Clearly defined objective

I said I wasn't going to bore you with a lot of Narrator bullshit, but sometimes I don't do like I say I'm going to do. This might be one of those times.

So the current Narrator bullshit that I'm dealing with is this: Lara. I mean, I hate to talk shit about my boss, but the woman can be flaky about posting. Yeah, yeah, the Christmas party. That was months ago and she left at ten-thirty. I saw her go. Didn't look drunk either.

I get paid either way, but that's not the point. I'm not a clockwatcher, I don't operate that way. I get interested in my work. I take pride in what I do. You don't keep me busy, I get bored, get into mischief. The other thing about me, I get involved. I'm proactive. I stick my nose in where it don't belong.

So I have a thought. Am I an expert in literary matters? No, but I think she needs to be working from a damn outline. And I might have to be the one to break it to her in plain English.

See, I'm always trying to figure out why I got the job as Narrator. This is not insecurity, by the way. There's a process of self-scrutiny that I apply to everything I do in life. I like to proceed from an accurate self-assessment. It keeps my bullshit detector calibrated.

Now, I can read cold from a card with damn near flawless accuracy, and I'm told I have a pleasant speaking voice. Those were my chief qualifications, no doubt. But military background... That was specified. And from the story so far, that makes no sense at all.

It bugs me when things don’t make sense, so I get to thinking. Maybe this Lara (who never shows up to a Goddamn meeting, by the way, she frankly behaves like she has no schedule whatsoever) wanted a Narrator who’d kick her ass into shape when she got to slacking.

Literature and the Armed Forces are obviously two very different animals. But one thing must be present in both: Objective. Clearly defined, attainable objective.

So Lara. Girlfriend. Make a damn outline for this story before I come to your damn house and straight-up stab you to death in your sleep!

Does she even read her own damn blog, though? Is she ever going to see this? How do you get a message to somebody that don't ever come to a meeting or answer the phone?

Hell, you think about that one for awhile. I’m going to bed.

Modern politics

Less distracted by Ruby's musical taste than the others, perhaps because she is more accustomed to it, Kiwa is watching the Mah-Jongg game and listening to the conversation with interest. When the game resumes, she decides there's something she had better say.

"I remember reading about this situation in China..." Kiwa begins. Then she stops and looks around the room.

Peri is fiddling with her camera and talking to Miller about his tee shirt. Ruby is still in the throes of the aforementioned anxiety attack: pacing, gesturing, breathing deeply, pulling hair. The squid is still... dragging them... somewhere. As usual, the only one listening to Kiwa is Raj.

"Go on," says Raj, his eyes on the tiles before him. "In China?"

"Well, for Modern Politics," Kiwa continues, remembering that Raj always takes an interest in her education, "we had to read the newspaper front to back for a week. And I started following this story about a scam artist in China who'd lure his victims into these lengthy games of Mah Jongg... "

Miller looks up suddenly, fixing his eyes on Kiwa's. Startled, Kiwa grins at him and looks away. She looks down at her hands, then out the window -- then back at her hands because the squid is still out there, taking them who knows where.

Kiwa can feel Miller's eyes on her, but she keeps talking. "And then he'd casually grill his victims, and he'd get all sorts of information out of them, during these marathon Mah Jongg games. Bank account numbers... their mothers' maiden names... their Social Security numbers... "

Miller starts to laugh. Kiwa glances up at him and takes a nervous breath, and then she starts to laugh too.

"And he'd use whatever he got," she finishes, giggling. "He'd get into their accounts, and he'd clean them out. Take all their money."

Smiling at her, Raj nods. He knows what I mean, Kiwa thinks.

"What happened to him in the end?" asks Raj.

"Oh, they caught him and he had to give all the money back," she says. "At least I think so. Honestly, Raj, it was all of a year ago, and I can't remember the details--"

Miller starts laughing again, and so does Kiwa, not knowing why.

Theme from "The Searchers"

Anyhow. So yeah, there was some delay in posting for awhile there. I told you the Christmas party was the real deal. Man, my head still hurts. I think I saw Billy Dee Williams, Jason Forrest, and Mos Def all talking to that guy who plays Bunk on The Wire in the corner at the end of the night. That last part might have been a dream. But it would have fit with the kind of party it was.

But back to our story.

So Kiwa and Peri scramble up the ladder to the common room, where Raj and Miller are playing Mah Jongg. Ruby is in the cockpit having a full-on anxiety attack, but we don't need to worry about that one just yet.

Miller is saying to Raj, "So Raj. Where were you born?"

"Los Angeles," answers Raj, deep in concentration. He draws a tile, discards a tile.

"And your mother was a Bollywood film star?" Miller asks, clicking his tiles, his eyes on the board.

"Yes," answers Raj. "She developed a colossal following based on only one starring role. If she hadn't died so young..."

"How did she die?" says Miller. His tone is neutral.

Before Raj can answer, the relative calm is broken by a blast of ear-splitting noise. Everyone looks over, and sees Peri frantically adjusting the controls on the entertainment console. After a few dreadful seconds she locates the correct knob, the volume descends to a bearable level, and strange, wavering, unidentifiable, vaguely musical sounds fill the room.

Raj cocks his head, listening, and after a moment he laughs. "The Theme from The Searchers" he says. "Ruby has such bizarre taste in music."

The Christmas party

Can't believe you're here. This party was cancelled, didn't you hear? Well, apparently neither did anyone else.

Even my Mom made it, and she brought deviled eggs.

Well, keg's in the kitchen, cash bar in the parlor. Supposed to be a band playing later.

Didn't you bring a date? I think the girl in the turtleneck sweater is single.

What you standing here talking to me for? Go mingle!

Documentation

In the bunk next door Peri is feeling better. Somehow finding her camera has calmed her. Taking a deep breath, she checks the settings and starts plotting the shots she wants, based on her memory of the common area upstairs. Through the lens, the squid won't be nearly as threatening. He -- she -- it?

It (she decides) will be reduced to nothing more than an unexpected development. One she can document. Simple as that.

Looking at it that way, she thinks, I'm lucky to be in the right place at the right time.

Peri envisions herself years in the future, having survived to a healthy old age. Future-Peri is having some guests over for dinner. "Have you seen Peri's squid pictures? No, but I've heard... Frank hasn't seen them, and neither has Claire... Dig them out, Peri, please?" The dinner guests beg and plead. With becoming modesty, Future-Peri demurs for a suitable interval, then gets up from the table with a laugh and goes to look for the pictures...

SMASH! The ship shudders, cutting Peri's reverie short. She looks at Kiwa.

"You'll have to go up to the common area to get the best shots, I should think," says Kiwa, with only the slightest quiver in her voice.

Peri bites her lip and studies Kiwa's face. "Want to go up and find the others?" she says.

Kiwa just nods.

Cain't ever'body?

Miller digs around in his luggage, trying to locate the Mah-Jonng set. His search is a bit too leisurely for Raj, who is full of the same discomfort Peri and Kiwa are fighting next door: Somehow being in a part of the ship where the monster can't be seen makes him nervous.

Hurry up and find the damn game, Miller, he thinks. To distract himself, he examines Miller's belongings, now scattered on the bunk and the floor. Among the debris he spies what could only be a case for a musical instrument. Violin? Mandolin?

"Hey!" he says, in spite of himself. "Miller, what's in the case?"

Miller looks up in surprise, and laughs. "Ukulele," he says. "You play?"

"In the immortal words of the great Willie Nelson," says Raj, "...Cain't ever'body?"

Miller laughs, and assumes a pose: eyes half-shut to squint at an imaginary camera, head panned sideways, arms at his side.

"An investigative journalist, trapped underwater on a small craft, about to begin a game of Mah-Jonng with a hostile stringed-instrument snob," he narrates, in a late-nite-horror-flick-host voice Raj can't help but admire, however grudgingly. "What horrible fate awaits this foolish, unfortunate man?"

"However," Miller adds, grabbing the Mah-Jonng set and resuming his normal voice, "I believe Mr. Nelson, when he spoke those words, was referring, not to the ukulele, but to the bass guitar."

He turns and heads up the ladder to the common area, and Raj follows, shaking his head.

Tentacles again

Meanwhile, Peri and Kiwa are sitting on the floor of their sleeping compartment, ostensibly sharing a chocolate bar. More importantly, they're avoiding looking out the window. After a minute they exchange a glance. Kiwa wraps the chocolate up, and both girls scramble onto the bed.

They're expecting to see tentacles, but the window is small, and on the opposite side of the craft from the squid's head. There's nothing to see. Nothing but water, and the hand-crafted tiles of the Christmas estate's subterranean swimming pool, swishing by at an alarming speed as the ship heads toward the little water gate.

No tentacles. No big, horrid, staring eyes. No gaping, menacing maw. Nary a glimpse, nary a hair, not a single stray corner or slimy, streaky trace of the monster.

Which, Peri thinks, almost makes it worse. Suddenly, though, she gasps and starts rummaging through her bag. "What're you doing?" says Kiwa.

"I just remembered something," Peri replies. "Want to see my camera?"