Brian David Bruns - Ship for Brains (Cruise Confidential 2)

CRUISE SHIPS RARELY look guilty. They should. If bulkheads could talk, revealed would be month after month of menial labor, little pay, and less sleep. The dining rooms bear witness to gastronomic atrocities of the highest order, and crew cabins? Booze and sex are taken to criminally insane levels. But luxury liners are never penitent because they are built nose in the air, then vindicated with expensive champagne smashed on their puffed up chest. Like the rest of us, they are oblivious to what happens in their own bowels.

I was already nervous when I approached Majesty of the Seas to sign on as crew. The sea was a harsh mistress and had already broken me once, but like a good masochist I returned obediently for more. Not a particularly flattering metaphor, but accurate. Horrendous shrieks rose from the ship, and memories of the damned toiling ceaselessly in her depths flooded over me. But that was just the swell rubbing the ship up against the pier.

Because the pier was level with the opening in Majestys hull, crossing the crews gangplank was like walking across a horizontal step ladder. Tiptoeing rung to rung loaded with luggage is a little nerve-wracking, especially when directly above Volkswagen-sized bumpers being ground into hamburger. The protective net below was for catching falling wallets, not arrogant Iowans. But cross I did, one with the Idaho potatoes and Samsonite luggage, though as a crew member I was first patted down by security.

Attractive wooden paneling and brass accoutrements made it clear that this first spot was intended for guests, whereas the dirty plastic flaps blocking a doorway indicated our lot. A young, brown-haired man in a lime green Tommy Bahama polo waited for me, munching on a handful of Tums as if they were peanuts. He rushed forward to greet me, shooting words like bullets from a machine gun. This is not to imply aggression, but that he perhaps thought his words would vanish if not expelled fast enough.

Youre Brian, eh? Im Shawn the art auctioneer. Just the suitcase and a backpack? Bobs your uncle. My gay boys will join us soon. Dont worry about the purser.

His speech ended so abruptly I wasnt sure if he was through. But Shawn was already moving, so I followed. He ducked through the flaps accessing the crew corridor and led me into the bowels of the ship. We passed stacks of pallets heavy with plastic-wrapped contents. Open doorways made gaps between the towers of supply, like a long Cheshire cat smile with missing teeth.

Shawn was a cheery soul, babbling nonstop about all sorts of subjects.

Where you from?

Im from Iowa.

Go Buckeyes!

Close, I complimented. Thats Ohio. Iowa is the Hawkeyes.

He leaned his head charmingly sideways, like a confused puppy. Did I mention I was from Canada? Survivals in the cinema. Busy day today. My gay boys are busy, too, but we wont work you too hard yet. You know about the I-95, eh?

Over the noise and the chaos, his choppy speech was incredibly hard to follow. The crew corridor, known as the I-95, was terra incognita for guests because it housed the mess, the purser, the crew bar, and access to crew cabins below the waterline. Surprisingly, the name was not a reference to an Interstate, but referred to the immigration papers the U.S. requires of foreigner workers, Form I-95.

Gene said you know ships already, eh?

Ive been on three Carnival ships, I answered slowly. I tried to slow him down without being rude or, for that matter, appearing like the dullard my ex-wife insisted I was.

Oh, all ships are the same, he said, giving me a lopsided smirk. Only the officers are different. Carnivals are Italian, so they are easy to handle. They demand respect and tail, you know. Nothing else matters, especially the rules. Just kiss their ass and you are in. But on RCI theyre all Dutch. That means rules first: people last. They love protocol and formality and all that. This is a problem with a lot of Americans because youre all so casual and hip hoppy.

I believe the technical term is hip hop-like, I replied helpfully.

Suddenly a small, handsome man bullied past in obvious agitation. Beneath a striped bandana, his forehead flushed red with anger and he hammered his fists against the bulkhead as if it was a speed bag. Shawn dropped his typically explosive speech pattern and called to the fuming man with incredible, almost mocking sweetness.

Why, hello, Amor! Out in port today?

The man glanced up, surprised. He outwardly calmed himself, but the quivering of his dimpled chin revealed pressure yet brewing. His face contorted, trying to find the right spot between anger and horror. Shawn suddenly remembered introductions.

This is Amor, the bartender I hired for the auctions. Hes from Greece. Amor, this is Brian, the new art auctioneer.

No doubt Amor had not really heard anything, lost as he was in rage. He nearly struck his head into the wall, apparently feeling his fists were not appropriately expressive. Shawn prompted with sugary innocence, Is there a problem?

The problem, Amor answered venomously, Is that all Americans are gays.

I blinked in surprise. Shawn gave me a sly smile and bowed with grand flourish, indicating the rebuttal was mine.

That may, in fact, be an exaggeration, I replied with amused patience. I am American and am not gay. However, this may finally explain why my ex-wife so thoroughly avoided me in the bedroom.

Amor glared at me a moment, obviously not convinced. Finally he sighed to release some tension and began his tale.

I was there, to east. All buildings had flags in front with bright rainbow colors on them. These ones, he added, indicating the crisp new bandana he wore. It was striped with the entire color spectrum.

I thought how cool everyone in America is, they are always so happy. Nobody shows bright colors in my country. We are not all sad, but we are not all happy like you Americans. Colors like this are so happy and full of life.

I bit my tongue, perhaps for the first time in my life.

I want these rainbow flags to send home to my family, show how different America is. I enter a bar selling these flags and buy this bandana also. In there a man approach me and buy me a beer. I think, what a nice place this Key West, where a stranger buy you beer.