After the second winning cruise had returned to homeport, I decided to head into New Orleans and reward myself with some oysters. I was striding past the guest elevators near the gangway when a shout startled me out of my wits.
“Brian!” a voice shrieked.
I leapt back with a gasp. I frantically searched for the verbal assailant, but saw no one.
“In here,” the voice pleaded. I recognized the accent as Oana. Her voice emanated from a guest elevator, past a large box gripped firmly by the doors.
“You scared the hell out of me,” I chided. “What are you doing?”
“I need your help.”
That much was obvious. She had been trying to wedge a narrow, but exceedingly long, box into the elevator when the doors closed on her.
“I’m trapped,” her voice continued through the half-closed doors. “On homeport these doors only work with a room steward key.”
I pushed, prodded, and pulled the box until we together managed to stand it upright inside the elevator.
“Thank you,” Oana said, panting from the exertion. She had been unloading supplies, based on her dusty jeans and sweaty T-shirt. Her curly black hair was wrestled back awkwardly by two overwhelmed clips. “Can you help me carry this to my desk? It’s heavy. A steel rack for flyers.”
“Of course. How did you get this thing so far on your own?”
“Marc,” she spat. Her cute face grimaced. “He helped me carry it all the way from the marshaling area. The steward keyed the elevator for us and left, when Marc suddenly ran away.”
“Ran away? That’s odd. He didn’t say anything?”
“Something about wood, I don’t know. You Americans are strange.”
“He’s Canadian. Americans are perfect,” I reminded her.
“North Americans, then,” she corrected, rolling her eyes. She blew out the last of her exasperation as the elevator began its climb. “I’m sorry, by the way, about the other day when I blew you off. I thought you wanted to get in my pants.”
“Well, duh,” I said with a smile. “But that isn’t my primary objective. I have a girlfriend. She’s Romanian, too.”
“Everyone has a girlfriend,” she sniffed. “On ships that doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
She harrumphed as the elevator opened. Together we hauled the box down the Promenade to her desk. We set it down with a heavy thump, then waited to catch our breath. Chief Officer Nino walked by, dressed smartly in his white uniform. Oana gave him a friendly wave and a smile. I called out a simple greeting as well, then began opening the box by sliding a pair of scissors down its length.
I paused, however, when I sensed something was wrong. Oana was standing rigidly at attention. I glanced up to see the XO staring down at me. He was a slender, clean-cut Italian man of late middle age.
“You are in a guest area wearing shorts and sandals,” he noted stiffly.
“Oh! Yes, I’m sorry,” I said, rising. “I was on my way to port when Oana asked me to help her move this. We’ll be done in just a moment and I’ll take the nearest crew door.”
He was not at all satisfied with my explanation. Indeed, Nino looked even more annoyed. He stepped so close that he violated my personal space.
“If I see you even one more time dressed this way, you know what I will do?” he threatened. “I will give you a written warning. A few of those and you are out of Carnival forever.”
I blinked in surprise. I could not fathom why he was so angry.
“And you will refer to me with respect,” Nino continued coldly. “When you see me, you will not ask ‘how are you’, but say ‘good evening, sir.’”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, mustering all the meekness I could. It was hard to swallow my growing irritation.
The XO continued to stare me down for a long minute, then abruptly spun on his heel and stalked away.
“Let’s get this finished,” I muttered irritably, turning to Oana. She stared at me with huge, round eyes.
“I’m sorry, Brian...” she stammered. “I had no idea I’d get you in trouble with this!”
“Forget it,” I snapped. “It wasn’t your fault. I may have warranted a rebuke, but his presentation pissed me off. He could have ordered me to dress appropriately, but instead he threatened me! What the hell is that? Is a polite ‘how are you?’ so informal as to warrant a written warning?”
I released my fuming with a huff, then chuckled. “No good deed goes unpunished!”
2
After stage talk that night—Marc being from Burkina Faso and I from Micronesia—we decided to watch a football game. American football was, of course, hardly acknowledged by the vast majority of the crew. Soccer was the world’s sport of choice, which I found rather trying. I enjoyed playing soccer during my school years, but watching it was dreadfully boring. Piti was to thank for my ‘come to the gridiron’ moment. After enduring eight mind-numbing hours of soccer—boasting a whopping two goals—I longed to unravel the complexity of American football’s seemingly chaotic violence. Doesn’t everyone watch football for intellectual stimulation?
We met in the aft guest lounge, where we could enjoy the game and a cigar. Almost immediately, however, I noticed that the usually unflappable Marc had become, well, flapped.
“Is everything all right?” I asked. “You look positively jumpy.”
Marc, who had been scanning the main Promenade entrance, turned to look at me with surprise.
“I’m sorry, did you say something?”
“Marc,” I said. “You’re freaking me out. You act like somebody put a hit out on you.”
“Actually,” he admitted, “I’m being chased by a lumberjack.”
“Oh, is that all?” I said with a puff of smoke. “Happens to everyone sooner or later. You being Canadian, I would have thought sooner.”
“This guy from New Jersey keeps asking me about lumber prices in Mexico,” Marc explained. “In the middle of my talk about the shops in Cozumel he interrupted me three times about it. He even came up on stage, man! I’m terrified he’s going to ambush me.”
“Well, the Garden State is renowned for its meddlesome lumberjacks, but I’ve got your back. Stay chill, brother.”
Marc smiled and sipped from his beer. “You mock, of course. Seriously, dude, this guy is a weirdo.”
“I wish I had a good forestry joke to lighten the mood,” I said wistfully. “Something clever... about logarithms, maybe. Oh, wait, I know! What’s brown and sticky?”
“What?”
“A stick.”
For a long, long moment Marc regarded me skeptically. Finally he muttered, “No wonder your girlfriend isn’t onboard.”
Oana entered the lounge just then, saving me from what would no doubt be an equally embarrassing parry/riposte. The moment she saw us in the corner, she waved.
“Someone’s looking for you!” she called as she bounced over.
Marc fled.
“Wha-?” Oana asked, startled, as she sat down beside me. “He’s been jumpy all day.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
She smoothed the hem of her flowing dress of bold silver stripes. I, too, remained in my stage-talk formalwear: a double-breasted olive suit with a yellow Picasso tie. Wasn’t this how everyone watched football?
“What did the XO want?” Oana carefully pried.
“Oh, no,” I groaned, setting down my drink. “Now what did I do?”
“Oh! He said he was looking for you a few minutes ago at my desk. I assumed he had already talked to you.”
“Did he look pissed?”
Oana frowned. “I seriously doubt he had been drinking.”
Chief Officer Nino entered the lounge and spied us immediately. He walked straight over and, quite formally, asked if Oana would kindly give us a moment alone. I rose as Oana departed, but Nino motioned for me to remain seated.
“I just wanted to tell you,” he began slowly. “Regarding earlier today... that I was already most up
set for other reasons. I did not mean to be so harsh.”
I blinked a moment, trying to process what I had just heard.
Very, very graciously I replied, “Thank you, sir. It’s extremely kind of you to take the time.”
He nodded, then departed.
I was utterly stunned. A first officer... apologizing? Sensation was a ship of miracles!
But as good as life had become on Sensation, it was not without frustration. Responding to my initial email of dismay on that first cruise, Bianca had complimented my patience and maturity regarding how seriously I took my promise to support her. During that time, Bianca was again on Dan’s crack team that opened the new Carnival Valor in Montfalcone. That came with the usual snippets of tourism and partying, followed by a week of intermittent internet.
Because I rued that sorrowful missive, my subsequent emails had been short. My world had collapsed concurrent to a very rare—and well deserved—perk of her hard work: plenty of time off in port. Only long after she babbled about why Italy was the greatest place on earth did she offer me words of support. No doubt she didn’t realize the magnitude of my dilemma. How could she, if I was not fully forthcoming? Still, I couldn’t help but dwell upon four lines raving about Italy for every one line expressing enthusiasm to join me on Sensation.
The reasons for delaying our joining on Sensation were twofold: her paperwork and my failure. The latter issue, at least, appeared to have passed. When I expressed cautious optimism about retaining Sensation, Bianca offered to apply for a transfer to Sensation’s dining room. Just to be with me, she said. This offer implied her willingness to sacrifice the privileges of working on Dan’s team. She was making an effort.
But was she? We both knew I would rebuff her offer. Sundance could—and often did—transfer auctioneers with only a few days notice, frequently to a different cruise line altogether. Bianca had no chance of keeping up with me via the restaurants. Even if she could, she would continue to work 80 hours a week and we’d never see each other. I sensed this was something different from her, and not actually a real gesture. In a Machiavellian manner, she was even setting me up as ‘the one who gave up on us’.
Wow. Working as an art auctioneer had really gotten me thinking like a schemer! Why was I second-guessing my Bianca? We had enough obstacles without adding head games to the list!
But on came her subsequent email, and her tone had indeed changed. She claimed she was getting all kinds of confusion about what to do. Her friends and coworkers were pushing her hard to accept a promotion to hostess, and then have me follow her around from ship to ship.
I was incensed.
Becoming a hostess would cut Bianca’s income in half. A hostess was lower than the lowest manager on the restaurant totem pole, whereas art auctioneer was an elite position onboard. I had gone through too much for us to take such a preposterous stall lightly. And stall it was: she was obviously hesitant to join me.
I structured an email with my rebuttal of each concern she listed, in order. I was even audacious enough to instruct her to print it out and read it with some M&Ms or whatever ritual she needed to focus, because what I had to say was important.
Bianca and her friends were limiting their progress, and thusly lives, to their own narrow experience: the restaurants. It was all they knew. They were defining success as an easier schedule, easier duties, and perks such as nice meals and wearing nice dresses. That was all crap. Such things were taken for granted by auctioneers as the least of our benefits. As a hostess, it would be the pinnacle of success. The only advantage of her suggested path was stability: an understandable concern, but a high price indeed.
A week passed.
Finally I received an email thanking me for my clarity of thought and helping her through a tough time of indecision. A bit aggressively, I pushed my advantage and made it clear that I had waited a long, long time for her and worked hard to give her this opportunity to break free of the restaurants. Sensation was on its way to becoming a success, though I didn’t have enough track record yet to call it that. I thought of my bad times as the worst-case scenario, but her words implied she thought my good times as the best-case scenario. True, ups and downs were aplenty, but here I was: an auctioneer in record time.
If the foundation of her resistance was stability, I wrote, then get in writing that Carnival will hire her back if she so desires. After all, Dan was the senior maitre d’ of Carnival Cruise Lines and would bend over backwards to keep her.
I was trying to stay positive, but losing my patience. It had been two years!
3
That night I ran. Oh, did I run! I thundered down the track, desperately trying to release my frustrations into the night sky. It, too, was turbulent. The black distance was not complete, for the low horizon flickered red, as if a volcano was erupting just beyond sight. Random bursts of lightning would flare intense yellow, momentarily revealing miles of choppy sea, before returning to a fitful, purple slumber.
Alas, my aggravations were compounded when the pretty blonde runner showed up. She wore spandex shorts and a T-shirt pulled up to reveal her middle. At first, my focus was entirely on myself, my troubles, my pace. I pushed hard, burning muscles commanding all attention. I forced the highest long-distance speed I could muster. After a while, however, I noticed that she was using me as a mere pacer. She ran at my side for a few laps, then kicked into a higher gear and left me in the dust.
Unconsciously, I sped up. She did the same. Soon we were both flying around the track at full throttle, scattering sea gulls and guests inclined towards a light jog. What had begun as just me outrunning my emotions became a fierce competition between silent strangers. I lost track of how many laps we ran. I never lost track of how many I came in second: all of them!
Then I had a blow-out. A calf muscle spasmed and the pain forced me to immediately limp off to the side. My breath sawed roughly through my throat, my heart thumped jarringly in my chest. The victor finished her lap faster than ever, then gracefully pulled over to where I sat on the deck, panting and pooling sweat.
“Well done!” she complimented generously. She was glistening beautifully with sweat, but barely panting. Bitch.
Her face was very pretty. She smiled encouragingly to me. Taking advantage of the break, she loosed her hair from its ponytail and gave it a wild shake. She paced back and forth, keeping her muscles warm. Deck lights outlined the sharp, tight contours of her middle. Each perfectly-defined abdominal muscle popped out in relief. She had the sexiest six-pack I had ever seen.
I wheezed, “Please tell me... you’re some champion... somewhere...”
Still smiling, she said modestly, “Not exactly.”
“Then... at least say... you’re half my age.”
She scrutinized me a moment, then said, “Probably. I’m twenty-one.”
That didn’t make me feel any better. I was only thirty-one.
“I ran for national team of Serbia,” she admitted, accent thick, English unsure.
“At least tell me you’re a Steiner,” I joked, finally catching my breath.
“I am,” she said as she reached out a hand and helped me up. “How you know?”
I chuckled as I limped back to the track. “You must be new if you don’t know the joke about Steiners.”
“Oh,” she replied, suddenly blushing. “We not all sleep around.”
“More’s the pity,” I teased.
We cooled off our muscles by walking—me limping—down the track. We talked for a long time. Her name was Vela, and this was her first contract. Her English was poor, yet she was already taking advantage of the ship’s free language classes to learn Spanish. Unlike most of the spa staff that I had met, Vela was not here for a ‘good time’. She exuded focus. She was incredibly sweet. She was entrancing. An hour passed, the brisk air long ago cooled our steaming bodies. The sea storm made the night electric—or was it for an entirely different reason? A thing for Vela was the last thing I needed right then.
&nb
sp; Or was it?
“Would you like to join me for a drink?”
4
The next day was a blur. Homeports usually are. A delivery of art materials occupied most of my time. I took supreme care to avoid entering guest areas in my ‘unloading clothes’. What really made the time fly, however, were the bits and pieces of Vela.
Off and on, all day, if we didn’t visit briefly in the mess or in the corridor, we talked via phone calls and pages. It was fun. I enjoyed being social in such a manner for the first time in a long, long time. We were playful about it all. Like teens. Stefan would have been proud.
But when I saw her on the Promenade handing out flyers, Vela was all woman. As a representative of the Steiner salon, she radiated confidence with a face and hair made-up to salon perfection. A white dress hugged her statuesque curves lovingly, and her every move made the sequins shiver. Her every move made me shiver! She was busy when I passed by, but managed to glance up from her crowd of gawking admirers to mouth the words, ‘call me’.
I felt a tingle of excitement. Yes, I really did feel like a kid again!
Later that day, after the stage talk, Marc remarked on my different behavior.
“You seem high as a kite,” he observed. “Sell a Picasso or something?”
“Oh, no,” I replied, chuckling. “I’ve just had a good day. Or, I should say, I had a good night.”
He raised his eyebrows inquisitively.
“No, no, nothing like that. I mean, not really. I met someone, that’s all. I’ve been running with a pretty Steiner girl for a while, and I asked her to join me for a drink. It was innocent.”
“Innocent?” he repeated dubiously. “And what did you do, then? Play scrabble?”
“We talked about my ghost book, if you must know,” I defended gamely. “I’m a smart writer and stuff, which is why chicks dig me. Didn’t you know?”
“You dog,” Marc accused with a grin. “Trying the old, ‘scary story’ line, eh? Movies work better, so you can put your arm around them in the theater. Remember, dude, you told me how you met your girlfriend. I see you’re sticking with pick-up lines that work.”
Unsinkable Mister Brown (Cruise Confidential 3) Page 24