Episode 8: “Moby’s-Dick, Part II”

When Sarisob opened his eyes to meet the morning of Saturday, January 6, 2008, he smiled, absently stroking his morning wood, knowing it was destined to be an unforgettable day. It was the day of the 12th-Annual Moby-Dick Marathon at the New Bedford Whaling Museum, and it would make 12 in a row for Sarisob and his mother Monique, whom he’d planned to surprise this year by signing up to be one of the 150 readers of Herman Melville's teeming tome. The Marathon was held on this weekend to commemorate the anniversary of 21-year-old Melville’s voyage with the Fairhaven whaling ship Acushnet. Sarisob loved both literature and classical music thanks to his mother’s influence, and was more than happy to accompany her year after year despite the fact that she loved Moby-Dick a good deal more than he did. He loved the novel too, but found it overwrought and showy at times, and felt that his mom’s feelings for the book were over-influenced by its locale. Sarisob was so excited he couldn’t masturbate, so instead left his pre-come alone and got out of bed, fired up the percolator and rehearsed the text he’d be reading later in the day, Chapters 25 and 26.

He hastily showered, dressed, and walked down to the corner of Commonwealth and Strathmore, where the Zipcar parking lot was located. Sarisob subscribed to Zipcar primarily in order to make the bi-weekly drive to New Bedford to visit his folks, but it also came in handy when he needed to show a woman he was dating that he had access to a car. Sarisob knew that car ownership was of no small importance to many women, but was unwilling to deal with the expense and hassle—especially in a city like Boston. In a recent conversation, Sarisob’s voice took on a prideful note when he said he’d not yet owned a car in his 37 years, and didn't plan to until hybrids were sufficiently advanced and inexpensive. [Biographer’s Note: Sarisob initially objected to the preceding sentence, but allowed its inclusion, pleased as he was that I ran it by him before posting.]

He arrived just after 10:30 at his parents’s modest duplex on West Rodney French Blvd. His dad Roger, having worked the night before, was sleeping, so Sarisob left him a bag of olive rolls from Brookline’s Clear Flour Bakery, which Roger claimed were better than any roll to be found on the entire South Coast. Then he went down to the cellar and took a small wad of fives out of the cash-stuffed coffee can his dad kept on the top shelf of his workbench. This was pre-arranged: his dad was paying for the olive rolls and Sarisob's gas money. The coffee can played a significant part in Sarisob’s childhood because Roger Sarisob was simultaneously generous and frugal, leading his family by example. Growing up, the Sarisobs always had good clothes, good food, and never wanted for a thing as they seldom frittered away money on the non-essential. Why buy books when the Howland Green Library was just down the road? Why buy new clothes when the Fall River outlets offered deep discounts and Ultimate Thrift sold good stuff dirt cheap? Why buy a Sony Trinitron when a 19’ GoldStar could be had for $99 at Ann & Hope? Why book an expensive vacation when Horseneck Beach was 20 minutes away? Roger Sarisob would buy the most expensive extra-virgin olive oil at Stop and Shop—a habit even his son is not free-spending enough to match, although truth be told Sarisob the Younger buys EVOO for more than just cooking and prefers quantity over quality—and balance out the extravagance by wearing his clothes to tatters and being a regular at Ocean State Job Lot. Sarisob recalled that Monique often had to force the man to buy a new pair of shoes. She and Roger taught their son well; to this day Sarisob’s only indulgences are eating out and the occasional bottle of Balvenie. As a child little Mattie was rewarded for doing his chores so diligently by being encouraged to draw from his dad’s coffee can whenever he liked. The result of Roger's unfettered generosity was that Sarisob never wanted to buy anything, save for the occasional compact disc or visit to the Dream Machine video game arcade at the Dartmouth Mall. Roger Sarisob’s largesse where the important things were concerned was his reaction against his own miserly father Jean and his brothers Leo and Charlie, neither of whom could be trusted when it came to money. “But then again,” Roger would tell his wife and son repeatedly on Sunday nights as they grilled chourico and peppers in the few free inches of their backyard that weren’t bursting with vegetation, “those farbisseners never had a woman like my Moneekey to keep ’em in line. You’re better than money, honey! Isn’t your mom the greatest, Mattie?” he’d ask his son, giving his wife a squeeze and taking a sip from her glass of Dao.

Mother and son arrived at the Whaling Museum at 11:30, just as the pre-Marathon lecture—entitled “The Strange Joys of Hearing Moby-Dick”, delivered by Professor Roberta Langton from Roger Williams College—was concluding in the Museum Theater. Looking through the entranceway’s window into the theater, Sarisob was struck by Professor Langton’s beauty: her ebony eyes glittering behind rectangular glasses like animals in cages, her limpid complexion offset by dark lipstick, and her generous thatch of lusciously curly black hair. Sarisob, a hair-man, hadn’t even gotten to her tight figure yet before he had to turn away in order to stay his nascent boner. We need to sit near her during the reading, Sarisob thought.

Monique liked to arrive early to witness the noon opening of the Marathon, which began with a bearded sailor in period dress standing on the deck of the Museum’s half-scale whaling bark Lagoda—the largest ship model in existence—declaring the novel’s famous opening line “Call me Ishmael.” Soon thereafter the reading relocated to an area behind the Admission desk and beside the Museum Theater, an open space with folding chairs arranged in two groups consisting of 10 rows of as many chairs, set before a dais and podium framed by windows looking out onto the street. The first half of these rows were healthily filled while the Sarisobs were in attendance. When the reading moved to the other area, this was the customary time that mother and son would go off and explore the museum for a while.

After 12 years they knew the place like the back of their hands, but nonetheless enjoyed the details: the period clothing, the whale skeletons, the Lagoda, which Sarisob would board and stand at the helm of with an Ahabesque sneer, the exhibit detailing the Portuguese connection to the practice of whalery, featuring works of Scrimshaw fashioned by Azorean sailors, and Monique’s favorite: the stunning, multi-colored art glass collections: cups, plates, bowls, vases, pitchers, all in striking, polychrome hues and patterns. Sarisob especially liked the large whale skeleton suspended from the ceiling above them while the Marathon took place, a skeleton that still glistened with whale oil long after the bones were raised several years back.

The pair poked around the museum for about an hour and then decided to go for a walk before re-joining the reading. They had time to kill, as their tradition was to take their seats around 3 p.m., stay for a couple of hours, and leave to meet Roger for dinner at Antonio’s around 5:30, give or take. As they headed up the cobblestone street, Monique stopped at the corner of Centre Street, which afforded a charming view of the Waterfront, and asked him to take a picture of the view for her. He did, standing on tiptoes so as to frame the shot without cars or any contemporary influences. They kept on, exploring the 13-block Historic District, and ducked into the Seaman’s Bethel sailor’s chapel, which was both the site of a famous scene in Moby-Dick and the place where Monique and Roger were married 39 years ago. Entering the chapel, Monique reminded her son that their 40th was coming up in August, which sent Sarisob's mind racing through ways he could mark the occasion. They solemnly reviewed the memorial plaques listing the names of fallen sailors; Monique prayed for them under her breath.

“Mattie,” she said to him when they were back outside, “I'm getting concerned about your father.”

“What is it now, Ma?”

“He stopped taking his Lipitor.”

“Oh Christ, so he knows better again. Dr. Cantera, does he know about this?”

“No, he doesn't yet. Should he?”

“Well, you’re going to tell him, right? If he won’t tell his doctor, you should.”

“I’ll do no such thing! If I told Dr. Cantera your father would have a conniption and I’d never hear the end of it! If he thinks he can lower his cholesterol by changing his diet and eating more garlic, that’s what he’s going to do. You know how stubborn he is.”

“OK, well, I do agree about the garlic...how ’bout this: I'll talk to him at dinner today. In a subtle way, don't worry. Antonio’s is not exactly healthfood, and that’s how I’ll bring it up to him. He should be taking the Lipitor in combination with changing his diet and eating garlic, preferably raw garlic. Dr. Cantera probably went over that with him already.”

“Thanks, my boy! I was hoping you could talk some sense into him. He respects you for working in healthcare. He'll listen to you.” They continued to traverse the Historic District, stopping into the bar at Candleworks Restaurant to warm up with a coffee and a cup of chowder before heading back to the Whaling Museum.

Upon their return they took a couple of seats on the center aisle about five rows back. Sarisob, scanning the rows, was pleased to note that Professor Langton was seated in the front row. In a short while she would be watching him read, a thought that sent blood surging to his cold-shrivelled tool. Not wanting to deal with a hard-on while sitting with his mother, he directed his thoughts elsewhere: to Senator Clinton’s latest charges that Senator Obama lacks the experience to be president. His tumescence waned rapidly. Sarisob felt bad that Hillary Clinton was such an effective erection-killer, because he actually had a lot of respect for her and thought she too would make a good president. But not as good as Barack, he thought as his mother took her vintage Modern Library paperback edition of Moby-Dick out of her capacious purse and placed it between them. Their custom was to read along from the copy she used way back in her Fairhaven High School days. One of her most prized possessions, she kept the well-weathered book in a sealed bag when she wasn’t bringing it to the Marathon or reading it in the weeks following the Marathon. They began reading along with Chapter 20, and Sarisob knew it would not be long until his turn came to spring the great surprise on his mom and get up to read Chapters 25 and 26, using her prized copy to read from.

Sarisob was no stranger to public speaking, and didn't mind reading before a crowd. But he was a little worried about flubbing his lines despite having rehearsed them regularly since being told more than a month ago which chapters would be his. As the time drew closer, he took a few deep breaths. When Chapter 23 (“The Lee Shore”) drew to a close, he kissed his mother's cheek. “Mom,” he whispered, “I have a surprise for you.” He took her book, and stood up to join the small queue of readers stationed at either side of the podium. The smile on her face was all joy, and Sarisob could tell this moment meant the world to her. He was thrilled that the surprise was so well-executed, and closed his eyes for a moment. With the purest happiness, he said a silent thanks to God for granting the prayer of a devout agnostic. Sarisob opened his eyes, and saw the icing on the cake: Professor Langton sitting before him in her tight black-and-maroon ensemble, legs crossed, hair falling freely over her shoulders in wavy tresses. She had a copy of Moby-Dick on her lap, but wasn’t using it. She was looking at the reader: a middle-aged lady with pulled-back silver hair and a Guatemalan pullover, wearing a masculine pair of eyeglasses. She read quietly into the microphone, and too slowly, trying to impart a poetic grace to the first half of chapter 24, and ended up overdoing it. She was relieved by a clearly nervous young man wearing blue jeans and a brown sweater, who began by telling the crowd that he was going to finish chapter 24 in Portuguese. (Like the novel itself, the Marathon was a multi-cultural experience.) He read quickly, and was unable to look up from his book, which gave Sarisob some relief that he wouldn’t be a tough act to follow. When the young man finished and stepped off the dais Sarisob moved to the podium, cleared his throat, smiled at his mother who still hadn’t taken her eyes off of him since he stood up, and made a quick sweep of the room in order to confirm that Professor Langton was looking at him. In the second before he spoke, Sarisob thought how glad he was to be wearing a new pair of John Fluevog shoes he’d bought with a gift card he received as part of his Christmas bonus. Feeling confident that Roberta Langton was admiring his stylin’ kicks, his mellow, deep voice filled the room.

As Moby-Dick is in the public domain, you too can read aloud with Sarisob:

“Chapter 25: ‘Postscript’”

“In behalf of the dignity of whaling, I would fain advance naught but substantiated facts. But after embattling his facts, an advocate who should wholly suppress a not unreasonable surmise, which might tell eloquently upon his cause—such an advocate, would he not be blameworthy?”

Sarisob stopped for a moment and looked into the middle distance, like a sailor on watch duty, letting the import of the words sink in.

“It is well known that at the coronation of kings and queens, even modern ones, a certain curious process of seasoning them for their functions is gone through. There is a saltcellar of state, so called, and there may be a caster of state. How they use the salt, precisely—who knows? Certain I am, however, that a king’s head is solemnly oiled at his coronation, even as a head of salad. Can it be, though, that they anoint it with a view of making its interior run well, as they anoint machinery? Much might be ruminated here, concerning the essential dignity of this regal process, because in common life we esteem but meanly and contemptibly a fellow who anoints his hair, and palpably smells of that anointing. In truth, a mature man who uses hair-oil, unless medicinally, that man has probably got a quoggy spot in him somewhere. As a general rule, he can’t amount to much in his totality.”

Sarisob laughed internally to read these lines, knowing that his dad still uses Brylcreem on what little is left of his sad combover.

“But the only thing to be considered here, is this—what kind of oil is used at coronations? Certainly it cannot be olive oil, nor macassar oil, nor castor oil, nor bear's oil, nor train oil, nor cod-liver oil. What then can it possibly be, but sperm oil in its unmanufactured, unpolluted state, the sweetest of all oils?”

Sarisob took advantage of the question mark by looking inquisitively at Roberta Langton as he finished the sentence. It was a bold move by his standards, but he felt inspired by being up at the podium and hearing his amplified voice. She rewarded his daring by holding the eye contact and choosing that very moment to uncross her legs, shift in her seat, and give him a mischievous half-smile and tilt of her head, as if his words were appreciated on a deeper level. It was fortuitous that Sarisob was standing behind a podium, because he didn’t want his mother, let alone the rest of the 75+ assembled, to see his prick straining madly against his chinos, bursting with sexual energy. He wished then that he had chosen to idle in bed longer with his morning pre-come. “Focus,” Sarisob thought. He finished the brief Chapter 25:

“Think of that, ye loyal Britons! we whalemen supply your kings and queens with coronation stuff!”

He looked again at Roberta in the front row, and was shocked this time to see her tongue emerge from her mouth and lick her upper lip, all the while continuing to meet his eyes. Suddenly feeling feverish, Sarisob looked down and hurriedly turned the page to Chapter 26, the first of two chapters both entitled “Knights and Squires.” He began reading, but all he could think of was her tongue, whether or not she licked her lip intentionally, and of course how much he longed to rain down his own coronation stuff upon her upturned face, his sweetest of all sperm oils anointing her alabaster skin and conditioning her unruly hair. Distracted by the fetching creature in the front row, he read more mechanically through the chapter, which served to develop the character of the Pequod’s chief mate, Starbuck. He looked up a few times while reading, thankful now that he had rehearsed so much, and noticed each time that Roberta’s dark eyes were just as fixed on him as before, with the same approving half smile. Careful not to focus on her too much, Sarisob made sure to make eye contact with his mother and many others in the audience, even looking up to those watching from the 2nd floor railing. As he drew Chapter 26 to a close, he was worried that his erection had not diminished sufficiently and might be visible when he stepped away from the podium. He tried thinking of Hillary, but she caused him to lose track of his reading. When he finished and ceded the podium to the next reader—a middle-aged gentleman wearing bifocals and a tweed jacket—he made sure to hold his mother’s book down by his left pocket while stepping off the dais. Before turning toward his mother, he glanced at Professor Langton, who gave him an appreciative smile, nod, and an “OK” symbol with her left hand. Sarisob tried his best to suppress thoughts of what her left hand could do for him, but his hard-on, rubbing now against his mother’s book, seemed to have a mind of its own. As he made his way toward Monique, who was waiting to hug him, he tried thinking of Chelsea Clinton in a last-ditch effort, but even that failed as Chelsea was getting prettier with each passing year and he could no longer picture her as the ugly-duckling she once was. He had no choice, he thought while carefully hugging his mother, but to relieve his throbbing testes ASAP.

“You were incredible, Mattie! You just made my year!” Monique whispered so as not to interrupt the reader, whose reedy voice was surprisingly loud through the PA system.

“Thanks, Ma! I’m so glad, and I wish I thought of this sooner!” he whispered in return. “It was fun to be a part of it! Ma—I’ll be right back, I have to go to the bathroom.” He turned away quickly as she sat down, so quickly that he didn’t hear her ask for her book back. Still using it to camouflage his stiffie, he made his way back to the admission desk and from there to the bathroom located diagonally across from the gift shop, all the while fighting off images of Roberta’s ivory-smooth inner thighs clamped around his face.

The bathroom was empty, which was a blessing because it was small: only two stalls, two urinals, two sinks and a hand-dryer. Sarisob chose the stall further from the door and bolted it shut. He put the book atop the toilet paper dispenser, undid his belt, and lowered his pants, which caused his enflamed python to spring to attention, demanding satisfaction, demanding Roberta. He sat on the toilet and stretched his legs out, careful not to stretch them beyond the limits of the stall. He rolled up a length of toilet paper to have ready for later, and set it atop the book. Then his left hand began gently pumping the head of his penis, gently as if it were Roberta’s hand, because to Sarisob it was Roberta’s hand, the hand that made an OK symbol just a couple of minutes ago the very hand that was now working Sarisob’s glans just so, with a sly rhythmic insistence that edged him forward in gradually increasing waves of pleasure. Roberta then bent down, and her soft curly hair spread luxuriously across his thighs as she began licking, teasingly, the tip of Sarisob’s penis while stroking it in gentle circling motions with her thumb and index finger. Sarisob groaned as Roberta, her glasses still on, began kissing his cock, kissing the head and sucking it, kissing up and down the shaft and then sucking it, kissing it again and sucking away the dark lipstick smudges, and then going into a full deep throat, taking him to the root, which was no mean feat, and sucking deeply with a sound of gurgling saliva, as if his prick were inside of some kind of golf-ball-washing machine, a thought which made Sarisob chuckle because he had only been golfing once in his life, invited by a couple of the doctors in the Oncology Clinic, and happened to watch some balls being washed and now there that moment was, right in the middle of my wank, Sarisob thought but there was no time to celebrate the randomness of events or their ability to intrude into the most private moments because there was Roberta’s nipple in his mouth, her left nipple, as firm and sturdy as her full breasts, and his arms were around her waist as she was fully naked now, and her nipple wasn’t going anywhere, and he looked up to see her eyes closed in excitement, which inspired him to suck her nipple a little harder now, encircling it with his tongue and then sucking it harder still, and then sucking it as if he were biting it and then he started gently biting it, sucking and biting her nipple and his arms were around her waist and she was moaning, moaning and beginning to grind her pelvis into him, her pussy in sudden proximity to his cock which left him choiceless but to reach around and grab the downy area where her thighs met her ass and hold her tightly against him, and he was getting hotter now, thinking it might not be long before he comes, and she is lowering her well-lubed pussy onto his cock, and now they are joined, he is inside her and looking deeply into her eyes as they rock back and forth, together, and her chalk-white skin is pink with the finest exertion and Sarisob becomes really very hot and he loves Roberta and wants to give Roberta his load, wants to give Roberta a child, and begins without further ado to leap to the crescendo, thinking “Thar she blows!”, about to shoot a big one, a full day-and-a-half’s worth of sperm production into Roberta—and the latch suddenly gave on the next stall and a man was standing inside there, unzippering his pants.

Sarisob never heard the door swing open and the orgasm was beginning to spread through his pelvis as he looked down to discover that his stylin’ pair of black John Fluevog “Angels” was, in fact, extended well beyond the limits of the stall while Roberta was riding him, and there was no doubting both that he was about to come and that he was certainly seen by the man in the adjoining stall. This provoked in Sarisob the utmost embarrassment, which manifested as the sudden inward kicking of his legs at the instant his sphincter started flexing. His legs jerked back into the stall, his left leg collided with the toilet paper dispenser, and the rest, as they say, was history: the contact made the book and rolled-up toilet paper fall off the dispenser. The toilet paper fell harmlessly onto the floor by the toilet, and the book fell squarely onto Sarisob’s lap just in time to receive a thick wad of hot spermaceti, pumped directly from the son’s blowhole onto the back cover of his mother’s book.

Before he knew what was happening, he drew breath sharply, which must have confirmed to his stallmate—who had just dropped rather a ripe dump into the bowl, most likely a Portuguese food dump—that Sarisob wasn’t exactly doing yoga in the stall. Gripped with panic, he instinctively tried to wipe the back cover clean with his free hand while the other hand stroked his way through the orgasm's final flare. In so doing he made matters worse by smearing the sploodge across the cover, causing some to actually dribble over the edge and stain the pages as well. He couldn’t have handled himself any worse, and felt like he wanted to cry. Sarisob, a scholar in the art of the come-stain, knew there was no way of keeping this from his mother. He wiped it off as best he could but a tangible film remained; he knew well that in time the differing feel of that tainted paper would start to become visible, especially on dry, 45-year-old cover stock like my mother’s prized possession from high school GOD DAMN IT!!!! Sarisob thought to himself in extreme anguish.

His stallmate flushed and was using the deafening hand-dryer when another man came in and stood at the urinal just in front of Sarisob’s stall. Sarisob was paralyzed with shame and regret. In order to break through it, he knew what he had to do without even thinking about it: he dropped the book between his legs into the toilet. His mother’s prized possession, carried around in her schoolbag decades ago, was now floating in pee that wasn’t even Sarisob’s; in his rush to beat off, he failed to notice that the stall’s prior occupant had neglected to flush his urine. Discovering that, Sarisob did start to cry: at the sudden sad reversal of everything, at the way he always seemed to trip himself up just before the finish line, at how pathetic he was to be ruining their day and his splendid surprise with his ridiculous onanist antics. He sobbed as quietly as he could, and thought how he had to do something, had to pull himself together and get back out there with his mother—so he stood up, hitched his pants, and fished out the book using his right thumb and forefinger. He flushed the toilet and dipped the book back into the clean water to rinse out the urine. He dipped it in and out several times—it was surprisingly heavy—squeezed it dry without damaging it, and took it with him out of the stall. All the agnostic prayers in Purgatory wouldn't save him now. He had no choice but to confess, and hope that her joy at having seen her son read her favorite novel would carry the day.

And it did, or at least Monique made it appear it did. Sarisob returned to his mother, showed her the ruined book and confessed that in his clumsiness he dropped it into the toilet. Mortified beyond belief, he was the very personification of shame. Monique frowned with a disappointment she couldn’t hide, but was unable to let her son down after his wonderful surprise.

“It’s OK, Mattie, don’t worry. It’s just a book in the end, and Lord knows I’ve read it enough times. Maybe it’s a sign.”

“No Ma, it’s a sign that you’re about to get a new copy. I’ll be right back!” And with that Sarisob, still clutching the sodden book, made quickly for the gift shop.

He headed to the rear of the shop, where the books were located. In his desire to erase the sadness in her eyes, he thought a high-quality hardback edition might salve the blow a tiny bit. He checked the various editions of Moby-Dick for sale. They had a deluxe illustrated edition for $79.95, but it was a coffee-table volume and he knew she wouldn't want a book that large. He picked up another lovely hardback with gilt edging and illustrations for $39.95, but that one was an Abridged version and there's no way she would want that. He settled on the tried-and-true Modern Library hardcover, which was a modest $21.95. It was sturdy, had a fine cloth bookmark, and was only a little larger and heavier than her old copy. He turned to walk to the register—and beheld none other than Roberta Langton standing at the desk, in conversation with the check-out girl.

OK Sarisob, he thought, feeling his depleted pee-pee stir a little, maybe this was all meant to happen...now’s your big chance! He walked up to the desk and stood next to Roberta at the counter. She was wearing Tea Rose, one of his favorite scents, and possessed a huskier voice in conversation than she did while lecturing. She had two neckties with her, and the salesgirl was offering her opinion. When Roberta turned and noticed Sarisob waiting with a disinterested air, she spoke:

“Hey, you read the ’Postscript’ earlier. I want to compliment you on a fine, fine job!”

“Thanks, Professor—”

“—Please: Roberta. You read like a pro; are you a teacher?”

“No, social work’s my line, and yes: I rehearsed it for weeks as a surprise for my mom. We come here every year for the Marathon, but this was my first time reading.” They stepped aside to continue talking, so the salegirl could ring up a woman standing behind them, holding a Moby-Dick refrigerator magnet.

“No way—you guys are veterans! Do you stay for the whole thing?” Roberta’s eyes were fixed on him as deeply as they were when he was onstage. The stirring in his loins continued, but was less intense owing to the shocks of the preceding minutes.

“No, just a few hours. It’s my mom's favorite book, and I love it too. And now,” he said with a sigh, “I have to buy her a new copy, ’cause I just dropped hers in the toilet!” Holding the eye contact, Sarisob brandished the waterlogged copy.

“Oh, that’s too bad! Your mom and I have something in common: Moby-Dick is my favorite novel to teach. This year’s my first Marathon since I moved to New England, and I’m psyched they asked me to take part. I’m already looking forward to next year! So: you're a guy, let me ask you: which necktie do you like better?” She held up two whale-patterned neckties, one teal, the other maroon. The whale patterns were the same; it was basically an issue of color.

“Well, I think the maroon one is nicer, but maybe I’m biased since you're wearing maroon.” That was Sarisob's lame attempt at flirting, and it appeared to sail far over her head. “Where did you move here from?”

“San Francisco, but I’m from Pennsylvania. Oh, the tie’s not for me—it’s for my boyfriend. But you’re right: I like the maroon one too.”

“I knew it wasn’t for you, but—” and here Sarisob saw his mother approaching. She walked carefully, as if wondering whether to interrupt her son’s chat with an attractive lady. But that was a surface concern: deep down she knew she wanted to, the old dear, so she did.

“Mattie, I feel so bad, you don’t have to buy me a new copy!”

“Ma, it's OK, really! Say hi to Professor Langton, Ma. Roberta, this is Monique.” They shook hands perfunctorily. “She gave the lecture we missed before the Marathon.” As they greeted each other, he feebly put in “And I’m Matt, by the way.”

“Nice to meet both of you. Monique, you should be proud of your son’s reading. He could teach a class in oratory!”

“Don’t give her any ideas,” said Sarisob with a grin to Roberta, and handed up the book and his debit card to the young woman at the register, who was unoccupied.

“Professor, are you going up to read from the book today? Or were you just here to lecture?” Monique asked.

“Please ma'am, call me Roberta. Yes, I am reading. When I agreed to lecture, they let me more or less pick what I wanted to read.”

“And what was your choice?” Sarisob asked as he turned to sign the credit draft.

“I'm reading from ’Cetology’: Book One, the Six Folios. Shoot—actually, it’s coming right up, I've lost track of time up here.” Roberta gave the teal tie to the girl to ring up. Sarisob marveled at Roberta's onyx eyes up close, the depths of her hair, the definition her body showed beneath those tight clothes, and once again cursed his lot for sullying his mom's prized book, and for sullying his own life with his stupid habits and predilections. Damn my farts! he thought. Damn my colon! Damn my big dick!

“Oh, ’Cetology’—great choice!” he said, feeling slighted that she spurned the tie he recommended, and was also annoyed that she chose to read from “Cetology” of all chapters: the encylopaedically-dry taxonomy of whales, peculiarly precious and perfect in its way. A chapter only a profesor could love. “Cetology” threw him the first time he’d tried to read Moby-Dick back at Bishop Stang, and he stopped at that chapter, instead relying on Cliff’s Notes. The second time, he made it through the chapter, but that time ran aground three-quarters through. The third time was the charm for Sarisob, but for him “Cetology” represented the apotheosis of Melville’s overwrought aesthetics. Maybe I should have said that to Roberta at the register, he thought as he and Monique headed back to their chairs to read some more from her brand-new edition before it was time to go to dinner.

Well, my own white whale did me in today, thought Sarisob, looking at Roberta a final time through the entranceway window as they were leaving. She was still at the podium, finishing the Six Folios. The Marathon was running a bit behind this year, and Sarisob had to nudge Monique and remind her that Dad—who insisted on paying for dinner—would be waiting.

And so it went for a twelfth straight year: Sarisob had a fun New Years's weekend-day with his mother, indulged her love of a great novel that he didn't love quite as much as she did but that was fine, and was enroute to have some glorious Portuguese food with both of his parents. Today is what family is all about, he thought: sharing time; and as his profession taught him daily, there ain't exactly a surplus of that to be had. This year Sarisob, like Ishmael, felt lucky to survive, and lucky not to have to sit through the whole of “Cetology” as they so often do—especially this year, as it was being read by the object of his tormented, tragicomic desire.