Dispute

I.

“We’re an hour behind schedule. Where’s Meckes?”

I threw my head back slightly as I was suddenly pulled from my trance. My supervisor entered my peripheral, leaning on the rail alongside me. I straightened myself out and wiped my salty hair from my eyes.

“Sorry, spacing out again,” I spoke as I turned my head away from the bronze horizon.

“Well, you must be excited, being fixated on the water and all that,” she suggested with her signature sarcastic trill. I was not excited. I hated the ocean. Everything from the salt that spitefully stabs your tongue, to the constant smell of dead animals and urine. I was staring at the endless stretch of water with nothing but the dread of facing an empty, unforgiving void.

“I’m on cloud nine,” I deadpanned, stepping back from the railing overlooking the fluttering waves. She saw right through me, not like I attempted to bluff her.

“Don’t be a baby, you’re not even doing it for real.” She glanced at her watch once more, tapping her pencil against her clipboard. “Why are you here, Val? I was told you hated the water.” I’ve never heard her call me by my nickname. Tedious voyages must connect people, and she must be trying to get a headstart.

“I’m only the world’s greatest nepo baby.”

“Yikes, don’t let the chief know that. Now come help me on a manhunt before we let you go.” We made our way off the boat and towards the marina’s parking lot.

I was in such a rush this morning to get onto the boat that I hadn’t gotten a good look at it from the outside. It was a retired freightship, repurposed to hold intricate pulley systems and air pumps on its deck where shipping containers would usually be. They must have spent so much money on the fancy machinery that they couldn’t spare any to give the old-timer a new coat of paint. All they cared to do in terms of design was scrub the previous company’s name over with black paint and hastily stick “Hazel Communications” right below it. You would have never guessed Hazel Communications was a multi-billion dollar company with deep-sea communication lines running across the entire Atlantic from the look of their equipment. Fortunately, or unfortunately, our equipment isn’t the issue. Management likes to keep it cheap when hiring workers. People with the lesser-importance in the workplace are more often than not unqualified for this line of work, one of the qualities of a business run by a family with a severe case of nepotism. Ironically enough, my great uncle is the head of the Diving Repair Department and practically handed this career to me. To give myself credit, I did take initiative and attended advanced diving classes even if, for my first time at least, I wasn’t “doing it for real.” I give all that credit to the crew of the Goldfish.

“Where’s Meckes? We have to leave in five minutes,” my supervisor announced across the parking lot. We were walking towards a group of chattering old men, all dressed in dark suits that contrasted both the early tangerine sky and the Hawaiian shirt/cargo pants combination I was wearing. My supervisor stood in the middle ground with a navy blue jacket and black dress pants.

“Oh, hello, Nancy. We replaced Meckes. He was in a car accident yesterday. You can’t weld down there with broken legs, let alone swim,” the tallest of the well-dressed men proclaimed.

Sometimes portions of that cable running under the Atlantic can wear down or tear to the point where outside assistance is needed. In that case, a small team of capable divers descend down to two hundred meters to fix what is damaged by hand.

“Is… Is Meckes okay?” She struggled to keep her poorly fastened calm demeanor.

“Not well enough. There’s a Houston Hershel or Hershel Houston. I forget which name comes first. He’s replacing Meckes,” he replied as he dug into his pocket for a cigarette. “Tall and scrawny, like you.” He points towards me, mouth muffled by the cigarette.

“But Hershel has a soul!” one of the other men blurted.

“What?” the first man uttered.

“It was a joke. Because he’s not…”

“I don’t pay you to talk, Thomas,” he remarked, stuffing the cigarette pack back into his coat pocket before clearing his throat. “He rode here on his bike, actually.”

“Like a motorcycle?” I chimed in.

“No, a bicycle,” he mocked as he shot me down with his eyes. “I told him to skip check-in and explore the Goldfish.”

The Goldfish was a giant metal tube sitting on the deck of the ship. It served as the living quarters for the diving team whilst they weren’t underwater. The Goldfish and its crew would slowly pressurize to twenty atmospheres, twenty times the air pressure you are currently experiencing, over the course of nine days. When the crew is ready to work on the cable, a pressurized diving bell will lower the crew from the Goldfish to where the pressure is the same. This allows everyone in the crew to avoid decompressing too fast whilst still being able to live on the surface.

“Whos this?” the man said as he threw his portly fingers in my direction. My supervisor, Nancy, piped up before I could.

“Gabriel Valentine. Dive tender.”

The transfer between the Goldfish and the diving bell is where I come in. The Goldfish and diving bell are lifted from the deck of the ship and into the ocean. Once underwater, I lock the diving bell to the Goldfish and manage the pressurization of the bell as if it was an airlock in a science fiction film.

I met Hershel Houston shortly after the ship’s departure from the marina. Seeing him for the first time, poking around the console area with the captain, was like looking into a carnival mirror. He was only a smidgeon shorter than me and was nearly as lanky too. He had the same shaggy head of hair, though brown, that drooped alongside a long face.

“Hey, you must be Hershel,” I said from behind him. I stuck my hand out to shake his.

“Yes sir I am! It’s a pleasure Mister…” He squinted at me and shook my hand.

“I’m Gabe, your tender,” I said as I wiped his sweat from my hand.

“Don’t reckon I’ve met ya. I ain’t met any of the crew really.”

“You probably should. They might be looking for you,” I suggested, forcing a weak smile.

“I’ll be gettin’ to it, jus’ nervous is all.”

Just before nightfall, I reconnected with the two other crew members of the Goldfish. They were sitting in cheap lawn chairs on the deck of the ship, having one last drink before tomorrow’s compression.

“What did you hear about him?” Frank Allen mumbled. He tapped his sandal against the ground and rubbed his sandpaper chin. His eyes were disconnected from both I and Sister Morgan, switching his view between the ocean in longing and the steel entrapment with sagging eyelids of dread.

“Just another company stooge, young guy,” I tried to reply lightheartedly.

“No, Meckes. Where is he,” Frank Allen piped again.

“Frank, Please. Stop worrying so much,” Sister Morgan grasped his hand to calm him.

“I bet he’s fine, it was just a minor accident,” I defused.

“Accident?!” Frank exclaimed.

“Val!” Sister Morgan shot a look at me.

“I’m sorry!”

“What happened!”

“It was just a little car accident!”

“Val!”

“Is he okay?!”

“Frank, enough!”

“I mean he was obviously hurt a little, but it was mentioned so casually that I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Val!”

“Hurt?!”

“He uh… They told me he broke his legs.”

“Val!”

“Isn’t it part of your rules that you don’t lie?” I asked Morgan

“Well that doesn’t mean you have to talk,” she replied. “As much as I hate to say it Frank, Val is right. There is nothing to worry about.” Sister Morgan had this look in her eyes when she was being sincere, albeit that is few and far between. As her name suggests, she is God-fearing. I’m not quite sure what denomination she falls under, but her devotion is never in question when she gives pamphlets to coworkers. I’d imagine she’s successful with the pamphlet gig because of her appearance. Morgan is a little older than myself, probably around early thirties, although she’ll never say. Her appearance is always, ironically, her pride. She wears sweaters and veiling so bright they can blind a man if the sun hits at the right angle.

“I’m just… I guess I’m getting antsy with a last minute switch like this. It’s my last job ’til retirement,” Frank sighed and slumped in his chair.