Ship for Brains (Cruise Confidential 2)

by Brian David Bruns

  So next morning saw three tired souls grappling with piles of cardboard corners. Each protective corner was secured by four staples, and of course there were four corners on each frame. Multiply that by one thousand works of art and you have a lot of damn staples. We were only mildly disappointed that the Calypso boys were performing in port this day, because we could only imagine the ways Kelvin would adopt for slowing us down. By noon, the three of us literally had 16,000 bent staples and 30 bloody fingers.

  Numbed beyond belief, mentally and physically, we knew our day was just getting going. Guests were returning from port, and we had to get moving on our one and only auction in which to make goal. From bad to worse.

  6

  Very late that night we slumped over our table on the open deck. We were dead tired, and the hot, thick air caressed us into sleep. The moon, like our sales figures, was conspicuously absent. Few stars could compete with the light pollution of a modern cruise ship, so the sea below us was black as our disposition. This was a night to ponder fragility of situation, of floating atop a fractious surface above the immensity of the sea. Truly pondering those inky depths was intimidating indeed, and every man’s nightmare would be to tread those dark, dark, vast waters alone.

  After mechanically sipping our champagne for an hour, Charles loosed a long, deep sigh and stared at his watch.

  “Only forty more minutes,” he said. He sighed again.

  Because this was the last night of the cruise, we had to meet with the ship’s accountant to finalize our paperwork. It was a loathsome thing, this waiting. It was the salt in our wounded pride and bodies. We had been crushed by labor and then crushed by defeat: we made not one sale. So our 1:30 a.m. meeting was to sign off on a ledger full of zeros.

  Another cruise ship crept in on the darkness, passing us in a far off tangent. Rarely in the Bahamian waters did you not see a ship in the distance somewhere. We all absently stared at it.

  “Think that’s another odious RCI ship?” Charles asked. “Think if I spit hard enough, I’ll hit it?”

  I squinted at the tiny dot of light so far away. As I leaned forward, my muscles reminded me smartly that they preferred identifying my bed. “I can’t tell whose it is.”

  “Princess,” Tatli said. “See the big thing rising over the back?”

  Silently we all peered deeper into the night, saying little and feeling less. We were quite pathetic.

  “Oh!” Tatli suddenly said, bringing everyone up with a start. She fished something out of her bag and shrugged apologetically. “I forgot.”

  She handed me a slender hardcover book. “While Charles argued with the port authority, I ran into town. I’m sorry I didn’t have time to wrap it.”

  “What is this?”

  “For your birthday, silly!” she said, stirring awake. Her round cheeks flushed with enthusiasm.

  I flipped the book over in my hands and smiled as I read aloud, “The Highly Selective Thesaurus for the Extraordinarily Literate.”

  “Perfect, no? It was my idea,” Charles boasted, suddenly waking as well. Tatli’s lips wiggled, but she said nothing.

  “You found this… in Nassau?” I wondered aloud. “You have a magic touch. But then, as Carl Sagan said, ‘A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic.’”

  “That’s what I always say,” Charles agreed. Tatli stuck her tongue out at him.

  “Really Tatli, this is amazing. I can’t believe how kind you are. Both of you, thank you. I mean it. I never in a million years would have expected a birthday gift.”

  “I remember you said you want to be a writer someday, and this will come in handy,” Charles explained. He plucked the book from my fingers and flipped through the pages randomly. Finally he stopped and said, “For example: cup-shaped. Adjective. Instead of saying cup-shaped, you can say poculiform or scyphate. Isn't that exciting?"

  “Oh, yes,” I agreed. “Readers appreciate that sort of thing.”

  Seeing the sarcasm on my face, he quickly slashed through the pages again. "Let me try again. Let's see, your birthday is the thirteenth, June... here we go. A better example: Page 13, line 6: blockhead. Is that worthy? It is a noun, synonymous with dolt, dullard, and loggerhead. Hey, I’ll bet that's what O'Neil means when he calls Kelvin 'laggahead'.”

  Charles ribbed Tatli and said, “See? I told you I’d figure it out before Brian did.”

  Chapter 7. Sundance 101

  1

  Near the end of the next cruise, I wandered down to the Centrum for my errand of rotation. Whenever Majesty entered the port of Key West, some sort of cross current rocked the ship and caused our display easels to fall. This was more than a mere annoyance, because our art displays on the ship were so few and so key they held the most expensive artwork. When I arrived, I discovered that the artwork had not fallen over at all. That was not a good thing, though.

  Some asshole had stolen my easels.

  Crew members constantly pinched items and equipment when they needed them. Despite having two dozen extra easels folded neatly beneath the stairs of the Centrum, no one bothered to contact us and ask for them. Instead they stole those holding our huge and rare works of art, including a $40,000 original Salvador Dalí.

  I bent down to wrestle out replacement easels when I was greeted by the hotel manager. Well, perhaps the word ‘greeted’ was a bit misleading.

  “I see the display of artwork is not being properly managed,” an irritated voice called from behind me. I backed up and rose to see the hotel manager towering over me, stiff and formal. Before I could reply, he glanced off into the distance and said, “I don’t think the Centrum is an appropriate location for you anymore.”

  “We have plenty of easels,” I replied sourly. “Whoever took these could have simply asked us instead of stealing them in the early morning hours.”

  “You misunderstand,” he continued. “Despite this obvious failure, I do not see fit to deny your use of this area to display your artwork. But further auctions here in the heart of the ship are out of the question.”

  I blinked in shock. “W-what? Did you take this up with Charles?”

  He finally eyed me with an expression that made it clear he was not pleased to do so. “I am taking this up with you. You claim to be a co-department head, do you not? Your sales figures last cruise were zero. Certainly that cannot justify the intrusive presence of auctions here.”

  “This is our primary location,” I protested. “And you know we had a surprise art swap last cruise. Denying us this lounge will cut our sales in half!”

  “And I’ve noticed that you auctioneers have begun taking the day off while at Nassau,” he continued blandly. He stared off to the wall again.

  “We have not,” I replied. “Every other cruise we take an afternoon off. Nothing more.”

  He almost sniffed. “If you aren’t going to take advantage of every opportunity offered, then I will give such opportunities to others who will.”

  “No one else wants to use the Centrum,” I defended. “Or they would have contacted us.”

  “Like those who needed your easels?” he countered mildly. “If no one else needs the Centrum, then it will remain empty. Clutter has no place on a ship, as all sailors know.”

  Hot Man strode off and so did I, going straight to Charles, who had just returned from the internet café. While I fumed, he was grinning from ear to ear. Before I could relate my bitter encounter with Hot Man, he launched into a happy dance.

  “I just heard from Mary Elizabeth!” he cried. “Come to my cabin and I’ll tell you and Tatli the good news.”

  Inside their cabin, I sat beside Tatli on the bed while Charles pranced about gaily.

  “The official answer has come in!” he explained with a hop and a step. “Frederick himself bullied RCI, Carnival, and all the others at the highest levels. He hammered them with our enormous revenues and tiny expenses. Man, if you’ve ever met Frederick, you’ll know how dangerous he is to mess with. He is the most ambitious and
aggressive man I have ever met. So he was when establishing the rank of auctioneers on-board. We are three-stripe officers!”

  Tatli’s eyes bulged. Mine, too.

  “Three stripes?” I repeated incredulously. “That would mean we are the same rank as Hot Man!”

  “That’s right,” Charles gloated. “We are three-stripe motherfuckers. Three-stripe motherfuckers are we.”

  “So the Champagne Bar is now officially available to us,” Tatli said, relieved.

  “Yes!” Charles hooted. “We win!”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” I said, regretfully breaking the joyous mood. I quickly explained how we lost the Centrum. I needn’t have worried about bursting the bubble of Charles’ joy, however. The captain, being the only man able to supersede the corporate office, closed the curtain on the Champagne Bar drama by decreeing that no artwork could be displayed for safety reasons.

  We lose.

  2

  One afternoon I stopped into the passenger’s internet café. While the crew internet was easier on the wallet, with one terminal for every seventy crew it was exasperating to find one available. This built in me a mania to check email at every possible opportunity, regardless of hour.

  Sending emails to Bianca had kept our romance alive through very long separations in the past. In writing love letters, my passion for Bianca was given an outlet and the prose flooded out like a burst levee. Alas, with Bianca slaving away as crew on Carnival Miracle, she could reply only every few days at best.

  Before, when we were both in the restaurants, we had avoided discussing work because we did the same thing, day in and day out. But now I shared every detail of my odd, new life. Bianca was remarkably intelligent, but lacked the imagination to see that a different sort of ship life was possible. Knowing I was now a three-stripe motherfucker would surely help.

  I was desperate to show her the perfection of our future life together as auctioneers, all things Widow Maker aside. But Bianca insisted on discussing important matters only in person, which was more than a little vexing when thousands of miles lay between us. I resisted the idea that this was stalling and signaled a possible fear of commitment. I was hard at work building, whereas she had merely to wait. Waiting was arguably more difficult.

  Excitement pulsed through me when I saw Bianca’s name on my inbox. Every time was as fresh and exhilarating as the first. Just two words from her, any two words, would be a balm for the worst burn life could offer. Or so I thought. The four words I received, typed in all capital letters, threw me for a loop. They were the only words of her email, and I read and reread them, perplexed and unnerved. Had she heard some rumor about me?

  “WHY YOU HAVE CHICKS?”

  3

  That night the rain hammered the open deck mercilessly, dropping on the teak in crashing waves. Lightning flashed maniacally above, blindingly, as if the heavens were gleefully throwing electricity about like mashed potatoes in a food fight. Charles, Tatli and I relinquished our soaked table of choice, but refused to abandon our nightly drink outside. We sat beneath the overhanging deck, surrounded by the lumpy white bulkheads and life jacket bins, wincing from the harsh bare bulbs directly above us.

  I held up my glass of champagne and said, “I propose a toast. To Joan Miró, without whose fine artwork we would never have reached our second goal this cruise!”

  “Hear hear!” Charles cried, and we all clinked glasses. “G2 in the bag!”

  Thunder rumbled in agreement. I was delighted to find the weather had a taste for modern art.

  “I, too, have a toast to propose,” Charles said. He gave Tatli a searching look, but her round features offered no response. She seemed a bit sad, actually. I suddenly sensed he was going to announce their retirement.

  “To the art associate on Carnival Conquest!”

  I blinked. “Huh?”

  Charles looked me in the eye. “I just received word from Mary Elizabeth. You are being transferred to Conquest. You leave on June 25th.”

  I stared at him in shock. “You are serious?”

  “I am, indeed!” he said. He offered his hand, which I shook heartily.

  “In just seven days? Who is replacing me?”

  “They don’t know yet, but I assume some kid from this month’s training class. You, my friend, are on your way up. Congratulations.”

  “Do you know who the auctioneer is on Conquest?” I asked, my mind reeling. “Is it still out of New Orleans?”

  “Yes, its home port is New Orleans and no, I don’t know who the auctioneer is. I’ll find out for you. I have to tell you, Brian, we’ll miss you. As sucky as this ship is, it has been fun working with you.”

  “Thank you, Charles. And I’ve enjoyed working with Tatli.”

  “Anyway,” Charles said, clearing his throat. “Back to work. We sold that huge new Miró print we on-loaded and cleared G2, so I guess the art swap was worth it. Armed with this success, I want to work out some sort of deal with Hot Man to get our Centrum back. We sold almost nothing in the Spank Your Wagon Lounge.”

  “We need the Centrum,” I agreed. “Shawn said he almost never made goal without it. The problem is that we did make goal without it. That doesn’t help us. Ironic, eh?”

  “Not necessarily,” Charles replied. “We had our first auction there on embarkation night before we got kicked out. I’ll change the date on the Miró invoice to show it was sold in the Centrum’s auction. When Hot Man sees that, he may change his mind.”

  “Good idea Tatli,” I said, looking past Charles to her. This earned me a satisfyingly sour look from him.

  “I need to ask you something, Brian,” Charles said slowly as he leaned back from his champagne. “And I want to do so with all the delicacy and restraint you showed in your reflection of my culture.”

  “Yes?” I asked, suddenly nervous.

  He folded his arms across his thin chest. The harsh artificial light blasting down on him from above made him look like a corpse with a purpose.

  “Are you a closet asshole?”

  “Why, Charles,” I replied, feigning surprise, “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “No, really. You seem like the nice guy pining for your long lost love and all, but both Hot Man and the chief officer have had problems with you. At least they both dump on you instead of me, which is nice, I must admit. Have you done something that I don’t know about to earn their enmity?”

  I frowned in thought, but had trouble focusing. I was going back to Conquest and the Big Easy!

  “I don’t think I’ve done anything. Now, while I was on Conquest as low level management I was targeted because of my nationality. And Shawn mentioned the Dutch officers sometimes have a problem with Americans. They are both Dutch. But I don’t sense that here.”

  Charles mused for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think it’s anything like that. If you haven’t done anything specific, we’ll be fine. I just wanted to know everything before I have my showdown.”

  “Maybe it’s because he takes it,” Tatli offered.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I asked, somewhat miffed. “Are you saying I’m just a big pushover?”

  “Not at all,” she clarified. “You take it without flinching. Charles lost his cool on the very first day, when he was ordered to cut off his hair.”

  Now it was Charles’ turn to sniff.

  “They haven’t bothered him since. But they haven’t broken you yet. They don’t send the bad news to us in a memo. They target you. I think they want to see you squirm.”

  “So they know my ex-wife?”

  The Jamaicans began appearing in small clusters. Our table was the largest protected from the rain, and we welcomed them to join us. We had three bottles of champagne, but the Jamaicans preferred to drink Red Stripe. Thus, Charles, Tatli, and I downed a full bottle of champagne each. Eventually Tatli retired, but Charles and I remained to smoke some cigars and feel the electric pulse of the night and the dominoes. We flashed some blood, a
nd were wet. It was a good night.

  4

  During the month or so I was on Majesty of the Seas, I had yet to escape onto Royal Caribbean’s private island of Coco Cay. This islet was a pearl from the broken strand scattered about the insanely picturesque Bahamian waters. Overhead copious palm trees gently swayed to the oceanic beat, while clean sand was always underfoot. As a resort island, numerous sandy paths neatly lined with rocks led to scattered tiki huts overflowing with fruity drinks, or barbecued goodies, or water toys of all descriptions.

  I tendered to the island early in the morning on a small, noisy craft that lived at the island. Other than a few yawning employees toting equipment ashore, I was alone. Once ashore I immediately noticed that the air was particularly fresh after the thrashing rain of the last few days. Humid, but not yet hot, the palm fronds shuddered with the promise of torrid heat yet to come. It was strangely quiet, broken only by the cries of gulls.

  My destination today was the big half-moon bay of shallow waters, blocked from the sea by a jagged reach of rocks whose black looked alien in this place of white and blue. The sand was just-right white, and the waters were perfectly aquamarine. The ubiquitous recliners were white and blue. So, too, was the big-ass cruise ship anchored nearby.

  The beach was an empty opera house, with a semicircle of hundreds of recliners surrounding an amphitheater of sand and sea. All were neatly arranged, empty, waiting. Beyond them open space abounded in groomed sand, as yet unblemished by the garish colors of a thousand beach towels. Alone I strode up to the stage and slipped into the warm waters.

  I had come to snorkel, and chose early morning in hopes of seeing the largest amount of fish before they retreated from the heat and people. Coco Cay had a sunken airplane in a mere fifteen feet of water. How cool was that? The swim out to the plane was not long, and made easier by blocked swells. A platform had been erected near to the spot, and it unerringly led me to my underwater destination. Through the drunken, gentle morning light spearing into the turquoise waters, I could see amazing detail already. This was it!