* * *
I was tired of struggling through life. There was no substance, no stability. I find one good man, and he turns out to be a cheat. That was the way it had been for more than a decade. Now I’m stuck, alone on a couple’s cruise, and he’s at home with his pregnant wife.
1
It was impossible; it must’ve been, this white high-rise, lying on its back in the water. At least, that’s what the ship seemed like to Lori, as she dragged—rather than wheeled—her suitcase downhill towards the pier.
This wasn’t her world. The backdrop was there; she saw the water every day, but now there were twenty floors—two-thousand feet—of recreation and debauched luxury, standing where there should’ve been a horizon. She couldn’t believe it.
It wasn’t exciting, like winning the lottery or visiting a theme park—no tears of joy. She didn’t want to go on a cruise, and she stuck by that. But something had been happening with Tim these past few weeks. There would be moments where he’d go quiet, and she’d smile. Then he’d smile, and they’d stutter or laugh. He did it at dinner just two days ago.
It meant something. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he stopped himself and shook his head, illuminating his shaggy mop with every shade of gold. Lori needed to know what that ‘something’ was—what it meant, and in a sense, give in to it, let it happen, and finally take a pause in life.
She also needed that halo, which was what she was looking for when she made her way down to the pier, dodging passengers walking back and forth. She was stuck with one arm raised to her forehead, holding off the sweat; the other pulling her bag, which was frayed. A hole was starting to form from the canvas scraping against the concrete.
She wasn’t sure she was strong enough to carry it; maybe she could make it down to the pier, but not all the way up to the ship, through security and check-in. She was going to need some help.
More than likely, he was already there. She woke up late after staying up the night before packing. All of her things were scattered around the house—her tickets and passport, buried under old letters on the kitchen table; her bathing suit, a forgotten lump in the back of her sock drawer; the travel hygiene kit, which she’d just bought, she found hidden behind her new jeans on the top shelf of her closet—for some reason. By the time she was somewhat satisfied that she had everything—after having checked through it all countless times—it was almost two in the morning.
When she woke up, she had an hour to get down to the port, which meant that Tim was probably calling her. She should’ve called him back before she left, but she was in such a rush, putting on makeup in the back of her cab. She fished her phone out when she was about to take the last exit on the freeway, and the screen wouldn’t turn on.
Tim was probably already looking for her, shuffling through the river of people. As soon as Lori saw the way they swarmed in packs around the pier entrance, she knew that she was going to have to make it easy on him—stay put and wait.
She found a concrete bench, still safe on land, and sat watching the stream of passengers, moving down from the parking garage to the pier. Twice, large groups passed, all wearing the same gold visors with the word ‘Reorientation’ printed on the rims. They were all middle-aged, and the wives all seemed to be herding their husbands, some dragging them by the hands.
The men were what caught Lori’s eye. Many were good looking—tan and toned, perfect skin—most with some version of spiked or wavy hair; there was faded denim and expensive slacks—maybe plaid shorts or khaki—something to stand out from the rest. A lot of them also had manicured nails, shaved legs—limp wrists and tailored eyebrows.
Then there were the youngsters, the partiers—the guys that were too sexy, too perfect, and the women that came strutting past like they were on a catwalk. One had straight blond hair, just past her chin—a perfect, neat line, with fake cheekbones like two peaches. She was wearing nothing but a white piece of cloth, secured with a gold ribbon at the waist. It draped down her body, waving at the edges, as if the wind itself was bent on perfecting her red-carpet look.
Behind her, a man was striding alongside a young woman towing their luggage. It was impossible to miss. A creature like that—an ape with pale spikes and orange muscles bulging out of a black tank top—he had the stench of a true man whore.
He looked like he was ready to push the girl down onto her knees, and his wife clearly noticed. She pulled two bills out of her bra, threw them at the girl, who ran away without them, her face red from tears. Then she marched over and slapped the man upside the head. “Did you just give her our room number? The fuck is wrong with you, huh?”
“Y-you said we could.” He stammered, his voice was stuck in a droll tone.
“Not with the first fucking girl we find,” she baulked.
“I’m gonna get some anyw—ARGH! FUCK!” He hunched over, holding his crotch, where she bashed her knee into it, and his jeans slid low in back, showing off the strap of his lime-green thong.
“Go get the luggage.”
He recovered fast and rushed over to get the cart, while his wife resumed her catwalk. Lori couldn’t help but laugh, thinking of those two on a couple’s cruise, cheating on one another the whole time. It would be all out war.
When they were gone, she checked up the pier, closer to the ship. She stood at the sight of a perfect halo, resting behind a trio of women fanning themselves with their plastic visors.
She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder. It must’ve weighed eighty, maybe even a hundred pounds, so she was glad to have somebody to help her carry the load. Now that the crowd was getting thicker and people were starting to board the ship, she was going to have to hurry.
An incoming stampede of billowing white and yellow came bursting past before she could realize what was going on. It was a choir group, fully robed and rushing through, forcing people to give way or be trampled. She checked back and was nearly barreled over by a chest full of black fabric and the scent of something sweet that reminded her of caramel. “Are you alright?”
She covered her face and looked away, ready to dash. The man staring down at her had this one, infuriating problem. It was two inches long, thin, black, and it was hanging down his forehead, like a pheromone. There was nothing in this world, not one thing that could make her blush consistently, except those fucking curls; well, that and a good smile—the kind that lit up a face. He had it, and he knew it.
“Tell me you’re not here by yourself, are you?”
“No.” She did her best give him a sour look and some space.
“Are you sure?” his condescending tone grated her the wrong way. She turned to walk off in the direction where she saw Tim. The trio of ladies had multiplied into a crowd, wearing pink ribbons and matching baseball caps. Some also had wigs and lumpy bras. Breast cancer. Why?
The ladies and their husbands were just standing around, hugging and greeting another, completely oblivious to the fact that they were blocking the flow of traffic—like cattle blocking the highway.
It was infuriating, but Lori still did her best to be polite when she squeezed by. “I’m sorry, if I could just get through...Sorry...I—excuse me.”
She kept going, past various groups, formal or otherwise, until she found herself dwarfed by the people around her, unsure of which direction she was facing. She condensed herself as much as she could, apologizing, until she saw golden rays of light, sticking out between bodies. “Thank God,” she huffed, unwilling to carry the bag any longer.
She shoved through, between a man and his wife. “Hey!”
The woman shrieked, and Lori could sense them both angry behind her. But she wasn’t paying attention. The halo was gone, surrounding the head of a worker, wearing a green reflective jacket, walking back up to the parking garage. He had just hung a rope, cordoning off the pier entrance with a sign that said, ‘Disembarking Soon.’
Now everyone was herding themselves in one giant block towards the ship. She didn’t have the energy
to keep looking, so she just gave in and followed along with the rest.
Impatient tempers flared. The magic of arriving had worn off, and there were angry scowls, fighting and more than one blowout. Older couples were hissing at one another, their voices kept low, while the younger pairs screamed and went to talk to other people. Several times, Lori saw women running back to the parking lot.
She left at noon, and she didn’t get through security until the sun was down. By that time, she would’ve been happy with a quick kiss and a pillow. It was her fault; she should’ve checked her phone before she left to make sure it was charged.
Now her arm would be sore and chafed from carrying the bag. She almost dropped it in the water while she was waiting on the boarding ramp, stuck with no railing and a dozen other people.
Once she was on the ship, she decided to drag it. It was a little embarrassing; everything was so clean and perfect; the floors were inky green, streaked with webs of white; the walls were wooden panels, stained burgundy and auburn.
Landscape paintings had been hung up, between smooth white columns. Every shade of green, blue and violet, yellow dots and wisps of pale rose, clashed with the wood and combined with the marble, making her feel like she was in a palace.
It was humbling, knowing that the halls on each side circled this massive thing, and that each of those halls could easily house more than a hundred people. She wouldn’t have believed it had it not been for the crowd, mobbing the end of. It was thick enough to keep anyone from getting through it without squeezing past.
Lori picked up her bag, turned to the side and came rushing at the tight line in back. “Excuse me. Excu—
“AH! Get off me,” a woman screamed.
“What are you doing!?” another man yelled.
Everyone turned to stare, and the crowd parted so she could get through, towards the woman standing at the front. She, like everyone else in the group, was wearing a green ribbon, and she was holding a megaphone. She waited until Lori was past to lift it to her mouth.
“Now I want everyone to turn to the one you love and thank them for valuing you enough to be here today.”
“Hey,” A man bellowed out, “get the hell out of the way.”
Rather than face a stampede, Lori went to go see if she could hunt down her room. If the main hall set the tone, the atrium was the centerpiece—literally, it was the center of the ship, encircled by retail stores, boutiques, designers and jewelers—separated by glass elevator shafts shooting up past the catwalks lining the decks above.
They had been lined with carved wooden bannisters and held up by white columns—many with vines and flowers carved into the side, so that it looked like they had been permanently frosted. Some of them had real flowers, nets of small pink and pale blue veils that hung from the catwalks.
There were faux kerosene lamps, grandfather clocks and grand staircases. Signs, attached to fake light poles, led passengers to outdoor promenades, where they would always have a lounger and immediate access to alcohol.
The ceiling was a fogged glass dome, lined with wrought iron. It looked like it was just waiting to crack and rain down glass, shredding everyone below it, or maybe the bars would come to life and start ripping people off the ground.
Scattered through the room, there were Greek columns topped with interactive touchscreens. When Lori approached one, her eyes landed on the question mark in the upper right corner. Below it, there was a button for the map. She went to touch it, and the screen barely responded. She had to stab at it, to the point where she felt like the tip of her finger was going to snap off.
An excited female voice chimed out, “Thank you for choosing Capital. We hope you enjoy your experience on the...” the voice skipped. “The Lunafreya for...Couples,” the screen flickered, and the sound skipped. “You have the privilege of sailing on the luxury liner where new love blossoms and old flames are rekindled. You can shop at one of our many clothing stores, boutiques, and souvenir outlets, enjoy the nightlife—dine gourmet, or enjoy classic favorites. You can even spend a quiet night alone with freshly made dishes brought straight to your room.” She said that last bit like somebody had just found her g-spot. Her voice vanished for a half a second, skipped then asked, “Would you like to see a list of full amenities?”
Lori punched the ‘no’ button, and the ‘yes’ button flashed green. A picture of a theater stage came up, and a male voice started in, scrambled and skipping. “The L-l-lunafreya is...and dine with the stars—pleased to present...Maggie Stone, America’s favorite cowgirl ventriloquist, and John Parker, the—Yuri Sung, the famo—
She punched the screen again and an urgent voice said, “You may skip the ad in... one hundred and twenty seconds.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
She looked around for the closest elevator and took her chances with one on the other side of the atrium. People were taking their time, talking with the doors held open, blocking each other’s way. It took her twenty minutes to get to her deck, and her room was on the other side of the ship.
At least she knew it would be nice. Tim had the taste of an emperor. She wasn’t surprised when she walked inside and saw the straight-backed couches arranged in center of the room, behind them, an armchair sitting beneath a mantel. The fire was fake, but it did add to the ambience.
The vase caught Lori’s eye. It was Chinese porcelain, blue, filled with pink roses and swimming with gilded coy fish. When she came closer to look at it, she noticed a strip of paper resting beneath. She pulled it out and opened it. It said: “I love you, I’m sorry. I’ll see you soon.”
He must have typed it up and printed it out himself after going through the hassle of boarding. That was sweet. It was rare for him to do nice things like that.
Just this tiny gesture, it made her stomach jump. She knew why he asked her to go. It terrified and excited her. Even thinking about it was painful, so she shoved it to the back of her mind; now, she couldn’t ignore it.
The Lunafreya wasn’t the kind of place where couples came to hook up or spend a weekend together. It was where they rejoiced their love, rebuilt their marriage, and maybe even proposed a new one. That’s why Tim kept begging her to go.
She left the note where it was and admired the roses for a moment, before forcing herself to carry her bag back to her room. She left it right inside the door and immediately collapsed on the bed. As soon as she closed her eyes, she was out..
2
She was never going to forget the image of the blue and white checkered tile, covered in grease and muddy footprints, or Mrs. Lipton’s mottled lips, slurping up layers of artificial crab. The old woman would ask for extras on everything. Then, as soon as Lori would turn to walk away from the table, she’d spill her drink over, and give an unenthusiastic, “Oops.”
There was no way of knowing when she was going to do it, so there was no preparing. She couldn’t be stopped, either. She always waited until Lori wasn’t looking. It was well-thought out.
After all that, she didn’t even have the decency to leave a tip—not that it would have made a difference. Bryan took half of everything she made, and that wasn’t the only thing he did. He had a secret. He was planning something. She didn’t realize what it was until it was too late.
He started doing rounds, moving from table to table, asking about the service, while he schooled the new busser on how to do her job. The same thing happened a year ago, when she was first hired. She distinctly remembered the last waitress announcing that her one-year anniversary was the day after Bryan let her go.
Sure enough, when Lipton dropped her glass, on Lori’s three-hundred sixty-fourth day at Steak Shanty, Bryan didn’t charge her for the water like he’d done in the past. He told Lori that she’d assaulted a customer.
Then he pulled her into his office and spilled. There was a law signed a few years back that allowed him to pay servers half the minimum wage—a quarter of the standard in every other industry—so long as he clocked their time as on the job
training.
That’s how she broke. She decided that she was going to let it happen. Life was coming her way; love had broken through, and Tim was right. She was going to have to learn to trust him to take care of her if she ever wanted to be happy. She’d tried to do this on her own—keep everything together—but it wasn’t working.
When she got out of Bryan’s office, after kicking him to the ground, she took her place at the bus stop and texted Tim two words: “I’ll go.”
“B,” a shrill voice sliced through the wall between cabins and echoed through the room. “B, as in Boise...Boy, would I love to go to Boise, Idaho. Four, the number four. B4, ladies and gentlemen, B4...Anyone? B4...? No? Alrighty, then, moving on...G...”
The announcer went on, improvising with tired clichés, while Lori lay bunched up in the sheets. Hours ago, she awoke in complete darkness to the sound of a woman screaming and turned over to check the clock on the nightstand. It wasn’t even three in the morning.
There was another, softer cry, quickly drowned out by the television, which must’ve been a few feet away from her head, because she could feel it vibrating. Since then, she’d been awake, trying to figure out how she was going to get to sleep.
Dawn’s blue light was already creeping through the porthole on the back wall to her left, and she still hadn’t given up. She was hoping that, when the sun had risen, the people in the next room would wake up and go to the buffet. They would, at some point, but there was no telling when that would be. It was just a matter of waiting through this torture.
She couldn’t imagine how anyone could possibly spend this much time on bingo, much less devote an entire channel to the game. It should have started with a disclaimer, warning people that it might cause suicidal ideation.
“Bingo!”
The ensuing blast, she decided, must’ve been designed for hearing aids. Soon, Tim would wake up, knock on her door, and she’d have to do her best to act like this was the most amazing thing in the world—a couple’s cruise. Yay.
Sweetest Obsessions - Anthology Page 23