Ship for Brains (Cruise Confidential 2) Read online

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed. “If that man wanted to buy your art, he would come to your auctions. He doesn’t want you pestering him here.”

  “We were having a conversation about Pablo Picasso,” I defended.

  “This lounge is for high level officers,” Reddick continued. “Two stripes only. Not supernumeraries, other than the ship’s doctor. The only thing more inappropriate than your presence is your drinking alcohol while conversing with a passenger. I suggest you focus your time to conducting art auctions.”

  “We work seven days a week!”

  “Not today,” Reddick replied smoothly. “You left the ship in the afternoon. You forget that all auctions are ultimately given permission by the hotel manager and myself. I did not sign off on any auction this day.”

  I blinked at him in surprise. He was checking on us? Cold blue bored into me.

  “Well,” I said, stumbling for a defense. “The auction schedule is not my decision. As long as we make the ship’s sales goals, how we go about it is our own affair. We’ve done that successfully. And I assure you, sir, that a casual drink with an interested passenger can be far more effective than an auction.”

  “Irrelevant,” Reddick snipped. “This lounge is not for those of your stature. You will leave immediately.”

  “I see,” I said, backing down. “Well, let me finish my conversation with John and—”

  “I will finish your conversation for you,” Reddick interrupted. “You will leave immediately and not return to this lounge. Ever.”

  4

  That night, in an effort to ease my annoyance with the ship’s officers, I watched a movie. The crew channel featured Lost in Translation, and I was profoundly affected by it. The rendering was all too accurate in loneliness, alienation, and culture shock. The gut-wrenching need for human connection echoed my life on ships painfully.

  Bill Murray portrayed a man whose work brought him to Japan, and whose wife hardly noticed his leaving. There he met the significantly younger Scarlett Johansson, who was staying at the same hotel with her own equally disinterested spouse. These two travelers were each in a unique situation, and their loved ones’ lack of empathy amplified their loneliness even more than the foreign culture they were stuck in. They became deeply connected and rekindled a joy of life through play that was not unlike an affair, though sex was never involved. Fate had created a moment in time for them as profound as any other in their lives, but the spontaneous forces that created that moment inevitably killed it when they had to separate. They would never be able to explain what was lost to anyone else, for few could ever understand.

  When they parted at the end of the movie, they left as lonely and misunderstood as ever. Both knew they would never see each other again, yet were somehow leaving more whole than they were before. Yet their powerful, bittersweet, final moment was quickly eroded by Bill Murray’s tedious drive to the airport, where passing neon and buildings and foreign crowds screamed to break his reverie. But he probably didn’t let it. Much like a Hollywood movie, fate had created pockets of paradise for Bianca and I, and we loved with the intensity of a lifetime in each. We never knew when, or really even if, we would see each other again.

  I wanted so much what Charles and Tatli had: each other. Sure they had issues, but together they could work them out. When Bianca and I shared a cabin on Carnival Conquest, we went to bed angry because our conflicting shifts denied any time to hash things out. And speaking of beds, at least they could share one! That little bit of normalcy was a dream on ships. Instead of snuggling with my Bianca after a hard day, I slept with my Samsonite.

  And here I was, early June on Misery of the Seas. Bianca’s contract ended in September. That was so far off, and then how to coordinate across the continents? Oh, how quickly I would abandon the beaches of the Bahamas for the castles of Transylvania! As Frederick Douglass said, ‘Alas! Between me and you the turbid waters roll.’

  I fell asleep, deeply disturbed by those long, painful minutes of Bill Murray’s taxi ride. How long could the power of a goodbye kiss carry you above the onslaught of reality? How many months of exotic newness could I navigate and still hold on to my last kiss with Bianca?

  Chapter 6. Birthday Humping

  1

  Several times I returned from a late, sly drink to see my neighbor’s door open and the entire cast of the stage show—men and women—inside, all scantily clad and happily watching hardcore porn. The art lover in me was titillated by the pile of aroused, entwined, and lithe dancers. Yet sex was rarely a result of these events. Why? Because all the men involved were gay. Other times the staff corridor late at night did echo with a chorus line of sexual activity, but here I usually declined any voyeuristic urges. Why? Because all the men involved were gay.

  The pornography espoused in Majesty’s staff hall was probably more than most folks could bear, or so I guessed, because after a year on ships I could no longer tell. There’s only so many times a sexual orgy happens in the bunk above without you learning to tune it out. Thus, strange as it may seem, tolerance for pornography does come from being a waiter at sea.

  Actually, it’s not because there is so much sex on ships, although I maintain that college dorms ain’t got nuthin’ on crew cabins. It’s not even about pornography at all. Tolerance grows from the self confidence that comes from accepting what you can’t control. Or, more accurately, not being scared by it.

  On ships, it begins with the complete lack of personal choice and space, such as the inability to eat when or what you choose, or complete lack of temperature control. As a waiter on Carnival I could not shower when I wanted, or even go to the toilet. I was denied proper sleep for months and the four hours nightly I got were compressed between my luggage and the cramped bunk. Until then, I had not realized the huge emphasis that we Americans placed on comfort. Thus the strengthening of my tolerance muscle began with lack of physical comfort, which was really a fear of not being in control. Now that I was outside of the States, I had to relinquish control of my environment.

  For working on cruise ships is indeed living in a foreign country. As a waiter first going to sea I, like everyone else, became a resident of the Carnival nation. My safety was in the hands of Italians, my orders from Indians, my meals from Jamaicans, my clothing from Indonesians. Simply put, strange people with strange ways were in control of me every minute of every day, including my bodily needs. And it was OK. This led to patience when situations did not conform to my ideas, which led to acceptance of other ways of achieving the same ends. This is a difficult perspective to cultivate in a nation as huge and successful as America.

  Growing tall in the fertile educational system of the Iowa of my youth, I was imbued with the just idea that all races, colors, and creeds are equal. Of course, when everyone all around was exactly the same as you—white and Christian—it was easy to so preach. For example: the black population of Iowa in those days hovered around two percent. The tiny section of Cedar Rapids that was not white was unconsciously avoided. Perhaps this was because the vast majority of crimes were committed there, but more likely it was to avoid something different and potentially uncomfortable. I did not even realize that what I was taught and what I was practicing were two different things. It resulted in a young man fiercely posturing acceptance and yet strangely uncomfortable in the rare occasions when surrounded by black men.

  But now, as a resident of the sea, I’ve walked my former talk. Ships break barriers far faster than on land, beginning with enforced physical proximity but quickly broadening with dependence upon, and growing respect of, people of all stripes. And my childish nerves about being surrounded by blacks? I was nightly getting mopped up at dominoes by Jamaicans and loving it. Being adopted by Jamaican blood flashers is an excellent way to expand your horizons.

  Thus I found that my comfort zone was actually inside, not outside. I learned self confidence in a way that roamers have, an adaptability that many armchair critics lack and lash out against in r
ighteous naiveté. I could now observe things I did not care for without being bothered by it, things like gay porn, ignorance, or perhaps even Rush Limbaugh.

  2

  During home port Charles and I would leave Majesty to drop off the paperwork for the cruise while Tatli got her beauty sleep. We enjoyed our stroll to the nearby Fedex drop-box because getting off Majesty was not so easy with this itinerary. Upon returning, however, we were brought up short by a yelp from the computer as we scanned in our IDs. The short, brawny Filipino security officer finished patting us down, and explained.

  “Says here the hotel manager wants to see the auctioneer.”

  “Now what?” Charles whined, thin shoulders drooping. “I already saw him this morning. It’s only ten o’clock in the morning! Can’t I have just one untrammeled day?”

  “Untrammeled,” I congratulated. “Good word.”

  “No, not you,” the Asian said to Charles. “The other one.”

  He meant me. “Now what would he want to see me for?”

  “Just go,” Charles ordered disconsolately as we strode down the I-95. “Try to find out his name, will you? On second thought, I don’t care. He’ll always be Hitler to me. Why, you ask? Because he’s a dick. Hitler was a dick, too. See the connection?”

  “Wow. Did you just say that Hitler was a dick?” I repeated, awed. “That is, without any doubt whatsoever, the greatest understatement in the history of the English language.”

  Soon I was at the hotel manager’s door and nervous. Needless to say, I did not expect this was a call to congratulate me on anything.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Ah, the auctioneer,” Hot Man said blandly as he fished through the copious paperwork on his desktop. Again his name placard was hidden beneath papers. He rifled through the profuse piles for a while, ignoring me. Eventually he found what he was looking for and read it silently for another long moment. I waited patiently and silent, curiosity eating me up.

  “You missed boat drill,” he finally said, setting down the paper.

  “I did not,” I defended. “I was at the drill.”

  “Not according to the safety officer.”

  “I was there. My muster leader signed off on it.”

  “If you are referring to crew boat drill, yes, I have verified that you at least showed up for that.”

  His tone was extremely accusatory, as if he expected nothing better from a troublemaker like me. He added crisply, “That is no excuse for abandoning your other duties.”

  I frowned. “What other duties? I’ve been on-board a month and had no other duties to date.”

  “Yes,” he bit back. “I see that you have never attended passenger drill.”

  “Why would I do that? I’m not a passenger.”

  “You are in a passenger cabin.”

  “Charles is in a passenger cabin. I’m in the staff hallway.”

  He gave a dismissive wave. “I do not care about the Englishman. Department heads are exempt from passenger drill.”

  I tread very carefully when I said, “I am a department head. There is no contractual difference between an auctioneer and an associate.”

  “There is if you live in a staff cabin. Anyone residing in a staff cabin is staff.”

  “I see. OK,” I agreed. “If that’s the case, then why didn’t anyone say anything? I’ve been here a long time and was never given a single memo. What exactly do you want me to do?”

  He answered breezily, “You will go to the muster station assigned to the auctioneer’s cabin and follow those procedures.”

  I had to ponder that a moment. “You mean, attend as a… as a passenger?”

  “Yes. You will wear your life vest, of course. You are not above the rules.”

  “Let me understand this,” I said, confused. “Instead of doing my job setting up an auction, I have to pay someone else to do it for me, because I have to stand in someone else’s muster station because someone else is living in a passenger cabin. Twice a week. As well as attend my muster station during crew drill.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, uh, if the alarm goes off, I am to now go to the passenger muster station? The whole point of passenger drill is to train you to mechanically go to your muster station. And that’s not my muster station.”

  Hot Man’s face wrinkled in annoyance. “Obviously not. That spot is designated for whoever resides in the passenger cabin.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but this doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “You don’t need to understand,” he snapped. “You need to obey. Regulations are clear: staff must be active during passenger boat drill. Since your position as supernumerary has no actual duties, you will attend as a passenger.”

  “And Charles, who lives in the passenger cabin, does not have to attend passenger boat drill. I do it for him.”

  “And his wife,” he agreed. “And furthermore, I find your begging for reprieve distasteful and ungrounded. You may leave now.”

  I left his office in a daze, but the hits just kept on coming. The next blow came from a visitor to Majesty, our fleet manager.

  Mary Elizabeth was a very tall woman with long brown hair that hung past her shoulders in copious, tight curls. Her figure was broad of shoulder, yet flat-chested and flat-bottomed. Wearing a pair of somehow-designer brown coveralls with designer tears and patches, she looked like a walking sheet of plywood. Her face was gentle and more than a little tired, but her smile was broad and genuine.

  Her visiting us in home port at Miami was a surprise, but not unwelcome. Charles was thrilled for any opportunity to voice his grievances in onerous detail. Sure enough, over coffee in the Windjammer Café, Mary Elizabeth opened, “We need to talk about your emailed complaints about this ship.”

  “Hell, yes!” Charles wiggled excitedly in his seat, preparing to cut loose.

  “Wait,” she said, forestalling him with a raised hand. “I’m talking specifically about the officers removing you from the Champagne Bar.”

  Charles drooped, sensing things were not to go in a direction of his liking. He asked quietly, “Yes?”

  “This issue is much bigger than you likely know. This isn’t about you and the Champagne Bar. This is about the status of all auctioneers, on all ships, everywhere. Sundance has taken this up with the top tier of RCI.”

  Charles raised an inquiring brow. “Are you serious?”

  “Very,” Mary Elizabeth answered. “I suggest you watch your back while this is being tossed back and forth. I have no doubt that the hotel manager will be keeping close tabs on it.”

  “Now I get it!” I said. “That’s why I just got ripped up by Hot Man!”

  Both turned to me, surprised.

  “You?” Mary Elizabeth asked. “This should be about the auctioneer, not the associate. What happened?”

  I quickly explained the unlikely extra boat drill procedures I had been ordered into mere minutes before. Charles’ face darkened, but Mary Elizabeth merely pursed her lips.

  “I feared some backlash like this. Tread carefully, both of you, while this is worked out on higher levels. You will feel better knowing that Frederick himself is going to bat for you.”

  Charles nodded deeply, suitably impressed.

  “Now,” Mary Elizabeth said with a smile. “My presence here is not to be a cheerleader. We do have another issue that is more pressing.”

  “Dare I ask?” Charles deadpanned.

  “I brought more than news. On the dock you’ll find a shipment of empty D containers. There is to be an art swap…”

  She trailed off and eyed Charles warily, biting her lip. Hesitantly she finished, “…this cruise.”

  “What?” Charles exploded. “This cruise? That’s impossible. Those take weeks to arrange!”

  “I’ve organized everything already,” Mary Elizabeth said, “Except talked to the boson about extra storage in his area for 24 hours. The new art will be waiting for you in Nassau tomorrow. You’re there all day, so you should have
enough time.”

  Charles eyed her incredulously. “Tomorrow? Are you insane? You are aware that this is only a three day cruise?”

  “Yes.”

  “And we are in port the whole time?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that an art swap will take at least two full days—two full days where I have no art I can sell?”

  Mary Elizabeth leaned back and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “Yes, Charles.”

  “I will not make goal.”

  “I am aware of this. I came in person, didn’t I? I wanted to reassure you that Sundance knows your situation.”

  “But Sundance won’t remove my goals for this cruise, will it?”

  Her lips quivered into a near smirk. “Of course not. But rest assured; your failing goal will be accompanied by a note of explanation from me.”

  Charles snorted rudely. “Frederick won’t care, and you know it. He’ll see a big fat zero in his calculations and I’ll be fired.”

  Mary Elizabeth said nothing. That was a dangerous hint corroborating Charles’ fear.

  “Good!” he suddenly cried, rising and striding away. “I hate this goddamn ship anyway.”

  Charles’ stomping off in a huff was probably a good thing, lest he say something truly regrettable. No doubt Mary Elizabeth had expected some anger because she just sighed.

  “You’ll understand soon enough,” she explained to me. “Art swaps are a lot of work, but are definitely a good thing for a ship and its sales. Once a year on every ship we swap out all the old artwork and replace it with the latest and greatest. So tonight you’ll have to box up all the art on-board.”

  “Wait a minute,” I cried, suddenly realizing what this meant. “All the art is being swapped out? You mean tonight we have to box all one thousand works?”

  She nodded grimly and explained, “Tomorrow it will be offloaded in Nassau, and a whole new set will be waiting to replace it. I hope you are on better terms with the boson than you are with the chief officer, because you’ll be entirely dependent upon him. He’ll be the one craning out boxes of old art and craning in the new. Then you’ll have to unpack and inventory it.”