Merchant Marines

Merchant Marines

By Oggy Bleacher

I had no idea what I was doing, but I had to do it fast. The First Mate lowered a white plastic bucket into the cement tank.

“This respirator doesn’t do shit,” I yelled up. Then I coughed through a cloud of cement dust.

The Engineer called the dust “Powdered Cancer”. According to him, dozens of men, men who had done my job, had died of lung related diseases. He had laughed while he said this.

“Go…bathroom after…done,” yelled the First Mate. “You… to… air!”

We were unable to communicate because the ship, a 120ft Offshore Supply Vessel was cruising west to Galveston, Texas. We were on our way to refill the cement tank with more cancer powder.

I used one hand to hold the respirator tight on my face. With the other hand I dragged the bucket in close circles near my knees. After two minutes I could not grip the bucket because the muscles in my hand had cramped.

“…Bucket…cement…fucked,” yelled the First Mate from above.

The ship crashed into a wave of water and I fell backwards into the steel tank wall. I refused to loosen my grip on the respirator. There were, I decided, levels of cancer that I could not accept.

“Motherfucker!”

The goggles I had put on were completely covered with cement dust. I couldn’t even see the rusted ladder that I had used to climb into the tank. I struggled to put some dust into the bucket. When it was half full the First Mate pulled it up without warning. The rope broke and the half-filled bucket landed on my shoulder.

“You’re one worthless piece of shit,” drawled the Mate when I had finished vomiting on the deck. “Where the fuck you come from? I’ve seen Niggers do your job better.”