We had lain thus in bed, chatting and napping at short intervals, and Queequeg now and then affectionately throwing his brown tattooed legs over mine, and then drawing them back; so entirely sociable and free and easy were we; when, at last, by reason of our confabulations, what little nappishness remained in us altogether departed, and we felt like getting up again, though day-break was yet some way down the future.
Yes, we became very wakeful; so much so that our recumbent position began to grow wearisome, and by little and little we found ourselves sitting up; the clothes well tucked around us, leaning against the headboard with our four knees drawn up close together, and our two noses bending over them, as if our knee-pans were warming-pans. We felt very nice and snug, the more so since it was so chilly out of doors; indeed out of bed-clothes too, seeing that there was no fire in the room. The more so, I say, because truly to enjoy bodily warmth, some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast. Nothing exists in itself. If you flatter yourself that you are all over comfortable, and have been so a long time, then you cannot be said to be comfortable any more. But if, like Queequeg and me in the bed, the tip of your nose or the crown of your head be slightly chilled, why then, indeed, in the general consciousness you feel most delightfully and unmistakably warm. For this reason a sleeping apartment should never be furnished with a fire, which is one of the luxurious discomforts of the rich. For the height of this sort of deliciousness is to have nothing but the blankets between you and your snugness and the cold of the outer air. Then there you lie like the one warm spark in the heart of an arctic crystal.
We had been sitting in this crouching manner for some time, when all at once I thought I would open my eyes; for when between sheets, whether by day or by night, and whether asleep or awake, I have a way of always keeping my eyes shut, in order the more to concentrate the snugness of being in bed. Because no man can ever feel his own identity aright except his eyes be closed; as if, darkness were indeed the proper element of our essences, though light be more congenial to our clayey part. Upon opening my eyes then, and coming out of my own pleasant and self-created darkness into the imposed and coarse outer gloom of the unilluminated twelve-o'clock-at-night, I experienced a disagreeable revulsion. Nor did I at all object to the hint from Queequeg that perhaps it were best to strike a light, seeing that we were so wide awake; and besides he felt a strong desire to have a few quiet puffs from his Tomahawk. Be it said, that though I had felt such a strong repugnance to his smoking in the bed the night before, yet see how elastic our stiff prejudices grow when once love comes to bend them. For now I liked nothing better than to have Queequeg smoking by me, even in bed, because he seemed to be full of such serene household joy then. I no more felt unduly concerned for the landlord's policy of insurance. I was only alive to the condensed confidential comfortableness of sharing a pipe and a blanket with a real friend. With our shaggy jackets drawn about our shoulders, we now passed the Tomahawk from one to the other, till slowly there grew over us a blue hanging tester of smoke, illuminated by the flame of the new-lit lamp.
Whether it was that this undulating tester rolled the savage away to far distant scenes, I know not, but he now spoke of his native island; and, eager to hear his history, I begged him to go on and tell it. He gladly complied. Though at the time I but ill comprehended not a few of his words, yet subsequent disclosures, when I had become more familiar with his broken phraseology, now enable me to present the whole story such as it may prove in the mere skeleton I give.
Ishmael and Queequeg have become fast friends, sharing the same bed, staying up late talking, sharing confidences. Even though both men have been awake from before dawn to this midnight time, neither is sleepy. They sit close to each other, passing Queequeg's pipe back and forth, smoking, creating a haze of blue in the dark room. And then Ishmael encourages Queequeg to tell him the story of his life. Queequeg obliges.
When I was reading this chapter from Moby-Dick, I was reminded of a night when I was 19 or 20, on Christmas break from college. I was still living in my parents' house, and one of my best friends was home on break from the University of Michigan. We had gone out earlier and returned to my home, my room. It was well past midnight.
Both of us were a little drunk, maybe a little high. We started talking about college and high school and girls and drugs and sex. The conversation stretched on and on, like the winter night outside. Somehow, because my room was right next to my sister's room and just down the hall from my grandmother, we moved into the garage, where my father parked his big Chrysler.
The car had a huge back and front seat, and the garage was warm, filled with the smell of wood burning in the wood furnace that heated the house. We sat in that car in the dark garage, and we continued to talk. My friend, let's call him Queequeg for the sake of this post, started telling me about the girl he had been dating since our senior year in high school. She was a girl that I had been lusting after since middle school.
Darkness fosters a greater sense of intimacy. Queequeg started sharing details of his relationship with this girl that he probably wouldn't have shared in broad daylight. Of course, the alcohol and marijuana we had consumed probably helped, as well. Long story short, the night became one long Penthouse forum. Queequeg told one sex story after another. Waterbed sex. Sauna sex. Car sex.
I sat mute in the front seat of my parents' Chrysler. Every once in a while, I would add a grunt or a laugh or an "Oh, my God," to let Queequeg know that I was still awake and listening. Some time during that long night, we stepped outside to pass a joint back and forth, inhale its sweet smoke, hold it in, cough it out, let it fill our lungs and minds. In truth, I kept as quiet as possible, because I wanted Queequeg to keep telling me his stories about this girl. Wanted as many details as possible.
I had been jealous of Queequeg for two years. Jealous of the time he spent with this girl. Jealous that he had been able to do what I hadn't--to be with her, kiss her, go to prom with her, have sex with her. Hearing Queequeg's stories in the dark that night, I was able to imagine what I had missed because I was too shy and awkward and weird in high school. Queequeg was confident, good looking, and quirky.
So I stayed up all night with him, drained him of every story that I could. By early light, we were both almost sober, a little exhausted, and incredibly horny. But it had been really good. Some time before dawn, I had confessed my jealousy to Queequeg, and he had laughed and said something like, "Yeah, I knew you were into her, too."
Up until that night, I don't think I really understood what intimate friendship was. And I knew, as sun pushed through the windows of my parents' garage, that I would never really have a friendship as deep and lasting. It was a very Stand By Me moment.
Saint Marty is thankful this afternoon for the intimate friendships he's had in his life.
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