FlOoD--Part Twenty-Six

The Air That I Breathe

TwEnTy-SiX

   Smith had been crouched in an almost fetal position, with his brick under him and his hands tightly clutching the seat upon which he had folded himself up. The rushing motion of the boat was causing him to feel slightly nauseous and he had closed his eyes and was trying to will his stomach into a more serene state. Employing one of his favorite relaxation techniques, he was picturing a squadron of large black ants filing singly across the white sheet of a bed as he lay comfortably at rest in it. There is a mirror about two feet above the bed in which he can watch the ants clearly without moving from his prone position. Under his breath he begins to rhythmically chant. "The ants go marching one by one. Hurrah! Hurrah! The ants go marching one by one. Hurrah! Hurrah!..." The rhythm seeps through his whole body and, though he can still feel the boat wildly careening under his buttocks and feet, he is beginning to be unconcerned about the speeding craft. "The ants go marching one by one. The little one stops to shoot a gun. And they all go marching down into the ground. To get out of the rain. Bum. Bum. Bum. The ants go marching two by two. Hurrah! Hurrah!..." As the ants parading over his bed double their ranks, he finds that the fluids sloshing around in his stomach have metamorphosed into a still lake whose gently lapping waves caress his innards soothingly. "The little one stops to tie his shoe. And they all go marching down into the ground. To get out of the rain. Bum. Bum. Bum. The ants go marching three by three..." Now he finds that his hands are not clutching the seat so desperately. His hands have developed into strong and manly servants of his body, determined to keep their master anchored safely so that no damage can overtake him. "The little one stops to take a pee. And they all go marching..." Smith's hard earned composure is shattered (along with the pot) and he feels dirt and bits of something sharp raining down on him. He raises his head to see Murphy, Davis and a not very healthy looking plant slumping together at his feet. Wilkerson immediately proceeds to care for the plant and Smith contemplates the boy and the Irishman. Luckily for the boy, he has come to rest atop the Irishman, who is lying face down in the bottom of the boat. Smith is first struck by how much more pleasant Murphy appears from the back view than from the front. But then he considers that the comparison may not be a fair one as, at present, his back is graced with the presence of a quite likely looking young man. Possibly, without the lad for ornament, Murphy's rear would be as unprepossessing as his front. The boy has landed on his back and looks frightfully uncomfortable but within moments he has managed to roll himself over and, manuevering until he has made the best possible couch possible from the body of an Irishman, he is soon returned to his unconscious state. Smith's concern is touched to find that the boy is now only partially covered by the blanket. So, with a glance at Wilkerson, who seems overly involved in repotting the plant in a shoe, he unattaches himself from his seat and leans down to attempt a more thorough cocooning of the boy. He moves one arm slightly so he can bring the blanket over the shoulder and tucks it in against the lad's chest. He's trying to stretch the covering over the boy's feet when the boat gives a lurch and he's thrown back, making a rather violent connection between his back and the wooden bench. He slides to a seat by Murphy's head, which lies adjacent to the boy's feet, which remain unblanketed. He can't seem to concentrate for the pain spreading throughout his back.