Pirate Moon

Conversation screeched to a halt. The table was silent, aside from the scraping sounds of angry knives and forks working against platters of expensive food. I studied the men's actions, chewing slowly, letting cogs whirl in my mind. With innocent tenor I asked, “Have you guys ever been to Disneyland?” “Don’t change the subject,” Winshipp hissed again. He couldn’t whisper, just hiss and holler. I named him old Hiss and Holler in my mind and I smiled, undeterred. “Pirates of the Caribbean is my favorite ride. There are all of these caverns, connected, you know? One dark cavern leads to the next.” “So?” Annoyance crested McCartney’s brow. “Dear Father’s business reminds me of that ride.” The man at the next table strained to hear what I was saying. He had scooted himself even closer. My own dinner companions, Winshipp and McCartney listened, but with only half-hearted interest. “Yes,” I continued, “Pirates lurk around in those caverns and all illuminated by a pirate moon.” “Of course they do! That’s the name of the ride.” “Military ships launch cannonballs at pirate ships, and the glow of battle gives riders an eerie chill.” “So what?” Kent McCartney didn’t have patience for riddles or travel logs, either one. “And then you sail into still another cavern, and you get to see real pirate mischief, burning, pillaging, plundering—it’s great! A housewife chases a pirate with a broom, around and around in a hallway. She wants him out of there, but while her attentions are on him, his friends are cleaning the house out downstairs.” “Why are you ranting about this?” “And my favorite part is this, a wench auction! No pirates want to bid on the fat ones, but this curvaceous, good-looking redhead, now they are all calling for her! Then in another room, you see some drunken pirate sleeping with hogs, and in another scene they’re locked in jail, trying to coax a dog out of his key.” “Why must you entertain us with this nonsense?” “Because you need to know how the ride ends.” “Get on with it then!” McCartney held his goblet for a refill of red wine. “In the end only one pirate is left to drag the treasure away.” “Are you implying that the lone pirate is you?” “No, the last pirate doesn’t make it, not alone. It’s too heavy and then there’s only a skeleton and then the ride is over.” Winshipp pushed his empty plate away. “I don’t understand why you must bore us so!” “I was just thinking how like my stepfather’s work that ride is, that’s all. It seems like one corruption connects to another one—just as the pirates do. Their mischief gets worse and worse until all sins have been committed. Deception, thievery—by tag team of course—pillage, plunder, auctioning women, rapine, murder; it’s a real, rummy, riotous time.” “I’m not a pirate! I’m a lawyer and a businessman.” “But you tag-team, as you say, to get a step ahead.” “That was simply a loose term.” “And the poor woman chasing the pirate out of her house with a broom? That reminds me of Sydnee Sue Ryeberger from Grays Lake, Idaho.” McCartney gulped water from his glass, needing to loosen his Adam’s apple. Winshipp’s steak knife jutted toward me in a menacing fashion. “Shut up right now, you dirty little son-of-a—” The sentence was interrupted by the waitress. She asked if we wanted dessert and I asked for her recommendations, stalling as long as possible. I would never dare leave The Vintage, for I’d angered the men nearly beyond the point of control.