Dearest Rachel –
Wednesday began – or would that be Tuesday ended? It was late at night, before four in the morning, and neither of us were inclined to respond – with a knock of the door. Three raps, in quick succession, followed by a pause, presumably for us to answer. Then another trio of knocks, which we likewise ignored. However, our would-be guest would not be deterred; the knocking grew in intensity over several sequences, to the point where, after five or six iterations, it was essentially a pounding on the door. I was half-expecting a voice at some point to be coming from the other side, not unlike the meme involving Eric Andre shaking the gates:
But no voice ever came, and we never found out who it was. After the second series of pounds on the door, I heard Lars get up and open a door, but after hearing water running, I realized he was simply using the washroom; now that he was awake, he found himself with the need to do so. I’m sure you could relate to such needs.
Seeing as we were both awake, however unwillingly, I couldn’t help but ask him his thoughts about our would-be visitor. He had been downstairs to the Promenade deck shortly before midnight, as there was supposedly an event taking place there that he wanted to see (which I didn’t think I’d be able to stay awake to attend, much less still be up when he gave up on it and returned to the cabin). He had mentioned encountering a large contingent of single women there and then, and had recommended I check the area out at some point in the future. While I was willing to take that under advisement in the moment, at this point, I was wondering (dimly) if he’d had any interaction with these young ladies that might cause one of them to come banging on his door in a state of inebriation. Admittedly, such a chance struck me as unlikely as my winning the lottery, but I thought I’d jocularly suggest it regardless (mind you, I still buy tickets every now and again, too. Hey, you never know).
It may have been a bit early (or late?) for such jokes; while he didn’t take umbrage at the suggestion that he might have irritated some woman so, his response was a fairly serious, if not vociferous, denial. Evidently, what interactions he’d had with them had been fairly minimal, just enough to acknowledge each other’s existence and presence, and little more than that. There was no reason for anyone to come to our stateroom door, demanding to be let in. And at any rate, the knocking and pounding had stopped at this point; most likely, it had been some drunken passenger trying to get into what they thought was their room, only to give up after enough attempts to conclude that they had been assaulting the wrong door.
Of course, this was quite likely the logical explanation for the whole ridiculous moment, but I couldn’t help imagining the possibilities of having answered the call. Sure, it would most likely have been an exchange on the order of “Oh, hey, you’re not Sheila,” “No, neither of us are, in fact,” “I must have the wrong room,” “Yes, probably so,” “erm… well.. goodnight; sorry to have bothered you,” “ah, no worries, I had to answer the door anyway.” Still, it could have been an adventure to invite them in, or be invited out to search for “Sheila” or whatever else – and we had refused the opportunity.
Yes, my imagination gets the better of me, honey… what can I say? Normally, this would be about the time when I would be dropping into R.E.M. sleep, I expect, so maybe my subconscious was trying to incorporate what had happened in reality to what might have happened had either of us answered the door. Either way, I figured I might as well tell you about it, regardless.
Ironically, I did craft a dream or two in the few remaining hours of darkness and (hopefully) sleep; it had me going through your hard drives where you saved various media files you intended to watch later (presumably to do so with me, when opportunity presented itself, which never happened. Yeah, even my dreams have this melancholy nature to them). One of the files included appeared to be a documentary narrated by DeForrest Kelley entitled “Why We Wander.” Presumably it was about the wanderlust common to humanity, and, given his role of “Bones” McCoy on Star Trek, specifically about our desire (and perhaps need) to explore space. I expect that, in this case, it was brought about by the fact that I keep traveling like I’m doing now – and intend to keep doing – and the fact that I’m not always sure as to why.
To be sure, I didn’t see enough of it (more accurately, I couldn’t create enough of it) to tell you more than that brief synopsis of it. But even if I could, there’s this absurd feeling that I ought to be watching it with you, which is never going to happen. Silly, right?
But I guess this is what happens when my sleep gets interrupted like that; my subconscious comes up with some wild stuff. Anyway, I guess I ought to get up and get on with the day; even though we’re not going anywhere today, there’s still a lot of nothing to do that I ought to get on with. So until next time, keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck; I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 