Cargo

Cargo

by Kelp

They’re called cargo pants, I think, because of all the pockets.
Besides the standard pockets on the sides and the back pockets in the back,
there are four more pockets on each side: two with zippers, two with flaps over the top and Velcro on the inside of the flaps.

That’s a lot of pockets. 

You can carry a lot of things in those cargo pants.

Makes me think of cargo trucks and cargo ships.  Carrying lots of cargo.  By the ton.

“How much tonnage on this cargo ship?”  I hear someone shouting from the dock, as the ship scrapes noisily against the embankment.

Ships, like people, have different roles, different jobs, different responsibilities.

Ships like the cargo ship are laden down with cargo, moving goods from one place to another.  So crucial to commerce and the logistics of commerce.

The aircraft carrier— like in the game called Battleship  – five pegs long – moves aircraft – helicopters and planes — from one location to another.  So crucial to success in war and the logistics of war.

Ships, like people.  Some ships seem to have it easier.  Luxury liners, cruise ships.  Some people’s lives are like that.  Cruising.  Schmoozing. 

Some people’s lives are like skiffs, like rafts, like lifeboats.   Like Huck Finn and Jim floating on the Mississippi, Jim with the pole in his hand, guiding the raft down the river.

Some people sail, some row, some paddle, some drift.  Some are powered by an engine.  And then there are tugboats which push or pull other boats and ships; there’s some people like that too.

But all of this is just a digression.  A clever distraction.  Because something bad happened to my cargo pants.  Something very bad.  I left a pen in one of the pockets.   The pocket on the left side, with the Velcro.   And when the pants went into the laundry machine, the ink from the pen leaked out onto the pants and also onto some of the other clothes in the washing machine.   Like my favorite green polo shirt, which now has streaks of blue. 

“What a mess!”  you said.  Another mess I got you into.   Another fine mess.  But you felt bad for me, because you knew I loved those pants, and the green polo shirt and the other clothes that were now streaked and spotted with blue ink.  Also a tablecloth, one of your favorites, was rendered unusable.   Not to mention the pen, which had to be thrown out. 

The shiny blue ink stains on the pants were frightening to look at.  Unnatural.  Like the faces of wounded animals.  Mr. Rorschach, where are you now when I need you?

We soaked the clothes in rubbing alcohol, which is what google suggested.  We washed them again. But the ink held fast.  

I took them to the dry cleaners to see if they could do anything.  “Those pants are a write-off,”  the guy at the dry cleaners said.   He didn’t realize he was being literal.  Or maybe he should have said: “Write-on – those pants are a write-on.”

But none of this is funny.  “You’re an idiot,” I say to myself.  “You’re stupid and careless.  What kind of person does such things, makes such a mess, causes so much damage and waste?”    Yes, I had checked the pockets.  I had emptied out the tissues.  But I didn’t reach in deep enough to find the pen. 

And now I’m thinking back to ships.  Oil tankers and oil spills.  The Exxon Valdez.  All the damage and destruction.   Turning everything black, like black ink across the surface of the ocean. The birds with shiny black oil on their feathers, unable to fly.  Such a mess.  It doesn’t matter if it was an accident or on purpose.  It might not have been anybody’s fault.  Maybe it was just somebody’s carelessness.  It doesn’t matter, the damage is done.