Journal entry …
March 17, 2014
Branded on the
inside of my upper, inner thigh is an emotional tattoo that reads … “hopeless
romantic.” I know! Another tiny one located on my chest, closer to my heart,
reads … “practical pessimist.” They fight and bicker! A lot! I prefer the
middle one, the spread-out one situated on my safe zone, my stomach, (that not
so firm anymore, squishy-space) … it reads … “Retired! From love!” It acts like
my Switzerland … neutral, detached and heavily guarded. Hey, I maintain some boundaries. My Life! My rules! My
tattoos, dammit! Real or not real! And, I am not alone. A whole world out there
is hurting. Disappointed. Discouraged. Dejected. In everybody’s life, broken or
otherwise, there is a longing to love. Again. I feel it! I know it! I just
don’t know how to go about it … how to reconnect the dots, extract the hurt,
heal the scars, rearrange the tattooed lines and open up my closed borders …
enough …
Tomorrow, I leave
on a two-week vacation with Drew. I’m not sure why? I’m not even sure I’m ready.
Nevertheless, the car arrives sharp, at 8 AM for JFK. I need some rules, some
hard fast directives to live by while I’m away. A contract, so to speak, a
commitment, something written down in black and white to remind me to keep
myself in check … okay here goes …
1)
Don’t
drink too much!
2)
Don’t
eat too much!
3)
Stay
out of trouble!
4)
Be
a good friend and companion to Drew! (After all, she bought me the trip)
5)
DON’T
DRINK TOO MUCH!
I think that just
about does it.
Whispering from
that small sacred space near my heart comes a farewell bon voyage … it sneaks
up on me …
I love you, Sami
Saxton!
Hmm …
I love you, too …
XOXO
Miami
~*~
The Celebrity
Reflection, a colossal, multi-tiered, uber-fancy cruise liner sits docked at
the massive International Port in Miami. Its image shimmers in the murky water like a
great white metallic shark. A floating Emerald City! Drew and I lounge,
uncomfortably, in one of their amphitheater-sized waiting areas,
anticipating the automated female voice to announce our alphabetical letter
to allow us to embark upon this recently christened floating monster. How Drew
convinced me this was a good idea goes to show how persuasive she can be. And give
immeasurable kudos to her astute manipulative nature. Hey, maybe she’s
right. The last three months since the arrest of Jerry, my ex-husband, and his
then current flame, Brenda Stokes, not to mention the death of Evie, or Claire,
or whoever that young woman pretended to be, did send me screaming, once again,
into a shell-shocked mess. I mean, c’mon! Give
a girl a break!
Drew
bought me the trip as a gift, a peace offering, which was completely
inappropriate since she did save my
life, for God’s sake. The memory alone of that horrific evening sends
anxiety rippling through my system like a crackling thunderbolt! But that’s behind
us, sitting here now, lounging in balmy Florida sunshine, (far away from a sub-zero,
artic wave sweeping from Canada and dumping several inches of pristine
snow on our beloved Gotham) and enjoying the slow sway of the towering palm
trees and cooling ourselves off with makeshift paper fans. I wish they’d turn up the air conditioning. Stowed away in one of
my bags is a full bottle of prescription Xanax and a large, litre-sized bottle of Grey Goose, well-packed and hidden
under layers of folded clothes.
Some
things never change!
“You
want something to drink?” Drew asks.
“I have my water. Thanks.” I tap the
top of one of my carry-ons. “Once we board this baby and get ourselves settled
in, you and I will partake in an adult
beverage.” I smile. Deviously. Drew cackles that infamous laugh I love so much
and looks away. Her eyes dart about the crowded lounge like a lizard
seeking a wayward fly.
Meanwhile, I’m unsure how I’ll handle
the boat, the small spaces, the cramped quarters, the rocky waters.
Claustrophobia, my newish best friend is annoyingly present, hiding in the
wings, anxiously awaiting a guest appearance. At any moment. Drew guaranteed
me, more than once, that cruising was like being afloat inside a gigantic,
luxury casino. You hardly ever feel the
waves! I mean, really! Who’s she kidding? We are talking the Atlantic Ocean! Not some lakeside county fair boat
ride. I came prepared though, to safeguard myself against the notion of being
sideswiped. I popped another Valium, (a peach-colored one) as we passed through
the organized network of gangplanks and dizzy, tangled corridors to arrive into
this lovely pre-boarding, unairconditioned loading zone.
We are the next group, supposedly, to
cross over the metal gangway. Drew and I expectantly arrange our bags and
roll-ons in final preparation. Finally, the android voice drones out our
letter. We jump up, heave our fourteen-day wardrobe around yet another carpeted
corridor, and hurry up and wait.
“Gum?” Drew pulls out a pack of
spearmint Trident and offers me a piece.
“No, thanks.” I say, my eyes wondering,
my feet tired, my body lethargic from waiting. Patience is a virtue and not --
I’m sorry to admit -- one of mine.
Like waiting in an airport queue, we
shimmy a few feet at a time, in zigzag patterns, around turns and bends and
inclined ramps. I glance across the railing to the other side, strain my eyes
for a split second and think I’m imagining things. I nudge Drew on the arm and
have her look in the same direction.
“What?” She asks, an air of best-friend
annoyance riding bareback.
“It can’t be.” My body drains of blood.
A chill enters the bottom of my feet, travels north and highjacks my
entire body. I might actually faint.
Drew observes my obvious discomfort. Oh,
the look she gives me. Like I should just climb right into a coffin
instead of boarding this luxury cruise liner with her. “What? What’s wrong with
you? What?”
Who let the parakeet out
of her cage?
“Is
that, over there ...?” I’m completely unnerved and unhinged. The good Doctor or somebody who looks exactly like
the identical twin of Thomas Mann is posing across the way, perusing literature
of some sort, completely unaware that we are standing less than ten feet away.
“Who?” Drew quips. She takes off her
glasses and zooms in, a circling eagle ready to swoop down and destroy.
“Where?”
Leaning over the railing and
standing statuesque is a handsome man dressed in beige khaki slacks
and a short-sleeved, pink Ralph Loren Polo shirt. His chestnut brown hair is
flopped with stylish panache to one side. Thick-framed black eye glasses outline
his brooding eyes. He studies excursion leaflets as if there might be a
comprehensive test later.
“Is that Thomas Mann?” I ask again,
sheepishly.
“Oh, God, Sami, you are losing it.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Now, I turn and
gawk.
“Sami! That is NOT Thomas Mann.” Drew
consoles me. An aging twosome of lifelong cruisers stand behind us, too close
for comfort, and are obviously in a hurry to get to the free,
bigger-than-life-buffet. They continue nudging us to move forward, as if the
next few miniscule steps might make their journey go faster. I turn and
give a slight “excuse me” but they insist, pushing on, an air of
overt enthusiasm etched on their wrinkled faces.
“That is not Thomas! You’re seeing things.”
“What?” I take another quick glance
across the populated network of metal grid work. She’s right. He looks in my direction
and casually removes his glasses. Embarrassed to be caught staring so intently,
I turn away, lean up against the railing and heave a huge sigh. Thomas Mann is
the last person I would ever want to see again. Ever.
I think back. Even in my Valium-induced
haze, I distinctly remember the good doctor mentioning a cruise in one of my
terminal therapy sessions. I’m feeling territorial with Drew at the moment
and want to push full throttle through this massive crowd and get us safely
into our stateroom. The line moves at the speed of a pregnant turtle as I
shove Drew, lovingly, up the aisle.
“Stop it,” Drew wails.
A steel bridge connects us to the
interior of the ship. Several Officers dressed in stuffy white uniforms bearing
impressive gold aglets on their shoulders greet us and await our arrival. They
swipe passenger’s plastic entry cards, take passport size photographs and
process paperwork to a torrent of people gushing to enter this floating matrix.
We cross over a single lane, metal gangplank to the main check in. I take a
quick peek over the railing and instantly become dizzy. I didn’t realize how
high we were. We follow their directions, hand over our ID’s, passports,
paperwork, check in our luggage, and continue through the litany of
well-organized directives, necessary to embark on this alien craft perched
on the high sea like a bobbing bottle. I am pleasantly surprised at
the organizational skills of the crew. They swipe, photograph and check
in the mass of people in a matter of minutes and before I know it, we are
standing in the enormous belly of the boat, stranded in front of six large
elevators, three on either side of us. In the middle of the floor, emblazoned in
the polished off white tile, is a huge insignia of the ship’s name and its
celebratory first launch date.
The elevator dings with expectant
arrival as a mass of seaworthy castaways take shelter in one of the large,
air-conditioned (ahhhh …) cars.
The scare of a Thomas Mann sighting squelched any personal phobias of riding
the elevator. The Valium helps. We stand, huddled together as the door swooshes
shut, ass-to-ass, packed -- a tin of sardines -- and are rocketed to the
eighth floor in a matter of seconds. Floor to ceiling windows overlook the
enormous inside workings of this sparkly, lit-up vessel. Drew pokes me in the
side, her face aglow with childish marvel and wonderment.
“Isn’t it enchanting?” She sighs
breathlessly. Then, once again, she’s all business. “As soon as we get to
our room we’ll unpack, go to the spa first … we need to make appointments ...”
Drew’s organizing, taking control,
self-assigned as my personalized event director. “Spa? How about a freaking
bar?” I say, laughing aloud, keeping things light, and attempting to be a good
friend, a good companion, and better company. Inwardly though, I’m wobbly. My
equilibrium is terribly off kilter and getting more apprehensive by the second,
crammed into this window-enclosed box without much standing room, pressed tight
against a brass rail harpooning my ass. The Valium is working on overtime,
trimming off the excess fat of my indulgent nerves, but a few randy
synapses are escaping the rowdy pack.
We catapult ourselves out into the
hallway and make curious circles while searching for our stateroom number and
matching hallway to get us there. A tall, gangly African American man stands at
parade rest at the entrance to the corridor. He’s outfitted in a white,
starched Nehru-style jacket and has a surprised expression on his face as we
amble tentatively toward him. He must be one of the stewards assigned to this
floor, our personal butler, and/or caretaker. Several people walk right past
him, but Drew, knowing this game, shoves a fifty dollar bill into his palm
along with our room number. The whites of his eyes open wide. He grabs our
carry-on luggage and ushers us down a swirling carpeted corridor. His
accent is Jamaican. Large white teeth light up his brown face like a jack-o-lantern.
His body is wraith thin. (Skinnier than Drew’s) Trailing behind the both of
them, I notice his hair, mowed close to his oval head and decorated with
intricate shaved details artistically displayed around the edges.
Our stateroom is wonderful. The Vista Suite. I take a hopeful, excited breath as
we turn the corner and enter. Two queen-sized beds, made up in expensive beige
sheets and warm fall-colored fabrics line the far wall. A sitting room off to
the side has a love seat sofa and a small dining room table with two comfortable
chairs. Glass sliding doors open to a private veranda and an okay sized patio.
A bigger than average bathroom is equipped with a whirlpool tub and
shower, deliciously deluxe and sanitarily spotless. I sit on the edge of one
of the beds and push myself up and down on the firm mattress. I have a
childlike need to dangle my legs over the side. Nice. I am pleasantly surprised
with the accommodations. Drew’s in a hurry, a busy bee needing nectar,
calculating our itinerary for every second we’re on board this vessel.
“You go on ahead.” I say, meaning it.
“I brought a few projects I’m working on, plus magazines. I can easily
keep myself entertained.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re coming
with me. We need to make reservations at a few restaurants, ask for our own
separate table in the main dining room, get spa reservations … they have
lectures you know, and this cruise is hosting an art show direct from Florence
as one of the highlights. I’ve done my homework!” Her voice is quivering,
humming, as tireless and frantic as the wings on a hummingbird. I wonder if she
ever rests. It must be intense having to live inside that head of hers, all the
time.
“Okay, okay.” I’m a pushover. I start
unpacking, putting my things away. The Grey Goose, I stowed earlier in the deep
recesses of my under garments, I now lay sideways in the freezer. In the
refrigerator section underneath, is a generous mix of mini-bar goodies tempting
my just say “no” diet.
“No worries there, ma’am. I can do that
for you.” The porter stands watching as Drew and I struggle with our luggage.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Delroy.” His voice has that Jamaican
swag to it, sweet, lyrical, and melodic. His fingers are long and bony with knobby
joints. He retrieves our suitcases delivered outside the room and rests them on
wooden racks.
“Okay, Delroy. I hand the task to you.”
I stand back, grab a granny smith apple from the fruit bowl that was awaiting
us, sit on the comfortable sofa and wait for Drew, who is taking forever in the
bathroom. I miss Blue. I wish the cruise line permitted large dogs. They only
allowed small pets, yappy, high-octane pooches that yap, yap, yap! Incessantly!
When Drew does decide to exit, she’s
changed clothes, applied a light dusting of makeup and smells intoxicating. A
cloud of the newest, most expensive perfume from Paris wafts out in a wave
before her. “Jesus, Drew. Really?”
She laughs that nervous giggle. God I
love this woman … sometimes.
“Let’s go! On y va!”
Back in the hallway, I’m a
lightweight, a novice cruiser, following Drew’s militant determination to seize
and conquer. We march with fortitude toward the elevators, investigating each
corner, each crevice, sopping up every detail like thirsty sponges, digesting
the overwhelming and vast amount of information available. I turn back
toward the room and wave to Delroy, who is busy unloading the last of our two
weeks’ worth of baggage. Why I trust him, I don’t know. But hey, I’m going
along with the flow. He waves back and gives another tip-worthy smile. Meanwhile,
Drew is scrolling through the ship’s daily itinerary, turning pages faster than
a prodigy from the Evelyn Wood’s speed reading classes … planning, and
planning, and planning. I’m exhausted just watching her! Spin classes,
workouts, Yoga sessions, Palates, and two different pools. One, a large
salt-water soaking tub that careens back and forth with the boats natural sway
near the Aqua Spa (less kids, I’m down!) and the enormous, football field-sized
one situated on the ship’s outdoor deck on the fourteenth floor complete with
four Jacuzzi’s, (covered under the protective shield of rolling glass should
the weather turn wretched). We highjack a crowded elevator to the second level
where the colossal main dining room is located. A grand ballroom stairway has a
queue of people standing in line waiting for the Maître’d, a smarmy, short-ish
dude dressed in a pale, sand-colored suit with pant legs hemmed too short,
(awaiting a flood) to aid in their evening seating. Haggling, if you ask
me, with a wad of green thrown in on the side for covert bribing.
The boat is teaming with other food venues, offering a wide assortment of
world class dining, so, Drew and I ditch the line and scramble to each of the
other outlets located on the fourth and fifth level, and make our daily, hand-written
reservations just in case we get the urge for something different.
Excursions?
The boat is on its way to Florence,
Italy with the final destination of Rome. We have several, (seven, to be exact)
free “intensive” sea days while crossing the Atlantic; easy, restful, calming,
monotonous days, lazing around, anywhere, with a book, lying by the pool,
soaking up rays or making use of an assortment of on-board entertainment;
gambling, shopping or even taking in a late night show. Top-level comedians,
singers, and dancers all perform live on stage in an amphitheater bigger and
better than anything I’ve visited recently in the City. Drew’s right. It is
Vegas!
Highlighted, as the “Main Event” on
this transatlantic voyage is the spectacular art show, “Money and Beauty and the Bonfire
of the Vanities,” direct from its Florence premiere at the Palazzo
Strozzi, proudly displaying Italy’s 15th Century artistic history.
We step around a roped-off, still under construction entryway, and peek inside
the cavernous space. The mere sight is worth the proverbial “Ahhhh!”
Designers
have covered the entire gallery floor in snow-white carpet. Construction
workers have draped sheets of heavy plastic over the space for protection,
awaiting the ceremonial unveiling. The curators have listed over 100 pieces
from the exhibit to stir up enthusiasm. Artists celebrated are Botticelli,
Michelangelo and Bento Angelico, to name a few, their names printed in formal
black lettering and shown in handsome frames on sturdy easels outside the entrance.
An auction will take place after the gala opening and period pieces will go on
sale to the highest bidder. A series of enrichment lectures go hand-in-hand
with the exhibition, spotlighting the history of the Medici family, their
fanciful banking history and their devoted patronage to the arts. Sculptures,
documents, books and artefacts -- the entire vast collection -- explores in
depth the patrons, economics and artists during a period now looked back on as
the “Golden Age.” One of the Medici heirs, (if there actually is one) is
supposedly teaching several of the classes.
Surprised by my adaptability, my
so-called sea legs, I’ve yet to feel seasick, anxious, or overly nervous. And,
to my credit and chagrin, without the aid of too many ingested pharmaceuticals.
Drew and I find ourselves back in the room for a quick catnap before an
aggressive loud speaker awakens us and prompts us to move to the outdoor deck
for a class in the Emergency Exit Plan indoctrination. The lecture, given by a
good-looking bloke with broad shoulders and a tight, white, tee shirt comes
complete with step by step instructions on the usage of our very own,
orange-colored life vests, dragged with us from under our beds, pulled over our
heads, and tightened securely around our waists. Once we understand the fine
art of inflation, the young man issues us a number and the location of the
lifeboat we’re to plunge into should the ship hit an iceberg or any other
emergency situation. I’m praying for a safe, sound, and relaxing trip.
We journey like moles through the
hectic, busy, guest-friendly tunnels to the upper deck right at dusk, just as
the ship untethers its slip and sneaks its’ way to sea. Ribbons of salmon slash
across a burgeoning purple sky. Stars are budding and twinkling in the twilight.
It’s a humid, wet evening. Moisture laps at the sides of our faces. Sweat
glistens on our necks and the slight, arid breeze feels tender and good on our
bare shoulders. High-rise apartment buildings and condominium complexes
surrounding the harbor light up the waterway corridor like an airport runway.
The ship floats on a cloud in a steady slow progression toward the oceans mouth,
a bon voyage kiss before being devoured by an awaiting Atlantic. Family and
friends gather in layers, waving from the sidelines, huddled together on the
huge hanger of cracked concrete. White handkerchiefs move back and forth in the
salt-licked air.
The Sunset Bar is open for business.
Situated at the front of the ship near a long orderly line of perfectly
straightened deck chairs, (on real, live grass!) we perch our asses on white,
toadstool-style seats and enjoy the spectacular view. The bartender, a jovial
black man wearing a wild, floral Hawaiian shirt, shakes up brand-name vodka in
plastic cups with lots of ice and tiny olives (my least favorite). We raise our
makeshift glasses and toast our upcoming days together, our transatlantic
excursion. Italy! Ciao Bella! And, of
course, our amazing, unwavering friendship, the absolute best in the whole
galaxy.
~*~
We dine that
evening in the lovely Murano Restaurant, one of several of the revered
five-star, independent epicurean eateries promoted on board the ship. We
sit at a table situated beside a ruler-row of circular port windows
peering out over the choppy waters of a turbulent, upset Atlantic. I’m amazed
at how still, how calm, the ship’s movement is. Outside, a rainstorm is
bludgeoning the wooden decks. Sheets of water slam and swirl against the boats
massive hull. Giant, jagged white tops break and roll on a tourmaline sea as
our floating hotel progresses smoothly forward.
I’m
enjoying my usual, a lovely frozen vodka martini (in the perfect “up” glass
with large, fat olives) waiting to consume a three course hedonistic feast
prepared by the Chef de Cuisine, who journeyed to our intimate table
to introduce himself and personally welcome us. A portly young man,
he's thick-bellied, with carrot-colored orange hair and a straggly, matching
beard. Tattoos scream out from his naked forearms. (Never trust a skinny Chef)
He wears a white, puffy Chef’s hat that towers to the arched ceiling and juggles
two tiny plates in his plump hands, and introduces Drew and I to his specific
amuse bush for the evening. Toasted sourdough garlic points topped with creamy
burrata mozzarella, a slice of salted speck and minced tarragon sprinkled ala
minute.
Delicious.
The
sommelier arrives with a select bottle of wine Drew picked out earlier. (On our
exhausting post-arrival, three hour ship crusade) Drew has tremendously good
taste, in most things, but particularly with vino. The lovely sommelier presents a handsome-shaped bottle of
Pinot Noir from Napa Valley. Even the delicate purple anemones dressing the
table tilt their buttercup sepals in acceptance. The young woman opens the
bottle with arty finesse, takes a sip of the wine from a garish spoon dangling
from around her neck, and pours the ruby mixture into large Burgundy
glasses. I twirl mine several times over the starched linen before raising my
glass and offering a toast. The steward, a gorgeous Latino woman with a high,
elegant forehead and a regal neckline, smiles and excuses herself.
“Thank
you, Drew. Seriously. For being in my Life.” I clink my glass to hers. Crystal
sings. She gets teary-eyed as we take reverent tastes. I shake my head in
delightful appreciation. “Beautiful … the wine … and you.”
“How
are you doing?” She places her glass on the table. “Really. It’s just you and
me now, kiddo.” She keeps her fingers wrapped around the base of her
goblet, a miniature life raft in this endless sea of emotion.
It’s
my turn to get sensitive. “You’re seriously going to take me there, aren’t
you?” I grab at my napkin. I dab the corners of my eyes.
“Yep.”
She attempts a feeble smile. She reaches her hand out and touches mine.
I sit for a gravid second. I ponder
the surreal couple of months I’ve lived through … and survived. The question ...
The
restaurant stretches and yawns toward closing. The clank of empty bottles
hitting a trashcan somewhere behind me. Tables seated around us are finishing
with their desserts. A lone table beside us sits empty, a setting for one
guest prepared and mysteriously vacant throughout the evening. Michael,
the delightful Maître’d, (I make a point of knowing the service crew by
their first names, unlike Drew) had placed a RESERVED sign on it hours ago,
when we first arrived. A cappuccino machine hissing and coughing steam
reverts my attention back to Drew and her question.
The
answer …
I
don’t have one. “Sad.” I say, breaking the awkward monotony of silence. “I’m just
really sad. The whole Jerry thing really took me for a loop. I mean, his women
friends … you know what? I’m a big girl, I get it! I learned early on how to
duck those grenades. Years ago! But the rest of it …” I shake my head at
the sordid details. My eyes well up, my throat swells, and my words trail off.
They stumble, and stagger, and fall off a steep, treacherous cliff I’ve
yet to travel, I’m not prepared for, and I still haven’t wrapped my head around.
Not entirely. I continue wanting to hide out, take shelter, and use the
proverbial “put my head in the sand” motif. Or, remedy the entire ordeal
with denial, my favorite form of avoidance I've mastered over the last few
years. For my self-protection. My safety. My survival.
Our
server rescues my troubled musings by delivering our first course. A baby red beet
salad served underneath organic green kale, wild arugula, heirloom tomatoes, and
red onions, splashed with a light lemon vinaigrette dressing. Piled art,
designed in exquisite layers, balanced in intricate leafy tiers on top of a
round bone-colored plate. Drew ordered the same thing. We sit in absolute
wonder until I grab my fork, dig in and rearrange the chef’s fanciful finesse.
“Oh, my God! This is divine!”
Drew
and I can rummage and root through a forklift of information, and time
limits never seem to apply. Even after we’ve finished going through the muddle
of old, used, and outdated material, a brand new collection emerges and entices
our conversation forward. We can make each other laugh, or cry and stay
“besties” throughout, even when we both want to strangle each other and rip
each other’s eyes out. We move through the recent landmines of our lives, her
and Bob, their recent acquisition in Belize; a grand-sized hotel located on the
Southern tip of the Island. Then, the focus returns back to me, to
my on-again, off-again flirtation with a married man. Yes, Hutch. Who
else? We relate, retell, and maybe even rant. The many glasses of wine we’ve
ingested helps, it calms and soothes our sharp edges. Soon, we’re sodden, drunk
and exhausted, our eyes straining to stay open. We’re ready for our first
night’s sleep on board this massive moving hotel.
The
storm has ratcheted into a dramatic squall. Drew and I slump in our chairs,
sleepy and serene, without the least sense of danger. A searchlight towers over
the ship, funneling an intrusive high beam through the windows, interrupting
our syrupy, nostalgic mood. I point out the darting white shaft to Drew. It’s
disturbing and unsettling to not know what has warranted an actual helicopter,
hovering above us, combating the turbulent sky and using a high-powered
spotlight. I motion for our waiter who hurries to the table, concern etched on
his cocoa complexioned face.
“Yes,
Madame. Can I get you something?” He removes dessert plates sitting in front of
us.
I
point out the window to the cone of light ferreting through a torrent of
hammering grey rain. “What is going on out there?”
He
moves closer to the window, leans over my shoulders and looks. “Oh, yes, there
was an emergency evacuation of an elderly woman in the main dining room this
evening. She had a heart attack or something. They are transporting her to the
nearest hospital.” His accent is pure Indian. I love the way he speaks, the
graceful rise and fall of his sentences. Soothing.
His
answer assuages my morbid curiosity. “Ah, thank you. Whew! Glad to know nothing's
wrong with the boat.”
Drew
laughs. “Sami.”
“What?”
I roll my tired, seafaring eyes. “Can you direct me to the restroom?” I ask the
young man.
“I
will show you.” He stands at brisk attention, while a chubby busboy outfitted
in a bright red vest runs circles around him, collecting plates from out of his
hands.
Standing
up, I gather my faulty bearings and follow him to the back of the restaurant.
“I’ll be right back.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Drew takes
another swig from her glass and watches the drama unfold outside her window.
The
server escorts me through the well-appointed dining room -- soft, cozy-lit dens
of stained, wooden banquets with round curved corners -- through a tiny
passageway to a main thoroughfare. He points me toward the end of the hallway
and directs me to turn left. I’m tipsy, I admit it. The chaotic traveling from
New York; the volatile weather, the taxis and luggage, JFK, the hurry up
and wait, the hustle and bustle of boarding, the wine, the vodka … I lean up
against the wall for assisted support, arresting the slight sensation of vertigo,
a flash of blurred dizziness. For the first time since boarding, I’m aware of
the rocking, the gentle swell of the boat rising and falling beneath me.
I’m surprised at how empty the corridor is of fellow passengers. Drew and I are
notoriously late diners. We're New Yorkers! Our reservation wasn’t until 8:30
PM. With before dinner cocktails, a three-course tasting menu, complete with
wine parings selected special for each scrumptious dish, not to mention the
espressos, after dinner aperitifs … it must be well past 11:30 PM.
The
highlighted signs for the restrooms materialize as I round the corner. It seems
like an inordinate amount of trekking to use a toilet. The door opens as I
arrive and a woman exits. She flings a light peach colored shawl over her
shoulders and walks past me, leaving a healthy trail of sweet floral perfume in
her wake. I offer a friendly smile, but my kindness go unappreciated. I enter
the washroom, lock the door and relieve myself in one of the private stalls.
I’m suddenly nauseous and wondering if my current bout of wooziness is from the
rich food I consumed, or the slight current ebbing and flowing from under the
vessel. I wash my hands at the sink and look into the mirror. The months of
stress have taken its toll. I pull at the roots of my hair. Maybe I’ll try the
salon’s colorist. My regular, a Polish woman I’ve been using for years, was
unavailable before the trip. I smooth out my complexion, pinch at my cheeks, and
wet my lips with water from the faucet. I dry my hands on a small fluffy hand
towel, rolled up in a cute white log and stacked on the marble vanity. The room
smells of deodorizer, spa-like, cucumbers, citrus … fresh. This could all get
very addictive. I pitch the towel toward the wicker wastebasket, unlock
the door and exit.
I’ve been waiting for
you, Sami!
~ * ~
Drew checked her
watch. Again. Where the hell was she?
She motioned the server over to the table. The restaurant was empty of diners.
They had been the last guests seated.
“Yes,
ma’am?”
“Which
way did my friend go? It's been twenty minutes now.” Drew was nervous,
tapping the thin glass cover of her antique Cartier wristwatch. The perfect red
wine they had both adored, cooed over earlier … was now creating not-so-perfect
acid reflux. Not pretty. This was Sami’s first excursion at sea. It was easy
getting lost in a maze of tunnels inside the bowels one of these huge cruise
liners. “Oh, shit!” Drew stood up to leave.
“Ma’am, would you mind signing?” He
had their paperwork ready.
Drew leaned over to scribble her initial on the check. The circus of lights outside their port windows had quieted. She walked through the restaurant and stood in the entryway, considering her options. Perhaps Sami returned to their stateroom. She walked through the curvy, carpeted corridor, past an airy, open lounge. A hefty woman wearing a tight-fitted, sequined gown sang Don’t It Make Your Brown Eye Blue to a handful of late night drinkers. Couples moved like drunken zombies, holding each other up on the lit up rectangular dance floor. “Ding, ding, ding” echoed from the noisy casino, along with a few rowdy laughs and “whooo hooo’s” as Drew passed by the entryway. Outside, the rain continued beating the deck. She stopped for a quick second and peered out a peephole.
Drew leaned over to scribble her initial on the check. The circus of lights outside their port windows had quieted. She walked through the restaurant and stood in the entryway, considering her options. Perhaps Sami returned to their stateroom. She walked through the curvy, carpeted corridor, past an airy, open lounge. A hefty woman wearing a tight-fitted, sequined gown sang Don’t It Make Your Brown Eye Blue to a handful of late night drinkers. Couples moved like drunken zombies, holding each other up on the lit up rectangular dance floor. “Ding, ding, ding” echoed from the noisy casino, along with a few rowdy laughs and “whooo hooo’s” as Drew passed by the entryway. Outside, the rain continued beating the deck. She stopped for a quick second and peered out a peephole.
“Drew.”
That
voice. For a moment, she thought she was hearing things. Then again … that voice.
“Drew,
over here.”
Thomas
Mann sat alone at an empty bar situated in a secluded corner. Several
white barstools, George Jetson-style, sat forlorn around him. Tables languished
in the quartered-off lounge, complete with red velvet ropes and without the
companionship of lit candles. She didn’t recognize him. Not at first. He
wore a tuxedo, black and enticing. A bowtie was dressed expertly at his
neckline. He had slicked his hair back with gel and his eyes were as
captivating and enthralling as ever, hiding behind black eyeglasses. Drew
hesitated for a semi second, collected herself, and then walked over to where
he sat. The bartender, a short female with dirty blonde hair piled high on her
head gave a sigh and a weak smile. Hospitality was no longer her friend.
“Can
I buy you a night cap?” He picked up his martini glass. A wastrel cherry sat at
the bottom of the vortex. He gestured a toast.
“Last
call,” the bartender said, louder, annoyed that Thomas was offering
up drinks at her bar at this late juncture of the
evening.
Drew
looked about sheepishly. The last thing she wanted was Sami to walk headlong
into this scenario -- this mess of a mess -- and think that Thomas and she had
planned it. On purpose. An intended getaway, a sexual excursion, a lust-filled
liaison conjured up by Drew and Thomas on the down low. Oh Jesus! Her twat tingled and pulsed as
memories multiplied, flickered and danced. Her face flushed. He had to notice
her rapid breathing. Wings fluttering, a horny moth to his notorious
flame. The notion of Thomas Mann being on board this boat was so dangerous --
beyond dangerous -- on so many dangerous levels. So deliciously deceptive,
devious all most. The mere thought of him, here, the two of them together, out
to sea, well, the erotic images piling up on her and her pussy was like a
painful, cat-in-heat yearning. Meow!
“What
are you doing here? Jesus Christ! It was you. Sami thought she saw you. She
turned a new shade of pale this afternoon.”
“Sorry
to hear that. Free country. Expensive cruise. I’ve always wanted to see Italy.”
He raised his empty martini glass for another toast. “You sure you don't
want that drink?”
“No,
no, no! We just finished dinner.” Drew glanced around, scanning for Sami. A cold shower. She traced a finger on
the thin coating of ice lining the bar, an S.O.S. inscription. “You
haven’t seen her have you? Sami I mean?”
“Should
I have?” Thomas asked. He raised his manicured eyebrow and took the last slurp
of his Manhattan, licking the rim with his tongue and biting down on the
liquor infused cherry for added affect.
Damn, he looked good …
“Well,
have a good night, Thomas. Maybe we’ll see each other around campus. It’s a big
boat, maybe not …” Drew gave an insidious smile and moved past him. Her
leg brushed against his thigh. Tentatively. He grabbed her arm, too familiar,
too firmly -- way too friendly -- and yanked her back against him. Opening up
his legs, he positioned himself around her nothing body.
… too good.
His
breath felt hot against her neck, her skin, probing inside her ear. A sweet
whiff of bourbon. Spicy vermouth and that damn tangy scent of a popped Maraschino
cherry, it all lingered. “I wanted to apologize for ... well, the last
time we hooked up …”
Drew
tried moving away, but he had her trapped, a spider ensnared between his
muscular legs. And, she had to admit, she was enjoying the closeness of his
cunning web. His confidence, a personality trait she admired in him, in most
men, that is, tonight bristled with pompousness and
arrogance. “Apology unnecessary. It was fun … while it lasted, but it’s
over. Now, please let go! You’re hurting me!” He held on for a second longer,
long enough to make Drew uncomfortable, long enough to seek other
passengers, security; in the off chance she might need help, some
assistance. In the off chance ... she didn't.
“Oh
… excuse me. Did I interrupt something?” A young woman tee tottered toward them
in stiletto-spiked heels over the airy carpet. Her voice warbled, as
if she just swallowed a singing canary. She wore a tight fitting black
dress accentuating a full rack of pumped-up tits and a tight, toned, curvaceous
body. Long auburn Rita Hayworth hair fell with fatigue in exhausted ringlets
over her bare, exposed shoulders and oh, so perfectly tanned back.
The
force of Thomas’s grip releasing Drew propelled her backwards a few steps.
“Brandy,
Drew." Brevity in introductions. "Ah, Drew’s an … old acquaintance of mine.”
The
woman parked her ass strategically into Thomas’s port. He responded attentively
by enfolding her with the right amount of buoyed protection; docked,
locked and slipped comfortably in between his thighs.
The
fucking bastard accented old for
effect!
“Pleasure.”
Drew walked away, leaving a path of glittery resentment in her trail.
Brandy, she’s a fine
girl, what a good wife she would be …
The
song resonated, accentuating Drew’s life, her age, her lack of sexual attention.
Action. Her aging port had become, and far too fleetingly, a sagging,
lackluster, rickety old fucking dock. That bon vivant sexual freedom she once
exhibited with vigorous, body-contorting enthusiasm in her
life was (and without proper warning) turning that corner into
the oblivion of invisibility. Drew tried keeping up. Tiresome laps,
treading water, panting and puffing around the pool’s inner edge, an
anxious little puppy waiting for a friendly smile, a gesture, a token of
masculine attention from a man, any man, any male who might offer her a
moment’s reprieve, a pat on the back, a rub on her belly. Let's face
it! Get laid. Ouch! The thought burned, battery acid on her soul. She
refused to look back at them…
… but my love, my life
and my lady is the sea …
The
boat took a sudden jolt. It tipped Drew off her unbalanced axis. She righted
herself and leaned against the back of a lounge chair situated with designer
panache near the elevators. Blood pooled on her forearm, a bright purple bruise
gathering attention beneath her pale, older
skin where the asshole had grabbed her.
Bastard!
Sexy, fucking bastard!
How
could this happen? How could he have possibly known they were planning a
cruise, this cruise, with Sami? Shit!
The
elevator whooshed her to the eighth floor and within seconds, Drew was standing
outside their stateroom, knocking on the door before entering. God forbid,
Sami found her wayward self to the discotheque located on the tippy-top
landing, hooked up with an eligible, or maybe not so eligible man (Sami
wasn’t always so discerning) and craved private time on her own. Alone. They were on vacation!
Thomas!
“Sami?
Sami, are you in here?” She opened the door a slit. She peaked into the
well-lighted room, but it was empty. Except for the display of bathroom towels
folded to resemble monkeys dangling from the ceiling, the room was
just as they had left it. Both chimps hung from one arm and wore Drew and
Sami’s personal sunglasses. They seemed to laugh and jeer, and cackle at Drew
and her wicked ways as she slammed the door shut. At first, the sight
caught Drew off guard, but as she huffed and puffed back toward the elevator
she had to admit, the origami towel display was creatively amusing.
Delroy!
“Where
the hell did she go?”
Thank
God Thomas had vacated his ivory perch when Drew returned. The new age bar had
closed and was dark, candles extinguished. Check
the restaurant? Drew marched around the outer perimeter, a drill
sergeant on a mission. The wonderful wine buzz she attained earlier felt dowsed
by an array of clandestine meetings and missing-in-action besties. Even the
lounge was quiet. A uniformed attendant ran a wide push broom back and forth
across the wooden dance floor.
She
entered back into the restaurant and followed the curvy wooden ledge to the
bar. The same man who’d assisted her earlier, what was his name? held an IPad
and made notations, tapping the screen softly every so often. “Sorry to
interrupt you … excuse me. My friend and I had dinner here earlier this
evening. Remember me? Did she happen to come back looking for me?”
The
man gave Drew a bewildered expression, thought for a second and shook his head
“no.” He pulled another bottle from off the glass shelf and held it up to the
light.
She
retraced Sami’s steps to the small passageway leading to a larger,
well-migrated main corridor and the restrooms. “Sami, are you in here?” Three
individual stalls lined the back wall, a small washbasin on the side. Drew
noticed a used hand towel thrown on the floor in the corner. She leaned over
and peeked underneath each stall. “SAMI!”PERFECT,
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