Call me Ishmael. Years ago, finding myself poor and aimless on land, I decided to sail and view the watery world. This is my method for curing melancholy and regulating my blood. Whenever my mouth grows grim, or my soul feels like a damp, drizzly November, I know it is time to leave. The urge becomes undeniable when I pause before coffin before warehouses, trail behind funerals, or feel a manic impulse to knock hats off in the street. Going to sea is my alternative to suicide. While Cato died on his sword with a flourish, I quietly board a ship. This impulse is not unique; almost all men feel a magnetic pull toward the ocean.
Waking to daylight, Ishmael finds Queequeg’s tattooed arm thrown over him in a loving embrace, the intricate patterns blending so perfectly with the patchwork counterpane that he can hardly distinguish the limb from the quilt. This confusing intimacy triggers a vivid childhood memory of being sent to bed early in the height of summer, where he once woke in darkness to feel a supernatural hand gripping his own, a terror that paralyzed him for ages. The shock of that phantom grip mirrors his initial startle at the savage’s weight, but as the events of the previous night return, the fear shifts into a comical realization of his predicament: he is being hugged like a bride by a slumbering cannibal.
Ishmael attempts to extricate himself from the bridegroom clasp, only to feel a scratch and discover a tomahawk sleeping by Queequeg’s side like a hatchet-faced baby. After much wriggling and loud expostulation, he succeeds in rousing the harpooner. Queequeg shakes himself awake like a wet dog and sits up stiffly, slowly recognizing Ishmael. With a surprising gesture of civility, he signals that he will dress first and leave the room to his bedfellow. Ishmael watches this curious creature perform his bizarre toilette, noting behaviors that highlight his hybrid nature. Queequeg puts on his hat and boots but insists on crawling under the bed to complete the latter, an act Ishmael attributes to his incomplete civilization. The harpooner washes only his chest and arms before astonishing Ishmael by unsheathing his harpoon, whetting the head on his boot, and using the razor-sharp steel to shave his face before the mirror. Finished, Queequeg dons his pilot jacket and marches out of the room, carrying his harpoon like a marshal’s baton.
Ishmael descends to the bar-room, greeting the grinning landlord without malice for the previous night’s bedfellow prank. The room fills with a shaggy company of whalemen, whose sun-weathered complexions reveal exactly how long each has been ashore, ranging from fresh, sun-toasted hues to the bleached tans seasoned by weeks on land. Queequeg’s barred countenance stands out among them, suggesting the grandeur of the Andes. When the landlord calls for grub, the group moves to the table. Ishmael anticipates boisterous sea-stories but discovers a surprising, sheepish silence among the otherwise bold whalemen, who look around as bashfully as timid sheep. Queequeg breaks the tension not with words, but with supreme coolness, using his harpoon to snag beefsteaks across the table to the imminent jeopardy of the other diners. After ignoring coffee and rolls for rare beef, Queequeg retires to the public room to smoke his tomahawk-pipe while Ishmael goes out for a stroll.
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