Free Old Glory by Jonathan Raban

stuck out of his cuffs, and his collar was popping around his Adam’s apple.
    “I saw the article about you in the paper. The trip you’re making … I really envy you.”
    “Really?”
    “That’s something
I’d
like to do, go down the river. St. Louis. New Orleans.” He named them as I used to name them to myself.
    “Why don’t you go?”
    “I’m buying time. Working through the summer. Most days, when I can, I go down to the lock and dam and look at the river. You’re taking a boat, right? I want to build a raft.”
    “I thought of that too. I think it could be hellishly dangerous.”
    “People nowadays, nobody does nothing. Everyone plays safe and stays home. I’m going to save myself some bread and get out of this city. I’d like to work on the towboats … get a start as a barge hand.… But that river … shit! I love it, you know?”
    I showed him my charts. He pored over them, saying, “Hey!… Hey!… Hey!” and clicking his tongue noisily against his front teeth. “Just looking at these, man … I am going to build that raft. There’s a place up above the lock, a friend and me, we were talking about putting it together up there.”
    “On a raft you’re going to have a lot of trouble keeping out of the way of the tows, aren’t you?”
    “Yeah … I guess so.…”
    I had intruded a ponderous detail that had no place in the waiter’s vision. He shook out his forelock of Swedish-colored hair.
    “I better get back. Hey, have a
fantastic
ride, will you?”
    “You too,” I said.
    “Yeah … well …” He laughed. “Wouldn’t that be something else?”
    It had faded into the conditional. Every time the waiter looked at the river he thought of lighting out, and the thought was sufficient in itself—more sustaining, even, than any real journey could be.
    I found it harder to leave the city than I’d planned. Herb’s partner had been doing some heavy public relations, and by the time I reached theriver a crowd was waiting. Two television crews had turned out, and a gang of passersby had thickened around the television crews. No one seemed to know why anyone was here. But whatever it was, it was going to be on TV. There were rumors of a drowning, a rare bird, the arrival of the
Delta Queen
steamboat, and various other wonders. I was introduced to a spruce old man with an Instamatic camera and a basset hound. He was announced as the King of Camden, and very kindly took my picture. As he put away his camera he said, “I got an album of photos of people who’ve been on TV.”
    The boat went growling from its trailer into the water. I sprinkled a few drops of five-dollar champagne over her bow and shared the rest of the bottle with Herb, the King and the basset hound. I heaved my case into the front of the boat and was about to take off when the TV crews intervened.
    I’ve always enjoyed slow-motion action replays on television. I now found myself living in one. Acting under instructions, I held the neck of the champagne bottle over the bow of the boat. I shook hands with Herb. I climbed into the boat. I pushed off with an oar. I started the motor with a jerk of the cord. I waved to the King (who was by this time happily engaged in photographing the cameramen). I steered for the railroad bridge downstream. As soon as I had passed under its arches and was out of sight, I returned to the slip, got out of the boat, picked up the empty bottle, held it over the bow, shook hands with Herb, got into the boat, and went through the rest of the mime until I reached the bridge, then turned back to repeat the whole sequence one more time. With each new performance, these movements stiffened until they took on the ritual grotesquerie of a scene from Kabuki theatre. I became a star at taking my leave of Minneapolis: now christening my boat, now waving, now setting my face southward with, I thought, a becoming expression of jowly determination. The twin violet eyes of the cameras followed me