Ship for Brains (Cruise Confidential 2)

by Brian David Bruns

  The elevators were a nightmare. The dancers had overcome this problem by working in concert: Denny literally put his back to the wall and pushed with both legs, while Jesse simultaneously hauled up the front wheels over the threshold. But I worked alone and had to muscle the whole thing myself. My back did not thank me. Neither did Charles, I noticed.

  As loads of artwork began to fill the lounge, Tatli arranged it on the reclining seats to taste even as she oversaw the housekeepers arranging the chairs and tables. The dance floor soon flowered into rows of seats facing a future auction block. Tatli was also in charge of all the little things an auction needed, like sticky notes, bidder cards, Sundance Credit applications, art catalogues the guests can take and art catalogues they cannot. She ensured an internet card was handy to process credit card applications during the auction. Tatli was unbelievably smooth.

  Meanwhile, I was getting my ass kicked by the damnable easels. They were too awkward to transport via art cart, so I had to shoulder them. These annoying creatures had more kicking legs than a millipede and hooked on every doorway. I could handle a stack of five of the unruly beasts, but with our bungee cords—used to hold the legs in tight—continually being stolen by crew members, more than that was hopeless.

  After several hours of hauling and arranging, we had the Paint Your Wagon lounge ready for an art auction. It could hold over two hundred people. We hoped for fifty. We got ten.

  5

  That night we three weary auctioneers sat around a table on the open deck, far removed from the lights. It suited our moods to be in the dark, beneath a rumbling, unquiet sky. Beside us a rail kept back the thrashing ocean, and before us champagne kept back the thrashing stress. We were well on our way to getting drunk and eager to solve the world’s problems, but before we could do that we had to first solve our own.

  Ten people do not an auction make, so the afternoon had been a gallery-style operation. Despite specific instructions and bribery to the contrary, Amor had opened enough champagne for two bottles per guest. That was the only problem of the day we found underwhelming; hence a tabletop laden with champagne bottles. G2 was hopelessly out of reach, but Charles was grudgingly satisfied with our possible gaining of G1 by tomorrow, the last day of the cruise. Still, his mood was as turbulent as the sky.

  “One thing is for sure,” Charles said as he refilled my glass yet again. “We need some art movers. I can’t have you schlepping artwork all day and night. We need you free to sell artwork. These higher goals are gonna kill us.”

  “I quite agree.”

  “That’s my job, but I need your input. Usually ships have a Filipino cover band that is happy for the extra income during their daytime off-hours. But Majesty doesn’t have one that I am aware of. Stage entertainers are the second usual source, because they are the only members of the crew who have the free time outside of their regular duties. Like Denny and Jesse, for example. Think that will work?”

  “Doubtful,” I warned. “Denny didn’t have much nice to say about the reliability of the other dancers. He says they are all drunkards, and I believe it. Living in their hallway is one continuous party. I don’t mind the half-naked hotties prancing from cabin to cabin in their panties. I do mind that they keep missing my cabin.”

  “Perhaps an upgrade to a guest cabin?” he offered teasingly. “I could handle a parade of women.” He was trying to bring himself out of his melancholy, and Tatli gave him an elbow in the side for support.

  Thunder rumbled over our heads, and we all glanced out into the black night tailing the ship. Muffled flashes of lightning revealed lumpy clouds in purple. The gusting wind dropped the scent of salt in favor of fresh water. It was entrancing. A moment of silence ensued, and we all pondered the electric, tropical night.

  “I love rain,” Charles murmured. “There isn’t any rain anywhere in Turkey. But the storms of the Caribbean are the best. They are unique and powerful, completely unlike the rain in London. There it just drops all day and night, boring and oppressive. Here it is alive.”

  “Boring and oppressive?” I teased. “Is that not the very definition of ‘be British’?”

  Tatli barked a laugh before she could contain it. Charles snorted and gave her a mock scowl.

  “That reminds me of a question I’ve always wanted to bounce off an Englishman,” I said slowly and carefully. “You are welcome to not answer, of course.”

  “Well, what is it?” he asked impatiently before downing another glass of champagne.

  “You’ve got some great beer there, with awesome English pubs to enjoy it in. British theatre, even aside from Shakespeare, is surely the best in the world. I think every British actor has won an Oscar or deserves one, like Anthony Hopkins, Ian McKellan, Kate Winslet, or Judy Dench. Skip Hugh Grant. Your movie directors kick ass, with Ridley Scott and Alfred Hitchcock. Your literary figures are magnificent, with Austen and Dickens, Agatha Christy and H.G. Wells, and so many more. And music? Few musicians have impacted the planet more than the Beatles, and you’ve got George Michael and Elton John to boot. Skip Boy George. You with me so far?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. England has the best entertainment on Earth.”

  “So is this obsession with entertainment because A; the weather is so shitty, B; because your food is so shitty, or C; because you’re too uptight and proper to have some good ol’ nasty sex?”

  Charles stared at me for a long moment. Lightning flashed above to reveal a face frowning in rumination. I wondered if I had offended him, but after a long deliberation he answered with a deep voice.

  “All of the above,” he deadpanned. “Why else would I marry a Turk?”

  Another flash of lightning lit the night, burning a brilliant impression of the couple I sat with. Only then did I realize the real reason why Charles was so gloomy.

  “You cut your hair!”

  In the dark, I had hardly noticed that his long ponytail was missing. His grey bangs were still pulled back over the ears, but a few tangles now fell over his forehead. He looked quite handsome, actually. Certainly less vampiric.

  “Thank Tatli for that,” he answered morosely. “She was so damn excited for me to lose the ponytail that she made me an appointment for immediately after the auction. She’s been hounding me for three years to get it cut. As always, she gets things done.”

  Another flash of lightning burst over the scene, and for one instant every detail was dazzling. I smiled, loving a good storm, but Tatli was anything but pleased.

  “Just a storm, darlin’,” I consoled, assuming she was frightened by the weather. I had met many Mediterranean women who were for some reason scared of the violence above. I never figured that one out. But then, the thunderstorms over the Great Plains where I grew up were extremely powerful and probably inured me.

  “No, no,” she replied. “Did you see all those bugs on the deck?”

  Sure enough, in the poor light we hadn’t noticed the deck was fairly swarming with fingernail-sized bugs. They were of a light color that matched the teak.

  “Oh, those are the cockroaches everyone bitches about. Welcome aboard.”

  Tatli shivered, and Charles shook his head.

  “I hate this ship already,” Charles said mournfully. “Did I mention I hate this ship? Yes, I certainly do hate this ship.”

  The storm groaned about Majesty all night, not unlike the auctioneers, but did not finally break into a hard rain until the morning. Today’s port of call was Royal Caribbean’s private island of Coco Cay. It was just one of hundreds of gorgeous little Bahamian pearls scattered across the sand bars and turquoise waters, but that doesn’t matter much when the rain falls so hard that you can’t even see it. Thus no one tendered to port. With this surprising flow of bodies on-board, the auction was a fair success. Charles managed to close enough sales to clear G1, but even this beneficial influx failed to hit G2.

  6

  As promised, Charles canvassed the ship for potential art movers, and stumbled upon the Calypso players.
Of course, Tatli made the financial arrangements with the Jamaican duo, and, also of course, Charles took full credit for everything.

  These two men were both young and handsome, with sleek black skin, generous smiles, and brilliantly tie-dyed shirts. The steel drummer was named O’Neil, whose long, beaded hair would rattle with ecstasy at the Caribbean folk music. His partner, Kelvin, wore his hair in tight curls around his head. Kelvin’s instrument, the electric keyboard, was preprogrammed so he just stood behind it all day, obviously bored. They were good musicians, but as art movers they sucked. They were about as dynamic as a pair of zombies.

  Their first cruise as movers was a mess. It went something like this: I explain what to do. They say ‘no problem, mon.’ They act and demonstrate a complete lack of understanding. I explain what to do. They say, ‘no problem, mon’. Disaster resumes, repeat, ad nauseum. It was exasperating. Obviously playing ‘Everything Will Be All Right’ by Bob Marley a thousand times a day had melted their brains.

  For what Shawn’s ‘gay boys’ did in an hour, the Calypso boys needed three. After multiple auctions this did not change, until Tatli reminded them that they were paid per auction, not per hour. That helped, but even then their exquisitely toned muscles were seemingly incapable of lifting the lightest loads. Having worked with many Jamaicans before, I always wondered if it was island attitude that prevented those beautiful muscles from accomplishment or if they were more like Italian clothing, designed for looks only.

  Once, when Kelvin was hauling a distressingly underloaded cartload of artwork, he was suddenly brought up short by one of the soldered ridges on the deck. How he lacked the momentum to coast such a light load over the lip was a testament to ineptitude, as was his not yet having learned to push the art carts backwards to prevent everything from spilling out the front. Out of sheer, perverse curiosity, I watched from afar as Kelvin leaned upon the cart to casually survey the damage. He was not perturbed in slightest. After a while, O’Neil arrived and began picking up the pieces, bobbing to the music in his head. He sorted through a gnarl of wires tangled around broken frames, eventually retrieving two punctured oil paintings.

  In awe, O’Neil held up the canvases speared by broken frames. Kelvin gave a hearty laugh.

  “Coo ‘pon dat!” Kelvin cried, meaning ‘look at that’.

  “Bamboclat!” O’Neil berated. “Dey not donuts, mon! Yu try carry paintins on a stick?”

  “Dey just a likkle off, mon. Ev’ry-ting I-rey.”

  “Ev’ry-ting not I-rey, yu dam lagga head!” he cried, meaning, ‘everything is not all right.’

  Charles rushed forward, and all bickering stopped as they looked up at the gaunt, towering figure. He pursed his lips and frowned at no less than four damaged Rembrandt etchings. A grey-shot eyebrow rose inquiringly at the two pierced oil paintings.

  “It appears, gentlemen,” he began slowly in his deep voice. “That the Rembrandts are unharmed, barring the frames. But the oil paintings….”

  Kelvin tensed, sensing he was about to be struck. O’Neil tensed, sensing he was about to be fired. I tensed, sensing I was about to be an art schlepper forever.

  “Those are original paintings from Jean-Claude Picot…” he began with heavy drama. Suddenly his thin lips split into a wolfish grin. “Good! Further penance for the French failure during World War II.”

  Things slowly got better. Eager to prove I was worthy of skipping my month as unpaid trainee, and fully aware of the strain Charles was under, I stepped up. During auctions I became a large supporting figure and even gave Tatli a run for her money. My biggest contribution, however, lay in schmoozing guests in the Champagne Bar. I am a social butterfly and naturally flitted about the room making contact with everyone. My confidence progressed along with the cruises, and soon I was selling my share of artwork outside the auctions.

  Fortunately, Charles did not share in Shawn’s misgivings about being replaced. As I sought more duties, Charles gladly obliged. By his own admission he was lazy, and if others performed a job better than he, so be it. Our first few cruises were bruising failures, but eventually we began to tread water just enough to occasionally pop up and snag G2.

  Could the curse of the Widow Maker be lifted?

  Chapter 5. Misery of the Seas

  1

  Charles, Tatli and I officially adopted that dark, quiet table beside the rail on the crew deck for our nightly meetings. After the sun set we always met for a sly drink, as Charles would say, and watched the other cruise ships slip off into the blackness. These waters around the Bahamas always offered tantalizing glimpses of brightly lit ships passing in the night. Under this dramatic setting we would discuss the day’s events and plan for the morrow.

  At first, the buying of a round of Red Stripes launched Charles on a tirade about the costs of running his department. Tatli solved this problem by routinely bringing entire bottles of auction champagne, which ironically cost less than the beer. Thusly Charles congratulated himself for lubricating our thoughts for less. Tatli somehow refrained from rolling her eyes.

  “I received an email from Sundance,” I began over the champagne. “Regarding the paintings destroyed by Zero Degrees Kelvin? They were rather annoyed.”

  Charles asked, “You did tell them it was due to the rocking of the ship, as I said, yes?”

  Tatli had presented that idea, of course.

  “Yes,” I said. “I was chided for improper stowing, but insurance will pay for it all.”

  “Good,” Charles said with satisfaction. “Say, what do you mean by calling him Zero Degrees Kelvin?”

  “Perhaps he means Kelvin is close minded,” Tatli suggested.

  “How do you figure that?” Charles asked.

  “A closed circle has zero degrees of angle,” she said simply.

  “I hadn’t thought of that, Tatli,” I said, impressed. “But I was referring to temperature. Absolute zero is the absence of all molecular movement.”

  Tatli nodded in understanding, but Charles’ brows knit together in confusion.

  “You know,” I explained. “As things get colder their molecules move slower. That’s why when vapor cools the molecules slow and it turns to water, and when that cools it turns to ice. Absolute zero is the cessation of all molecular movement, and theoretically impossible. I thought you, not Tatli, would have the First World education. Didn’t you go to school?”

  “What the hell, man?” he protested. “Zero degrees is just freezing.”

  “That’s Celsius,” Tatli said quietly.

  “Right. The Kelvin scale is the most accurate scale for measuring such things. I thought their names were so odd for the Caribbean. O’Neil and Kelvin? Anyway, Kelvin moves so damn slow I assume his goal is to reach absolute motionlessness.”

  “Brian,” Charles said drily, “With talk like that it’s a wonder the bitches don’t line up at your door.”

  Near midnight the open deck was frequently commandeered by all the Jamaicans on-board, regardless of position. The usual suspects of crew bars—the entertainers, Steiners, and waiters—were replaced by room stewards, bar backs, and cooks. These crewmen did not come to drink, but something else entirely. They would muscle two or more tables together, thus proving that strong Jamaican arms really could function when they chose, to create a small arena. All evidence of what happened within that arena was blocked by a tight crowd of standing spectators, cheering and jeering.

  Occasionally over their great emotion and greater volume, a boastful cry would rise, “I BE FLASHIN’ BLOOD!,” followed by a thundering slap, like a body slam. Then a bellow from the Jamaicans would deafen us from afar.

  Eventually Charles and I were intrigued enough to try for some details. We pushed into the crowd with not a little trepidation, fearing nothing less than a cockfight.

  Just as we approached, O’Neil rose to his feet and held a closed fist over his head with great ceremony. The crowd began to jostle in agitation, and he called, “Where da bangarang, buoys?”

&nb
sp; The crowd hollered louder and louder, but O’Neil kept his fist up high, calling for more and more ‘bangarang’ with a shake of his braids. When the pitch was just right, he suddenly swept his hand downward so powerfully that his legs actually lifted from the ground. He slapped the table with great clout, pitching it madly and tossing its contents pell-mell. Above the monstrous roar of approval he stood triumphant and panting, daring anyone to challenge his supremacy.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Charles asked, bewildered.

  “They’re playing dominoes,” I said, observing at last the tiles scattered across the deck among the roaches. The Jamaicans scooped up the dotted tiles and readied the table for another match.

  “Come!” O’Neil invited. “And watch me flash some blood on these rasclats.”

  “Nuh,” someone protested. “Dis be for Jam-down buoys, mon!”

  “Nuh, yu be too red eye, mon.” O’Neil answered. “Don’t want no harbor shark watchin’, nuh?”

  “What did he just say?” Charles wondered aloud.

  O’Neil grinned at us. “He want to keep da game for us Jamaicans. We be Jam-down buoys. I said he be jealous of you comin’ to take da glory. Come, duppy, you my white boy. I teach you.”

  “What does duppy mean?”

  “Ghost,” he answered with a flash of pearly teeth.