by Micha Berman
As much as he complained about life on the cruise ship, for those brief hours when he was in the booth with the music blaring, surrounded by hundreds of dancing passengers, he seemed to have a good time. But Johnny was also on medication. Long Island Iced Teas to be exact. I could see he was already on his second for the evening. This explained the smile. It was his form of numbing. He had been on the cruise ship for way too long; he just couldn't get off. He talked about it, but he was getting close to a decade of living, breathing, eating, and crapping cruise ship life. He was that guy you heard about who after leaving the ship had to rock himself to sleep because he had become addicted to life at sea. I knew a couple other crew members who were also nearing ten years on the ship. Johnny was getting ready to celebrate his eighth anniversary at sea. He had served his time on nearly every Carnival ship. He liked to vent when I was around. "I'll be getting off this damn ship soon. I'm getting sick of this routine." I ignored it; I had been hearing it for so long. They should have had 12 step meetings on the ships, CA for Cruise Anonymous. Johnny would have been the first to sign up.
For now Johnny's therapy was four Long Island Iced Teas a night and a dose of big-breasted women pressing their bodies against his glass booth. This therapy is very effective. He was with a different woman each week; they lined up outside his glass cage at the end of the night. If I knew anything about music I would have been a disc jockey, but luck was not on my side. The Texan handed me the microphone with a long wire attached. I walked to the middle of the floor and as I spoke I heard my voice echo across the room. The Saturday Night Fever zombies on each side of me parted. "Welcome folks, aboard the M.S. Ecstasy, I am Micha Berman, your Assistant Cruise Director." I sounded like one of those used car salesmen, but no one seemed to care."Are you ready to party?" The response was instantaneous, and I am sure could be heard all the way down the Promenade deck. This was it. Work all year so you can have one crazy week on a cruise ship and do whatever you pleased. Their screams contained months of frustration, boredom and repression. Johnny raised the lights a bit and the crowd squinted for just a second before they adjusted. I began my usual routine about how there were so many single people on the cruise and how everyone was looking for love. I ended with a "let the games begin." I randomly selected three men from the audience and then three women.
I had studied under a cruel and sadistic cruise director so I knew the tricks of the trade. Rule #1: choose men that looked weird, nerdy, arrogant, or over weight but always choose men that are sober. Rule #2: look for women that are well endowed, beautiful, or overweight and definitely drunk. Any of these combinations would work and in almost all cases they did. Drunken people, drunken audience, drunken disc jockey. I was the only semi-conscious one in the house and the truth was, most nights, I was buzzing from screwdrivers. Each couple received ten balloons; the women would blow the balloons up and place them between their seated male partner's legs and then bounce up and down on the balloons. The first couple to pop all ten of the balloons were the winners and awarded the coveted plastic trophy. If it sounds sexual, it was. One man lay on the ground and his partner, a tub of a woman, enjoyed grinding each and every balloon. "Women blow harder," I screamed as the balloon kept popping and the screams of the audience got louder. The same jokes worked each and every cruise; it was an easy living.
I also felt the eyes of passengers watching my every move. This was my first night out, too. Shortly after the cruise got underway, I quickly became a recognizable face, a mini celebrity you may say. As I walked into the disco one night, I noticed a group of women dancing by themselves in a corner. Still early in the evening, the disco was half empty with Kool & the Gang's Celebration blasting from the sound system. One woman with raven black hair caught my eye. Her tight blue top showed signs of perspiration, wet circles under the armpits. She was dancing up a storm. Sweat on men is sick, dirty and smelly. On the right woman it is downright sexy. This woman fell under the "allowed to show sweat rule." She was gorgeous. She had short hair and looked tomboyish, a style that always attracted me.What the heck, I told myself as I walked toward the group and to this woman in particular. I had recently completed my pre-pickup routine which all took place in the privacy of my cabin. My whole life I have been nervous going to bars, walking up to completely strange women, and most of all standing amongst hundreds of single men all competing for the chance to approach that one beautiful woman on the dance floor. College was the worst as I had spent most of my weekends standing in fraternity houses surrounded by thousands of inebriated brothers, but now wearing a uniform, I had finally gained my confidence and most importantly had discovered a secret weapon.
Sitting in my cabin I found that liquor could be my savior. Mixing a couple screwdrivers while I listened to Kenny G tunes relaxed me for an evening of flirting. The hastily made drinks gave me a nice buzz, eliminating any hesitation or excess rumination, which had always got in the way of a good time. The Kenny G tunes can only be seen as feeding my dysfunctional taste for America's most hated music. Think of middle-aged white male musicians. Now think of white middle-aged male musicians that are the butt of all jokes. Voila! Those are my favorites, Neil Diamond, Barry Manilow, John Denver and the king of the pack, Kenny G. For as long as I can remember, I have loved Barry Manilow and have been humming Rocky Mountain High. As a seven-year-old I would lay on the carpet for hours listening to Bobby Vinton. It was a sign of things to come. I tried to hide it for a while out of embarrassment, but I finally came out of the closet and embraced this music without regard, even proclaiming to the world my love for musicals. Annie, Gypsy, Showboat and Chorus Line rounded out my favorite tunes. This may have explained why my closest confidants argued that I really didn't like tomboys, but I lusted simply for boys. Not true I told them. Just shut up and let me listen to I Write the Songs.
I stared at the woman on the dance floor. The disco was beginning to fill up as Madonna's Like a Virgin whipped the crowd into a frenzy. Matt, a purser friend, saw my approach and followed in line as support or maybe as competition. This could get nasty with Matt dressed in his newly clean white purser uniform, freshly pressed and practically shining on the dance floor. It was hard for me to compete. This was like some kind of wildlife public television program where the animal with the brightest colors wins the female. In this case I just hoped to make it over to her first and pop the question, "Would you like to share some Korbel with us?" She and her friends took the bait. As we sat down at one of the cocktail tables that surrounded the dance floor, I jockeyed for position. I needed to be the alpha male and won a seat next to Julia, a college student from New York City. Immediately we had great chemistry as we chatted on about movies, religion, death, and family. There was an incredible synergy between us, we kept eye contact and kept inching closer to each other with every word. It was such deep conversation and yet so utterly useless.
I was always the guy who had the most spiritual and connected conversations and at the end of the night went home alone. It's the nice guy syndrome. Kenny G appeared over Julia's shoulder with his long goofy hair and pelican nose."Get with the program, Micha; she digs you." I stopped in mid sentence. Let's take a walk on deck. She agreed and once again I was arm and arm with a beautiful woman. Within seconds the pulsating breath of the disco was behind us. There was a slight chill on deck as Julia leaned her body against mine as we walked, our small steps in synch. I was gaining ground on Johnny. Soon conversation had turned stupid and silly. It was incredible, we were laughing and I knew I was on the right track. Thanks, Kenny.
Julia wanted to go back to the disco and dance. Dancing was strictly off limits to crew members. This was the second golden rule. Big Brother was always watching. Big Brother, that bunch of Indian security guards recruited by Carnival and paid very little to patrol the cruise ship. Security had the distinction of wearing the ugliest uniforms on ship. Off green with a tinge of yellow, the full uniform appeared to be a mix between navy garb and a South American dictator. Each had a walkie-
talkie on their side and a small billy club. Their confidence level was equal to a three-legged turkey on the eve of Thanksgiving. While I never saw them perform any feats of bravery, I did learn some good chicken tikka recipes from them, and during my moments of boredom, which was what they experienced most of the time, they were great to pass the time with.
Actually security was pretty good at finding crew members that were up to no good. They weren't very successful at stopping the indiscriminate sex, but they did stop crew from dancing and drinking while sitting at a bar. Tonight I felt reckless so I headed back to the dance floor holding Julia's hand tightly. The night was magic even with my lack of discretion. Some crew members' lack of discretion would haunt them forever. For instance there was the Caribbean cabin steward who was caught by Big Brother leaving a passenger's cabin and fired on the spot. But he was a recidivist with a long history of leaving passengers cabins. In fact he was always proud to show me the many pictures of all the women he had slept with, from Florida, Illinois, Georgia, and Nevada. The list was endless. This was his second family; his first consisted of a wife and five children all living in Nicaragua. It was safe to say the families never met. I was not a repeat offender, was not as flagrant and I did not have a wife or child.
Also ship security had a double standard. They were much tougher on the lower ranked members of the crew. Italian officers could do whatever they wanted. Cruise staff, musicians, dancers were pretty much immune, like diplomats; however, waiters, busboys, cabin stewards were punished with swift justice. Fortunately I had diplomatic immunity; I needed it this night. If I was caught, I would have to plead not guilty by reason of temporary insanity induced by Kenny G.
We did end up in Julia's cabin on the Mezzanine deck, dangerous territory for any crew member. After some innocent fun I collapsed on the bed and fell asleep in a matter of seconds. Later that night I recalled a strange dream. I was looking out a window and having an incredibly volcanic urge to pee. It was painful. I began to look for the bathroom. The surroundings were unfamiliar, everything was out of place. I knew it was a dream but the need to urinate was as real as it could be; it was a nightmare as I felt the walls and turned corner after corner unable to find the toilet. I walked faster, hyperventilating, and generally panicking. Frantically searching, I spotted a glass on a counter next to a candle. I grabbed the glass, pulled my underwear down and began to pee. The glass filled quickly and I could feel the warmth of the urine in my hands, and looked down in time to see it overflowing. I snatched another smaller glass and kept peeing. It felt so so good. It was the kind of release where you need several minutes after it is done to just stand there and savor how good life really is. I breathed deeply and just smiled. I carried the glass somewhere and then things became fuzzy.
It was only a dream, but when I woke up in the morning next to Julia, I had an odd sensation. Deep in my stomach I knew something was wrong, it felt too real. I jumped up from the bed and took a quick glance around the small cabin. This was too weird, it couldn't have happened. But then I saw the candle on the ledge. "I need to check your bathroom real quick," I told Julia, trying not to act suspicious. She seemed half-asleep. I ran to the bathroom and peeked in. There stood a glass on the sink, it was a wineglass with yellow liquid sitting innocently at its base. This was no ordinary Napa Valley Chardonnay, this was my own private vintage. To make matters even stranger, next to the glass was a small contact lens container. Could I have peed in both? "What's going on in there?" Julia asked. I ignored her, buying time, this was sick. Could I have sleep peed? I had stumbled upon a new habit of mine, and maybe a new scientific discovery, sleep-peeing. Maybe I should have applied for the Guinness Book of weird and wacky records. I realized this wineglass was Julia's to take home, so I rinsed it well, getting rid of any yellowish residue. I could see her trying a new wine in a couple months at one of her fancy New York parties. "This one tastes a little bit acidic, but I like it." Hey Julia, now that's a real "penile-noir." For Julia, a part of me would always be with her; she seemed fine at breakfast. Good-byes were in order.
When it comes to peeing, crapping, and other bodily functions, I was listed in many tourist guides, almanacs, and yearbooks as strangely obsessed to certain rituals. Since elementary school I had always been terrified to sit on toilets that I couldn't call my own. It was my pot or no pot. This, of course, created havoc for my parents as well as school officials. Often my parents received phone calls about their son turning blue in the face because he refused to use the school bathroom. Only later in life did I uncover the wonderful and genius invention of a U-shaped piece of paper that conveniently fit atop the toilet seat. Maybe I wasn't the only one out there who didn't want my butt sitting on wet dirty creepy toilet seats. Often in many of the ports in the Caribbean we docked, I avoided the public bathrooms all together. I simply used nature as my bathroom; there were plenty of jungles. In the woods out of view, I relaxed and did my business. With the wonderful technologies of the modern age, I forgot how wonderful it was to squat down in the woods and deliver the goods. In the Caribbean I got in touch with my waste products. This may sound like an infomercial, "Getting In Touch With Your Fecal Matter by Micha Berman." I thought of all the strange and beautiful places I had gone to the bathroom, the woods in Ocho Rios, the mountains of St. John, the waters of the Cayman Islands. I could have written a coffee table book of "One Hundred of the Most Beautiful Places I've Crapped." With my new sleep-peeing habit, I could have followed this book with, "One Hundred of the most Beautiful Places I've Sleep-Peed Including Your Mother's Denture Cup."
After Julia it was back to the hard work of assistant cruise director. Women smashing their butts against balloons was only a small part of my job. I also had to devote considerable energy to the dirty dancing competitions on board. Three couples each night were chosen, individually matched only moments before their performance. They had thirty seconds to get as raunchy as they could and they did. Once again my skills as Cupid came in handy. My magical fingers pointed to the lucky or unlucky female or male participant. Men and women went through every possible sexual position imaginable.
Romance is hard work and required lots of food for energy. I couldn't help but think that was one of the reasons cruise ships served buffets 24/7. Seafood buffets, pasta buffets, Mexican buffets, pastry buffets, the list was endless. If pigging out at the grand buffet of the evening wasn't enough, there was even a late night buffet for those late night/early morning stomachs with legs scouring the cruise ship. Speaking of stomachs, mine was starting to bloat. I felt a slight queasiness as I shut my eyes, this time in the safety of my own bed. I had a super sensitive stomach. Medical schools will fight over my body when I die, all rushing to dissect my organs and figure out why this guy displayed symptoms not seen in any other human species. Call me a hypochondriac, but I went into a panic if my pants felt just a little too tight.
To make things worse I ate a lot of junk. I held the college record for ordering-out the most consecutive nights, 45 orders of gyros, onion rings and Caesar salad. Their total grease count enough to fill a milk jug. I always remembered Sunday nights with the family watching Sixty Minutes and eating Roy Rogers Roast Beef sandwiches. This is where my love affair for eating out began. I loved any food not cooked in my kitchen, even airplane food, and had an even more dangerous liking for fatty, fried and generally heart-attack-inducing treats. This stomach took a turn into the Twilight Zone as I sometimes experienced sharp anal pains, which struck me in the most inopportune times. For years I suddenly got a piercing sharp pain in my butt, like someone stuck a spear up there and jabbed me. I could be standing in a line and without warning, the spear came like a jolt of electricity. I looked like an epileptic crack-induced scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz. My limbs bent in strange ways, I grimaced and my whole body straightened up. Not always the greatest turn on for my dates. The doctors checked it out; I was fine but no real explanation. I tried my best to cover it up, but some ladies got to see the show.
&nbs
p; New Year's Eve on the cruise ship brought me together with an exotic beauty, a Brazilian woman named Alicia. At 10 o'clock I felt the first sign of stomach pain. Not again I thought, what a way to start the New Year. I tried to ignore it, but a couple minutes later even more discomfort. I removed my belt without Alicia even noticing. At 11 p.m. the first beads of sweat appeared on my forehead and it was clear Super-sensitive-stomach sickness was upon me. The symptoms could not have been disputed. Alicia was touching me more and more. 11:15 p.m. I ran to the bathroom, hunching over trying to cover up my pain. Alicia must have thought I was inventing some new funky dance or maybe she dismissed my behavior as a cultural thing. I gained my composure again and assured my beautiful companion that everything was fine." It must be so exciting to work here," she whispered to me prying for more details about what ship life was really like. I had spent four weeks studying Spanish, imagining a moment like this with a lovely Latin lover, only to realize my unfortunate luck that Brazil is the only country in Latin America that speaks Portuguese. Alicia's English wasn't bad, she skipped words every once in a while, but I was more than forgiving. Her face was perfectly proportioned, her eyes large and tortoise colored, her nose cute as a button. Her lips were amazing, doused with lipstick and they were huge. I explained how lonely it was at sea when suddenly the sharp anal pains arrived.
I rushed to the bathroom before Alicia saw my body jerking. I closed the bathroom door behind me and looked into the mirror. Not tonight, just leave me alone. Anyone watching me may have thought I had multiple personalities; no, I was just experiencing anal thrusts from an imaginary weapon. Very normal stuff. I ran back out to the dance floor. "Are you alright, sweetheart?" she asked me with her sweet Portuguese accent. It was 11:30 p.m.. My body tensed up. She looked at me baffled. I turned and retreated again to the bathroom. I was becoming a regular visitor. This time when I locked the door I removed my pants as well as my shirt. Now I was in my underwear. I breathed deeply as I lay naked on the floor, the cool tiles tingled my back. It was 11:45 p.m., fifteen minutes from the New Year. I heard the crowd getting rowdier and wanted to make it back to Alicia and get that special Brazilian kiss at the stroke of midnight. I deserved it. Although it was looking bleak, I would even take Brazilian CPR. I didn't look like the coolest guy at the party as New Years Eve approached, staring at the white putty ceiling, feeling the coldness of the floor on my exposed butt. Still Alicia had no clue her date was indisposed. 11:55 p.m., it was time for action. I pulled my pants back on and ran out to the dance floor. Three - two - one. Happy New Year. Alicia grabbed me close and delivered the promised wet kiss.
