“How the fuck would you know old timer?” one of the college age men said. “Were you around to join the English Navy or something?”“Quiet!” I shouted in the loudest bellow I could come up with. “We are a team on this crew, not a bunch of angry individuals who happen to be stuck together in a tight space. I don’t want any snide comments or angry glances being exchanged.”“Like you can stop us,” the same snide voice replied. “I joined the confederacy to fight the Sa’arm and fuck a woman I completely control. I didn’t sign up to follow some kid who probably isn’t old enough to get a woman pregnant.”I tried to keep a straight face as I turned to see the men lined up along the wall. “Let me make this clear,” I started.“Damn,” I said. “That makes me sound a bit too cerebral. Let me start again. There is an old tradition that on his ship the captain is the law. My law will be final. If you don’t like the way I run things, we can transfer you elsewhere.”“Like there is someplace to transfer to,”. Christine matched me. On the way to the cars, I grabbed a couple of energy bars and an orange. Christine made do with an orange. The trip to Elizabeth was less than an ordeal, but only because I had the trip home from Brooklyn for comparison. Francine told me more than I wanted to know about Hollywood. Fortunately I was able to divert her to a subject I gave a shit about—clothing construction. I learned a lot about fabric weave and thread types. I would never have thought to check to see whether the color of the stitching matched the color of the cloth. If it did not, it was a reliable sign of cheap construction, regardless of the price. Unfortunately, the reverse was not true. Once I had Francine lecturing and answering questions, she calmed down relative to her normal pace. I knew the type. To some degree, I was the type. There is a comfortable feeling in knowing a subject. Sharing it with an attentive audience is satisfying. And relaxing, which was invaluable to me, if not.
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