Ship of Dreams

A movie fan is separated from a symbol of old Hollywood

It had survived experiences unimaginable, in places just as exotic and challenging.

Its battered carcass had been dragged through the deepest reaches of the Amazon, its teakettle hide painted by sun and swamp. It had run afoul of animals and armies, and endured insufferable passengers, including a missionary's difficult sister, who broke its hull of a heart, ultimately, by helping herself to the only thing that ever loved it: a smalltime opportunist with a seven day growth and a history of hangovers.

I am speaking, naturally, of the venerable riverboat from John Huston's The African Queen, which, a half century or more ago, sailed bush and back lot, bringing Katherine Hepburn to Humphrey Bogart and a loose wing of the Nazi party to an ironic end.

None of the indignities it suffered onscreen, however, could match the sheer misery it was enduring now: there she was, claustrophobically trapped in a small truck, separated from the rest of civilization by a back panel of rusting mesh. Its lonely appearance within these confines reminded one not of Huston, Katie and Bogie but of Walt Disney; the famous scene from Dumbo, where the pining protagonist sits separated from his mother.

Then again, what was there to be separated from? The torrential rain on this particular night, a Tuesday at that, when no one went out, was enough to keep even the most die-hard movie lover away. How I prayed before the windows of our suburban home, a good series of bus rides away from Montreal Road, where this poor, metallic caged animal, which deserved a far better version of its one night stay in our city, was sitting. The jungle-like sheath of water coming down was going well beyond the fitting; even the boat, I was becoming certain, if it could speak, would confess that for all of its team on location with Huston and his crew, it had never experienced anything like this.

I was not going to see it then; not until tomorrow, I knew, would this blasted rain finally let up, leaving a large, uninteresting puddle in place of this rare link to Hollywood's golden age, there at the foot of Bogie's Lounge, the enterprising bar that had somehow managed to wrangle this fly-by-night exhibit to honor its namesake.

The door to our home opened, and my mother, late from work and soaking despite her umbrella, entered. "I saw it, son. I stood in front of it for fifteen minutes." I knew immediately what she was talking about, for we had discussed the movie - a mutual favorite - and my penchant for seeing one of its artifacts the day before. "I hope you're happy," she added, shaking light bulb-sized drops from imp strands of her usually hairspray-hard hair. "I did it for you."