Adam Gnade

BY ADAM GNADE

It was a cruise ship alright. Tall as a building and wide and white and slow. Jeremy and I sat in the smoking lounge by the big windows drinking lime juice and gin from little glass bottles and celebrating our luck.

“That bartender, she likes me, doesn’t she?” he said.

The north sea passed below us, gray and stormy and silent through the windows.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I think she’s one of those girls who’re friendly to everybody and half the people they’re friendly to think they’re flirty when they’re not. I don’t care. Look at us. We’re here. We’re headed to Holland. We made it.”

“It was the gods,” said Jeremy, nodding at me and running a hand through his bushy hair. “We appealed to the gods and now we’re here.” He lit a cigarette and hunched over the small round metal table on his bar stool. Outside and 100 yards below our deck, the water passed by, dark, ruffled. “The gods.”

“It was the Catholic Church.”

“Oh, oh yeah. The Catholics. We’re Catholics now.”

Earlier, huddled against the wind and falling snow, miles away from the Harwich seaport, our train late, it looked as though we were going to miss the ferry ship to Amsterdam. We’d only London three hours before but our money was already gone. I had what was in my pockets, which was not a lot. Jeremy had next to nothing, but he had plans.

“Alright God,” said Jeremy, staring at the sky, his arms extended, palms held to heaven. “If you get us on this fucking boat James and I will be Catholics.”

“You sure?” I said, pulling my parka around me, my breath steaming out in front of my face. “Catholics? Really? Aren’t you… you’re an atheist, right?”

He ignored me. “God, just get us on that fucking boat to Holland and get us out of England. I give up. I’m fucking done. God, just get us on the fucking boat and I’ll be good forever. Get us across the water and get us to Holland and I’ll believe in you. Get us to Holland and get us out of this snow. You know what to do, God. Don’t fuck this up. We’ll be Catholics, God, and we’ll be good Catholics.”

All around us was low, flat, snow-covered English countryside. I stood near the train tracks and turned a circle, my boots squeaking in the snow. Gray over black. Ice over fields. The pine trees disappearing under a layer of white.

“Snow’s getting worse.”

“Don’t tell me that,” said Jeremy. “You know who to talk to.”

“Seriously, Jeremy. Let’s just call the trainlines. Maybe we can… maybe we should try and find someone to give us a ride to the harbor. There’s gotta be a farmhouse around here, right?”

“You know who to talk to.”

“Fuck,” I said, zipping my parka up to my neck. “This is ridiculous.”

“Don’t tell me.”

“This is bullshit.

“C’mon, James.”

Really? Really? Is this how we’re handling this now? Fuckin’ a. We never should’ve left Crouch End.”

“You know what to do.”

“Okay God,” I said begrudgingly, “just get us on that fucking boat.”