Ship for Brains (Cruise Confidential 2)

by Brian David Bruns

  “Nope, I just signed on as art auctioneer.” I gestured to the art gallery and said, “This is my new office.”

  “Right next to my office!” Leo laughed, gesturing to the Renoir. As always, he rolled his R’s with a long Afrikaans accent and his generous laughter sounded like a boulder rolling down a mountain. Oh, it was good to see Leo again. He was my compatriot during the long, trying months of being an assistant Maitre d’ trainee. We had shared many, many mutual horrors during those days. He handled it better than I, because he simply drank away his worries.

  “Your office indeed,” I agreed. “You look magnificent, I must say, and strangely sober.”

  “Don’t look too closely.”

  “That stripe and a half looks good on you.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry about what happened to you, my friend. You seem to be doing well, though. Isn’t being an auctioneer pretty high level stuff?”

  “I’m a three-stripe motherfucker,” I agreed. He whistled in admiration, and I suffered a flash of pride.

  “So you outrank Ferrand and even Ganesh!” he suddenly realized, referring to our two restaurant superiors who reneged on their promises to help me fight Gunnar. “Man, I want to be there when you meet them again.”

  “They’re still on-board, then?” I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

  “Not Gunnar. But Ganesh and Ferrand are still here. Gonna rub their noses in it?”

  “Nah,” I scoffed. “It’s not about that. It’s about getting Bianca with me. This is a great gig.”

  “Still chasing your Romanian girl?” he asked, impressed. “I don’t know how you do it, man. There’s so many hot bitches on ships and so little time. Oh, excuse me a moment.”

  As if on cue, Leo indicated the approach of two ladies. I stepped aside and watched as Leo flirted heavily with an attractive young blonde. Her companion stepped up beside me, also waiting for the bantering to end. She was nearly as pretty as her presumably younger sister. In fact, all three of them could have been siblings: tall, athletic, blonde and with a hint of freckles. It kind of freaked me out to watch Leo drooling over them.

  The older babe gave me a sly smile and, just before leaving, a wink. Lost on planet Majesty, I had forgotten just how many beautiful women were on Carnival ships; employees and guests alike. Fun Ships, indeed.

  “Man, would you look at that?” Leo said as the ladies waded into the dining room, walking their wiggly walk. “She is so hot! And can you believe that was her mother with her? Damn.”

  “Really? I thought they were sisters.”

  “Me too, but she’s not. Her mother, man! Think I can get ‘em both in bed at the same time?”

  Same old Leo.

  “Well, that would certainly be a slam dunk,” I commented. “That’s something I haven’t done before.”

  When Leo and I were both management trainees, we had competed in all sorts of things female-related. While we never did anything so crass as to count ‘conquests’ or anything of that nature, we did compete over who got asked out by the most guests, or posed for more photos. He always bought the beer because for some reason I always had more women flashing me in guest areas. I presume because I looked harmless. Ah, the good ol’ days.

  “Oh, there’s no competition anymore, my friend,” Leo dismissed with enough swagger to make it clear that he had progressed far indeed since I had been gone.

  “Leo, behave. They are guests.”

  “Who cares?” Leo wondered aloud. “I’m gonna find her table. If I clear her plate maybe I can lick her fork!”

  We promised to meet in the crew bar sometime, and I returned to the gallery. When Bill finished his business in the main lounge at ten o’clock, he came by to drag me to the crew bar. But I wasn’t in the mood, and excused myself. He protested, of course, but relented after I reminded him that he had already forced me into a titty bar all afternoon. I marveled that Bill and Leo hadn’t buddied up yet.

  I had had an eventful day, to put it mildly. But there was one thing I wanted to do yet. I yearned to relive one of the few joys I had found on Conquest when things were tough: the open deck sailing on the Mississippi. Conquest’s homeport of New Orleans was a good eight hour sail up the river, and few things were more relaxing than that sail at night. I strode up to deck four and walked past the officer’s cabins, pausing outside my former cabin that I had shared with Bogo, the insomniac Reborn-Christian. With a rueful chuckle, I then exited through a short side hall onto the open deck. Not surprisingly at this early evening hour, I was alone.

  As an art auctioneer, I was free to roam the guest areas of the ship, but I didn’t want to. Being directly below the bridge, this was the only spot on the entire ship that was dark and quiet. Conquest silently floated through the thick forests of the massive Mississippi delta. Deck four was just barely above the treetops, and in the far distance I could see the orange glow of oil refineries. Over the marshes and swamps and forests I could see the dazzling, if tiny, popping of Fourth of July fireworks. Bourbon Street would be rocking right about now, but I was happy for the clammy quiet. I lit a cigar and watched the dark lumps of trees silently pass.

  We were heading to the Gulf of Mexico, and my future. I was excited, but had already come to the obvious conclusion that this moment was the only thing from my old days of Conquest that I would find the same.

  2

  The next day Conquest was at sea all day, which needless to say presented a glorious opportunity for an art auction. In fact, we had a whopping three sea days every cruise. This was orders of magnitude better than the Widow Maker. Still, I based my expectations upon what I knew, and anticipated the auction would have all the same chaos of Majesty, but on a huge scale. Was it chaotic? No. Huge? Oh, yes.

  First of all, the art auction was in a huge lounge at the stern of the ship that was ours all day. With no worries of being booted in favor of karaoke, the amount of artwork displayed was astounding. The six-member Filipino cover band had been hired in its entirety for the labor, and they hauled countless art carts as smoothly and in sync as if they were, well, a band. They knew exactly where to place exactly which work of art, as they unleashed every work of art for every auction. Setting up the auction took hours.

  While the band played on, Bill and I were free to go over our strategy for the day. Though tagged by guests and appearing random, artwork was by no means taken to the auction block arbitrarily. During the preview, the Filipinos brought tagged artwork up to the stage, but it was then my responsibility to filter and place them in appropriate groupings to maximize our sales strategies. Sometimes I clumped style, sometimes I clumped artists. Other times I had to execute a subtle segue to get guests away from Jean-Claude Picot and towards Peter Max.

  The preview alone was huge. A full hour was allocated for the droves of guests arriving for the auction. Bill dripped art facts on the microphone, while a line of passengers extended out the door. Another half-dozen employees had arrived to process the guests; handing out bidder cards, sticky notes, and tickets for free champagne. I noted that Conquest had a whopping four checkout computers.

  Just as I thought the inflow of tagged artwork would flood over me, Bill began the auction. Easily two hundred guests were in the lounge, and half again as many remained on the periphery to watch the excitement. And exciting it was: the energy in the room was intoxicating.

  Bill started the auction with a huge work of art: the Tomasz Rut painting. While it was undeniably the work of a master artist, alas, a painting of a nude woman bathing her privates was not to everyone’s taste. When Bill opened the bidding at $42,000, sticker shock rippled through the lounge. Bill waited a moment in silence, then calmly motioned for the work to be taken off the block, mumbling about ‘the interested party said he may not make it to the first auction’.

  Behind the stage, I worked with two Filipinos affectionately dubbed Wax On and Wax Off. Despite having worked with the Filipinos for months, Bill had only deigned to learn the name of the singer, who acted
as sergeant. I was too busy to learn anything new and was happy to let function label the men. So Wax On put art on the block and Wax Off removed it. Their efficiency and devotion to form would have made Mr. Miyagi proud.

  After two stressful hours, the auction came to an end. I had been so busy that only once had I been able to spare a glance at the far end to see if another Peter Max was ‘wandering’ off. With all things so huge, even that crime no longer seemed a wonder.

  The bank of computers was positioned to flank the doorway to the lounge, and four employees, no doubt dancers all, fulfilled the paperwork duties smoothly. Bill strode back and forth in front of his computers, would speak to a guest for a few minutes, then shove a sticky note in my face to move that person to the front of the line. Each employee knew exactly what to do, and no doubt the Calypso boys from Majesty of the Seas would have fainted in the first minute. I was seriously thinking about it. Later in the cruise, when I discovered the horror of inputting all those numbers into the accountant’s computer, I nearly did.

  3

  The change of the crew bar on Conquest was obvious before even entering. The hallway outside had always been a moderately trafficked area of moderately thick cigarette smoke; escape enough from the chaos of the bar yet close enough to still enjoy it. But now I had to wade through thick clusters of revelers and their oppressive smoking because, shockingly, it was now a smoke-free bar.

  To be sure, there were plenty of people inside still drinking themselves silly, or hooking up for a wild, noncommittal romp in the sack. Usually both. But the energy of the bar was, well, like a normal bar for normal people. The vibe of the past, of diving into a den replete with all manner of sin, was completely ruined by the loss of just one vice. I recalled many nights when I literally had not seen the ceiling due to the cigarette smoke; the canned lights merely blurry circles in the haze. Now half the tables were empty.

  I scanned the isolated clumps of men and women, finding Leo easily. He was so tall as to be head and shoulders above most crew members, especially the Asians. He would have been easy to spot anyway, what with the crowd of fawning ladies gazing up at him with fluttering lashes. I pushed through the throng of babes and jokingly called, “Back off, ladies, he’s mine.”

  “Brian!” he greeted, shaking my hand with an iron grip. “Get me a beer, will you?”

  “Sure,” I agreed with a smile, working back through the pleasantly curvaceous crowd. I pushed up to the bar and ordered a couple of Red Stripes.

  An attractive young lady sitting alone at the bar harrumphed at me. From my standing vantage, her ample bosom was impossible to ignore because she barely covered it. Blonde, bobbed hair bounced as she shook her head in disgust. “So he’s got you doing his bidding now, eh?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Him,” she replied, nodding towards Leo. “Look at that line of harlots, will you? It’s good to know that he has men wrapped around his finger, too.”

  “Wow,” I said sarcastically. “I didn’t know my crush was so apparent. He happens to be an old friend of mine who I haven’t seen in a while.”

  “I was his friend, too,” she bit back. “For a night, anyway. ‘Nice shoes, wanna fuck?’ I still can’t believe I fell for that line.”

  I started laughing, despite my best efforts not to.

  “You think that’s funny?” she challenged.

  “No, no,” I defended. “It’s just that I told him that line as a joke. I guess it’s not so funny now.”

  “You’re goddamn right it’s not. Go take your beer to Mr. Forget-me-not, asshole.”

  Sensing a further reply was unwise, I worked my way through the crowds back towards Leo, but he was already sitting in the darkest corner getting close to a brunette in her bartender uniform. I stopped amid the throng of admirers, and glanced around with amusement. There were no less than six women staring with envy at the brunette.

  “Don’t panic, ladies” I joked. “I have beer! Who wants one?”

  “Ooh,” one said. “Red Stripe is what Leo drinks!”

  “I’ll take it!” another called. Suddenly everyone was clamoring for my Red Stripes.

  “Are you a friend of Leo’s? What’s his cabin number?”

  “Does he prefer brunettes, then?”

  “I have hair color!” shouted another.

  “Whoa,” I cried, “What am I, chopped liver?”

  Overwhelmed, I released the two beers as decoys so I could make my exit. From the sidelines I watched the ravenous women clamor over each other for a less obstructed view of Leo kissing the bartender. While I would no doubt behave similarly if Angelina Jolie happened by, it was pretty disgusting to watch.

  Leo had always been a crew bar fiend. Like most South Africans, he loved to drink and was extremely sociable. When working with him just six months prior, he had been torn between fidelity to his girl back home and exploring the immense bounty of the sea. He marveled at my being faithful, but was unsure if it was worth it. Like most people, he was not really impressed with my being a Boy Scout in a candy store, but thought that I was, at best, a weak man or, at worst, a hypocrite.

  Like so many who lie to themselves, Leo had played the field aggressively while trying to move forward with his girl back home. It was none of my business, and I withheld judgment. Leo had thought he was on the fence, but I knew better. There was no fence. So it was a surprise a few months later when he emailed me that he and his homegirl had gotten engaged, and I was invited to their wedding in the Turks and Caicos Islands. I was not surprised when the details never came and the whole thing was never mentioned again.

  So now Leo was a crew bar ghost, lurking in the dark and making victim after victim scream. But he was tall, strong, handsome and fun, with a dash of authority, so he got plenty of action. After all, on a ship a fifty year old, overweight Indonesian could score with a hot twenty-something Slovakian. Still, watching Leo at work was an uncomfortable reminder of just how hard it had been to be faithful to Bianca on Conquest. I loved her to death, but knew there was no credit for saying no fifty times if I had said yes even just once.

  If there was any doubt in my mind about Leo’s priorities, it was settled when I met him by chance a few days later in Cozumel. The favorite crew hangout had no walls, but merely a thatched roof, and in that sweaty shade was always a party of MTV proportions. Literally. MTV once featured this location for a dance party and, keeping the spirit alive, the music pumped deafeningly and people flailed madly. There was no dance floor, so every aisle between tables pulsed with bodies contorting to the rhythm of the jungle beat. Brown-skinned waiters slipped in and out amongst the revelers with trays of perspiring beer or sizzling fajitas. Occasionally someone would bark when snapping oil burned them.

  I found a small table beneath a sweat-streaked bronze stripper pole being worked by a drunken, middle-aged American woman in requisite blue jeans, T-shirt, and tennis shoes. She was no doubt a guest of the Conquest, and there was even less doubt that she would come to regret the photos her friends were taking of her.

  Leo was dancing with the gorgeous guest he had lusted after all week. Again I was struck by how similar they looked, and watching apparent siblings grinding erotically was a little odd. Both were nearly naked: she in only a string bikini and he in shorts. Their tanned bodies traded perspiration while pressing into each other or sliding hands and lips across bare skin. Everyone in the crowd spared a glance of envy towards them: both was sexier than the other. Leo’s impressive muscles pulsed with the dance, and he was all but oozing testosterone. And she, simply put, was goddamn hot. Mom was nowhere to be seen, which was probably a good thing.

  I ordered a Negro Modela and was happy to be alone and lost in the past. Cozumel held many memories for me, and my brain was getting frazzled from too much rapid change. Indulging in something familiar was important. My reverie was broken when Leo slammed down into the chair opposite me. His grin was silly with alcohol and his eyes glinted.

  “I shagged her moth
er this morning,” he boasted, puffing up.

  “Oh, no, Leo,” I began, shaking my head. “Do you have any idea—”

  “Mucho thrusting going on!” he interrupted with a thunderous roll of his R’s. Leo rose, staggering a bit due to obvious intoxication, and slicked back his sweat-soaked hair. He took the Negro Modela from my hand and helped himself to a deep slug.

  “Is she a princess or what?” he asked smugly, nodding to his half-naked female look-alike.

  “She is the queen,” I agreed in my best iambic pentameter. “Your other lover’s daughter. And, would it were not so!— you did her mother.”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing,” I replied, rising. “Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince.”

  As I departed, Leo called out over the thumping bass, “I’ll give you a report after I show this girl the time of her life!”

  Stepping into the hot sun, I whistled quietly to myself. Leo was playing a dangerous and childish game. Sleeping with guests was the ultimate consensual taboo on ships. If caught, he would be sent home immediately. It simply wasn’t worth it. Not even for that mother and daughter. Probably.

  I was less impressed than ever with Leo’s behavior. We had been very close just six months prior, yet now I was not even on his radar screen. How many times did he need to get laid this week before he would give an old friend ten minutes to catch up? Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. Long distance relationships were hard enough as friends, and even harder on couples.

  This, of course, is why I so obsessively avoided sleeping around on Conquest. Turning into a crew bar ghost is what I feared would happen if I dipped my toe in the waters: I would probably drown. Every cruise was a guaranteed fresh buffet of beauty both above and below the waterline. There had been many, many times when I wondered if I had been stupid for passing up such an opportunity. To taste the world, as it were. I had waited so very, very long for Bianca that I wondered if a nibble would have kept me from starving to death. But would I really have been strong enough to have a taste and not feast? Surely what happened to Leo would not happen with me and Bianca... would it?