The Divisionist (or Brothers In Arms) (Part 1)

The following is the first part of my absurdist short story I wrote for my AP English class. I ended up pulling this one out from between two cheeks in one night.
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Reform is something I heard about once. I’ve heard about it many times, actually. I’ve heard about it like I’ve heard about the common good. I’ve heard about it like I’ve heard about good will towards one’s fellow man. I’ve heard of it like I’ve heard of peace on Earth. To be honest, I’ve heard of a lot of things, and they all sounded nice. I just wish they hadn’t been in the abstract.
Today I leave the world that talks on and on and on about reform, about the common good, about peace on Earth, and about many other pleasant sounding things. I am sick of it. The world is nothing but crooked men and politicians, crooked politicians and men, sexism, racism, prejudice, narcissism, violence, perverts, brothels, prostitutes, pimps, and other nasty prospects. I want to never again see the vulgarities and vagrants of the world. I never want to see the duplicitous who put the Vs in their places. Never again shall I set eyes upon the self-serving and the human monsters that comprise the world. I will have no part in it.
That is why I am here now, at a harbor in Dublin, waiting for a vessel to come, with roughly forty other people. I suppose they are all here for the same reason I am. I haven’t bothered to ask them yet. I probably won’t. The vessel that is coming is called the Glocester II. She is called the Glocester II because she is the second ship to be called the Glocester, I presume. She is named after the district where she was made, Gloucester. By some random act of God, she lost her “u”. Maybe when whoever did the stenciling stenciled the name on, he accidentally left out the “u” out of spite, drunkenness, or maybe, just maybe, plain forgetfulness. Either way, he was intelligent enough to know that he had no choice but to leave it be. It dooms a ship to change her name, even if it is excepting a vowel. If you don’t believe me, take the Mary Celeste, formerly the Amazon. The formerly Amazon, on a routine shipping voyage under the new name of the Mary Celeste, disappeared for a brief time. When discovered by the Dei Gratia (a ship, I assure you, that did not change her name) discovered the Mary Celeste around the Straight of Gibraltar, they found the ship completely abandoned with no trace of people leaving or sign of strain. In place of people, they found an incredibly damp and soggy mess of a ship. Therefore, the Glocester and later the Glocester II are insured against such an event. I suppose something happened to the Glocester or maybe she was just retired, and they retained the name “Glocester” for the next ship out of respect for the original vessel. Either way, I find that their keeping in with tradition to be remarkably refreshing and empowering, for whatever strange reason.
The forty or so people that I am now standing with at this blustery harbor in Dublin are an assorted bunch. A couple of families, obviously lower class; some lower class men and women-some getting shyly close to each other in order to keep warm, most not-standing huddled into themselves; a couple of young men, who seem to have been wealthy at one time, but were repulsed or something of that nature with being who they were. You can tell the last few out the easiest because they are either the best looking men or the worst looking men. They rejected their upper crust upbringings, despite their caregivers and overseers telling them they should be proud of the money of their inheritance. The ones not dissuaded go on to relinquish all of their worldly possessions and start anew, like their common working-class man. The well-kept men are the ones who have not quite gotten the hang of letting go of the prim and proper appearances of their heritage. The filthy men are trying too hard to blend in. The vast majority of the people here, though, are in their Sunday best, which is apt because it is Sunday, and it is quite possibly the best Sunday ever. At least, for me it is, and I am assuming they are all here the same reason I am. I still haven’t asked.
Now I ask. I walk up to an older man, maybe in his fifties, in a worn. Brownish, slightly dirty three piece tweed suit. He is a wonderful example of a man hardened by the years, with his wispy head of gray hair and his graying stubble the dances in the gray light of this particularly overcast and chilly morning. His skin is as gray as his hair, and the expression on his face shows a discomforting placidness. He stares off into the distance, a thousand miles away, towards something that is even further away from him. Maybe it’s the sun. I haven’t seen it in a week.
He takes no notice as I stand in front of him, overbearing him by half a foot or so, and blocking his view. It takes a few words to shake him of his reverie.
After slightly shivering, snorting in once, and blinking a couple of times:
“Uhm…hello.”
“Sorry to disturb your peace, but wh-“
“Don’t worry. You weren’t disturbing anything.” I was.
“Yes. Well. Yes, why are you here?”
No answer. No verbal answer, actually. He cocks his head to the side and up, his eyes close a moment, opens them again, finally straightens his gaze towards me.
“I am waiting for a vessel-“
“The Glocester II?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Thank you.” I leave.
“Son.” He did not raise his voice. However, even with my back towards him, and my placement some ten feet away, he gathered my attention. I reply.
“Son, you are here for the Glocester II, as well, yes?” he inquires.
“Yes.”
“I am Atticus Finley.” His hand extends towards mine, and I take it. I notice it is rough and warm and, best of all, firm. I instantly like him. You have to when a man can shake with a firm hand and be as inviting as ever. He continues: “I was just thinking about the gravity of what we are all doing here.”
“Assuming everyone is here for the same reason.”
“…true…I suppose people might not be here for that reason. Either way, we are here for the same reason, right?” He gestures between the two of us. His face breaks into a smile. The graying stubble of his face dances in the morning’s cloudy light. His skin at first cracks, and then finally gives to smoothen out to a more natural state. It, too, is rough and warm. It is also firm. I answer him yes. “Good.” We stand in silence for a few moments more, the silence intermittently interrupted by a low, rough cough that rattles his frame and does nothing to relieve his chest of phlegm. “I am sick.” he says eventually. I agree so you are. “I feel fine, but this damned cough does nothing but stay. I could make it pay rent to produce a little income.” He chuckles a little, with slight humor that ends towards a bitter note. I reply I suppose so. For now, that is the extent of the conversation. It is too cold to continue nor care. I hope the feeling is mutual. I’m pretty sure it is.
The ocean breathes salty, my friends. The cold wind is cutting through my heavy, black pea coat, and I am finding myself chilled to the bone. A light mist is carried within the wind and is applying a damp coat upon my person. I feel as if I have been given a new quality of skin which is of a much more greasy nature. That is the salt from the ocean. I am sure it actually makes me look quite dashing and rugged to have my hair greasy-salty and now slightly curly. I feel quite attractive, and I am beginning to eye the more attractive women of the bunch. Only a few are truly attractive, but I must prepare myself to accept a lot more than three or four of them. This is going to be what I will have forever more. Beggars cannot be choosers.
Maybe during my conversation with Finley or maybe during my eying of the women around me, a ship appears in the distance. A low murmur ensues as we all begin to slowly realize it is the Glocester II looming in the distance. It is now that I stop living in the present, speaking in the present, and give myself to the Glocester II.
A man announces, “We are saved!”