I had changed my entire life for this, and wasn’t going to give up on us—not until I had a tangible reason to. Doubts were natural. Separation made them inevitable. What was needed was focus. I had lost it for a moment on Sensation. But did Bianca ever have it?
So I was confused, angry, and impatient with Bianca. This led me into the arms of Vela, where I was merely confused. No, this was just a last, wild fling before settling down. It was the settling down that I wanted! If that was to be denied yet again, was it so wrong to want to spend some time with a lovely, intelligent woman?
I rolled onto my side and kissed Vela on the cheek. She smiled at me drowsily.
“All I have to give is a few more days,” I said. “I would like to spend them with you. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Nothing more, nothing less,” she agreed.
4
I was exceedingly annoyed. Sensation closed access to the gangway at 3:30 p.m. on home port. I checked my watch for the hundredth time. It was 3:20 p.m. The tall, brown-skinned security chief ordered the crew gangway to be pulled up.
“Wait!” I cried, “It’s not 3:30 yet!”
“Close enough,” the chief replied. “All crew are aboard, all visitors are off.”
Three Filipinos disassembled the X-ray machine and pushed it aside. Two Indians muscled the metal plank inside the shell door. One American swore and stormed off.
My fleet manager, Roger, was supposed to have personally met with me to discuss my future with Sundance. His clearance as a guest had been last-minute, and I had figured perhaps his arrival would have been, too. My life was hanging by a thread, and he didn’t have the decency to call? That was his job! Screw him.
I went to the open deck, snapped open my cell phone, and angrily dialed Uncle Sam.
“Why Brian!” Gene said cheerily after I introduced myself. “What can I do for you?”
“You can explain,” I said rather shortly. “Roger was supposed to come aboard today and do so personally. I’m too busy polishing the paperwork on Sensation’s highest sales of the year to deal with a no call/no show.”
“Highest sales of the year?” Gene asked.
“Yes. Check your inbox, it’s all there. I have increased my sales four cruises in a row now, and this last one exceeded anything achieved by the last auctioneer.”
“How do you know that?”
“I have my sources. I have doubled goals for weeks running now. That’s something Robin never pulled off, as you well know. Why are you pulling me off Sensation when I am breaking records?”
Gene was silent a moment.
“Your numbers were good, but not great,” Gene admitted reluctantly.
“Improving every cruise,” I reminded him sharply.
“Look, Brian, we had no ship for Robin. He’s the senior auctioneer. Don’t worry, you’ll get another ship.”
“When?”
“I have you signed up for the advanced training class the last week of February. We’ll decide then.”
“I’ve only been at sea two months and am still fresh. Give me another ship.”
“Not until advanced training. That’s a good thing, Brian, believe me. Some of the others in your class don’t even have their own ship yet. February was the first opening. Assuming you get the seal of approval from Lucifer, you’ll get a ship.”
“I don’t need any further seal of approval,” I pushed. “My numbers speak for themselves. Besides, Lucifer hates me for reasons that defy explanation.”
“True, but some of us like you. See you in Feb.”
He hung up. So did I. I nearly threw the phone overboard. If I had to pass another damn test under the scrutiny of Sundance’s evil trainer Lucifer, I was doomed. Would the drama never cease?
In fact, it was about to get a lot worse.
Farida insisted that I have a going away party on my last night aboard Sensation. To that end, she invited all of our group to gather for a drink after duties permitted. A few of us were not allowed access to guest areas, so Farida took the liberty of designating my cabin. A guest cabin, to be sure, but still quasi-legal for all. This would have suited me fine, except for one thing: Vela wanted to see me on my last night onboard.
Barring Marc, no one else knew about my involvement with Vela. I couldn’t bear to have my friends know that, after months of talking about nothing but Bianca, I had a ship squeeze. Farida nearly swooned with envy at the thought of our international romance. Oana, though secretive about her own past—she came to ships to avoid a marriage proposal—had ties to the Romanian mafias on other ships. And Ildi’s advances, though directed at nearly every male with a pulse, had only been kept at bay by my pleading unwavering faith to Bianca. Simply put, I was leaving and saw no reason to complicate everything for everyone.
The lies began.
I warned Vela that I would be unavailable on the last night, due to overwhelming handover responsibilities. In particular, I told her I had to do a full inventory of all thousand works of art still onboard. That was true. I told her it had to begin at 9 p.m. That was not true.
Vela immediately offered to assist me, commenting excitedly that she got off work at 9 p.m. It was hard not to cringe. Cowards are supposed to cringe, after all.
Lying sucked. No wonder I never did it before. I felt hollow inside. How could anyone get used to that awful feeling? Who the hell would even want to try?
5
In the beginning, I forgot my inner turmoil at the party. The best parties were always organic. Planning may take minutes or months, but the real thrill comes from people: arriving separately, bringing their own special contribution—whether entertainer, listener, or merely a warm body—interacting, then perhaps leaving together. My favorite dynamic about ship parties was the irrelevance of race, color, or creed. The friends laughing and hugging and eating and drinking in my cabin that night covered half the globe. We were white, black, and brown, Christian, Muslim, shamanist, and atheist. I loved that about ships! A good party also usually has a surprise of some sort. Ours began surprising, all right: it began with the laying on of hands.
Marc and Farida arrived first, a little after 9 p.m. But Farida immediately sat on the floor, propped her back against the bed, and rubbed her temples.
“I have the worst headache,” she moaned. She looked up at me apologetically and added, “I’ll try to be cheery, though. I promise.”
Trust Sugar to apologize to someone else for being in pain!
“Would you like me to take it away?” Marc asked gently.
“Whoa, slow down there, tiger,” I interrupted. “I know that sex is the best way to cure a headache, but the party hasn’t even started yet!”
Farida slapped me on the knee.
“If you don’t object,” Marc continued. “I can probably make it go away with some energy work.”
“What do you mean?” Farida asked, frowning.
“A form of energy work,” Marc explained. “You know I’m a fire walker, but that’s just part of my exploring energy.”
“Are you serious?”
“I explore lots of things,” Marc said simply. “I spend a lot of time in the presence of shamans. I lived months in Sedona with spiritual healers before joining ships. There are lots of labels, but it’s really the same as anything else. Praying to God, communing with the Great Spirit, working with universal energy: they’re all just different ways for humans to interact with something greater than themselves, and thusly find comfort. It’s a lot more simple than people seem to think. If you prefer, we can get you some aspirin.”
“No, no,” Farida replied, enchanted. “This sounds interesting. Oh, I just love ships! So many different ways of approaching problems.”
“Shall I leave?” I asked. “I’d like to watch this, though.”
“Stay,” Marc bid. “Let’s all just be quiet for a minute or two.”
Farida sat cross-legged, while Marc moved to sit on the bed behind, legs straddling her.
“Lean forward,”
he ordered gently.
Farida closed her eyes, with a hint of an excited smile. Marc ran his hands up and down her back in a light form of massage. His features were exceptionally relaxed—as usual—but soon took on a look I had never seen in him before. Though there was no pinching of the brow or any other such indication, his face exuded extreme concentration. He had definitely entered into a place that was different. I would not use the word trance, because he seemed obviously in control of himself.
Marc’s hands moved over Farida’s back in what could only be called a searching pattern. Then suddenly he made motions like scooping something off her skin and flinging it away. This continued for about two minutes, and the room began to feel distinctly heavier. Then suddenly Marc opened his eyes and helped Farida sit up with a gentle tug on her shoulders.
She blinked a moment, then stared up at him with wide, incredulous eyes.
“Why, Marc,” she marveled, “My headache is completely gone! Brian, did you see what he just did? It really worked!”
“Wow,” I admitted. “Just to be sure, had you tried sitting quietly before you came here, or already taken aspirin or anything?”
“No pills, and I lay down for half an hour in my cabin,” Farida explained, still squawking excitedly. “It didn’t help my head at all!”
“It wasn’t in your head,” Marc said simply, pouring himself a glass of red wine. “You should probably work on your posture.”
Suddenly a pounding rattled the door. In popped Harald with a bottle of liquor.
“I’m here, bitches!” he stated. “What, there’s no food? What kind of shitty party you guys throwing here?”
So much for positive energy.
Harald inhaled deeply through his nose, then only reluctantly loosed it with a satisfied sigh.
“Ahh...” he said. “I love the smell. Reminds me of home!”
Romanian Oana arrived shortly thereafter. Hungarian Ildi brought several bottles of champagne. Mexican Susana brought her new boyfriend, Canadian Michel. Junior, a Jamaican head waiter friend, came by later. Indeed, the door was left open because people came and went throughout the night. Junior left to serve the maitre d’s table, for example, and Ildi had paperwork. Fortunately, she returned with even more champagne. The two that should have left, ironically, stayed the whole time. Susana and Michel really needed to get a room for themselves.
Ah, but they were in love! They were also a study in opposites attract: she was a rigidly methodical computer manager, he was a spontaneous jazz musician; she was only arguably under five feet tall, he was undeniably over six feet; she preferred hot weather and jalapeños, he liked cold winters and cheese curds. But love conquers all. They laughed and hugged and rollicked all night. There was love to spare, in fact, and everyone glowed in their presence. They gave us all hope. Certainly they were a reminder to me of what I was fighting for.
A highlight of the night was reliving our recent trip to Cancun. I had rented a car in Playa del Carmen, and in crammed Marc, Farida, Susana, Michel, and our Bulgarian friend Pavlina. We played tourist: lunched, shopped, saw the sights. Farida even tried her hand at driving. Backing the car out of the parking spot had been so stressful for her—and entertaining for us—that later she joined me on a bungee chair for a wild fling a hundred feet into the air, calling it ‘small potatoes’. This last statement was made in honor of my being from Iowa, she said. Hey, she was trying.
The trip had been a delight from start to finish, and ranked absolutely as one of the best days of my entire ship career. The activities were not so special, but the people sure were.
Making the memory even more special, Michel revealed a presentation he had created by consolidating the photos and video from our cameras. Seeing highlights from everyone’s perspective was enlightening. All three of my trips through the buffet line were documented by friends who marveled at how Americans ate. Marc’s post traumatic stress was revealed when we drove past a Home Depot. We were all impressed by Susana dancing with our waiter, as if we were in a ship dining room. Finally a video caught us all singing Christmas carols while I unsuccessfully tried navigating Mexican streets.
We laughed so loud, it was amazing the neighbors didn’t call security.
The alcohol began flowing even more freely, which made cramming nine bodies into my cabin more agreeable. Marc was particularly pleased at being pressed into Oana all night. Lucky bastard.
By midnight, it was time for room service. We ordered four roast beef and brie on baguettes, four shredded chicken fajitas with mixed greens, four focaccia with basil, grilled zucchini and garlic aoli, and four simple turkey on white bread sandwiches. We were ready for action! Apparently the kitchen was not.
“Would you look at this?” Marc called upon opening the lid off the first plate. “The sandwich guy must have some personal issues: look at these thumbprints!”
He held up the plate for us all to inspect. Pressed deeply into the soft white bread of a turkey sandwich were the undeniable thumbprints of an overly aggressive chef. Marc illustrated for us a likely scenario regarding how such foul play came to be. He pantomimed an angry man slamming together sandwiches, face filled with fury over such a large order at midnight. Coming from Mr. Chill himself, it was hilarious.
“What would make a man turn so violent towards a sandwich?” Marc mumbled as he devoured the prosecutorial evidence.
“You’ve never worked in ship restaurants,” Junior noted.
“Hear hear!” I agreed heartily, offering a toast.
The phone rang. I was in the far corner, and rushed to pick it up. Before I could get near, however, Ildi snatched up the receiver.
“This is the Goddess!” she answered drunkenly.
She frowned a moment, then suddenly burst out laughing. “She hung up!”
“How do you know it was a she?” asked Oana. “Maybe it was security. We’re getting pretty loud.”
“Of course it was a woman,” Ildi teased. “Who else would call Brian after midnight?”
I slumped back into my seat. Such a perfect party. Ruined by my lies.
6
The party ended about half past 1 a.m., because most of us had to get up early for home port duties. I myself had a 6 a.m. handover with the returning auctioneers Robin and Vanessa. That did not mean I was ready to retire, however. There was one very uncomfortable mess I had created that needed clearing up.
Vela was not in her cabin when I knocked, but her cabin mate informed me that Vela had spent most of the night in the crew bar. I checked there next, but Vela was nowhere to be found. Ildi was, though: getting wildly drunk with a waiter. I wasn’t sure if I was happy for him, or worried for him.
Five minutes later I found Vela running on the track. She flashed past me like a bullet, chewing up miles in record time. As always, she had her hair pulled into a pony-tail, a T-shirt yanked up, and spandex shorts. She was a sweat-glistening goddess. This was who she was: a competitor, always training, always bettering herself. I was fortunate my path had crossed hers so briefly on her way up. She saw me step onto the sports deck, but manifestly ignored me.
Vela deserved to keep me hanging. I waited patiently, wallowing in guilt. I felt like a kid who stole candy just to see if it was exciting or not. Only it wasn’t candy. And it wasn’t exciting. What, would I have preferred to find it thrilling? Of course not! This affair, probably like all of them, was a lose-lose scenario. For every ‘Susana and Michel’, there were countless ‘Brian and Velas’.
Vela blasted away another three laps, then slowed to a walk.
“So,” she said, panting. “Party over?”
“Yes,” I said simply.
“Your ‘inventory’?” she asked, somehow making a pant sound accusing.
“Starting soon.”
“You’ll get no help from me,” she said flatly.
“Look, Vela,” I said. “The party was thrown by my friends. It was a very surprising and happy thing. We kept the door open because everyone was invited to c
ome in. Is that how you knew I had a party? You walked by the door?”
She nodded, staring down at the track beneath her shoes. She finally caught her breath.
“You should have come in,” I said.
That much was sincere. The insincerity followed.
“A friend said I missed a call while in the bathroom. I figured it was you and called your cabin. You weren’t there and, well, the party kinda took over.”
Vela stopped pacing. She let out a sigh, then a sniff, then untied her hair to give it a violent shake.
“Look, Vela,” I said again meekly. “I’m sorry the last night worked out so poorly. Nothing has worked out this contract. The first two weeks were the most stressful of my life. Meeting you was a wonderful surprise, even if we both knew it would be short-lived. I asked you for a few days, and you accepted. I’m sorry I screwed up the last one so bad.”
“It’s OK,” she said graciously. “We had fun. Nothing more, nothing less.”
We embraced tightly for a moment, when suddenly Vela pulled back. She looked down, aghast at all of her sweat soaking into my silk Tommy Bahama shirt.
“So we can hit the shower now?” I teased.
I was answered by a towel thrown in my face.
7
The handover was a goddamn mess.
For some reason that defied explanation, the port authority required that I leave the ship by 9:30 a.m. Handovers invariably run out of time when departing auctioneers leave in the late afternoon! The good news was that Sensation was Robin and Vanessa’s old stomping ground, so we could dispense with everything but the inventory. The bad news was that at 6 a.m. only Robin showed up. Vanessa had left him to his fish pills.
Unsinkable Mister Brown (Cruise Confidential 3) Page 26