THE HUNGRY MAN CHRONICLES: PART 3

Continued from PART 2

“Have you ever been to Buckaboo? One thing about Buckaboo, is that it's fun!” That's what the convincing strap line in the brochure claimed, the one that I picked up at the travel agency when I went into town to pick up some toilet paper and some curry powder; yes, I remember vividly because being the environmentally friendly kind, I didn't want the plastic carrier, so I squashed, with all my might, the packet of curry powder into my back pocket and threaded my belt through the handle of the toilet paper package so it hung in front of my crotch – this simple set up allowed me to browse the large selection of printed travel information, which for a species in this time period, is the easiest way to absorb data.

“I'm interested in going to Buckaboo.” I stretched my mouth into a jittery grin to bare my flesh munching equipment to the travel agent who sat like a damp piece of cardboard, staring out of the store window, some drool glistened at the corner of his slightly agape mouth, as if it was the most fanciful part of his personality. His eyeballs swivelled towards me, then his body reluctantly followed suit and moved from a slouchy position to a less slouchy position. He gestured to the chair with his hand while he nodded his head, I didn't like the way he did it, it made me think of the cool kids at school who now ended up in boring dead end jobs. He was the king of travel agency land and I was one of his lowly, dirty, ground-hugging subjects.

POP! That was the sound of the bag of curry powder exploding, then it hissed a cloud of spicy brown dust into the air – I had forgotten about the condiment in my back pocket. I knew what had happened, but the travel agent didn't, I watched him become startled in slow motion, his eyes suddenly becoming wide and alert, his body tensed like a steel coil for action, ready to perform like a soldier in the heat of battle, as the adrenaline coursed through his atrophied muscles that hadn't seen action since the glory days of the proud school sports team; for a moment, he did look worthy of the mental crown jewels he adorned his head, but then the curry powder was too intense, too overwhelming for his biologically unfit body, it usurped the throne from right beneath him, as it flitted with great gusto- that all the other curry powder brands would have been proud of- into his nasal cavities, causing him to sneeze and evict some unwelcome tenants. I opened the bag of toilet tissue and handed him a roll; he took it humbly.

The first part of the journey, involved spending one month on a tugboat, The Forsaken Joy. It was an old rusting seafaring lump of metal whose decay was visibly active during the day, and at night, while most of the crew were asleep, pieces of the boat, like handles and railings, would decide to retire from the boating business and say “bon voyage!” with a splash into the inky waters. The captain who was also the owner of the vessel went by the name, Curvey – Captain Curvey; a stout middle-aged man who nurtured a garden of unkempt, greying facial hair, and lugged a generous belly around. The ship did runs, back and forth, between several countries, with its cargo of passengers and exotic spices that kept it in business. Although the crew showed little enthusiasm for the jobs that they were paid to do, they were a merry bunch who enjoyed entertaining the visitors as if the boat was a fairground ride.

To be continued ...