Absolute Zero_Misadventures From A Broad

by Margaret Lashley

  “Oh. Thank you. Gratzie,” I fumbled.

  As the maid walked away, I sighed. I hope this isn’t a portent of frustrations to come.

  I shrugged the thought away, bent over and unzipped the side pocket on my big blue suitcase. I started to tuck the suit inside when I spied something red in the pocket. I pulled it out. It was a pair of Friedrich’s sexy underwear. I stared at the underpants for a moment and smiled. It dawned on me that I’d never had a lover before. Not like this.

  I saw Vittorio’s cab pull up. I looked up and jumped like a frog in a frying pan. A pair of judging eyes glared at me from a face that looked as if the whole world smelled like a sewer. Aww, crap!

  “You’re leaving already. Good,” Val II sneered. “You know, an educated man like Friedrich is too good for a flabby-assed little hick like you.”

  If I didn’t have a plane to catch, I’d have shown her just what this flabby-assed little hick was capable of.

  “Oh really? Then why did he take me on all those rides?”

  “A cheap ride for cheap ride, my dear. And now you’re gone. Frank and I, we have a relationship. We’re dating. We decided to stay in Italy another week. He’s taking me on a tour of the Amalfi Coast. You got a tour of what – a pizza parlor and a cheap hotel room?”

  The woman had gone and gotten on my last nerve, but I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction. I smiled cheerfully.

  “Well, I think you and Frank make the perfect pair.”

  Val II’s face went from sneer to smug. “We do, don’t we.”

  “Absolutely. You kiss his butt for his money, and every time he locks onto your freakish, butt-blubber lips, he’s kissing fat that came out of your ass.”

  Val II’s Botox face went crimson. I smiled brightly, then turned and headed out the door.

  I STUMBLED OFF THE airport bus and stared up at the gleaming white whale that was to be my home for the next week. The King Kavanaugh was the pride of the Kingman Cruise Line. According to the brochure, the ship had been refurbished just last year. Its itinerary would take me, my best friend Clarice Whittle, and 4,800 other passengers and crew up and down the western coast of France and Italy.

  I snapped a picture of the ship, then followed the steady stream of folks pulling suitcases toward the port building. I took my place in line. It moved quickly, and soon I stood before a young Asian woman. She reviewed and approved my documents, and handed me a plastic card.

  “It’s your shipboard room key and credit card,” explained the way-too-enthusiastic check-in clerk. “Use it for everything on the ship, instead of cash.”

  I slid the credit-card/key thingy into my purse. I watched with a tinge of separation anxiety as my luggage went one way and I went the other. The clerk said the luggage had to go through security scans, but I knew the main reason was to confiscate contraband booze being snuck on board. I convinced myself there was no way my luggage could get lost twice, and made my way onboard.

  I was supposed to meet Clarice at the airport in Rome, but she’d emailed me saying her flight was delayed a few hours and to go on to the ship without her. She would catch a later shuttle bus. With no luggage to weigh me down and a few hours before we sailed, I set off to explore the ship and try to get my bearings. Given my sense of direction, it could take me three days just to find our cabin.

  I rode an elevator up to the top of the ship and looked around at the port. Compared to Rome, Civitavecchia was ugly and uninteresting. I went down a floor and followed an orange carpet and a din of voices to the Circus Buffet. A cute young girl in a blue, nautical uniform instructed me to put my hand under a disinfectant dispenser. A glob of clear goo plopped into my palm. The girl smiled brightly and rubbed her hands together. I aped her performance, and was allowed admittance.

  I stepped into the restaurant and nearly had a panic attack. Hundreds of people were running about like they were on fire, carrying plates heaped with cupcakes, cookies, cakes and pies. The orange and yellow upholstery and balloon-print carpets added to the carnival atmosphere, but there was no clowning around going on. For the gluttons inside, this was serious business. I found a little spot out of the fray next to a fountain spewing liquid chocolate.

  “Are you gonna get some or get outta the way?”

  I turned to find a woman who was even bigger than my mom’s next-door neighbor, Tiny McMullen. She must have weighed over four-hundred pounds. Her striped moo-moo was so big it looked like it was made from a stolen sideshow tent.

  “Oh. Excuse me. I didn’t realize I was in your way. Nice dress!”

  The obese lady eyed me suspiciously from the small crevice in the fat above and below her eye sockets.

  “Move it!”

  It took me five steps, to get around her, but I squeezed by and hightailed it out of that feeding frenzy of freaks before I ended up on the menu as meatloaf. Once I was beyond reach of anybody’s knife and fork, I slowed down and looked at the art hanging on the walls. It was a lineup of clown faces. A plaque next to each one said prints could be bought at the Circus Circle Boutique on level three for just $129.00 each. Shoot. I’d pay that much not to have them in my house.

  I walked along a mall of small shops and pubs until the hallway gave out at a pair of doors with a sign over them that read: Kingman Theater. I pulled on the shiny, gold double-doors, but they were locked. I went to find the cabin and wait for Clarice.

  After ten minutes of bumbling around on the port side of the ship, I finally figured out that odd numbers were on the stern side. I found it 737 and slid my key thingy in the door. A green light came on and the door unlocked. I stepped inside. The cabin was tiny, but functional. Over the years, I’d kind of lost my taste for a lot of needless space and useless things to take care of. The room had two twin beds, a desk, a TV, a nightstand a closet and a washroom. It would do just fine.

  I sat on the corner of one of the beds and clicked on the TV. A shiny white couple straight out of an infomercial were talking about how excited they were that I was on board. If I was going to believe that, I needed a drink first. I looked in the mini fridge built into the desk. It was stocked with sodas and miniature alcohol bottles. I made myself a Tanqueray and tonic, grabbed a notebook that said, “Let’s Get Acquainted!” and sat back on the bed. The first page in the book was a minibar price list. I did the math. My drink had cost me $17.35.

  “What the hell!”

  “Hey! That’s no way to greet an old friend!”

  Clarice pushed her way into the room.

  “Clarice! You made it!”

  “I did – just barely! Val! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!”

  Suddenly, the ship’s horn sounded. An announcement came over the intercom in the hallway.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, the captain welcomes you aboard the King Kavanaugh. Join us up on the deck for a sail-away party!”

  “You look beat, Clarice. You want to stay in and rest?”

  “Hell no! Let’s go party!”

  “Well alright then!”

  We made our way to the elevators. The crowd waiting to get on was ridiculous.

  “What about the stairs?” Clarice suggested.

  We walked to the staircase. It was practically deserted. We trudged up five flights to the top floor. As we got to the open deck, a young Indian man handed us each a flute of champagne.

  A deafening horn blast nearly caused us both to drop our glasses. We’d barely recovered when the ship jerked unceremoniously, sending us tumbling into each other. A voice came over the loudspeakers:

  “Welcome aboard! First port of call; Monte Carlo, Monaco!”

  “Woo hoo!,” Clarice exclaimed.

  I sighed and silently said goodbye to Italy and my sad German lover with the sea-blue eyes.

  “Are you okay?” asked Clarice.

  I turned toward her and plastered on a smile. “Yeah, sure. Why?”

  “It just...you have tears in your eyes.”

  “Oh, that? I’m just so glad to see you, girl!”r />
  Chapter Eighteen

  On Sunday morning, reality crashed over me like a tidal wave. I awoke and bolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat. I’d dreamt of Val II. She’d been in my face, pointing her finger at me and shaking her head. The giddiness I’d felt over my affair with Friedrich mutated into full-blown panic. Oh my lord! I’d had sex with a stranger! What did I really know about Friedrich Fremden? Nothing, really. I could have an STD! No, no, no! Why had I been so stupid? Why?

  At forty-one, I’d already made a lifetime’s worth of mistakes. Was my affair with Friedrich merely the latest chink in my unbroken chain of bad judgement calls?

  A little over a year ago, I’d had it all – a successful career, plenty of money in the bank, a beautiful house in a great neighborhood, a marriage that had endured more than fifteen years – and a gnawing, ravenous emptiness that had clawed me awake every morning at 3 a.m. to remind me what a sham my life really was.

  I’d graduated from college. I’d worked hard. I’d married a nice guy. I was healthy. I’d kept in good shape. I’d even volunteered at the local elementary school, for crying out loud! So, why in the world had I felt so...hollow? Was something wrong with me? Did I want too much? Was I simply ungrateful?

  I looked over at Clarice, sleeping like a newborn pup in the twin bed next to mine. I’d confessed all of this to her back then. I’d been surprised to discover that she, too, had been waking up at 3 a.m., her mind racing like the long shot at the Kentucky Derby. At the time, we’d laughed uneasily about it, then chalked it up to our busy lives. We’d even joked about starting a 3 a.m. knitting circle. That had been the end of the discussion for her. But for me, the relentless, unwanted nocturnal intruder hadn’t been a joke.

  Those deep-rooted longings that had struggled so fiercely to rise to the surface had scared the living hell out of me. I’d stuffed them back down inside with both fists. In an effort to get a decent night’s sleep I’d cut out caffeine. I’d changed my diet. I’d stopped drinking liquids after 7 p.m. I’d taken warm, candlelit baths. I’d read boring books. But nothing had worked. Finally, one day, when I’d been feeling about half-past dead, I’d hauled my zombie-like body to a doctor and gotten sleep medication. I’d known exactly which brand I’d wanted, because I had seen about twenty-thousand ads for it on late-late-night TV.

  Those ads had not only educated me, they’d proven to me that I wasn’t alone. I’d wondered how many fellow desperados were out there, wandering the back country of their minds each night, chasing forgotten dreams, like sheep, off a cliff to their inevitable deaths. That night I took a pill and let the luminous green moth in the commercial carry me in its wings to the never-never land of chemically induced unconsciousness....

  A knock on the cabin door startled me out of my sad-sack memories.

  “Room service, Ma’am!” the male voice behind the door said. It sounded strangely contorted, as if English wasn’t his first language.

  I jumped out of bed and cracked open the door. A small, delicate-looking young man with skin the color of coffee and cream smiled at me broadly.

  “Good morning, ma’am!”

  “Oh! Good morning! Could you come back later? My friend Clarice is still sleeping.”

  “Certainly, ma’am.” He reached in and grabbed a sign hanging on the inner door knob. With the patience of a saint, he said, “Just hang this on the outside of the door any time you want to not want to be disturbed.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  He demonstrated how to hang the sign on the doorknob.

  “Like this, see?”

  “Yes, I think I have it. Thanks again.”

  I wondered how many times each cruise he had to teach that lesson. If it was me, I’d have been in the loony bin by now. And here I was boo-hooing about my past. About problems most people on the planet would be delighted to have.

  What the hell are you doing, Val? Stop this crap immediately! You’re on vacation, for crying out loud! Get dressed and get your butt out of this freaking cabin!

  I dressed quickly, left a note for Clarice, and scurried out of the room. I followed the ship’s deck-plan signs, one-by-one, to the promenade level. I figured a good walk or two around the exercise track on the open-air deck would clear my head before breakfast.

  The fitness room was deserted. As I rounded the track to the other side of the ship, a dramatic scene came into view. I recognized it from a travel book. It was the first of five cliff-side villages that made up the Cinque Terre. But the picture in the book hadn’t done it justice. In real life, it took my breath away.

  Narrow, three-story buildings scaled the mountainside like an open zipper. The candy-colored, stucco-clad structures formed two zig-zagging rows along a huge crevice in the stone. They appeared to defy gravity. They clung miraculously to the rocks like dirt-dauber nests, from the very top of the cliffs all the way to the sea.

  I tried my best to focus on the beauty right in front me, but just like insults from mothers in law, the memories of my past kept finding their way to the top of my mind.

  Why had I left my husband? Maybe the better question to ask was why I had married Jimmy in the first place. Jimmy had been nearly the opposite of unreliable Ricky. He’d also been a lot older than me. Even though he’d lacked ambition, he’d been faithful, and loyal. He’d had a great sense of humor. And he’d treated me with respect – as an equal, even.

  My family was unpredictable, irrational and dysfunctional. And those were their good qualities. Looking back on it, I guess I was seduced by the peaceful, normal fairytale Jimmy had offered. A man of little drama and no dreams of his own, Jimmy had agreed without hesitation when I’d told him of my desire to ditch my corporate job and form my own advertising company. As a result, I’d been able to make a really good living for us.

  So why had Jimmy and I fallen apart? No huge event stood out in my mind. There’d been no affairs. No lies. No gambling. No physical abuse. Instead, there’d just been a slow, steady unraveling of our connection to each other. Over the years, we’d talked less and less, and done fewer things together. At some point I woke up to realize we’d become nothing more than housemates living separate lives on paths that seldom crossed any more.

  Like a comfortable sweater, our relationship had been too easy to put on and too easy to toss in a drawer. After too much wear and not enough care, it had lost its shape. It had become stained and frayed. It no longer fit. For a while, we’d tried to mend it – to patch over the unsightly spots. But in the end, the effort had made us both exhausted. Finally, we’d admitted it was simply beyond repair....

  A flash of light roused me from my melancholy daydreams. I caught the last misty glimpses of the second village as it stair-stepped down the side of a grey cliff. At its base, a small clutch of buildings surrounded a harbor full of colorful wooden fishing boats. I watched it slowly disappear from view. Let it go, Val. How can you expect to find love again if you won’t leave the past behind?

  “Have you checked out the breakfast buffet yet?”

  The tinny, male voice startled me. I turned away from the scenic view to find a plump, greasy-looking bald man in his fifties standing beside me. He wiped beads of perspiration from his red, furrowed brow with a paper napkin.

  “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “Have you been to the breakfast buffet? It’s awesome!”

  Sweat ran down the man’s crimson neck, despite the cool breeze coming off the sea. He wore a short-sleeved, brown-and-yellow striped polo shirt and beige shorts. The morning sun glared mercilessly off his white socks and tennis shoes. I smiled wryly to myself. He looked just like a middle-aged Charlie Brown.

  “Did you just get off a treadmill or something?” I asked, trying to ascertain the source of his perspiration.

  “No way! I just ate fifty strips of bacon. My new record!”

  “Oh. Well...congratulations.”

  I hid my disgust behind a cheerful smile. The fat man grinned proudly, revealing evidence of h
is recent pig-out on pork. As he reached to wipe his brow again, I turned and walked away. It may have been rude, but I didn’t care. I was grateful that I wasn’t a swine – and that I wasn’t married to one, either.

  WITH THE SHIP SET TO dock in Monaco tomorrow morning and Clarice still in the sack, there was nothing for me to do on board except eat and watch the beautiful Italian coastline pass by. I sat in a deck chair and tried not to think as flat, rocky cliffs topped with green pastures rolled lazily by, punctuated by the occasional, picturesque cove, massive boulder island, or tiny village of stucco houses perched atop the cliffs.

  At eleven, I went to the cabin to check on Clarice. She was still in bed, but she was awake.

  “There you are,” she said, and yawned.

  “Did you sleep alright?”

  “Like a drunken sailor.”

  “Good old jet lag. Better than a sleeping pill. Are you hungry?”

  “I’m starving.”

  “Get dressed and we’ll head up to the buffet. It’s seafood day.”

  “Sounds yummy! I’ll make it quick.”

  Quick in Clarice terms meant under an hour, if I was lucky. Unlike me, she was a girlie girl who wouldn’t be caught dead going out to pick the newspaper off the driveway without her full war paint on and her hair just so.

  “Okay. I’ll just watch cruise info on TV. See if there’s an excursion we want to go on.”

  AT LUNCHTIME, I PROVED myself a total hypocrite by totally pigging out at the seafood buffet. But to be fair, Clarice matched me shrimp for shrimp.

  “I ate enough to be arrested in some countries,” joked Clarice. “Stop me before I eat again!”

  I snickered and looked at my gorgeous blonde friend with the button nose and sparkling green eyes.

  “If I don’t pace myself, by the end of the week I’ll be looking like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade float,” I grumbled. “Look, ma. It’s Bloatie.”