"I'm... a party person," I muttered to no one.
Innumerable old people passed by, limped through miles of corridors, slowly lifted themselves up dozens of broad staircases, the lost wandered the decks pretending they weren't, the ship sailed on.
13
The second night of the voyage I had another boring dinner in the Queen's Grill. The sommelier I'd befriended by ordering a $200 bottle of semi-decent red wine asked if I wanted to join the Mashioki family at the captain's table instead of sitting alone and I told Bernard that I simply couldn't, hinting at an indiscretion I'd committed with the Mashiokis' eldest daughter, a fat, dour teenager who was always wandering near the ship's kennels wearing an UP WITH LIFE T-shirt, visiting her "cat." The sommelier nodded gravely, brought me another small tin of Beluga, recommended the foie gras, went back to the business of his life while I slipped into my noncommittal dining mode. Afterwards, I dropped another grand of Palakon's at the 21 table and found the cinematographer, Felix, at the Captain's Bar, hunched over a giant snifter of brandy and chain-smoking Gauloises. I sidled up next to him and we had the obligatory "ominous" conversation.
"What's the story?" I asked, after ordering a split of champagne, maybe my tenth on that particular evening. "You're the guy shooting this, right?"
"You could say that," Felix said in a thick, not-quite-traceable accent.
"I just did," I pointed out. "How's it going? I just want your professional opinion."
"It is going better than the last one I did," Felix muttered.
"Which one was that?"
"A picture called Shh! The Octopus." He paused. "It was the third part of a soon to be completed quartet funded by Ted Turner that began with Beware! The Octopus, which was followed by Watch Out! The Octopus. The fourth part is called, tentatively, Get the Hell Away from That Octopus." Felix sighed again, distracted, and stared into his snifter. "The third one had a good cast. A very bitter Kristin Scott Thomas, an equally bitter Alan Alda, and Al Sharpton had signed on to play Whitney Houston's extremely bitter father-the bitter harpoonist." Felix paused. "David Hasselhoff is the first victim of the octopus." Pause. "Isn't it ironic, huh?"
A long pause occurred while I tried to process this information. Confused, I broke it hesitantly. "So-o-o... the octopus's name was... Shh?"
Felix glared at me, then finally sighed, waved to the bartender for another, even though he hadn't finished the brandy sitting in front of him.
"How am I doing?" I asked expectantly.
"Oh, you'll do," he sighed and then paused before phrasing carefully: "You have a... kind of... nonspecific... fabulosity-oh my god..." He groaned as his head dropped onto the bar.
I was looking around, not paying attention to all the faux-angst emanating from the cinematographer. "This isn't exactly what you'd call Babesville, huh?"
"It's about time you gave up your foolish dreams, Victor," Felix said sternly, lifting his head. "Your world's a little limited."
"Why's that, bro?"
"Haven't you read the rest of the script?" he asked. "Don't you know what's going to happen to you?"
"Oh man, this movie's so over." A semi-restlessness was settling in and I wanted to take off. "I'm improvising, man. I'm just coasting, babe."
"Just be prepared," Felix said. "You need to be prepared." He gulped down the rest of his brandy and watched intently as the bartender set the new snifter in front of him. "You need to pay attention."
"This really isn't happening," I yawned. "I'm taking my champagne elsewhere."
"Victor," Felix said. "Things get mildly... er, hazardous."
"What are you saying, Felix?" I sighed, sliding off the barstool. "Just make sure I'm lit well and don't play any colossal tricks on me."
"I'm worried that the project is... ill-conceived," he said, swallowing. "The writers seem to be making it up as it goes along, which normally I'm used to. But here..."
"I'm taking my champagne elsewhere," I sighed, tossing him a $100 chip from the casino.
"I think things will be getting out of hand," he said faintly before I wandered away.
In bed I finally had the sense to just smoke a large joint while listening on my Walkman to a bootleg Nirvana tape that Jerry Harrington had loaned me, and the live feed of the ship heading straight into darkness on the TV was the only light in the cabin as a dead guy sang me to sleep, dreams intervening, peaking with a voice shouting out, then fading, hello? hello? hello?
