Ship for Brains (Cruise Confidential 2) Page 3

  Still, I was surprised Shawn chose to auction the very first night, because there was no time for advertising and guests were usually tired, hungry, and confused. They couldn’t find their cabins, let alone a specific lounge for an auction. Then again, some people can smell free booze with more accuracy than a bomb-sniffing dog.

  But this was the Widow Maker, and Shawn had to move fast lest he fail like every preceding auctioneer. Majesty of the Seas was in port a whopping seven days a week. Sundance demanded we make tens of thousands of dollars in sales to guests tanning on Bahamian beaches or shopping in Key West. With such little guest time, no wonder Shawn developed such rapid-fire speech!

  His genius lay in identifying the one and only time guests were sure to be aboard: dinner. While hungry guests impatiently waited for their tables, Shawn gave them a semi-welcome distraction. Outside the restaurant’s two decks was an area called the Centrum, and this was completely overtaken by the art auction.

  The Centrum was an astounding open atrium of seven stories ringed by balconies, shops, and lounges. Hovering in the air was a piano platform accessed by exposed staircases spiraling up to multiple levels. This impressive, corkscrewing open-air labyrinth funneled all attention to the platform, which floated before the two-level entrance of the dining room. But no longer did classical music caress the ether, for it was buried beneath a load of art.

  It was chaos.

  On two levels, first-seating guests poured out of the dining room even as the second-seating guests pushed in. Even higher decks flowed with people pulsing through densely arranged artwork, only to cascade like a waterfall down the staircases to pool at the platform or lower levels. Above their heads huge canvases spread like a canopy, held aloft by the trunks of countless easels, while at their feet scores of small canvases snaked away like gnarled roots.

  The jungle metaphor was particularly apt because life teemed on decks, above, level with, and below. Passersby leaned over rails to view the action, gibbering excitedly like monkeys in treetops. I saw on a documentary once that monkeys sometimes urinated on people below them, but I felt safe because this wasn’t a crew party.

  And there, on the platform groaning beneath the weight of countless canvases, was the rock around which all the disarray flowed. Shawn was master of the bedlam he created, and upon his cool demeanor confusion smashed into spray. All eyes were drawn to this singularity of control, who commanded guests on no less than four levels simultaneously. He invited to participate, instructed on procedure, dripped data about art, and reassured that more free champagne was coming.

  The champagne was my only responsibility. While Shawn’s ‘gay boys’ Denny and Jesse assisted the auction, I coordinated with the bartender. This was Amor, the disgruntled homophobe I met immediately upon boarding. This small but forceful man from Greece had a head shaved clean to the scalp, and finely arched eyebrows looking out of place over such a hawk-like nose. Yet with a delicately dimpled chin his face, he turned out quite handsome. I could not tell if his bronzed skin was natural or from a tropical tan.

  Amor iced the champagne in a makeshift station and unloaded racks of champagne flutes. Absently polishing the glasses, he stood next to me and watched the maelstrom swirl through the Centrum.

  “Look at those two?” he said, gesturing to the two dancers. His tone was somewhere between an order and a question. He did not smile, but his brow arched ever higher to apparently indicate pleasure. “I like them. They are very nice and always smile.”

  I marveled that Amor had not observed their obviously being gay, but opted not to mention it. We all live in denial, after all. Instead I quipped, “That’s because they aren’t European. Europeans rarely look happy.”

  Amor barked a laugh, but did not smile. “Maybe with American dentist, we smile more. You think of that? I am ready with champagne.”

  “OK,” I said. “How does this work?”

  “I serve to crowd from tray. End of auction you sign for bottles used.”

  “Shawn told me the standing order was for fifteen bottles, with a case in reserve. You will only pour what is needed, right?”

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  I left him to his work, and wandered the scene in order to learn. The auction block was a single easel on the platform, brilliantly lit by a portable light box. Shawn’s arms flapped riotously between his many duties; pointing to the art, punching numbers into his laptop, and speaking into a microphone to acknowledge bids. His finger jabbed at bidders below on deck three, stabbed at those on the stairs, and then thrust up to those on decks four and even five.

  My head swam from all that was happening and I wondered how I would learn to control it all. Back when I first saw the craziness of ship restaurants, I had been confident I could handle anything. Sure, things were different at sea, but I had mastered every level of dining rooms over the previous decade. Yet in the end I had been completely devoured by cruise ship restaurants and failed every single goal I set. If I could be humbled so brutally by something I had already mastered, what had art auctions in store for me? I resolved to stick with Shawn until I knew every detail perfectly.

  Eventually the action moved from auction to billing, and I sought out Amor. He was cleaning up the portable bar he had created from a cart and a table cloth. The large ice bin bristled with a dozen open bottles of champagne. Twisted foil and bent cages lay scattered everywhere and the smell of champagne was cloying and sweet. A waist-high stack of glass racks dripped with the golden fluid.

  “Is that what we went through?” I asked. “A dozen bottles? Why put the empty bottles back in the ice?”

  “No,” he explained, gesturing to two cases on the floor. “Empty bottles in boxes there.”

  I frowned. “So these iced and opened bottles are the reserve case? Why did you open all twelve?”

  “In case you need,” he explained, handing me an invoice for twenty-seven bottles, from which he received a handy commission. “Orders were to pour only as you need. You never said not open until you need. I am nice and I prepare for you.”

  Amor’s lips split into a huge smile.

  “Now that they open and auction over,” he added tartly, “Why you not let me have bottle or two?”

  3

  The next morning, Shawn appeared disoriented and fumbled with the keys to access the purser’s area. He even dropped them, twice, while behind him I strained to pass a heavy frame from hand to hand. The wires were digging deeply into my flesh, and my hand still throbbed from the mishap in the pool. Now I could add bleeding to my list of minor annoyances.

  “This is where all the important stuff happens,” Shawn explained tiredly. “The bridge is just for navigation. Hot Man is here. This is the heart of the hotel and all business decisions are made here.”

  A dozen cubicles shouldered against each other for space just like in any other office, though they all enjoyed an entire wall of windows. It was incredibly rare for crew to enjoy natural sunlight.

  “Just so you know,” he said, gesturing to a bank of community printers. “You can use these copiers if you need, but you’re supposed to bring your own paper. Since I slept with a purser, you probably won’t need to worry about it. Unless she wants you to follow protocol, if you know what I mean.”

  “Meaning bring my own paper?”

  “Meaning sleep with the purser.”

  “Ah,” I said in understanding. “Ship life.”

  “Bob’s your uncle,” he agreed with a grin. “The far cubicle has a computer we can use for email, but we share it with the photogs, uh, photographers. Remember: all emails are screened and archived by RCI, so never criticize them and never talk about money. Believe me, they do check. Auctioneers have been booted off RCI ships because of personal comments before.”

  He rapped a hand on the desk of the only empty cubicle. “This is where your savior works, the ship’s accountant. I assure you, this is the nicest accountant you will ever, ever meet, so treat him well. He works graveyard, so twice a we
ek you’ll have to meet him at 1:30 to finalize paperwork.”

  “1:30?” I asked. “In the morning?”

  Shawn merely grinned and led me into a painfully clutter-free office with a huge window overlooking the port. Shawn motioned for me to take down a large Caribbean-themed painting from the wall.

  “Hot Man just signed off,” Shawn explained. “The hotel manager. He’s the most important man on the ship besides the captain, and is arguably more important. The previous Hot Man, Rodrey, was Jamaican and very, very cool. He’s the reason I am allowed to conduct my auctions in the Centrum, because he saw how much money I make when given some freedom. I am the first auctioneer on Majesty to actually reach our sales goals, and that’s entirely because of the Centrum. We lose that, and the Widow Maker takes another life. The problem is that the new guy is Dutch, and not even remotely interested in revenue. That’s funny, because hotel managers are judged by the revenue their departments produce, just like the rest of us. We’ll have to work on the new guy and see what turns him on, because he’s already made noise about denying us the Centrum.”

  Together we hung the heavy, gold-framed art that was straining my arm. The actual art itself was only a tiny etching in heavy black ink set into a vast field of cream matting. But even without knowing what the art was, the ornate gold-leafed frame made it clear it was important.

  “There!” he exclaimed. “If he doesn’t like a centuries-old, original Rembrandt etching, then we’re in trouble.”

  I whistled, not realizing the age of the work I had been mentally swearing at. Suddenly it seemed even heavier. “A contemporary Rembrandt, then?”

  “No,” he said. “It was made just after Rembrandt died. This is from his own copper plate, by those entrusted to them. Not from the plates taken by the banks during his bankruptcies, who then cranked out thousands of cheap copies. Of course, even the cheap copies are worth something now that they are nearly three hundred years old. Anyway, since the new Hot Man isn’t here I’ll swing by later and pretend I forgot to take the inventory number or something. That way I can educate him discreetly about how special we think he is. Politics, eh? Learn them well because it’s a huge part of life as an auctioneer.”

  As we left, Shawn pulled a huge plastic bottle from his pocket and downed a handful of Tums.

  “Too much to drink last night?” I asked.

  He looked back, startled. “Hmm? Oh, no, I can handle huge amounts of booze nowadays. I’m an auctioneer, eh. I just didn’t sleep much. No ties to wear last night, you know. You have to take advantage of casual while you can. You have a girlfriend back home?”

  “Not back home, but I have a girlfriend, yes.”

  “She hot?”

  “She’s so cool that she’s hot, you know? Euro-trashy dress, wild hair, black eyes, red lips and a cigarette. What more could I ask for?”

  “Ah, met her on ships, eh? Sweet! She’ll understand you doing what you have to do.”

  “Which is…?”

  “You gotta bang those chicks, man. You know how on ships everyone screws everyone. Plus we have a dozen dancers who’ll screw anything that moves: men, women, and anything in between. That’s pretty cool. And Steiners? Bob’s your uncle! You scored yet?”

  “I got here yesterday, Shawn.”

  “So? Try the spa girls, they’re always ready. Your girlfriend will understand if she’s on ships.”

  “No doubt,” I said drily, but knew Shawn was probably right. Bianca had insisted on a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy when I promised to be faithful before joining Carnival. I had thought that dubious, but soon discovered it was wise. It was far easier to find an attractive, ready partner on a ship than a good meal. Bianca just wanted to ensure I came back to her.

  Shawn babbled onward as if reliving a memory.

  “Oh yeah, baby. Steiners are always fun. Working on a ship and not sleeping with a Steiner is like being in the rain and not getting wet.”

  “Is that some sort of clever ‘raincoat’ reference?”

  “Ha! Well, I definitely recommend a raincoat with a Steiner. Double bag it if you can. Wait a minute. Are you saying that you really didn’t hook up last night?”

  “I heard German porn through the walls. Does that count?”

  “Tonight’s formal night, so if you want some action you’ll have to wear a tie. I don’t do ties, so no go for me, and I really need to sleep tonight. Well, we’ll see. I got Steiners calling, two left on my list. Oh, and vacation is calling me! I am so goddamn burnt out. Been at sea for eleven months straight.”

  “Eleven months! They said auctioneers had only six month contracts because it was too stressful for more than that.”

  “Damn right it is, but I made so much money on Oosterdam that they tested me on the Widow Maker. They figured it’d break me like everyone else, but it didn’t so they won’t let me leave. That’s Sundance. If you succeed somewhere, you better run with it as far and fast as you can or Bob ain’t your uncle.”

  “Several times now you’ve said the ‘Widow Maker’.”

  “Yeah. This ship broke a dozen auctioneers until I came along. It was tough man, tough to make it work. I mean, come on: they want us to bring in $30,000 in three days without a sea day! That’s bullshit. I would never have made it without my gay boys. I pay them $200 a week. I could get about six Filipinos for that, but they’re that good at arranging the art. You know, they are all flowery and gay and stuff.”

  “Of course,” I replied with an amused smile. “Gay men are required to have good taste. It’s in the rules.”

  “I don’t mean to sound too cocky,” Shawn admitted, “But, really, me and my gay boys are the first ones ever to survive on this ship. I’ll teach you everything I can, but I’m really burned out and leaving in only four weeks.”

  “I’ll follow you everywhere,” I said.

  “Not everywhere,” he replied, giving me a lopsided grin. “I’m meeting two Steiners tonight.”

  Chapter 3: High Seas Ulcer

  1

  Later that day I returned to my cabin to find a man wearing officers’ whites bent over my desk examining the contents of the top drawer.

  “Can I help you?” I asked irritably. While there was no pretext of privacy on a cruise ship, having my own cabin had given me delusions of it. Who knew the number of keys floating out there, from my room steward to Shawn’s Steiners.

  The man shoved the drawer shut and snapped to his full height. At first I thought Chief Officer Roosevelt was pawing through my belongings, but this man was much taller. In fact, he was about three inches taller than me, about six foot four. His extremely slender physique added to the characteristic, somewhat like a reed rising from a ditch, were not his stance so unyielding.

  “Cabin inspection,” he said curtly with a Dutch accent. “I have reports that you routinely order room service. This is highly improper and will not continue.”

  “Oh, not me,” I defended. “I just signed on a few days ago. The previous auctioneer may have, I don’t know.”

  “Indeed,” he said severely. “You will obey the rules, even if your predecessor did not. We have a cockroach problem in the stern deck, and I will not have it spread into this section of the ship.”

  “Of course,” I agreed softly, wondering at the man’s intense behavior. Only then did I conclude who he was. Cabin inspections were conducted by each department head and, since Shawn and I were the department heads, there was only one man above us.

  “You are the hotel manager,” I exclaimed in understanding. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

  “Yes,” he answered brusquely, ignoring my extended hand. He did not even offer his name, but merely waved me aside in order to check the toilet. He muttered to himself as if I were not present. “The boson is not happy. Not happy at all.”

  “Hey!” I cried. “I can assure you, sir, that I touched nothing in the boson’s area.”

  Ignoring me, Hot Man dropped the toilet lid with a slam. He tried to hide hi
s disdain behind a professional countenance, but the grimace worked through.

  “No fish bones,” I said cheerily.

  “I am seeking a shoe.”

  I blinked. “Um… shoes?”

  “A shoe!” Hot Man corrected sharply. He stormed out of my cabin, calling the explanation over his shoulder. “The entire sewage system is backed up ship-wide because a crewman flushed a shoe down the toilet this morning.”

  Suddenly alone, I sat on my bunk and shook my head in wonder.

  2

  Majesty’s crew bar was the first such I had encountered that was not a dark little hole oppressively noisy and smoky, hidden deep within the bowels of the ship. The mysterious ‘shoe in the toilet’ happened in this area, however, so the subsequent stench of feces sticking to everything made ironic any metaphors about bowels. Luckily the dinner hour was over, as the crew mess was back here.

  The crew bar was outside, a gorgeous area swathed in teak comprising the entire stern deck of Majesty. Lining the rail was a series of tables enjoying an unparalleled view of the tumultuous, dark sea. The faint afterglow of day tinged the horizon, glistening blood red off the roiling surface of the ocean. The bar itself, a mere window really, was nestled all the way beneath the overhanging deck.

  The only lit tables were the few large rounds beneath the overhanging deck, and there I found Shawn, staring at a squat bottle of beer. In the center of the brilliantly lit table bristled nearly a dozen bottles perspiring in the humid evening.

  “Dude,” Shawn greeted me weakly, holding up a beer. “Red Stripe.”

  I happily joined him, being rather partial to the Jamaican beer, no doubt because it was so strong. Certainly that was how Shawn rated his alcoholic beverages.

  “A dozen bottles?” I asked. “Expecting a herd of Steiners or something?”

  “Don’t talk to me about any goddamn Steiners.”