I wandered the slender ribbon of sand that separated the rocks from the jungle. The beach, if it could be called such, was dotted with tiki huts assigned to block the tropical sun for pairs of lounge chairs. Further away loomed several gargantuan thatched roofs, and across the distance traveled faint music. For the 238,000th time—once for each mile to the moon—I heard Jimmy Buffet’s ‘Margaritaville’. Nobody needs that. I stuck to the water’s edge.
Eventually I spied a white canopy sheltering a small area set amid the ragged rocks. Usually touristic spots were in-your-face obvious, but this was subtle, like a gem waiting to be found amid rubble. I followed the narrow path through the sharp rocks, up and down and around, and eventually reached the small, shaded section. On a platform of smoothed rock, barely six feet from the surf bursting and battling violently with the shoals, was a massage table!
I was greeted by a small woman of Mayan persuasion. So petite as to appear childlike, she was probably too young to even catch Stefan’s eye. A Spanish-style dress flowed to her ankles. White cloth on chocolate skin—like the contrast of surf on shoal—was a vivid, thunderous wonder to behold. She patted the towel-shrouded table.
“Twenty dollars,” Chiquita said proudly, accent strong. Small teeth flashed beneath a flat Mayan nose. “One hour!”
I handed her a bill and said, “Here’s fifty. Make it two hours and gimme all you got.”
Bad move. The sheer tonnage of this girl’s power could stop a team of oxen dead in its tracks.
Chiquita began by pummeling my back. While I assumed she used her fists, I wondered if perhaps she had secretly switched to clubbing me with a giant fish. I was nearly beaten unconscious. Then the real brutality began. Her fingers pinched with more strength than any human had any business possessing. The platinum, mechanized fingers of Schwarzenegger’s Terminator squeezed my flesh into quivering slabs of pain.
Chiquita broke apart my tensed shoulders as though cracking an egg. She pushed her thumbs into my body as if kneading stone into dough was no problem. She walked on my back, grinding her heels as if extinguishing a cigarette. I knew some people paid for such things, but never thought I’d be one of them. The world faded.
4
Light. Blinding light. The sound of surging waves. Peace.
I was dead. I knew it. I had gone into the light.
A figure approached from above, light flaring behind, to glide gently down to my level. Then a kind, gentle smile. She was beautiful. An angel? No, a purser.
“Brian?”
She spoke my name from far, far away.
“Brian? Yes, I thought that was you. Are you all right?”
Clarity struck, overwhelming me. The sun followed suit.
“Unh?” I grunted, squinting up the gangway. The afternoon sun bounced brilliantly off Sensation’s gleaming white hull.
“You’ve been standing at the bottom of the gangway for five minutes.”
“Oh, hi Farida,” I stammered. “Yes, yes, of course. I’m fine, thank you.”
“Security didn’t know if they should call the port authority or the doctor,” she added, placing a concerned hand on my arm. “You were dragging your shirt in one hand, and the other was fondling your... well, the other is fondling your breast.”
I dropped my hand immediately. Lamely I explained, “I was checking for my nipple. I thought it’d been rubbed off by Chiquita the Barbarian.”
“Have you been drinking?” Farida asked, wrinkling her nose.
“No, but I wish I could. I think it would be a bad idea right now.”
“Come,” she said, taking my hand. Even in the blasting heat of Mexico, her brown hand’s immense warmth was soothing. I realized dimly how long it had been since I had felt a caring touch. It helped more than the massage.
“You need an iguana!” Farida declared, tugging me along behind her.
“Don’t we all?” I asked, trying to rekindle humor.
Fifteen minutes later I had an iguana on my head. His name was Kukulkan.
I was saved.
5
Farida, though living in South Africa, was an Egyptian Arab. She had the sweetest demeanor ever. So sweet, in fact, I only referred to her as Sugar. Her polar opposite was fellow purser Harald, from some remote island in the far north claimed by Denmark. His skin was remarkably pale, and his demeanor every bit as cold as the shores he called home.
“You look like shit,” Harald said with a Scandinavian’s lack of pretense.
Farida silenced him with an accusing glare, then made a point of smoothing her black tube dress.
“Uh, ya, you look like you need a walk on the beach,” Harald amended, trying to accede to Farida’s wishes. It was obviously difficult for him to be positive. “Relaxing and all that shit.”
Farida placed an excited hand on my arm and said, “My dear friend Susana, the internet manager, is Mexican. She said only ten minutes from here is a bit of real Mexico!”
“Susana is Mexican?” I asked. “Her last name is O’Reilly, she’s whiter than me, has freckles and red hair!”
“Yes,” Farida bubbled. “The world is an amazing place, isn’t it? We just need a taxi.”
“And a driver that won’t take us into the jungle and rob us,” Harald grumbled.
Farida gave him an exasperated look.
Soon we were on a sandy beach, surrounded predominantly by locals. Happy brown children played in the surf, while parents bartered for cups of chopped fruit, upon which they shook chili pepper. Farida led us to a cluster of tiki huts blocking the hot sun, where we were surprised to meet Marc.
Sensation’s two pursers, the port & shopping guide, and art auctioneer all settled into chairs sitting crookedly in the sand. The surf surfed, the breeze breezed. Drinks perspired. Three of us relaxed. Harald bitched.
“At least nobody here is smearing shit all over the walls,” Harald observed with as much cheer as he could muster.
“Oh, Harald...” Farida sighed.
“You mean that rumor is true?” I said, surprised. Actually, unfortunately, not surprised.
“Ya,” Harald snorted. “Who do you think had to deal with the complaints? Some animal smeared his shit all over the public toilets. Twice. I thought we were uncivilized on the island, but the peasants this cruise make me sick.”
“Stay chill, brother,” Marc murmured, eyes still closed.
“Hector will be here soon,” Farida said brightly, swirling the ice in her tequila sunrise. “He likes to wander the beach and let the children play with his pet iguana. Susanna says he always walks by the tikis here to see if tourists want a picture with him.”
I was eager to talk with Farida about Egypt. I shared with her my extreme pleasure in touring her homeland with Bianca. Talking about good times made me feel better.
“You fell in love!” Farida said dreamily. “How wonderful. She is joining you on Sensation?”
“If I can keep the ship, yes. That’s why I’m so stressed.”
“That’s so romantic.”
“Farida would be jealous,” Harald added. “If you were black.”
“Don’t worry, Sugar,” I said. “Someday some lucky guy will sweep you off your feet.”
“I love living in South Africa, the men are so beautiful! But I miss my family,” Farida admitted. “Father would be so angry with me for drinking this! But how can one visit another culture without tasting what it has to offer? I realize now that in many places of the world alcohol is central to their culture.”
“I would have died long ago without booze,” Harald agreed, rubbing his short blonde hair into a tussle. “What else to do on a winter night that lasts months? Can’t count your money because you don’t have any, and can’t have sex because there’s only one woman for every ten men on the island. But there’s ten beers for every man, so alcohol kept me warm at night.”
Farida smiled. She was radiant when she did so, her whole being emitting pure joy. “Back home I couldn’t have imagined cold and dark at all! Marc
, you’re from a cold place, too, aren’t you?”
“Canada,” he agreed.
“You know, Marc,” I said, “I’ve been wondering about your secret. How is it that you are always so chill?”
He shrugged and answered, “I’m a firewalker.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He chuckled.
“Yep. That’s most people’s reaction. Surely you are aware that people have been doing it for millennia? Yet Western science has no satisfactory explanation. I like to explore, and there are plenty of mysteries right under our nose. My sister and I taught seminars on how to do it.”
“That simple, eh?” Harald said peevishly.
Marc nodded and said, “That simple. You mock, of course, but it’s true. Most people simply dismiss what they cannot understand, or what their dogma says is not so. When your feet are naked on top of coals at 1500 degrees, you learn to not let other people’s issues bother you.”
Now those were words of wisdom!
Hector arrived. Children emptied the waves to give him a noisy, bubbling escort. As Farida had promised, a three-foot iguana lazed upon his broad shoulders.
“After you, Sugar,” I said.
“Oh, no no,” Farida replied emphatically. “I don’t want to touch it!”
“How about you, Harald?” I asked, but his sour face was answer enough.
Hector, all smiles, kindly asked for a donation in exchange for a picture with Kukulkan. I handed him five dollars, and before I knew it had an iguana on my head. Though named after the Mayan God of War, the iguana, like all reptiles, was surprisingly warm. The greatest joy, however, was that we finally convinced Farida to strike a pose with the animal. Her look was priceless.
Yes, indeed, sometimes all you need is a good iguana!
6
The last auction came. I was ready to give it my all. I had implemented every course of action I could possibly think of, breaking my bank to squeeze every bit of advertising possible.
My worst fears were realized.
I sold nothing. Zip, zilch. Nothing. Nada. Bianca would say ‘nimic’. Piti would say ‘Jesus Gras!’ I was unable to say anything.
Only a dozen people showed up, for word had spread among the passengers that the free art wasn’t free. This was not merely supposition, but based upon the flood of comment cards denouncing me as a liar and promising to spread the word. No idle threats, apparently.
The cruise from hell. Revenue was down across the board. The spa began offering $160 treatments for $60, but had not a single taker. Even the bar sales were down 50%. I didn’t think that was even possible. Marc, too, had missed his sales goals. Even Stefan spoke of ‘taking arms against a sea of troubles and, by opposing, therefore end them’.
Sensation had been struck by a squall on the first day, setting the tone for the whole crossing of the Gulf. While the ship proverbially battened down the hatches, guests literally began looting the gift shop! And the asshole that spread feces on the toilet stalls? Still anonymous by the last day, he had graduated to smearing it on the doors of people’s cabins, too.
I had done all that I was trained to do, all that I could. I just didn’t care anymore. I was a burnt-out husk of a man, ruined by failure, not to mention sore from the expulsion of stress through bruises. I felt like I had gone through a combustion engine. Two near-miss failures in a row was enough to get demoted and lose my ship, but two catastrophic failures would surely get me fired.
7
During the stage talk at the beginning of my third cruise on Sensation, I was a zombie. Marc, inspired, announced that I was from Haiti. Still numb to the world, I emailed Bianca with the news that I had failed. I didn’t know what was next. Was there still a chance that Sundance would only demote me, rather than cast me adrift? I tried to sound as cautiously optimistic as possible, but made it clear that I was currently unable to provide for Bianca the life promised.
Two days later the dreaded response from Sundance came. My personal and ship email accounts both screamed in bold letters:
“CALL ME ASAP - Gene”
One does not receive notice to call Uncle Sam without flinching. This was not a reference to the U.S. government, but a nickname for Gene, the Sundance manager of fleet operations. While he did, in fact, look like Uncle Sam, the name also came from the fact that he was generally a force for good, even if not hesitant to throw his weight around. Sensation was at sea somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico, but I did not want to wait until regular cell phone reception resumed near Mexico. I swallowed the excessive cost to use the ship’s satellite phone and received Gene over a crackling connection.
“You seem to be having some problems,” Gene began simply.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Failing goal twice in a row is inexcusable, and bringing in literally zero is unheard of. Were you sick? Take a pill and get on with it. I have two dozen new trainees looking to replace associates looking to replace auctioneers. Get it?”
“I have lots of excuses, but I won’t bother you with them,” I said. I resisted the urge to mockingly thank him for his support. One does not joke with Gene like that and stay employed. “That said, if you read my reports you’ll see that revenues were less than 50% for every single department, including the bar. If you want verification, I can put you in touch with the hotel director.”
Silence answered me, punctuated all the more by the static.
“Brian...” Gene began, but I interrupted him.
“If you have to cut me, then cut me. But I’ll bring in the money. Give me this cruise to prove it. I’ll double my goal.”
“Every auctioneer says that,” he scoffed. “You all know it’s two strikes and you’re out. Unless you really do double your goal. But what are the chances of that, really, Brian?”
“Try me,” I said flatly.
There was a long pause at the other end of the line. Finally Gene said, “Well, you need to if you want to maintain the average on that ship,” Gene said. “Robin routinely doubled his goals. In fact, I have his last two cruises in front of me. He sold $28K and $35K.”
“I’ll do it,” I promised.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Gene said. “If you double your goals this cruise, I won’t tell the owner, Frederick, about this. If he finds out on his own, you’ll be fired. Hopefully for you, Lucifer isn’t checking. He would tell Frederick. He still hates you.”
He hung up. I sighed.
Gene was lying, of course. He was trying to scare me into selling. Unbeknownst to him, I knew exactly how much Robin had ever sold, and it wasn’t anywhere near double goal every cruise. The numbers Gene had cited were, in fact, the two highest Robin had ever pulled in over the entire year. Indeed, Robin had frequently missed goal, and that was even from the superior home port of Tampa Bay. Most auctioneers were careful to hide all such documentation—competition for ships being so fierce—but Robin was delightfully sloppy. He had left on the sales laptop every file and report from the last ten months.
Uncle Sam was just playing the Sundance game. Why use a carrot when you want to use a stick, work the animal to death, then just get a new one?
But I could play the Sundance game, too. What I withheld from Gene was that in yesterday’s auction, I had already surpassed all my goals.
Chapter 14. Wood
1
And, just like that, life on Sensation completely turned around. I did, indeed, double my goal on that third cruise. And then the next. And the next. I could only surmise the root cause of those first nine nerve-shattering days. Perhaps Carnival thought onboard revenue would remain high during all-but-free cruises. If so, they were quite wrong. They did fix the heavy discounts, even if they didn’t fix the stabilizer. Regardless of all, I made a point of forgetting the past and focusing on the future. It was easy enough, because as sales improved, so did life.
With plenty of sea days providing ample time for now successful auctions, my evenings were open to publicize as I saw fit. Hitherto, as an associate
auctioneer, I was under another’s direction. But now I was the auctioneer, able to enjoy more freedom and flexibility than literally any other position onboard.
Because my art gallery was not positioned ideally on the Promenade deck, I instead made rounds to all the different vendors. Being seen and interacting with the guests was paramount in my line of work. I would make an appearance at the internet café, run by the charming Mexican Susana, who was also working my auctions. Next came the Formalities shop, run by the laughing Hungarian Ildi, who was delightful, if perhaps a bit anxious. I tried to hang out at the excursions desk with the Romanian Oana, but she remained aloof. Mostly, however, I loitered at the centrally located desk of the port & shopping guide. Canadian Marc being my best friend onboard was obviously a nice perk.
After my rounds, most evenings I enjoyed running on the sport deck. The track was an awkwardly tight loop with 11 laps to a mile, so to gauge myself I set my watch alarm. Letting my mind wander freely was easy when flying on the open deck a hundred feet above a black ocean.
That is, until she showed up.
A pretty, lithe blonde sweating in spandex before me on the track was wonderfully distracting. And she was always before me, because no matter how hard I ran—pardon the pun—she outpaced me. I was an accomplished runner, but she was much better.
I had no idea who this woman was, but secretly hoped she was a Steiner. I also had no idea that she would be the cause of the greatest trouble I could imagine. But she wasn’t the only pretty lady who got me trouble, though for entirely different reasons. The next day I was completely blindsided.
Unsinkable Mister Brown (Cruise Confidential 3) Page 23