The Living

by Matt De La Peña

  He peeped the clock: already after eleven.

  Rodney ducked back into the bathroom to spit, came out wiping his mouth with a hand towel. Guy was surprisingly nimble for an offensive lineman. “I said, you were thrashing around in your sleep, bro. You dreaming about the jumper again?”

  “I was dreaming about your mom,” Shy told him.

  “Oh, I see how it is. We got a second comedian on the ship.”

  The suicide might have happened six days ago, on a completely different voyage, but every time Shy had closed his eyes since…there was the comb-over man. Sipping from his water bottle or talking about corruption or climbing his ass over the railing—guy’s meaty arm slowly slipping through Shy’s sissy grip.

  Even worse, halfway through the dream the man’s face would sometimes morph into Shy’s grandma’s face. Her eyes slowly filling with blood from her freakish disease.

  Shy tossed the paper bag to Rodney.

  “Bro, you got me a present?” Rodney said. “What is it?”

  “What do you want it to be?”

  Rodney studied the ceiling and tapped his temple, like he was thinking. Then he pointed at Shy, told him: “How about a beautiful woman in lingerie?”

  Shy gave an exaggerated laugh. “What, you think I’m some kind of miracle worker?”

  “I’m playing, bro,” Rodney said. “She doesn’t have to be beautiful. You know I’m not picky.”

  Shy pointed at the bag. “Just open it.”

  Rodney unfolded the top and pulled out the book Shy got him: Daisy Cooks! Latin Flavors That Will Rock Your World.

  “They had it in the gift shop,” Shy told him.

  Rodney flipped it over to look at the back.

  “If you’re gonna be a famous chef,” Shy added, “you need to know how to do tamales and empanadas. Me and Carmen could be like your test audience.”

  Rodney looked up at Shy with glassy eyes.

  The gift proved Shy remembered their first conversation on their first voyage together. When Rodney mentioned his dream of becoming a New York City chef.

  But tears?

  Really?

  “Come on over here, bro,” Rodney said, holding out his arms.

  “Nah, I’m good,” Shy told him, moving toward the door. Rodney was an enthusiastic hugger who didn’t understand his own strength. And Shy wasn’t the touchy-feely type.

  “I mean it, Shy. Come give your boy some love.”

  Shy went for the door handle instead, saying: “We need to hurry and get you to your party—”

  Too late.

  Rodney grabbed him by the arm and reeled him in for a bear hug. Shy imagined this was what it might feel like to be squeezed to death by a Burmese python.

  “You’re a good friend,” Rodney said, his voice cracking with emotion. “I mean it, Shy. When I become a world-famous chef and they put me on one of those morning TV shows to do a demonstration…Watch, I’m gonna name a dish after my Mexican compadre. How about the Shy Soufflé?”

  Shy would’ve come up with some crack about Rodney having more of a face for radio, but he couldn’t think straight. Rodney was cutting off all the oxygen to his brain.

  2

  Crew Within a Crew

  Shy and Rodney sat down at a table on the crowded balcony where Carmen, Kevin and Marcus were guarding a stack of steaming pizza boxes.

  “Took you long enough,” Marcus said.

  Rodney pointed at Shy. “Talk to him. He was having another nightmare about that guy he saw jump.”

  Shy stared at Rodney. Guy was crying over a cookbook not fifteen minutes ago. Now he wanted to call people out for nightmares?

  Carmen opened the top box, said: “They just dropped these off for you, Rod. Happy birthday, big boy.”

  “Happy birthday,” they all echoed.

  Rodney thanked everyone with an over-the-table hug and slid the first slice onto his paper plate. Then he took a second and third.

  The smell of pepperoni and cheese hit Shy so hard he barely had time to drool over Carmen. His stomach growled as he reached into the box with everyone else. He dotted off the extra grease with a napkin, folded the thick slice as best he could and took a sideways bite.

  There were two crew lounges on board, one on each end of the ship, but this was their favorite. The Southside Lounge.

  Paying passengers had every amenity imaginable. Luxury spas and pools. Multiple full-service casinos. Five-star restaurants. Dance clubs. Theaters. Gourmet food stations that stayed open all night. But the real action was down here on the crew level. At around midnight, once most of the work shifts had ended, there were parties up and down the halls, in the bars, spilling out of the lounges. A mix of good-looking young folks from all over the globe.

  It was especially crowded tonight because it was the beginning of a brand-new voyage. No one was burned out yet, and there were plenty of fresh female faces to scope out—Shy’s favorite pastime. The tables were all overflowing. Everyone drinking and talking and laughing. Playing poker. A group of Japanese girls were at the bar doing shots. A few Brazilians moved their sweet hips to the reggae beat against the far wall.

  An older black man Shy remembered from his first voyage sat by himself near the railing, writing in a leather notebook. Hair gray and wild. Braided chin beard. He looked like some kind of black Einstein, or a terrorist—but all he did on the ship was shine shoes.

  It was kind of weird having some old dude on the crew, but Shy doubted kids his own age had the shoe-shining skill set.

  Two Thousand Dollars Richer

  As everyone else discussed their few days away from the ship, Shy thought about one of his own recent birthdays. Couple years back his mom and sis and grandma had taken him to a college hoop game. At halftime they called out three seat numbers, asked the people sitting in those seats to proceed down to the court level for a chance to win prizes. Shy couldn’t believe it when his sis pointed out he was sitting in one of the lucky spots.

  He made his way down to the hardwood with the two other contestants, stood in front of the packed arena as the emcee explained the rules. Each of them would shoot a layup, a free throw, a three-pointer and a half-court shot. If you made one shot you got a gift certificate for Pizza Hut. Two shots got you free tickets to the next home game. Three, a suite for you and five guests. If you made all four shots, including the one from half-court, you got a two-thousand-dollar savings bond from the bank that sponsored the arena.

  The first shooter was an old dude with tufts of gray hair popping out of his ears. He missed every shot.

  The second shooter was a short-haired mannish-looking chick in Timberlands. She made the layup and the free throw.

  Then it was Shy’s turn.

  He laid the ball in off the glass and then buried the free throw with quickness. He sank the three, all net, and listened to the crowd begin to stir. As Shy dribbled out to half-court, the emcee announced: “If this young man can make one last shot from half-court, ladies and gentlemen, he’ll go home tonight two thousand dollars richer!”

  Shy stood a few steps behind the half-court line, looking up into the crowd. A bunch of folks were on their feet, cheering. A rush like no other. He spotted his mom and sis clapping, his grams leaning over the railing, snapping photos he knew would end up in one of her famous scrapbooks. He pulled in a deep breath, then turned to the distant hoop, took a dribble and a couple quick strides and heaved the ball from down near his waist.

  He watched the rock sail through the air in super slo-mo. Watched it smack off the backboard and go straight through.

  The crowd erupted.

  The bank sponsor came out to half-court and presented Shy with an oversized check. Two Gs. Shy held it up, almost laughing. Because nothing like this was supposed to happen to some anonymous kid like him. He was just a dude from down by the border. Didn’t they know?

  Shy reached for a second slice, still buzzing off the memory. He wondered how long before his laughter might make a comeback. He’d nev
er admit it to anyone, but seeing a guy fall from the ship had sort of messed something up in his head. Shit was hard to process.

  He took a bite and decided he should scan the balcony again, see if there were any new females as fine as Carmen. It was a little game he sometimes played. He was only half finished when he realized Kevin was staring at him from across the table.

  “What’s up?” Shy asked.

  “We need to talk,” Kevin said in his subtle Australian accent. “Soon as you’re done eating.”

  “I still gotta close down Lido,” Shy told him. The pool area was his final responsibility for the night.

  “I’ll close it with you, then.”

  Shy shrugged and took another bite of pizza. It was strange to see Kevin so eager to talk. They didn’t work together, though, so Shy didn’t see how he could be in trouble.

  He watched Rodney hold up a fresh slice and say: “You know who made this for us, right?” He pointed a thumb back at himself. “Head chef comes to me right as I’m clocking out, says, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Rodney. We just got an order for four pies. It’d really help out if you could get them in the oven before you leave.’ Bro, I had my apron off and everything.”

  “And you actually did it?” Marcus said.

  Rodney shrugged. “No choice.”

  “Damn,” Carmen said, looking to Shy. “They had your boy prepare his own birthday dinner.”

  “Wish they had him deliver it, too,” Shy said. “Then we could’ve stiffed his ass on the tip.”

  They all cracked up some, even Rodney, who said: “Speaking of tips, tell everyone what the jumper slipped you before he hopped in the soup.”

  Shy reached into his uniform pocket, held up a hundred-dollar bill. “Forgot all about it till we boarded today.”

  Rodney shook his head and pulled another slice. “I was like, what’d you do, bro? Give the guy a happy ending?”

  “Just a bottle of water,” Shy said, staring at the comb-over man’s money. Technically, the crew wasn’t supposed to accept tips. But that never stopped anyone. This tip seemed different, though. Like it’d be messed up to spend it on some dumb shit.

  Carmen held out an open palm, told him: “Might as well hand it over, vato. That’s exactly how much you owe me for being your friend.”

  Shy made like he was placing the money in her hand, but the second her manicured fingers started curling around the bill, he snatched it back and shoved it in his pocket. “Gotta be quick,” he told her.

  Carmen made a face and pinched the back of his arm.

  Shy felt better when he noticed Kevin laughing with everyone else. Whatever he wanted to talk about couldn’t be that big a deal.

  “Lemme get this straight,” Marcus said, wiping his hands on a paper towel. “If you would’ve just peeped the tip right away, you could’ve saved this cat’s life?”

  “How you figure that?” Shy asked.

  “I’m saying, someone slips me a Franklin, my ass goes on high alert.”

  “Maybe I’m just good at what I do.” Shy shot him a sarcastic grin.

  “Not,” Carmen said.

  “Yeah, okay.” Marcus laughed and bit into his pizza slice.

  “Some passengers just like to tip like that,” Kevin said. “They wanna impress everybody.”

  “I got tipped fifty for adjusting a karaoke mike,” Carmen said. “Two voyages ago.”

  “Man or woman?” Rodney said.

  “Man. Why?”

  “You know all these rich white dudes got a warm spot for you, Carm. You’re like their jalapeño chalupa fantasy.”

  Carmen reached across Shy and slugged Rodney in the shoulder. It was impossible for Shy not to stare at her shirt riding up her beautiful brown back.

  “Shoot,” Marcus said, “fifty seems kind of high for the Mexican platter.”

  Carmen grabbed a piece of crust out of the half-empty pizza box and heaved it at his head. Marcus ducked in time, though, and the crust went sailing over the railing, into the Pacific. “I guess chicken and waffles are supposed to be fine dining,” she said.

  “Compared to a bowl of wack taco salad?”

  Everybody was cracking up now, including, Shy noticed, the group of Swedish crew members at the next table over.

  “For the record,” Rodney said, “everyone here is the fine-dining version. Look around you, bro. Paradise only hires attractive people.”

  Shy watched them all sort of glance around the table at each other. They didn’t need to, though. Rodney had it right. Pretty much everyone on the crew was attractive, especially the group Shy kicked it with.

  Kevin was a rugged, outdoorsy Australian. Messy blond hair and three-day stubble. At twenty-two he was the oldest and most worldly at the table. When he wasn’t mixing martinis on a Paradise cruise ship, he was posing for pictures all over Europe as an underwear model.

  Marcus was the ship’s resident hip-hop dancer. A pretty-boy black kid from Crenshaw who was a secret tech head. He was all cut up from popping and locking, contorting his body in ways that didn’t seem possible. Whenever Marcus dropped his uniform top on the pool’s main stage, during a scheduled dance demonstration, Shy would watch everyone stare at his abs without blinking. Even skeletal old white ladies from Confederate states.

  Carmen was the only female in their group. She was eighteen and half Mexican like Shy, from a town not far from Otay Mesa called National City. She hosted karaoke every night and sang in some of the shows. First time Shy met her, he could barely speak. She had to wave a hand all in front of his face, laughing, and ask Rodney if he was mute.

  Only problem with Carmen was she had a fiancé back home. Some wealthy white kid in law school. She left the diamond in her cabin, she claimed, because wedding rings work like kryptonite on tips.

  Eventually their eyes all settled on Rodney.

  He lowered a half-eaten sausage slice, said: “What?”

  A table full of grins.

  “Bro, I don’t count,” he said. “There’s a reason they keep my big ass locked up in a kitchen.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Rodney was a six-four farm boy with a bad flat top. Crooked teeth. A few months ago he’d moved from Iowa to Irvine to try and play college football for the Anteaters. His strength coach hooked him up with a job on the ship assisting the head chef in the Destiny Dining Room. In his free time, Rodney read romance novels and ate Costco-sized bags of gummy bears and listened to Christina Aguilera on oversized headphones.

  As everyone finished eating, Shy thought about how he fit into the equation. He wasn’t an underwear model like Kevin, he knew that. But he was tall for being half Mexican. And he played ball. The girls back home called him “pretty boy” and said he was a catch—though a catch in Otay Mesa was probably different from a catch on a Paradise cruise ship.

  Shy was still kicking this around as he weaved through the balcony crowd to toss his greasy paper plate into the trash by the bar. When he turned back around, he found Kevin standing there. “Ready?”

  “Sure,” Shy told him. “But what’s going on?”

  “Overheard something earlier.” Kevin threw away his plate, too. “Figured you should be properly warned.”

  Warned? A wave of nerves passed through Shy’s middle.

  “Lido Deck, right?” Kevin said.

  Shy nodded. As he followed Kevin through the crowded balcony tables, toward the exit, he looked over his shoulder at Carmen.

  You okay? she mouthed.

  Shy shrugged and went through the door.

  3

  Man in a Black Suit

  Shy followed Kevin up several flights of stairs, through the ship’s atrium, which was straight out of an art magazine. Oversized paintings hanging from every wall, fresh flowers arranged in large colored vases, cascading chandeliers, classical music playing softly on well-hidden speakers.

  They gave smiles and subtle head bows whenever they passed a passenger couple out for a late-night stroll.

  “Ma’am.”
/>   “Sir.”

  They trekked all the way to the other end of the ship and out onto the Lido Deck, where Shy was to spend the majority of his working hours this voyage. The ship psychiatrist had decided it was best to keep Shy off the Honeymoon Deck—at least until he’d had the proper amount of time to “deal with the suicide.” Then he’d handed Shy a bottle of pills that were supposed to ease his mind. But all the first one did was make him feel hollow and numb. Like a fake person. He tossed the rest of the bottle in the trash.

  They crossed to the far end, where the infinity pool sat sparkling in the moonlight. There were some people still hanging out in the Jacuzzi, even though it had been closed for over an hour. A guy and three girls. When they saw Kevin and Shy approaching, the guy stood up and said: “Time to wrap it up, right?”

  “Sorry, sir,” Shy told him. “I have to close down for the night.”

  The guy hopped out of the Jacuzzi dripping wet and looked down at the girls. “You heard the man. Time to move it indoors.”

  Shy watched the three bikini girls climb out of the Jacuzzi. They were younger than most of the passengers, mid-twenties maybe, and they looked good as hell. Only a few fractions of a notch below Carmen when she was in a two-piece—and that was saying something.

  The guy had already put on a shirt and cargo pants, and he walked over to Shy and Kevin, saying: “Must be a hassle shooing people out of the tub every night. Sorry ’bout that, guys. I’m Christian, by the way.”

  Shy shook the guy’s hand and introduced himself.

  Kevin did the same.

  Christian was straight out of a GQ ad. Light-blue eyes and chiseled chin. Tiny bit of scruff around his face. Longish sandy-blond hair to his shoulders, still wet and dripping down his shirt.

  “Come on, Dr. Christian,” one of the girls called.

  The guy winked at Kevin and Shy. “Just made it through med school. We’re doing a bit of celebrating. See you guys around.” He turned and started toward the atrium, the girls falling in line behind him. Shy watched them go, wondering what it would be like to live another kind of life. To be on the path to becoming a doctor. To be the one waited on instead of the waiter. It was something he’d never even considered before stepping foot on a luxury cruise.