by Dave Barry
Frank grabbed a railing, hung on, fought down the nausea. When he recovered, he said, “You know, I almost hope you do have something planned for tonight, because it would be a real pleasure to blow out your tiny brain.”
“Hey, I’m just messin’ with you,” said Tark. “You know I’m a company man all the way. ’Sides which, you ain’t gonna shoot me, not out here, not tonight.” Now Tark’s smile was gone. “You and bean boy’d never get back alive.”
The bitch of it was, Frank knew he was right.
Six
FAY STOOD BY THE BAR WITH MARA PURVIS, ONE of the other cocktail waitresses and the closest thing she had to a friend on the ship. They were watching the passengers, a steady stream of them, wet from the rain, coming into the big casino room on the first deck.
“Am I imagining this,” Fay said, “or are there actually more of them than usual tonight?”
“Definitely,” said Mara. “We’re the only boat stupid enough to go out, so they’re all coming here. You know Bobbi? In the ticket office? She told me she was getting calls all day, ‘Are you going out? Are you going out?’ These people are crazy to gamble.”
“I was hoping for an easy night,” said Fay. “Estelle woke up this morning at six.”
“You want easy nights,” said Mara, “you picked the wrong career.”
“I’ m not planning to do this forever,” said Fay.
“That’s what I said, fourteen years ago,” said Mara. “I thought I was gonna be an accountant, you believe that? Debits and credits. Whatever debits are. I even enrolled for night courses at Miami-Dade. And then I met a basketball player at a bar, and went to Cancun the day I was supposed to start classes. And now here I still am, two husbands later, bringing drinks to guys who think if they tip me a buck it means they can grab my ass.”
Mara was in her mid-thirties, dark hair, dark eyes, her face getting a little hard around the edges, but still pretty, friendly smile, good eye contact, the kind of look that always made men, especially men who were drinking, think she was more interested than she actually was. She would never admit it, but she was proud that she still averaged two marriage proposals per month from semi-complete strangers, and she would be depressed when the number declined.
“Hey,” she said, “did I tell you what this guy said to me last night?”
“No,” said Fay.
“Get this,” said Mara. “This guy, he’s playing blackjack, and he asks me for a gin and tonic, and I bring it to him, and we’re talking a little, back and forth, and he seems like a nice guy, cute, possibly even human, and then, after maybe three sentences, he says, ‘Don’t take this wrong, but you got a great pair of tits.’ Can you believe that?”
Fay shook her head.
“Don’t take it wrong?” said Mara. “This guy I just met is talking about my boobs like I’m his 4-H Club cow, and he doesn’t want me to take it wrong? Jesus. If they ever invent a vibrator that also takes out the garbage, I’m quitting men altogether. Here come the abuelas.”
A clot of a half dozen elderly Cuban women waddled through the doorway, all talking loudly in Spanish. They would spend the evening shoving quarters into slot machines, yanking the handles, and complaining to each other that they were getting nothing back, nothing.
“Ni agua,” they would say, over and over. “Ni agua.” This meant Not even water.
The abuelas, remaining in clot formation and all continuing to talk simultaneously, waddled over to their usual corner of the room, claiming the spaces in front of their favorite slot machines, so they’d be ready to start losing money as soon as the ship reached the three-mile limit.
“Great tippers, those ladies,” said Mara.
“Really?” said Fay.
“Oh yes,” said Mara. “Sometimes they’ll give you an entire quarter like it was nothing. I think they buy their cars with quarters. Here comes the Grateful Dead.”
Johnny and the Contusions appeared in the doorway, trying to look alert. Jock, who had extremely sensitive Woman Radar, spotted Mara and Fay instantly and swerved their way, trailed by Johnny and Ted, Wally bringing up the rear, carrying his guitar case.
“Ladies,” said Jock. “How’re you ladies doing tonight?” Jock’s approach to women was: move in close, keep talking, allow the women to be overcome by his studliness. This didn’t always work, but it worked often enough that Jock had no reason to try another approach.
“We ladies are doing great,” said Mara. “We’re gonna spend four hours schlepping drinks in a hurricane. What could be better than that?”
“Huh?” said Jock, who, even when not stoned, often failed to recognize sarcasm. He went to his smoothest move: “You ladies are looking fine tonight.”
“And you gentlemen are smelling like a giant reefer,” said Mara.
Ted and Johnny giggled. Wally reddened. Jock bored straight ahead.
“How about,” he said, “when we get back tonight, you ladies go with us over to the Road? We can party over there. You ladies be up for that?”
“Will Tina be joining us?” said Mara.
“Tina?” said Jock.
“Tina, the playmate of the month, who you’re dating,” said Mara.
“Oh, Tina,” said Jock, thinking as fast as he could, which was not fast. “No, she’s not . . . we’re not . . . I was just thinking you ladies would wanna party with us, over at the Road.”
“Gosh,” said Mara, “I’d love to, but I have a two A.M. dental appointment.”
“Huh,” said Jock. “How about you, Jane?”
“Fay,” said Fay.
“How about you, Fay?” said Jock. “You wanna party with the band?”
“Are you kidding?” said Fay.
“Kidding about what?” said Jock.
“Seriously,” said Mara, “would you say she has a great pair of tits?”
Fay snorted into her hand.
“What?” said Jock.
“Never mind,” said Mara.
Jock frowned, his overloaded brain seizing up, then re-booting. He said: “You ladies are looking fine tonight.”
Mara rolled her eyes. Fay snorted again. Johnny and Ted, laughing, grabbed Jock by the arm and pulled him toward the stairs. Wally stepped forward.
“Don’t mind him,” he said. “He’s just . . . he’s . . .”
“We ladies know what he is,” said Mara.
“Yeah, well,” said Wally. “Anyway.” He aimed his eyes at the floor, then at Fay. Big breath. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” said Fay.
This is where Wally very much wanted to say something that would get Fay’s attention, something articulate yet winning, something smart yet modest, something that would clearly distinguish him from Jock, from men in general, so that Fay would see that he was intelligent and sensitive but also funny; and that he was very much attracted to her, but not just in a physical way, although he was attracted to her physically—very attracted—but not in a cheap physical way; and that even though there was no way he could ever compete with a guy like Jock in the looks department, he was somebody that she could talk to, and laugh with, and get to know on a deep and passionate yet meaningful and spiritually satisfying level. That’s what Wally wanted to get across here.
What he said was: “So.”
“So?” said Fay.
“We’re going out,” said Wally.
“We’re going out?” said Fay.
“I mean the boat,” said Wally. “The boat is going out.”
“Yes,” agreed Fay.
“Yup,” said Wally. He stood there for ten agonizing seconds, desperately hoping his brain would come up with something, anything, that was not as lame as what he had just said. The boat is going out. THE BOAT IS GOING OUT. You MORON. But his brain was not there. His brain was a spooked groundhog that had scuttled deep into its burrow and wasn’t coming out anytime soon.
“Yup,” he said again. “Well, OK, then, good luck.”
Good luck? GOOD FUCKING LUCK??
“Thanks,” said Fay.
<
br /> Wally, afraid of what idiot statement his mouth would emit next, turned to follow his bandmates, a defeated man.
Watching him go, Mara said, “He has it bad for you.”
“Lucky me,” said Fay.
“He’s kinda cute, in a cuddly way,” said Mara. “He’s not a bad guitar player.”
“Just what I need in my life,” said Fay. “A cuddly guitar player.”
“The drummer, now he’s cute,” said Mara.
“The stupid one? The one dating Tina, who thinks he’s God’s gift? ‘You ladies are looking fine’? Are you serious ?”
“He’s actually a good drummer,” said Mara. “And he’s nice to look at. Put duct tape over his mouth and you got something.”
“Him, you can definitely have,” said Fay.
“I just might, one of these nights,” said Mara. “And speaking of studs, here comes my boyfriend.” She waved at Arnie and Phil, coming into the room. Arnie saw her and headed over, Phil trailing.
“Hey there, gorgeous,” Arnie said. “You ready to run off with me for endless nights of wild, passionate sex?”
“I dunno, Arnie,” said Mara. “You make all these promises, but you always go home with Phil.” Behind Arnie, Phil snorted.
“I know, I know,” said Arnie. “He’s like my senile old uncle, who I gotta take care of. So howzabout this: You run off with me for nights of wild, passionate sex, and we’ll fix up Phil here with your friend, this lovely lady here, I don’t believe we been introduced.”
“Fay,” said Fay.
“A pleasure, Fay,” said Arnie. “I’d make an indecent proposal to you if I didn’t have this thing going with Mara here.”
“I appreciate the thought,” said Fay.
“You’re new on the ship,” said Arnie.
“A few weeks,” said Fay. “I work upstairs.”
“I don’t get up there much,” said Arnie.
“His age,” said Phil, “he can’t get up.”
“Don’t listen to my senile uncle,” said Arnie. “It’s a whole new world, with this Viagra. So howzabout it, ladies? Whaddya think?”
Mara said: “Arnie, I think what I always think, which is I wish you were forty years younger.”
“Me, too,” said Arnie.
“Especially when he tries to pee,” said Phil.
“What is that?” said Fay. The other three turned to follow her eyes, which were looking at the doorway, through which was coming, in all his pinkness, Conrad Conch. He was walking unsteadily, arms out, feeling his way along, not seeing all that well through his mouth hole. Next to him, looking concerned, was one of the Extravaganza’s dockside security guys.
“That’s the conch from the Happy Conch, whatshisname, Conrad,” said Mara. “Who says we don’t get glamorous celebrities on this ship?”
“He’s a regular?” said Fay.
“He was here once before,” said Mara. “He got into a fight.”
“Who would fight a giant pink shell?” said Arnie.
“Who would wear a giant pink shell?” said Phil.
“Who’d he fight with?” said Fay.
“Several people,” said Mara. “Manny, for one.”
“Manny fought a shell?” said Fay.
“Looks like he wants to again,” said Mara.
Manny Arquero, the pit boss, was striding across the casino floor, looking angry. He stopped in front of Conrad and put his face up to the mouth hole.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he said.
“Mmmmwmf,” said Conrad.
“What?” said Arquero.
“Mmmmwmf,” repeated Conrad, adding, “Mmmmwmf.”
“What’s he doing on the ship?” said Arquero, to the security guy.
“Mr. Kemp sent him over,” said the security guy.
“What do you mean?” said Arquero.
“I mean, Mr. Kemp called the ticket office, and he said the conch is going out on the boat tonight,” said the security guy. “Some kind of promotion thing. He came in a limo.”
“Kemp did?” said Arquero.
“No, the conch.”
Arquero thought about that.
“OK,” he said, speaking into Conrad’s mouth hole. “But there better not be no trouble, you hear me?”
“Mmmmwmf,” said Conrad.
“And you two,” Arquero said, turning to Fay and Mara. “You’re supposed to be waiting on customers.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mara.
“We’re customers,” said Arnie.
“I don’t see no drink in your hand, Pop,” said Arquero.
“I ain’t your pop,” said Arnie.
“Easy, Arnie,” said Mara, putting her hand on Arnie’s arm. “Mr. Arquero here’s right, OK? We gotta get to work.”
“That’s right,” said Arquero, turning, striding away.
“Asshole,” said Arnie.
“True, but he’s the boss asshole,” said Mara.
“Why do you got to get into it with everybody?” said Phil.
“Not everybody,” said Arnie. “Just the assholes.”
“Right,” said Phil, “but to you, practically everybody is an asshole.”
“True,” said Arnie.
“Nice to meet you gentlemen,” said Fay. “I gotta go upstairs.”
“Our pleasure,” said Arnie. “I’m only sorry Mara here claimed my heart first.”
“We came this close, Arnie,” said Fay, holding her fingers an inch apart. “I’ll always treasure what we had.” She turned and went upstairs.
“Classy lady,” said Arnie.
“I know,” said Mara. “I can’t figure out what she’s doing here.”
“Hey,” said Arnie, “you got class, and you’re here.”
“Thanks, Arnie, I appreciate the thought, but I know what I am, which is a high-school dropout. This is all I ever did, hustle drinks. But Fay is . . . I dunno. She doesn’t belong here.”
Fay was thinking pretty much the same thing when she got to the second deck and surveyed the crowd waiting to gamble. Most of the males were gathered around Tina, the tall and abundant roulette croupier. She was putting on a demonstration of how roulette was played. Almost all the males watching her knew exactly how roulette was played—it is not a complex game—but they were watching Tina intensely, the way a dog watches a hamburger being carried across a patio, in case maybe, somehow, you never know, the dog is going to get some.
Fay’s job was to go up to these people and ask them if they wanted anything from the bar. It was her experience that, on average, two out of every three of them would respond to this simple question by making basically the same joke, which was: Yeah (looking down at some specific part of Fay’s body), I want something all right, heh heh. And that was the subtle version. Sometimes they’d point at what they wanted; sometimes they’d try to touch it.
The first time this happened, Fay was unprepared. She asked a guy—middle-aged, clean-cut, not obviously drunk—if he wanted anything, and with no hesitation he put his right hand on her left breast and said, “This’d be nice.” She whacked his hand with her drink tray. He grabbed his hand and yelled what do you think you’re doing you bitch. Manny Arquero, always on patrol, was there instantly asking what happened, and Fay said this guy grabbed me, and the guy said I was just kidding around and this psycho bitch tries to take my hand off, and Arquero said to the guy, look, she’s new, no harm done, next drink’s on the house, and the guy said yeah well that’s fine but you oughtta fire that psycho bitch. Then Arquero took Fay aside and said what’s wrong with you, and she said what’s wrong with me? This slimeball gropes me and you want to know what’s wrong with me? And Arquero said that guy is a customer, happens to be a very good customer, and you don’t hit a customer again, ever, if you want to keep your job, you understand? And Fay said nothing, because she needed to keep this job.
So now, whenever she approached a male customer she didn’t know, she held the drink tray between them, her body tense, ready to step away quickly. She
’d also learned, when men said things to her, how to put on exactly the right smile—just enough to let the customer know she got that he was making a joke, ha ha, but not so much that he’d think it was OK with her for him to take it any further, or make a grab. Fay had to make these calculations, recalibrate her expression and posture, hundreds of times a night, which was one reason she almost always went home with a headache.
She felt one starting already as she picked up her drink tray from behind the bar and headed over to the crowd of dedicated roulette aficionados surrounding Tina. She circled the perimeter, searching for somebody relatively noncarnivorous-looking to ease her into the evening. She settled on a seventy-ish, gray-haired, grandfatherly man wearing neatly pressed chinos, loafers, and a button-down shirt, his reading glasses hanging from his neck.
Fay approached, put on her fake perky cocktail-waitress smile, and said, “Would you like anything from the bar, sir?”
He gave her a grandfatherly smile and said, “I’d like a cranberry juice on the rocks, please.”
“You got it,” she said, her fake smile melting into a genuine one.
“And a blow job,” he said.
SOMEWHERE ON THE DARK SEA BETWEEN THE Bahamas and Florida, Frank peered out at the alarmingly large waves. He was now seriously seasick, his clothes soaking with cold sweat, his gut churning from the boat’s relentless rolling and lurching, his head pounding from the thrum-thrum-thrum of the engines.
Frank had been making a conscious effort not to think about how lousy he felt. Unfortunately, this got him to thinking about how much water there was out there, all around him, beneath him. It was a lot of water, he was thinking. A shitload of water. It was starting to bother Frank that the only thing between him and all that water was this boat, which to Frank now seemed small and frail, especially compared to these waves. It occurred to him that he didn’t really know how boats worked. It didn’t make sense, the more he thought about it, that if he dropped, for example, his car keys into the ocean, they’d sink immediately, even though they weighed far less than this boat. Frank wondered—he couldn’t help himself—What was keeping the boat up? And what if it suddenly stopped working, out here? Wherever the hell here was.
