Gauche Cuisine
By
Gordon L. Stewart
Fremont and I sat at different
ends of the lifeboat staring at each other, me with fear filling my eyes, and
him with hunger.
This was the kind of lifeboat
cruise ships no longer used, the kind that appeared in that old Hitchcock movie
with where Walter Slezak was a Nazi intent on commandeering the little
lifeboat, and one of the survivors on board was Tallulah Bankhead, and there
were others, and a newspaper showed an advertisement with before and after
pictures of a weight-loss program where Hitchcock was the before picture.
Remember that? They still show the movie on old-movie stations. We had some
supplies on board, like water, and we had some things like a compass and other
this-and-thats, but some fools thought life would be better served if we had no
oars! Somehow, I know this will be a long trip.
My solitary surviving sailing
companion was George Fremont. We had served on the freighter that had its belly
ripped open by some object in the water and left us here after the remainder of
the crew departed. We think they did not know George and I were on the other
side of the ship trying to get around without oars.
When ashore and between
voyages,
George reminded me of my useless bother, a person more of habits than careful
and organized thought. For example, if my brother rose late, like Eleven O’Clock,
he would have Breakfast. Then he would clean his dishes and have Lunch, one
after the other, then eat dinner at the usual hour. If I had four-ounce burgers
on rolls, he would have two four-ounce burgers on each of two rolls. If
six-ounce burgers appealed to me, he would have two six-ounce burgers on each
of two rolls. I will not contemplate eight-ounce burgers, but that was my
brother’s way of living. He deserved more than the next person always, and so
was Fremont, but his meals went beyond anything purchased at Micky-Dee’s.
Before this voyage,
I came
across George Fremont at one of these new restaurants outside Madison Square
Garden, the kind of eatery that sells hard-to-find foods, like the private
parts of bulls that became steers. There he sat before a plate of
peculiar-looking steak, a thick, boneless slice devoid of any unevenness as
though more manufactured in some factory than products of natural husbandry.
Nevertheless, his steak knife sliced off
pieces, dipped them in the juices of a condiment cup placed beside an
over-sized potato split open and heaped with sour cream. To wash the meat and
taters down was a tall flagon of beer black as my wife’s mother’s heart.
“Like what
you see?” Freemont
asked while pointing to the loaded plate. “The rare stuff is artificial beef,
the new stuff whose production will eliminate the environmental warming created
by the wastes of millions of cattle produced every year.”
I took a closer
look at the
food. This was the first of beef I’d ever seen.
“What did
you think about that
new laboratory-manufactured chicken flesh they came out with years ago?”
“I tried
it, and I tried turkey
they perfected a couple of years later. There is something missing in the
flavors and texture. I guess I’m still addicted to the real thing.”
Fremont continued,
“Do you know
that, in secret labs, they’ve perfected artificial human flesh. They took a few
cells from a disposed fetal tissue and developed it into human flesh.”
I shook my head.
I also nearly
vomited. “That’s disgusting.”
‘I knew
some students who ran an
underground lab that made the meat near Columbia University. They call it Lion
Meat, because you have to be like a lion to consume any,” Fremont said,
unaware that work of the demon-inspired delicacy had been labeled “Lyin’” Meat
by several City churches and reactionary individuals, you know, televangelists
and them.
“Yeah,
I’ve heard that,” I said.
“They fear not only eating that phony beef will show disrespect for life, but
the acceptance of this previously prohibited food will erode the barrier
prohibiting cannibalism.”
“Hmmpf,”
George uttered
disrespectfully. “Disrespect for life’ and ‘barriers prohibiting cannibalism.
Hmmph. You repeat yourself with different words. Tell me this: is your diet
restricted to salt and water?”
“Of course
not. Nobody can live
that way,” I answered.
“Then you
eat fruits and
vegetables?”
“Yes.”
“Well before
you cut them from
the vine, they were alive, and you kill them.”
George had me
there.
“But you’re
more worried about
sentient creatures. Sentient, that’s quite a word for a high school dropout.”
From past contact,
I knew his
education had been cut short, but my concern now was this “sentient” thing.
Sentient means something with
feeling, a
consciousness, a soul, something like animals. Now take the smallest of
creatures you might eat, fish roe or caviar; did you ever eat that? Well? Then
you killed something in its beginning of life. Now, tell me, how can you point
the finger of accusation at me when you show no respect for life yourself?”
Freemont put
down his knife and
fork. “Well, answer me, hypocrite!” In a few moments his face took an
apologetic aspect and then George said, “I am sorry I spoiled your lunch. But
tell me, where are you going now?”
“The freighter
“Thomas Wright”
is taking a load of wheat to the African East Coast. It sails Tomorrow. “
“Don’t
tell me, “I’m already
signed.”
I walked away
for a table and
did not wonder about what he said but how George said those words, like that
word “sentient”, a word required a dictionary. I am willing to believe that
many college graduates don’t know that word.
That was a peculiarity of Freemont; he could talk better than anybody
short of a captain on the ships I’ve served on.
That freighter, Thomas Wright,
seemed to have something sinister on board. An ignorant child or ill-educated
adult would envision something drawn from a Bram Stoker novel where a short
trip would go awry because some Satan-possessed creature on board that was
making people disappear, and the naïve person was probably me and my error was
dismissing disappearances as everyday occurrences. My rationalizations said a
disappearing crew member was somebody who fell overboard during the night or
who was hiding in the holds to avoid hard labor, though this was a relatively
small ship with a minimal crew. Others, however, were minimally educated and
carried old traditions once commonly spoken on years before. They thought like
me at first and dismissed the vanishings at first, but when the second
happened, murmurs began, and the third brought suspicions and accusations that
divided people one against the other. The radioman, who would normally call for
help, vanished, then another vanishing caused the captain to reverse course and
head for safe harbor, but the decimated crew lacked enough hands for the job.
At that time, Fremont and I departed with this little poorly prepared lifeboat.
Fremont managed to take
a package
of food on board without unwrapping the contents, he occasionally reached into
cut a piece of flesh with a sharp knife from his pocket. More than once I asked
for some of the food, but he claimed the package only carries enough for one
person, and that was himself and I should be thankful he roughly conveyed me
into the lifeboat while the freighter sank.
I asked him why such force,
and
these are his exact words, “I need you to keep me alive.”
Those words, then, showed
nothing sinister, but now every time my mind replays each syllable, they send a
chill or worse up my spine. The words feel like the dry ice my palms once
grabbed on a dare one hot summer afternoon during my childhood, for those words
were not accidentally uttered, but a deliberate tipping of his hand on what his
intentions were.
We had water from some
reverse-osmosis bags that should give each of us a few sips, never enough to
quench our thirsts, and the boat had been provided with some provisions of food
concentrate and fishhooks. But the amounts were minimal for modern lifeboats,
in the Titanic tradition, assumed help would come along in time to save
everybody, but after our first night, that seemed doubtful.
Modern ships are supposed
to
maintain contact with shoreside radio, I thought, and the most modern would use
GPS systems ready to make contact automatically, I thought. When no help
arrived in a timely manner, I realized all that had failed.
“I am powerfully hungry,”
Fremont said, as the sun rose higher over the blue-green water.
Again, his words reminded
me of
my brother.
“How can that be,”
I asked, “You
ate so much from that package yesterday?”
“And that satisfied
my hunger
then. Then I was not hungry. I am hungry now.”
Fremont remained quiet while
we
both continued to stare at one another, then he spoke again.
“That bag contained
my kind of
food. I need human flesh.”
I shouted, “Did you
eat that
garbage?’
“They, those Columbia
students,
offered some as a test, and, boy, I liked the flavor and texture down to the
last swallow, like Ol’ Theodore Roosevelt said, ‘Good to the last drop’ yes
sir, he was a Lion.’
I answered, “First
of all, TR
never said that, and if he did that’s coffee, not imitation human flesh. Can’t
you see what has happened? That’s a bad as cannibalism. You have been
desensitized to cannibalism.”
“NO. it isn’t.
Cannibalism means
killing people to eat them. This artificial meat was never alive it isn’t
killed. There is no murder.”
Then I noticed another lifeboat
coming close and what seemed a walking pace for a turtle in Æsop’s fables. The
craft seemed intent on lasting the day like these two lifeboats were in
different positions on the same gyre, with mine on outer and slower track and
this new lifeboat coming faster on an inner track. Fremont and I watched this new
craft getting close until we could see inside and noticed motionless bodies
piled across the keel, the lowest part of the lifeboat. The bodies had been
alive but now were dead, and I could make out the face of one, the captain of
the freighter Fremont and I escaped from, the Thomas Wright, and when still
closer, a simple visual inspection showed the captain was missing his left
rump. All the bodies were missing their left rump.
To my side a little sparkle
of
light caught my eye with a start. I turned then moved back to notice Fremont
holding a sharp knife as though intending to insert the blade into my lower
abdomen. Our lifeboat offered little space, however that sight made me jump
back and draw my own knife.
Fremont said, “I was
hungry and
this, though a little tough, tastes like Lion Meat, and this has a thick layer
of fat and fat tastes so sweet and buttery, in one way better than Lion Meat,
which is very lean.
Fremont’s eyes glanced
at the
hole where the left rump belonged. “And I am gauche.”
We stood a moment with knives
in
hand each ready to dispatch the other. Then I looked to the lifeboat of the
damned, “I see two pairs of oars on that boat. I’ll take one pair and leave you
with the other. I’ll toss the dead off and leave you. Don’t follow.”
“I will follow like
a dog hungry
for a juicy ham bone. Do you remember the hams they produced years ago before
everybody went lean, they had such thick layers of sweet fat. That I want. You
can give it to me. You must. The radio is gone, and we have no beacon, not even
a torch; one of us must live and you have ‘principles’ that prevent you from
bringing an end to my life. Ha, that knife is worthless.”
“These oars are all
I need, them
and some backbone, sweat, and time enough to get away.”
I took a seat in this new
lifeboat and with one oar pushed away.
“Wait, Fremont called
out.
“Leave me the other oars.”
“Leave me my life”
I rowed a
little, then stopped to call back. “If I’m rescued, I’ll send help, and I’ll
tell them to bring a straitjacket and pistol.” I returned to rowing with
Fremont yelling epithets at me like the filthiest of men could never repeat
within the lowest of bars in the Bowery.
After some miles there came
a
speck in the clear blue sky that first resembled a fly alighting an old CRT on
a Fifty’s television set. Slowly the speck grew larger, and the sound of the
air breaking up followed. This was a rescue helicopter, one with a red band
crossing diagonally. This was a coast guard chopper. In no time I was on board
and told my story, and now, fully armed, we are returning to Fremont. I hope we
are too late.
END
