White Whale Career Metaphor Acid Dream

I think it was chicken vindaloo

In the pre-COVID world of my dreams, I stepped up to the counter and greeted the cruise director. “Good morning. I’m Paul Ollinger in C-112. I think there’s an issue with our itinerary.”

“Yes, Mr. Ollinger, what seems to be the trouble?” replied the kind woman in a snappy uniform.

“I recall having signed up for the ‘Luxurious Do Nothing on the Beach’ package with the chaise lounges, foot massage, and a free rum punch. But this sheet describes today’s activity as ‘Pursuit of Deadly Career Leviathan.”

“May I see that, sir?” she said, taking my personalized schedule, then reading aloud:

“…stalk giant, elusive, and incredibly dangerous vocational whale in an authentic 19^th-century schooner with a crew of madmen, cannibals, and a bat-shit insane captain. Expect to be wet, cold, and miserable. Side effects include vomiting, scurvy, and gut-wrenching self-doubt.”

“Does that come with the rum punch?” I inquired.

She answered, “No sir, I’m afraid it doesn’t. They may offer some musty ale, but you’ll have to fight off the harpooners for your share.”

“I was kidding,” I said, drearily.

“Well, sir. It looks like you originally signed up for the beach day, but at some point changed tack to the whaling trip.”

“Miscommunication with the wife,” I replied, unwilling to acknowledge my error.

“Are there any other activities available? Wave-runners? Dolphin encounter? Cooking class?”

“No, sir. But the good news is that you will have no other passengers on your whaling excursion with you. You get the crew all to yourself.”

“Delightful,” I said, scanning further down the page. “And what is this about the ‘complete waiver of responsibility’?”

“Oh yes sir, we require that you release the cruise line from all responsibility since nine out-of-ten passengers who take this adventure disappear forever.”

“Ninety percent never come back?” I asked. “Why would anyone sign up for that?”

 “You tell me, sir,” she replied. “This dream is your analogy.”

“It’s a metaphor!” I demanded, much too defensively.

“As you wish - your metaphor. Speaking of which, what do you think it all means?”

“I suppose the cannibals and harpooners represent other comedians with whom I have cast my career lot,” I offered. “And the whale theme is…”

“…you want the reader to know that you finally finished Moby Dick!” She said, completing my thought.

“The unabridged version!” I added, proudly.

“Good for you.” she chimed with a smirk and a golf clap. “Then who am I besides a convenient conversational artifice?”

“Perhaps you’re my conscience? My soul? A dormant childhood fantasy about Vicki Stubing from The Love Boat?”

“Hey - not so dormant!” she said with a wink. Then she got serious. “Sir, we’ll do our best to accommodate your wishes, but you should think through what you’re really committed to, as we charge meaningful fees for changing your itinerary.”

“It seems so.”

“But it’s your cruise, Mr. Ollinger, so just say what you’re looking for, and we’ll make it happen.”

For a moment, I considered my options. “So, the sitting on the beach thing – that’s still available?”

“Whenever you say so, sir.”

“Do people enjoy that?”

“Frankly, when passengers come back from the beach, they don’t look unhappy per se. They just look a little sleepy from all the sun and punch.”

“But when they return from the whale hunt…” she began.

“If they return.” I corrected, perhaps too aggressively.

“If they return…” she complied. “they look…enthralled.”

“Right,” I said, shaking my head. “Do I get my money back if we catch zero orcas, humpbacks, or narwhals?”

“I’m afraid we provide no refunds or guarantees, sir. We offer only the pursuit itself. What happens out there, well...” she trailed off.

“So there’s a good chance I’ll die, a 100% chance I’ll be uncomfortable and I won’t get to sit my ass on the beach with a free rum punch?”

“Correct.”

“Geez. What an option.” I grumbled.

Having heard enough of my whining, she dropped her smile and got in my face. “Hey dumbass, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you really like rum punch?”

“Of course not. It’s diluted bottom-shelf liquor mixed with syrupy canned juices. You serve your bovine customers a complimentary goblet at breakfast, which gives them the excuse they’re looking for to get drunk and do nothing with their day.”

“Exactly. It’s an opiate and a marketing ploy for suckers,” she said. “Is that how you want to spend your time here?”

She let me ponder this for a moment as I considered my options.

“No.” I answered sheepishly. “It’s just that—well, even if I survive—what if I don’t see any whales out there?” 

“That’s a definite possibility, sir,” she replied. Then she smiled, tilted her head, and offered, “But what if you do?”