Ship for Brains (Cruise Confidential 2) Page 16

  “Would the champion of all things care to be first?”

  Cindy Lou Who shook her head emphatically. To my surprise, Lucifer did not press it. “You have earned the right to wait,” he said. “So we need a volunteer to go first. Anyone?”

  He scanned the room, his predator’s head tilting to listen for an answer. I swear I heard a cricket in the back.

  “So Buzz volunteers then? I just love volunteers!”

  I strode up to the front of the room, not surprised I had been called. Lucifer always sought those in the back of class to drag them into the light. I preferred to watch and learn from others first, calling myself cautious. He called it cowardly.

  The room was crowded and loaded with books, bags, and computers. The auction laptop sat on a portable podium next to a pile of papers, and chairs wildly filled in the channels between the tables. There was no room for artwork at all, so this practice auction would only involve a fraction of the distractions in real life. I had no fear speaking in front of groups of strangers, but I found myself suddenly nervous to perform before Lucifer. This test auction had not stressed me all week, but suddenly standing in front of him, fear gripped my guts and started to squeeze.

  Lucifer called out the first work to be auctioned. “CP 207. Go.”

  I punched in the number on the auction laptop and scanned the information: Emile Bellet, hand-embellished lithograph on canvas, limited edition of 200, opening bid of $450.

  I regurgitated the description of artist Emile Bellet we had learned earlier in the week and gestured to phantom art behind me. I made it into a game of make-believe, imagining where my associates worked the crowds, where my art movers were, what work they would bring up next. I called out instructions to them, played at being in charge, and actually had fun. Auctioneers shouted bids and Lucifer called out new artwork. Time fairly flew, and I felt great.

  Maybe I was cut out for this work after all!

  “Last work,” Lucifer called. “Number 82.”

  My joy screeched to a halt and my confidence melted into a puddle at my feet.

  Despite punching in the code twice, there was no information at all. I blinked at the generic list of specifications: serigraph, 11” x 17”, 2001, number 107/250. No artist name, no artwork name, not even a picture. I frowned at the computer, feeling somehow betrayed by it. Aware that silence kills an auction, I had to keep talking fast or Lucifer would crucify me.

  But what to say to keep the momentum?

  “This is a serigraph, ladies and gentlemen,” I stumbled, pointing to the imaginary artwork behind me. “This is one of the most interesting forms of original, handmade artwork there is. When people think of original, of course, they think of a painting. Who here knows how to paint a picture? Come on, when you were a kid you painted, didn’t you? Show me those hands!”

  A few heads rose in surprise at the question, as did a large number of hands.

  “Now, how many know how to silkscreen?”

  All the hand went down.

  “Exactly! Painting is easy. Monkeys can do it, after all, and even elephants can paint. I saw that on the Discovery Channel. But to create a serigraph limited edition requires the use of not just a handful, but dozens of handcrafted screens of silk to channel the colors. I’m talking one screen per color, folks! Can you possibly imagine the effort to create 250 works of the same, perfect quality by hand? Imagine the human error factor for lining up the paper each and every time just right. Damn near impossible, I say! That’s why lithography was done by masters like Picasso and Toulouse-Lautrec. Not because it was easy, but because it’s so hard!

  “And this, right here behind me, look at it! This is one of the few that survived the agonies of creation. And look at this beauty! It’s called, uh, Playmate Seducing the Auctioneer. Look at her, classically unashamed of her nudity, curves in sharply contrasting colors to show off her sexy figure, the hint of modern eroticism that makes it timeless! What a piece of work! Who wouldn’t want a piece of that in their bedroom?”

  “Hallelujah!” Bill shouted. He jumped to his feet, captured in the moment. The energy in the room perked up, and laughter gave me added impetus.

  “Yes!” I cried. “Stand up, I say, and raise those hands! Miss June is right here, waiting.”

  I pointed my gavel at Bill and shouted, “Waiting for you, sir!”

  “Damn right she is! And she’s hot!”

  “Hot for you!” I clarified with authority. “Now I want you to reach deep into your heart and your pocketbook, and take her hand. Save the faith for just $200! Aw, hell, I’ll take her for 200! She’s ready and waiting for you at just 225. Can I get an amen?”

  “Amen, brother!” John Goodman bellowed, getting into the moment.

  “Can I get a 250?”

  “Amen!” Bill shouted.

  “Praised be!” I cried, slamming down the gavel. “She is yours, man. Take her for just $250!”

  Panting with the exertion, I stood exultantly before the crowd of dumbstruck students. A long, stunned moment later, a roar of applause burst forth. Flattered, I tried to ignore it all and watched Lucifer warily. Shaking his head sorrowfully, he strode to the front. Silence once again swallowed the room, and I was more nervous than even before I started.

  “Amen doesn’t work,” he quipped. “You need to say ‘sold’.”

  He paused a moment to gather his thoughts, and I waited for the hammer blow.

  “Playmate Seducing the Auctioneer?” he said with a toothy frown. “Yet again you reveal how much of a wimp you are. A real man would have said Auctioneer Takes the Playmate. But, really, what I want to know is why you Americans cannot count.”

  I blinked in surprise. I had no idea where he was going with this.

  “Really, do they not teach math in your country? How many times did they count and recount and recount your last presidential election? You finally see who has more votes, and then the loser gets to be president anyway! I don’t get that at all. And you, Buzz, your numbers were all over the place. You would open at $450, go up in twenty dollar increments, then drop to five or ten. You just made up numbers as you went along. Further, you seem incapable of saying numbers quickly and clearly. You, with your goddamn art history background, could expound all day on the subtle differences between the Rococo era and Romanticism, but you can’t cleanly go from 0 to 100.”

  I shared a quick, nervous glance with Cocoa, whose black eyes were large and frightened. I could tell she thought my performance had gone well, as had many others. If Lucifer cut up my auction so thoroughly, what would he do to the others?

  “It wasn’t that bad, Buzz,” Gene said, softening Lucifer’s sharp words.

  “Well,” Lucifer grudgingly admitted. “It had potential, maybe. You did get people to raise their hands with your question, as I taught you. That was a good way to push serigraphs. Overall you suck horrendously, but you may yet achieve tadpole status. This is how I will help you, Buzz. Write this down:

  “Betty Botter bought some butter,

  But, she said, this butter’s bitter.

  If I put it in my batter

  It will make my batter bitter.

  But if I buy a bit of butter

  Better than my bitter butter

  That will make my batter better.

  So Betty bought a bit of butter,

  Better than her bitter butter,

  And she put it in her batter.

  So ‘twas better Betty Botter

  bought a bit of better butter.”

  “Now,” Lucifer explained. “Memorize that by the end of the day. If you cannot say it clearly in less than twenty seconds, you will not pass this training. You may thank me for my help before returning to your primordial ooze.”

  The room dropped into silence, and I trudged back to my seat beside Alanis. A shorn fingernail dropped from her numb lips.

  3

  I skipped lunch, of course, to spend the time learning Betty Botter. As the rhyme revolved in my head and tumbled from
my lips, I explored the Sundance Gallery of Fine Art. It was massive, modern, and off-limits. The entire downstairs labyrinth of gallerias was cordoned off for a private function, leaving me with only the mezzanine to wander. Fortunately it contained the largest display of original Picasso pottery I had ever seen.

  Eventually I headed towards the break room for a coffee. One small but incredibly well-framed artwork caught my eye. It was perhaps the size of a sheet of regular paper and composed of rather bland browns and tans. It had some sort of bizarre, living blob of flesh that was vaguely face-like rending the tissue from a similar blob. The mouth was hideous and bloody and riveting. Visions of Alanis flashed through my mind.

  “Men Devouring Themselves,” I read the label aloud. “By Salvador Dalí, illustrating Dante’s Inferno.”

  Like a guard dog, this greatly disturbing work protected the entrance to a long, empty hallway lined with a procession of exquisite paintings and etchings. The forbidden hall. The hall leading to Frederick’s office. I felt like Charlie staring at the intimidating yet intoxicating entrance to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. What hidden treasures lay down there? Would I ever meet the titanic and wholly original man who had created such wonders?

  In the break room I sat tiredly at a table, alone among the vending machines. Sundance provided excellent coffee, though they surprisingly charged fifty cents per cup. I was mumbling Better Botter when Gene entered.

  “Buzz! What, no lunch?”

  “I wanted to see the gallery before training was over. Alas, it was not to be. Well, I saw the Picassos.”

  “Nice, are they not?” Gene beamed. “Tell me, Buzz, who’s your favorite artist? And don’t blindly say Picasso like everyone else.”

  “Well,” I answered slowly. “Probably David Casper Friedrich, the 18th century German painter. He does these incredibly moody landscapes just oozing atmosphere and reflection and a hint of creepiness.”

  “Oh, I know his work. He’s wonderful, but rather dark.”

  “Much like my personality,” I agreed wryly. “His work inspired the cover of my ghost-hunting book.”

  “The master of drip speaks,” Gene laughed. “You never miss a chance to drip your book, do you?”

  “If I am the master dripper, then Lucifer’s a master plumber.”

  Gene sat at the table beside me and said, “Don’t worry about him. He’s just doing his drill sergeant thing. This morning you did well on the final challenge. Without any clue what to do, you just blasted forward without a care. This is why we did the embarrassment test, you know. Even better, you got the crowd involved with your question and asking for hands in the air.

  “I do have some advice for you, though. I have noticed that when you are speaking, you tend to preach. You are an eloquent and animated speaker, but you have this booming, hellfire presentation. You think your art knowledge is an advantage, but it’s actually not.”

  “But you’ve been cramming art knowledge down our throats all week!”

  “Of course. You think someone is going to give $20,000 to a kid at a shopping mall kiosk who can’t even pronounce Monet? Your expertise is important. My point is that under stress you may fall back on your art history knowledge and not your auctioneer training. That’s plainly what you did in the test auction this morning before you got Bill all horny. You sell yourself very well, but you need to learn to sell art, too.”

  “Thanks for the advice, Gene,” I said. “You are not the first to mention my, uh, preaching. I’ll work on it while I am an associate on… what ship did you say again?”

  “Why, Buzz, you assume much!”

  “Yes.”

  “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you. You’re going to work for last year’s Rookie of the Year. Shawn was the third highest sales earner in the fleet. Assuming you learn Betty Botter, of course.”

  4

  And so I passed the brutal auctioneer screening. I was extremely anxious to get to my first ship as an auctioneer trainee: the Majesty of the Seas. I was so anxious to put the mess of Pittsburgh behind me that I was almost derailed in Miami... permanently.

  I fidgeted in line at the airport amid dripping and steaming bodies. Needless to say, most people did not enjoy Sundance’s chauffeur service and had to walk from the parking lot through driving, chilly rain. Despite my luxurious ride, I was not unaffected by the rain because the slowed traffic had me running dangerously late. I bobbed up and down, compulsively checking and rechecking the little glowing dots above the desk that spelled my destination: MIAMI. After an eon my tickets were finally in hand and my luggage checked. I fought for reassuring glimpses of my plane through the windows as I rushed to security.

  I was an experienced flyer and knew how to prepare for security. Any delay would seriously jeopardize my chances of catching the ship in Miami, so I neatly prepared my shoes and belt in the plastic tubs alongside all my metal objects.

  Sailors were kindred to the flight industry and allowed certain privileges. Unfortunately for me, I did not yet have a seaman’s book to prove I was a brother. Crew members carried huge arsenals of unusual items that slowed security because they had to bring their entire lives with them wherever they went. My backpack was a loaded thirty pounds of laptop, iPod, cell phone, and art books. But when hopping from continent to continent one must also tote heavy power converters, surge protectors, and sometimes even different cell phones for different countries.

  Not surprisingly, I was selected for extra screening. Security pulled me away from the line of bodies streaming towards the plane. I gave one last, longing glimpse at the window and anxiety pulsed hot through me. I did not have time for this and had complied as much as humanly possible!

  I was led to a plastic chair centered in a large, open area as security slogged through the tangle of complexities in my backpack. A surprisingly aged, white haired woman fingered roughly through my belongings. She was well over 60 years old and I pondered such a curious choice for security. The burly, bald Hispanic guard towering nearby seemed far more likely to keep me in line. Then again, the look of severe disapproval chiseled into her face made me feel like a naughty little boy caught cheating by a nun in a religious school. I think I was actually more frightened of her.

  With a careless motion, the woman jerked my cell phone from the bag. It clattered on the table loudly, and I cringed as the battery case popped open from her rough handling. She then curiously prodded a small, alien black box and its power cord. It was very heavy and her small, tired hands had difficulty turning it over.

  “That’s a power converter for my trips to Romania,” I offered helpfully.

  “Looks like something else to me,” she snapped, raising an accusing eyebrow.

  I blinked stupidly, not understanding her inference. “Like what?”

  “He fits the profile,” she informed the guard. “And he’s loaded with foreign hardware. Full search.”

  Worst-case scenarios of invasive personal searches flashed through my confused mind.

  “All right,” the Hispanic man said with a quick rub of his shaved head, “Stick out your feet.”

  I complied and managed to mask my escalating emotions by asking gently, “To what profile does she refer, may I ask?”

  He waved a metal-detecting wand around each of my extended feet and answered with a grunt.

  “Terrorist.”

  “Oh, come on!” I exploded. “What, do I look like an Al Qaida extremist to you? I’m from Iowa!”

  He smirked in great amusement. “You scare the white folks, bro.”

  I snorted at the irony of those words coming from a burly Hispanic man with a tattooed neck. My mother would have fainted at the mere sight of him.

  He explained further, “You travel very internationally, almost erratically, from continent to continent. You always fly with one-way tickets purchased without any advance notice, usually bought by someone else. And you have uncommon electronics with you.”

  I was surprised they had such a full profile on my
traveling habits at their disposal, particularly how much lead time there was in buying my tickets and whether the cruise line or Sundance bought them. I resolved to use the Freedom of Information Act and see what else they knew.

  A word of warning rose from the white haired witch, a single damning word to bring fire and brimstone from the heavens to crash down upon me with great fury and judgement.

  “ARABIC!” she hissed, so sharply that she may as well have shrieked it.

  Time slowed as everything around me froze. Hands twitched in slow-motion toward side arms and guards moved in silently. The air crackled with fear as dozens of passengers scanned me. The only sound I heard was a muffled, “Oh!” as a mother who shielded her toddler.

  I sat there, socked feet extended into the air, reviled and feared and helpless and above all, confused. Only then did I see what the woman had found: my passport.

  “Holy Cat!” I exclaimed by habit, almost immediately regretting it.

  “He’s not even Christian!” someone cried with dismay. Frowns deepened and leather holsters creaked.

  “Didn’t they used to worship cats in Egypt?” an anonymous voice asked in confusion.

  “Idolator!” the old woman spat. “Tell me of your travels to the heathen lands.”

  “Did you just call me an idolator? You go to hell, lady! This is America, and I’m free to practice whatever religion I want!”

  “I think not!” she retorted sharply.

  “I traveled to the Great Pyramid in Egypt,” I snapped angrily. “You know, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World? What, you’ve never heard of King Tut? You should be ashamed, not me.”