“What do you mean?”
Petra grabbed my hand and observed, “Your palms are sweating. First you’re seeing Vladka, now you’re seeing Leonora, and you asked to have a drink with me. Yet you claim you have a girlfriend.”
“I do!” I protested. “I’ve never hit on any of you and… wait, what did you say about Vladka?”
“You really do get around. If Bill were capable of seduction, I would expect that from him... but not you.”
“I am not sleeping with Vladka!” I protested. “I hired her to pass out flyers for me. She’s part of Camp Carnival and walks all the guest hallways anyway. It was a no-brainer.”
“Whatever you say,” Petra replied sweetly, patting our held hands.
“Really, Petra,” I defended. “It’s all about my Bianca.”
“Bill says differently.”
“Bill would.”
I looked up and suddenly saw Bill towering over us. A wave of déjà vu washed over me as Petra released my hand and rose, smoothing her skirt—precisely as Leonora had done. With an uncanny repetition, Petra gave Bill a long look, and sashayed out with a devilish comment called over her shoulder, “Think about my offer.”
Bill chortled, “Oh, you dog, I knew you were bangin’ her!”
“That was weird,” I said to him, referring to the déjà vu. “You’re not going to try to hold my hand, too, are you?”
“Ticket time, bitch,” Bill ordered, obviously preferring to ignore my comment.
With a sigh, I rose and followed him to the Rolls Royce. Time passed slowly, as there were few enough guests around. The sun began to set and the hot yellow glare slanted into warmer, orange streams that ran the length of the deck. Bill and I enjoyed the tranquility of the scene in silence for while, but then occurred a rare moment of disclosure when Bill commented about the days of old.
“No more lone wolf days,” he began simply. “They’re about gone, so enjoy them while you can.”
I waited for him to continue, sensing that this would be an all too infrequent opportunity to learn something from him.
“When I started, I was a DJ, you know. Gene was one of the very first auctioneers working for Frederick. There weren’t two hundred of us, but only a few. We met in the club. Gene was selling art using all the old used-car tricks, wearing his Uncle Sam suit and even honking a horn to get attention, if you can believe that shit. We got to talking and when he learned that was my second contract he offered me the job on the spot. I was American, see, and had actually returned to ships. That was the greatest hurdle in those days, because non-entertainer Americans don’t last more than a few weeks at sea.
“We were lone wolves in those days, leaving the pack for a new forest every week. We had to learn on our own, learn to adapt or die. We had no background, no knowledge, no staff, no structure: just hunger and instinct and the will to survive.
“Now we have all those things, and training, and assistants. Each new addition, each step closer to organization, takes another bite out of our commissions. In those days, Sundance was so desperate for bodies to work the ships that we made double what we make now, but sold half as much. But things are changing. As they develop the infrastructure, they retain a greater chunk of the money. This is the last hurrah, my friend: enjoy it. Soon this business will be clogged with associates jockeying for advancement like every other goddamn cubicle office job.
“Is this why you refuse to train me, then?” I asked. “Because you never had any help yourself. During auctions I’m too busy with my own duties so there’s only so much I can observe and replicate. How about a word or two of help, something that you wish you had?”
“I taught you all you need to know already,” Bill said gruffly.
“All you said was to not lie!” I protested. “That’s a no-brainer.”
Bill harrumphed and muttered, “Only to a goddamn Boy Scout.”
To signal that the moment of clarity was over, Bill barked at a group of three sexy young women walking by, “Free raffle tickets for the art auction!”
One of the women, a tall and slender blonde, broke from her girlfriends and slid right up to me. As she approached her lips curved into mischief and her eyes glinted. She came within inches of me, so close her peppermint breath wafted over me as she asked slyly, “Do I want tickets?”
“You want it alright,” I teased. All this flirtation was getting contagious! “There will be art, champagne, and me. What more could you ask for?”
“What more could I ask for?” she repeated. Lashes lustrous with black mascara flitted as she glanced down to my mouth. “You’re right!”
Suddenly she grabbed the lapels of my suit and pulled herself in for a big, wet kiss right on my lips. Her girlfriends howled in approval for the long kiss. She released me, smoothed my lapels affectionately and replaced my shirt outside the suit’s collar with red-tipped fingernails. Then she plucked a handful of tickets from my nerveless grasp and spun about.
“Nice suit,” she commented as she wiggled all curvy and sexy back to her girlfriends, who welcomed her back with giggles and knowing smiles.
I turned to say something victorious to Bill, but he was busy folding his shirt collar atop his suit.
3
Being a rock star isn’t as easy as one would think. My so-called frustration revolved around not having the freedom to completely embrace my ‘celebrity’. As ludicrous as it sounds, the babes became a burden. Remaining celibate for my Bianca had always been a privilege and a pleasure, and almost easy. We had such a chemical connection that it could never, ever be topped by a quick bang from a stranger, regardless of who she was. Well, true, I was never tested by Angelina Jolie, but as a waiter on Carnival ships, gorgeous foreign women sought me out in hopes of a Green Card. Desperation made them offer anything and everything. That was a teenager’s dream, not a man’s. But on Ecstasy things proved a bit more complex. It all revolved around the dance captain.
A week after first observing Tina at Papas & Beer, I met her in the crew mess. She was sitting alone before a dry salad, and looked positively bored. Having come for coffee, I brought my steaming brew beside her for a little small talk.
“Good morning,” I said, picking some mysterious bits from my supposedly clean plastic cup. It was actually noon, but I had no doubt it was morning to her. Her sunken eyes and pale, tight lips said as much.
“Oh, you’re Bill’s gay boy.”
I suffered a flashback to the Widow Maker and Shawn’s assistants, Denny and Jesse.
“A dry salad?” I asked. “That’s not very American.”
“Huh?”
“Most Americans drown their salad in fat and sugar,” I explained.
“Not if they are dancers,” Tina replied grimly, pushing some painfully browned lettuce around her plate. “But ships have nothing else healthy for the crew, and we are supposed to stay skinny. You going out?”
“I am,” I replied. “Today I opted to eschew the titty bar in favor of Ensenada’s indigenous flora and fauna.”
She stared blankly at me a moment, then nodded in understanding. “Oh, so you’re the faithful one I keep hearing about.”
“Wow,” I muttered, blinking. “How on Earth did you get that from what I just said?”
“Rumor has it there’s a brainy, faithful one on board. I have no idea what you just said means, so...”
I resisted the urge to say ‘post hoc ergo proptor hoc.’
“Well, maybe I’ll run into you later,” she said. “I’ll be at Papas. See ya.”
“OK,” I said as I rose. “Ciao.”
“Ciao?” she teased. “That’s not very American.”
“Touché!”
“Huh?”
I left her there, but didn’t run into her until that night at the crew bar while looking for Bill. Bill, bless him, doesn’t want connection, only penetration, so the crew bar was his nightly haunt. I arrived at about eleven, knowing there would be few enough people present, for at this hour the restaurant s
taff was all still working. Barring a few Italian officers huddling together in a corner, the only occupied table was filled with dancers and musicians. A quick glance through the dark room verified Bill’s absence, but Tina caught my eye and called out loudly to me, “I’m bored. I want to do something exciting!”
“Steal a car,” I suggested, approaching.
“Just because I’m in Mexico doesn’t mean I want to steal a car,” she replied, giggling.
“Well, when in Rome...” I joked, but trailed off when I saw the very large, very Mexican musician sitting next to her. A hugely intimidating man, easily two hundred and fifty pounds of tattooed muscle, he glared at me openly until I was uncomfortable. Then the long and rather creepy goatee clinging to his chin began to waggle as he laughed.
“Join us!” Tina cried, holding up a beer from the surplus on the table. Considering the group consisted predominantly of dancers, how could I not? I sat at the corner next to Tina, Carrie the singer, and Josh the bass player.
Though from Vancouver, Carrie oozed her Irish heritage with pale skin and long, flowing copper locks bound up tightly. Her figure was lithe, revealing her energetic personality translated into athletics. I had not initially recognized her, for on stage she wore a bobbed platinum wig. Though Carrie’s job required a glamorous look, her interests lay elsewhere and our heads were close together as we conferred about wilderness hikes. Amusingly, I noted more than one jealous glance from Tina. Most likely she just liked being the center of attention. Certainly the huge musician gave her enough.
The bass player lived in San Diego and, despite being Mexican, insisted his name was Josh. I quickly dubbed him Joshua Tree because of his immense size and hairy arms. He wore a button-down shirt with the sleeves torn off to reveal trunk-like arms sleeved entirely with wild and unruly ink. Upon his knuckles were letters, but I could never make out what they were in the dark, smoky atmosphere. Joshua Tree’s focus was entirely devoted to Tina, who regally deigned to give him just enough attention to keep him obedient.
I had planned on a late-night cigar on the open deck, and happened to have a stick with me. Tina, seeing her chance for my undivided attention, snatched up my cigar and began playing with it with a great lack of subtlety. With great relish she fondled it and caressed it with her lips. When that failed to get me hot and bothered, she threw it at me. Joshua Tree, however, had been utterly absorbed in her flirtatious behavior. Upon the end of the symbolically explicit performance, he actually shook his head to clear it, like a dog casting off water.
“You know how to tell if a cigar is a real Cuban?” he asked me, loudly clearing of his throat. “It smells like elephant shit.”
“A brilliant insight,” I replied gravely. “I feel ashamed to admit that regretfully, to date, I have not yet smelled elephant shit.”
“Oh, that’s right, you’re American,” he said, as if Mexico obviously had herds of wild elephants. “Your loss.”
“No doubt.”
Josh shifted beneath the table and reacted sharply. He bit back a bellow of pain, then explained, “I was in a bicycle accident and just about ripped off my kneecap.”
Both Carrie and Tina gave desired squeaks of concern, so Josh continued. “My knee swelled up like a balloon and grew into this huge hematoma. It was horrible, filled with all sorts of nasty blood and shit. This was in San Diego, so the doctor was great. When he cut into the hematoma, the blood had already turned dead and black. It smelled awful, man, stank up the whole damn room.”
Tina began giggling. Josh paused his horror story and all three of us stared at her as she snickered louder and louder. Finally she blurted, “Your knee farted!”
Oh, how I dreaded to be judged by the company I kept!
4
Yet nightly, inexorably, I began to join this trio—Tina, Carrie, and Josh—at the crew bar. The dynamic was rather unusual. Tina was used to being the object of universal desire among men on Ecstasy. She was thrown off that my interest in her was entirely platonic. Tina wanted the only man aboard who didn’t want her and, as she said to her confidants, she decided to ‘bag the brain’.
Indeed, the social circles of a cruise ship are remarkably like high school: everybody wanted what they couldn’t have. Joshua Tree was jealous of me and Tina. Indeed, so was Bill and every other male on-board, who just assumed we were hooking up. Tina was jealous of me and Carrie, or me and Petra, or even the tenacious rumor of me and Vladka. It was all so absurd!
One evening, before the entertainers’ late-night stage performance, I was in the crew bar chatting with Bill about work. Tina swept through the room with Josh in tow, and came right up to our table. The song changed and, with great showmanship, Tina insisted on dancing. She stood before us and worked herself over to great effect. Bill openly stared, as I would expect, while Josh just stood back and observed in silence. Suddenly Tina pulled me from my seat and began using me as a stripper pole. I stood stiff—pardon the pun—and somewhat resistant, as she rubbed her amazingly pert bottom all over me.
The song ended, and Tina boldly announced, “We are going to bed now.”
“Oh no we’re not!” I replied with an unlikely mixture of flirtation and aversion.
“Then at least give me a kiss,” she pleaded, face close to mine.
“I will not.”
Her lips puckered into a pout, but then she pushed away, stating, “I will win, Mr. Brain.”
Josh just looked me straight in the eye and said with flat sincerity, “I want to be you for just one minute.”
But the entertainers had time for just one drink. As they rose to leave, Tina demanded that I watch her show. I demurred, noting that I’d already seen all her shows.
“Not this one,” she replied with a grin. “You won’t want to miss this one. Bill, you’re coming, right?”
He nodded over his double Jack Daniels, and that was that. Half an hour later I sat beside Bill in the main lounge, on the first floor near the wings. The show was the usual mixture of music and dancing; some routines Tina led a line of dancers kicking like feathered showgirls, while others depicted Carrie singing in a series of sequined gowns. It was fun to identify the various performers as friends of mine, but mostly it was just another Vegas-style show. I’d lived in Vegas and seen it all too many times to be that interested.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” a thunderous voice called over the hushed, darkened theatre. “ECSTASY'S ENTERTAINERS SHALL NOW PRESENT YOU WITH A REMARKABLE DILEMMA.”
Startlingly, the lights burst over the crowd to illumine nearly one thousand curious souls. Carrie and her singing partner Carlo stepped onto the brightly lit stage in tuxedos with swallow-tails and black top hats. With large gestures, they pantomimed a deep visual search of the audience by raising a hand to shield their eyes. I thought little enough of it, until Bill suddenly stood up beside me and began waving his hands over his head.
“What the hell are you doing?” I cried.
Carrie leapt down into the audience and grabbed my hand. She pulled me from my chair and led me reluctantly up the steps, only to have Carlo assist in dragging me center stage.
“THIS GENTLEMAN STANDS FORTH,” the announcer continued melodramatically, “TO SEEK THE PRIZE.”
This was bad. This was very bad.
The lights over the audience dimmed, while the singers released my arms and melted into the shadows. Now the limelight bore down on me with the power of a thousand suns. Under that searing, soul-revealing spotlight, I felt ridiculous. I was used to being on stage before large crowds, but this wasn’t work. This was just me, and me alone, before thousands of eyes. Thank goodness I still had my suit on, because I had almost changed into my shorts and to reveal my chicken legs would be to die a thousand deaths. Within a minute I would want to die, anyway.
“BUT IS HE WORTHY OF THE PRIZE?” the voice continued. “WILL HIS OFFERING PLEASE THE LADY OF LIGHT?”
Though blinded by the main spotlight, I sensed other beams roving across the stage as two lines of fema
le dancers rushed from the wings to cross before me. As the dancers converged around me and spun away in neat lines of pirouettes, a single blue beam of light glowed upon a new figure. Tina, body caressed by a seductively tight body-suit of glittering stars, teasingly entered the periphery of the stage. Her dance was cut with a strobe light, making her nimble movements twinkle like the night sky. The music oozed a mysterious, night-sky vibe.
Alarm bells went off in my head when the music began to morph into a decidedly pop music beat. The bass grew louder and louder, and my heart inched lower and lower, dropping all the way into my bowels when I began to recognize the world-famous bass line.
“BEFORE HE EARNS THE PRIZE,” the voice boomed, “HE MUST PAY THE PRICE OF DANCE!!!”
The Bee Gee’s Stayin’ Alive burst forth from the bass line, and the crowd roared with approval. All spotlights converged on me, and I was obviously expected to dance. Oh, the horror! At first I just stood there, frozen in fear, but the dancers converged over and around me, prodding me to move. The audience began chanting the words of the song, and my face became so red that surely it was visible through the white-hot spotlight!
Hapless and helpless, I had to embrace my fate. Reluctantly I began to imitate John Travolta’s Saturday Night Fever to the best of my feeble ability. But I’d never even seen the movie! What else could I do, but ham it up? My dignity was already gone.
I don’t know how long I was out there, shaking my hips and jabbing the sky to the rhythm of the Bee Gees, but surely it was less than the 13.7 billion years it felt like. Sometime around the ten billion year-mark, when the Earth slowly coalesced from the devastating loneliness of space, so, too, did my ordeal end. The dancers streamed off stage and the bass line faded, to be replaced once again by the starry night music. Tina waited in the far corner of the stage, glittering and magical and gorgeous in her blue glow.
Ship for Brains (Cruise Confidential 2) Page 24