif­ers on this ship by going through their silly-​​ass chain of com­mand, I’ll guar­an­tee you one thing, that my appear­ance will raise more than a few eye­brows fore the day is done. I’ll get a response, all right, from the lousy sons of bitches, fore I take these rags off. You’ll see!“ he boasted as he turned and marched off the mess decks, mut­ter­ing to himself.

“Who is that guy?“ I asked some­one sit­ting at a table nearby.

“His name’s Wulf; he’s a sig­nal­man,“ came the reply.

He impressed the hell outta me, for here was an indi­vid­ual who not only thought for him­self but also acted upon his thoughts with voli­tion and incred­i­ble courage. He was like a breath of fresh air to the lamp of hope barely flick­er­ing within me as a result of the moral vac­uum, the rest of the crew had cre­ated. In fact, he raised the expec­ta­tion that I might find a like-​​minded friend in this hell­hole after all.