"My boy," said the landlord, "you'll have the nightmare to a dead sartainty."
"Landlord," I whispered, "that aint the harpooneer is it?"
"Oh, no," said he, looking a sort of diabolically funny, "the harpooneer is a dark complexioned chap. He never eats dumplings, he don't- he eats nothing but steaks, and he likes 'em rare."
"The devil he does," says I. "Where is that harpooneer? Is he here?"
"He'll be here afore long," was the answer.
I could not help it, but I began to feel suspicious of this "dark complexioned" harpooneer. At any rate, I made up my mind that if it so turned out that we should sleep together, he must undress and get into bed before I did.
Supper over, the company went back to the bar-room, when, knowing not what else to do with myself, I resolved to spend the rest of the evening as a looker on.
Presently a rioting noise was heard without. Starting up, the landlord cried, "That's the Grampus's crew. I seed her reported in the offing this morning; a three years' voyage, and a full ship. Hurrah, boys; now we'll have the latest news from the Feegees."
A tramping of sea boots was heard in the entry; the door was flung open, and in rolled a wild set of mariners enough. Enveloped in their shaggy watch coats, and with their heads muffled in woollen comforters, all bedarned and ragged, and their beards stiff with icicles, they seemed an eruption of bears from Labrador. They had just landed from their boat, and this was the first house they entered. No wonder, then, that they made a straight wake for the whale's mouth- the bar- when the wrinkled little old Jonah, there officiating, soon poured them out brimmers all round. One complained of a bad cold in his head, upon which Jonah mixed him a pitch-like potion of gin and molasses, which he swore was a sovereign cure for all colds and catarrhs whatsoever, never mind of how long standing, or whether caught off the coast of Labrador, or on the weather side of an ice-island.
The liquor soon mounted into their heads, as it generally does even with the arrantest topers newly landed from sea, and they began capering about most obstreperously.
It's a cold night, in the passage above and outside my windows. There's no fire for Ishmael to warm himself in the Spouter-Inn. He must rely on boiling tea and his dinner of meat, potatoes, and dumplings to provide any relief from winter. When the crew members of the Grampus enter a little while later, they are shagged with icicles and head straight to the bar for the heat of some alcohol.
I'm once again sitting in my office at the university, and there's a doozy of a storm blowing outside. The rain and fog of this morning have transformed into driving ice pellets and ribs of frozen slush. My daughter and son got out of school early this afternoon because of the weather. And here I sit, reading about hot tea and hot food, sort of envying Ishmael his small reliefs of warmth.
It strikes me that I partake in envy a lot. I envy full-time university professors because I'm a contingent professor. I envy young people walking down the street because they are young and have their whole lives ahead of them. Looking over at my office-mate's desk, I envy its lack of piles and empty pop cans and stray paperclips.
Envy is pretty seductive. It can make you feel righteous ("That bastard doesn't deserve that!") and unappreciated ("I work twice as hard as she does!") and weirdly superior ("I am so much better than him at teaching/writing/basketball/insert-your-own-skill-here!"). Envy makes you feel better about yourself by feeling worse about yourself. It's like having a bad day, going home, drinking a full bottle of gin, and then expecting to feel better about yourself in the morning.
It doesn't quite work that way. Envy allows a person to sit back and wait to be successful. For example, if I tell myself that I'm already a better poet than, say, Danez Smith (I'm not!), then all I have to do is wait for the rest of the world to catch up with me. I'm already great. Everybody just needs to recognize my greatness.
And, of course, envy also completely dismisses the struggles and pains of other people. If I envy Danez Smith's success, I'm overlooking all of the things he's had to overcome in his life as a gay African American male. Nobody's existence is perfect, despite power or money or talent or fame. Vincent van Gogh sold only one painting in his lifetime. Emily Dickinson published fewer than a dozen poems while she was alive. To envy them, I must also envy their mental and physical illnesses. The homophobia and racism.
Nobody knows my inner landscape. I am the Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula. Yet, I'm also incredibly insecure with my poems. Nothing I write ever seems good enough. I received a teaching award in December. Yet, when I read my student evaluations from last semester, I feel like a complete failure because of two or three negative comments. I overthink and beat myself up, all the time.
My point tonight is that we need to treat each other (and ourselves) with more kindness. Not begrudge peoples' successes. Not rejoice in their failures. If someone is warm and you're cold, make yourself some tea. If someone is grief-stricken and you're joyful, share some of your happiness.
And remember, envy is a small emotion that makes you even smaller.
Saint Marty is thankful for the cold he feels today. The sadness and the happiness, as well.
