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Torquere Press
www.torquerepress.com
Copyright ©2008 by Torquere Press
First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2008
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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CONTENTS
Sore Winner
Rough Edges
Boredom Through the Ages
Contributors’ Bios
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Definition: pad'dle : Show Spelled Pronunciation [pad-l] Show IPA Pronunciation noun, verb, -dled, -dling.
-noun
2. any of various similar implements used for mixing, stirring, or beating.
4. such an implement or a similarly shaped makeshift one, used to spank or beat someone.
18. to stir, mix, or beat with or as with a paddle
Origin: 1375-1425; late ME padell (n.)
Source: dictionary.reference.com/browse/paddle
Etymology: 1407, padell “small spade,” from M.L. padela, perhaps from L. patella “pan, plate,” dim. of patina. Meaning “short oar with a wide blade” is from 1624. As an instrument used for beating clothes (and slaves, and schoolboys), it is recorded from 1828, Amer.Eng.; the verb meaning “to beat with a paddle, spank” is first recorded 1856. Paddlewheel is from 1805.
Source: www.etymonline.com/index.php?search=paddle&searchmode=none
Sore Winner
By Kiernan Kelly
The Coral Queen of the Caribbean was her full name, and she well deserved such an illustrious title. She was over a thousand feet long from bow to stern, weighing in at more than one hundred-thirty tons. She boasted fifteen decks, four formal dining rooms, an entire shopping mall, and over two dozen smaller bar-and-grills, nightclubs, casinos, and theaters. The Queen was a floating, luxury playground, and for the next week, I had free reign to play in her sandbox.
I needed this vacation—badly. Five years of scrimping, saving, living in a dive apartment, and working nearly twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week as I fought to carve out a territory in the marketing jungle of New York had taken their toll. I was getting old before my time. Gray already streaked the auburn hair at my temples by my thirtieth birthday.
Failure was never an option. I don't lose. Even as a kid, I was always driven to win. If I was in a competition, a spelling bee or a board game, I did my damnedest to win and usually succeeded.
I hadn't changed much as an adult. My personal life was nearly non-existent, and I had to pinch every penny until it screamed, but I was determined to make a success of my marketing company or die trying.
I knew I was reaching the end of my rope with my business. Funds were low; I had a minimal staff, creditors breathing down my neck, and just enough left in my personal bank account to buy a bullet and rent a gun. It all came down to one client, one last shot at making it big. For the last year and a half, I'd worked day and night on the Anderson account—schmoozing, wining and dining the client to lock them in—and scraping the bottom of my bank account in the process—then overseeing the new campaign.
Anderson Tires was an old family business, stodgy and stuffy; their previous ads lacked the slightest bit of creativity. My assistants joked that the first chariot wheels were probably made by the Anderson people, and they were still using the same ads now as they had then. We decided to bring them kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century, going after the younger, hipper consumer.
We held our breaths when ads went live six months ago, and didn't exhale until the numbers started coming in. To our vast relief, all indicators pointed to a successful campaign. Anderson Tires was suddenly edging out the giants in the tire business, emerging as the most popular brand on the market, and they owed it all to my team's collective creative genius. The slogan—"This ain't your Grandpa's rubber"—was becoming a household catch phrase. The client was happy, my creditors were thrilled, and my bank account was ecstatic. The downside—if it could be called that—was, while my financial worries were over, my work had just begun.
As a direct result of our success with the Anderson account, the phones began ringing off the hook. Everyone, it seemed, wanted the new darlings of Madison Avenue, Manchester Marketing, to work on their new ad campaigns. I turned away more clients than I accepted, and still had too much of a workload for the company to handle. I rented a larger office, and hired more staff. I gave my assistants a raise, signed the lease on a much more spacious apartment near the office, allowed myself one long, piteous sigh, rolled up my shirtsleeves and got to work.
"Morgan, if you don't take a vacation, you're going to implode. You look like something the cat coughed up.” My secretary, Janice, had been with me since I first opened my doors for business, and was the only person in my employ who dared address me so casually, and remind me of how shitty I looked in the same breath.
"We're a success. That's all that matters. I never lose, and I don't intend on starting now. We have new clients, Janice. Do you realize how much work we have to do?” I never looked up from my keyboard as my fingers flew across the keys, typing up an idea for the Van Dyke account.
Janice reached down to the outlet and pulled the plug to my computer. I blinked at the suddenly black screen. “Are you crazy?"
"Another day or two with you and your Type A personality, and I'll be ready for a rubber room."
"I need to—"
"Take a vacation,” she said firmly, reaching over the desk to poke me in the shoulder. “Do you realize you almost took off the copyboy's head because he pushed the wrong button in the elevator? The poor kid nearly shit his bloomers."
"Janice..."
"Now, Morgan,” she said, sliding a piece of paper with the travel agent's phone number on it across the desk. “I swear to God if you don't do it right now, I'll call your mother and tell her you're killing yourself with work."
I knew it wasn't an idle threat. Although I loved her, the last thing I needed was my mother descending on my office in a whirlwind of chicken soup, jars of Vick's Vapor Rub, and questions about my eating habits and bowel movements.
I caved, made the reservation, and now found myself standing on the pier looking up at the behemoth that would be my floating home for the next week.
I climbed the gangplank and found myself on the Lobby Deck, just as a detached voice on the loudspeakers boomed, “Last Call. All passengers aboard". The massive motors of the ship rumbled, slight tremors rocking beneath my feet. I looked down at my ticket, and saw I was assigned Suite 12225, on the Spa Deck, what the travel agent gushingly referred to as a penthouse suite. Until then, I'd been unaware cruise ships had penthouses, but she assured me it was the epitome of luxury, and the only way to sail for someone of my discriminating tastes. I didn't tell her I'd spent the last five years living in a basement apartment with cracked walls and a bathroom so tiny the roaches and I couldn't fit in it at the same time.
There was a line of stewards, all dressed impeccably in crisp white uniforms, waiting to escort VIP guests to their suites. I didn't want an escort. I just wanted to be left alone, and skirted the line. A quick perusal of the ship's deck plans, conveniently hanging on a wall near the Purser's Desk, informed me the Spa Deck was the twelfth deck on the ship, located just below the Sky and Sun decks. I found the elevators, and stepped inside behind a small herd of elderly women. They smelled like lavender and Ben Gay ointment, chattered excite
dly, and flashed their dentures at me. To my eternal gratitude, they got off the elevator two decks later on the Promenade Deck. I rode the rest of the way up by myself.
My suite was located at the end of a lushly carpeted hallway studded with identical white doors trimmed with gold. Only the small, tasteful brass markers bearing the room numbers differentiated them. Suite 12225 was the last door on my left. I slid my keycard through the slot, opened the door, and stepped inside.
The travel agent was right, I thought as I tossed my keycard onto the dresser and looked around. It was a sumptuous suite, much larger than I'd anticipated, boasting a king-sized bed, a small sitting room with a large plasma screen TV and computer center, a bathroom complete with Jacuzzi, and a balcony. I opened the sliding glass doors and stepped outside, taking a couple of minutes to appreciate the steep drop down from the balcony to the water.
I felt the ship rock gently, and I wondered how long it would take me to get my “sea legs.” The ship was moving slowly, cutting into the green-black water, leaving whitecaps in her wake.
Back inside, a stack of luggage was waiting for me, piled neatly next to the bathroom door. I immediately noticed that not all of the suitcases were mine. Someone made a mistake, I thought as I flicked my gaze admiringly over the Louis Vuitton cases mixed in with my own battered Samsonite. Those suitcases are worth more than my kidneys. Whoever belongs to them is going to be pissed when they realize they're missing. I'd just picked up the phone to call the Purser and report the error, when I heard the room door open. I put the receiver down, turning, thinking they'd discovered the error themselves and sent a cabin steward to fetch the luggage.
It was immediately apparent that the dark-haired man standing inside the door was not a member of the ship's crew. He was dressed in a t-shirt and cargo shorts, wearing flip-flops, and the same startled, confused expression I knew colored my own features.
"Who are you?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow at me.
"What can I do for you?” I asked simultaneously, my own eyebrow arching.
He ducked his head outside the room, obviously checking the suite number on the brass plaque, looked at the luggage piled by the bathroom, then turned his expressive dark eyes toward me. “This is Suite 12225."
Ding, ding! We have a winner! Give the boy a kewpie doll. “You're right. This is Suite 12225. What room are you looking for?"
"Suite 12225. I've found it, but now I must ask why you're in it."
"Probably because it's the suite I was assigned.” Who is this guy, and what is he trying to pull? He looked familiar, but I couldn't place him. What I also couldn't help was noticing his tanned, good looks, and the hard body barely disguised by the thin t-shirt and shorts, but I refused to let my mind wander in that direction.
"That's impossible. This is my suite.” Those dark eyes began to smolder, the smile leaving his full lips.
"I'm sorry, but you must be confused. This is my cabin,” I said, trying to keep my voice level and my temper in check. I picked up the tiny, white cardboard sleeve my keycard had come in, waving it at him. The number “12225” was written on it.
The anger in his eyes flared. “They must have made a mistake with the reservations. I always have this suite when I sail on this ship.” He flashed his own keycard sleeve at me, showing me that it had the identical number written on it. “We can get this sorted out quickly enough. I'll call the Purser."
He picked up the phone and pressed a couple of buttons. “Hello? Yes, is Marjorie there? This is Adam Rose in Suite 12225."
Adam Rose? Could he be the same Adam Rose of the Rose Hotels? I thought his handsome face was familiar—I'd seen him on television from time to time, at one star-studded event or another. No wonder he had matching Louis Vuitton luggage—the man was worth billions. My first thought was what a coup it would be to get the Rose Hotel account for my firm, although it was quickly squelched as my competitive spirit roared ferociously to the surface. Well, Mr. Adam-I-Have-More-Money-Than-God-Rose, this is my suite, and I'm not giving it up!
"Hello, Margie. Yes, there seems to have been a mix up with my reservations. I'm in my suite with a Mister ... uh...?” He looked at me questioningly.
"Morgan Manchester, of Manchester Marketing,” I said, hoping he'd heard of my company and its mercurial rise to the top of the industry, although I doubted it. He had people who took care of that end of his business, leaving him free to jet set, flitting around the world at a whim.
"Mr. Manchester, who, it appears, has also been assigned this suite. I need you to sort this out quickly, find Mr. Manchester another room, and send someone to retrieve his luggage."
Was he kidding? I wasn't going anywhere. “Now, wait just a minute, pal! I'm not—"
He held up an imperious hand, cutting me off as he continued speaking to Margie. “Say again? Yes, of course.” He hung up and looked at me. “She's on her way up. She said something about a glitch in their new reservations system."
"I'm not leaving this suite. You can find another one. This one is mine."
"Don't be ridiculous. I've sailed this ship so many times I practically own it. This is my suite, always has been. I never stay in another."
"There's always a first time."
"Not for me."
"Then we have a problem,” I said, folding my arms across my chest.
"No, you have a problem. I have a suite."
"Possession is nine tenths of the law. I was here first."
"Are you going to stamp your feet and stick your tongue out at me, too?” His beautiful brown eyes rolled. “You might as well give it up. You're going to lose."
"I never lose."
"Neither do I."
We stood glaring at one another in stony silence, neither willing to look away first. I'd never met a man who could stand against my most baleful stare, and would have been impressed with him if I weren't so angry. Finally, a soft, polite knock at the door broke the spell.
"Come in!” we barked in unison.
A petite, blond woman dressed in a white blouse emblazoned with the cruise line's insignia, and a slim, knee-length blue skirt slipped into the room. Her eyes were wary as she looked between Rose and me. She reminded me of an antelope forced to referee a fight between two lions, as if no matter which of us won, she was going to lose.
"Have you found Mr. Manchester another room?” Adam asked her, although he stared at me, as if daring me to defy him.
Of course, I did just that.
"He means, did you find Mr. Rose another room?” I countered, refusing to back down. I smirked as I watched a flush slowly crawl up his neck. I'd succeeded in pushing his buttons, and I felt as if I'd scored a point.
"Um, actually, gentlemen, we have a slight problem,” Marjorie said. She didn't fully enter the room, as if she wanted to keep as close to the door as possible in case there was a need for a hasty retreat. The tone of her voice didn't bode well, and we both turned to look at her. “There are no other rooms available—for either of you. We're completely booked. We don't even have an interior cabin available."
"Impossible!” Adam hissed, glaring at me again as if it were my fault the cruise was booked solid. “Put him in with the crew. Give him a couch in one of the solariums—just get him out of my suite!"
"Bullshit!” I spat, pouring vinegar into my voice. “He goes. Put him in a lifeboat. Hell, put him in a life vest and tow him behind the boat if you have to—this suite is mine!"
"Gentlemen, please! My hands are tied. Of course, we'll gladly comp you the entire trip, as well a future cruise to your choice of destinations, but you're going to have to suffer this room together, at least until we get to port. Once we reach St. Maarten, we'll be happy to put one or both you up at the resort of your choice for the week and then fly you home."
Adam bared his teeth at me. “I paid for this suite. I always stay here. I will remain here until this ship returns home, and that's final!” His voice rose until it echoed around the room.
I returned hi
s animosity in equal measure. “I also paid for this suite, and I'm not going anywhere! Just because you own half the planet doesn't make you king of the world."
"Oh, so that's it! You have some axe to grind over my money. How pathetic,” he said with a sneer. He took a step toward me.
"Don't you mean your family's money? You had yours handed to you at birth. I earned mine the hard way, through hard work, sweat, and tears. I intend to get exactly what I've paid for!” I shot back, moving forward to meet him halfway. We stood there, breathing hard, nearly nose-to-nose, six-feet each of bristling alpha male.
Marjorie, exhibiting more courage than I would have given her credit for, squeezed between us, forcing us to separate. “Enough! Mr. Rose, I understand that you're one of our most valued clients. Mr. Manchester, I commiserate and apologize again for the inconvenience, but I will not tolerate your animosity rising to a level that would result in a physical altercation. Not on my ship,” she said firmly.
For such a tiny woman, she had an incredible amount of steel in her voice and brought us both up short. “You can share this cabin amicably until we reach port, or you can choose to leave it and take quarters with the crew. If there's still discord between you when we dock, we'll put one or both of you up at a resort. In the meantime, if you cause a disturbance, I'll radio for a chopper to fly you both off ship.” She pointed first at Adam, then at me. “One single incident, one complaint made by the other passengers about the two of you, and I will have shipboard security isolate you both in the brig until the chopper arrives. Do I make myself clear?"
I blinked, looking at Adam. “Do they actually have brigs on cruise ships? I thought that was only in the Navy, or on pirate ships."
"I suppose they must have somewhere to put unruly guests until they can be handed over to the authorities,” Rose said thoughtfully. “All right, Marjorie. You win. I'm certain Mr. Manchester and I can find it within ourselves to behave like adults for a few days."
Toy Box: Paddles Page 1
