Case of the Limburger cheese

Life On The Big Pond

One of a series, by BILL DAME Case of the Limburger cheese

Tit for tat or “getting even”—call it what you may—has a well-entrenched position in any society, and a trans-Pacific passenger ship is no exception.

There was once a photographer on our ship who got bored with routine quiet easily, and fre quently livened up the monotony by playing pranks on his innocent friends.

His darkroom was forever pro ducing laughs: a crewman’s head on the body of a waitress or vice versa, a sleeping officer on one of the mahogany rails, a cook in a frying pan, and once a flying albatross absconding with one of the lifeboats filled with Boat Drill participants. His pranks never hurt anyone and always created mirth, but no one, it seems, was ever able to pull any kind of re taliation on him. Until . . .

The captain’s champagne party was scheduled for a particular late afternoon and the photo grapher sent his formal suit to the tailor to be pressed. The suit was returned to his room and left hanging on a hook on the wall and the photographer, slightly be hind schedule, showered and shaved in a hurry and started to dress.

He fell

One leg went through the trousers as it should, but the other side was securely sewed at the cuff, which made the photographer lose his balance and fall into an undignified position.

His next door neighbour heard the commotion and came over to investigate. He had his camera with him, complete with flash, and took a picture of the funny sight.

This made the photographer im mediately blame him for the sewn cuff.

The neighbour emphatically denied any knowledge of the suc cessful plot but rejoiced that Old Funny Pants had finally become victim to a joke.

The photographer warned him, good naturedly, to be on guard.

Several days after the pants episode, the photographer went to the pantry and made a re

quest. He returned to his room with a small foil-wrapped pack age, which he unwrapped as he quietly went next door. To his surprise, his neighbour was sprawled out on top of his bunk reading, so the photographer stuttered a bit and finally said, “I didn’t think you were in or I’d have knocked. May I borrow your razor cord?”

“Sure. Help yourself.”

He took the cord and started for the door, hiding his left hand as he walked. Before he closed the door he asked, “What time are you going to dinner?”

“Same time as usual. What’s the matter with you anyway?

You’re acting a little strained.”

“Nothing. Wake me when you leave, will you? I’m going to take a little nap.”

The photographer left and the neighbour frowned and sniffed, then resumed his reading for another hour. He shifted his posi tion as the setting sun shone directly through the porthole.

At dinner time he left for the Special Mess, knocking loudly on the photographer’s door and entering, as usual, without wait ing for an invitation. He took one step inside, coughed violently and backed into the passageway where he took a deep breath.

“What is that dead smell in your room?” the neighbour asked in alarm as the photographer took deep breaths of air.

“That, you schedule-changing fink ... is the sun-melted Lim burger cheese that I meant to spread all over your walls! And I’ll bet it’s ruined the pillow on the empty bunk. I ... I guess it’s no use asking you to keen quiet about this?”

“Not a chance,” the neigh bour said. “It serves you right.

Just wait until I get to the dining room and spill this!”

To this day the photographer is called Limburger in memory of his downfall.