“What?” Keane says, looking genuinely shocked. “But the book’s calledMoby Dick.What’s the point in calling a bookMoby Dickif no one ever catches Moby Dick? That’d be likeJawsif Roy Scheider doesn’t blow up the shark but instead says, ‘Oh well, I guess we just won’t swim in the ocean anymore.’”
I laugh.
Keane continues, “OrFinding Nemoif no one ever finds Nemo and the dad-fish goes, ‘Meh, I never liked that annoying clown-fish anyway.’”
“Or maybe it’d be likeTitanic,” I offer, “if, at the end, a big ship calledTitanicsinks?”
“Aaah,” Keane says, raising his eyebrow.
“See what I did there, little brother?” I say.
“Touché, big brother. That was a teaching moment, for sure.”
I wink at him. “Watch and learn, son.”
“Well,Titanicnotwithstanding, Captain Ahabnotcatching Moby Dick is a shitty-ass, pointless ending, if you ask me.”
“Peenie, Ahabnotcatching the whale is what makes it literature instead ofFast and Furious7. The whole point is that Ahab becomes so obsessed with catching his great white whale, his obsession drives him to madness and, ultimately, hastens his demise.”
“Hastens?”
“Hastens. Causes something to happen quicker than it otherwise would. Read a book on occasion, man.”
Keane shrugs. “I’m too busy watchingFast and Furious 7.” He flashes me his dimples. “Seriously, Ry, does your head hurt from being such a fancy-pants literary scholar?”
“It’s not like I’ve got a PhD in American literature,” I say. “I readMoby Dickin high school English, same as everybody else other than you, right along withThe Catcher in the RyeandThe Great Gatsby.”
“Were the endings of those other books as shitty-ass asMoby Dick?” Keane asks. “As long as you’re spoiling the classics for me, you might as well spoil ’em all.”
“How the hell did you make it through high school without reading any of the classics?”
“Dude, I was too busy striking out batters and slaying it with the hot-chick brigade to waste my time reading about whales and rye-catchers and Gatsbys.”
“But how the hell did you pass English Lit?” I ask.
“I had help from some tutors.” Keane winks. “Some veryprettytutors.”
I laugh. Classic Keane.
“So tell me the endings of those other books already, Master Yoda,” Keane says, casting his line out into the lake again. “Were they as shitty-ass and pointless asMoby Dick?”
I take a long sip of my beer, gathering my thoughts. “Well, it’s been over ten years since I read them, so don’t hold me to it, but I think Holden Caulfield winds up in an insane asylum and The Great Gatsby dies without getting the girl.”
“What the motherfuck?” Keane shouts, much too loudly for our serene environment. “Nobodygets the whale throughoutallclassic literature?”
“You want a happy ending, read a romance novel, son.”
“Well, shit, maybe I will. Life is shitastic enough without reading books with depressing endings. IfIever write a book, it’s gonna be whales and weed and wahoos for everyone!”
I laugh.
“Hand me another beer, would you, baby doll?” Keane says. “Literary analysis always makes me hella thirsty.”
I hand my little brother a beer out of the cooler.
“Thanks, Captain. That’s why I love you the most.”
For several minutes, we sip our beers in silence and stare at the glassy lake.
