The Island

Chapter 4

I am already within the bridge as the sun still lingers near its zenith. It is the fastest I have completed the outside in my four days of mopping, and I feel a certain degree of pride in realizing it. I can also feel my arms ripping with every stroke.

We have been sailing only for five nights, and my arms already feel like the metallic side of the boat. Everyday, it is to work at the sun's rise and rest after it sets. Everyday, alone, droning along down the planks with mop in hand. Everyday, the air around becoming colder and drier, so frigid that my hands numb after gripping the mop for too long.

I had promised myself that I would work more diligently, as Robbie instructed, in hopes of getting something out of the job. But at the end of the day, when I look behind me and walk around the ship, I find that even after all my hours and effort, the floor of the boat is no cleaner than it was when I first arrived aboard the ship. It is a dreadful revelation, learning that no amount of mopping will make the rotten wood new again, that no amount of thick green water will recolor the faded white paint on the side of the boat. It is painful to remind yourself that your work is futile, that even though you can invest your heart and soul, there is nothing you get in return.

More than anything, I want a break from this tiresome work. Just one day will restore much of my energy, but I don't want to just stop mopping. I want to put the handle down and just forget about mopping, for even when I am resting, my mind is eaten away by the thoughts of my labor.

That is how much the job has afflicted me. Whenever I am mopping, my thoughts flee to the end of my pain, but during my rest time, I cannot take my mind off of the job. I am sure that if I were not so tired throughout the entirety of the day, I would discover that my dreams would be flooded with the same swirling motion too.

I need a distraction, I think to myself.

As if on cue, Robbie appears at the door. He usually comes to watch me when he is done with his work, though that doesn't make the work any easier. If anything, the weight of his eyes add another burden to the task.

Today, though, he has come for a different purpose. First, he approaches Bill the Navigator, who, after hearing his words, quits his job at the wheel and takes a seat on the metal bench that runs along the bridge.

Then, as the others begin to enter the room, Robbie approaches me.

"Put down the mop, Marty. Captain's called a meeting."

"What's it about?" I wonder, but even as I ask, I know it doesn't matter. It is the distraction I have asked for. If it takes enough time, maybe I won't even have to keep mopping afterwards.

The others have all taken their seats, so I quickly scurry over to an empty spot on the very edge, inclined to not be noticed.

I take a look around at my fellow crewmates. This is the first time we have gathered together, yet nobody seems particularly interested. The man who sits next to me is lying down on the bench, sleeping. The two bulky men next to Robbie seem lost in their own thoughts, eyes open but not looking. Bill the navigator is turned towards the sea, watching passively as the waves strum by. And Robbie is staring at the captain.

Sully's head is burrowed in the cabinet underneath the control counter, the same one from which he pulled out my mop and water. He makes clanking noises as he rummages through, searching for something.

Why has he gathered us? If the others know, they don't give any indication. They just sit silently, waiting for the captain to find whatever he is looking for and commence the meeting.

I wonder what the names of the others are. I don't ask, though, because I'd rather they tell me. Since I stepped on the planks, nobody save for Robbie has made the effort to greet me, to welcome me. And because of this, even after three days of working with the crew, it feels surreal to be sitting in this room. Like I am actually a part of them. The feeling brings on unease, and I know it is foolish, since they are supposed to be my crewmates, yet I still feel as I did for all those years on the docks: that they are of a separate class from me.