A thin futon on the hardwood floor with Mexican blankets wadded up on it. Some Jean jackets with patches on the sleeves  folded to make a pillow. Next to the bed is a tall flashlight and a copy of Moby Dick that puts him to sleep each night. Images of Queequeg dance in his head.

Paul sits on a metal folding chair in the corner, looking out a window, down below where there’s hookers and drunks, speed freaks, tweakers, neon lights flashing, Old Style and cars filled with lovers passing stop signs on their way home. Cops cruise up and down. Ignoring what Paul  clearly sees in the midnight paint. Cold coffee poured in a cup.

On a small table sits a collection of library cards; NYC, St. Louis, Montpelier, Vermont, Fort Wayne, Indiana, Cleveland,  Cincinnati, Newport, Kentucky, and Bangor, Maine, all of them laid out in front of him. He picks one up at a time and remembers each city or town. The fat man thinks about books read, meals devoured, women toasted, the old Ford he drove; sleeping in it when September turned cold on the Canadian border. Niagra Falls at night.

Racing around in America. Looking for something new. Always finding the same old thing; poor and rich. The needy and lost souls making up a country. Truth and lies. You get one shot at the good life in the USA, he thought. Paul pulled the trigger and  missed a long time ago.

So he collects his cards and wonders, what would Quegueeg do? What would he do? Maybe he had one more voyage in him. One last look. He laughs.

Moby Dick is waiting.