We had a good thing going, me and that love of mine. We had been living at sea and working as art dealers, of all things, onboard a 5-star cruise ship touring the long jagged coast of Alaska and before that, the Mexican Riviera.
We had swung every way we could to get a job onboard together. What started with a simple over the phone interview, turned into an audition in Toronto, then another interview, and finally the golden ticket; a trip to Michigan for a week long tryout of what we came to believe was secretly a reality TV show along the same lines as Donald Trump's bullshit. It was the longest, most interesting job audition we had ever gone through. One week of mental boot camp in a beautiful art gallery on the south side of the state, complete with butlers, and a team of chefs that made our lunch every day. The food was obviously exquisite, while the training/tryout process was more like a debilitating camp for game show hosts. But we managed to stay on top of the pile of our fellow competitors from around the world, and things were looking promising.
It didn't really matter to us where we were gonna be located, or what calibre cruise line. We just wanted to get on one of those big fuckers and get out to sea. At that point in our lives it was the best plan we had come up with after returning home from Vancouver. The most easily conceived idea of getting at a new life in the farther reaches of the world, without paying for it, and hopefully even making some tender to come home with (hah!).
So we did it. We made the team. We got the job. We drank champagne and listened to cheap, glorious 80's tunes with our new employers. We attended a swanky art party with over-rated professionals, under-rated amateurs and a jazz band. Then we boarded a plane to Mexico and spent one free night in a hotel, with a sunset dinner on the beach. We drank to the surreal-ness of it all and passed out on each other. It's hard to say if we ever really woke up after that. The experience started in such a whirlwind that I hardly recall getting on the boat. We worked our asses off on the days at sea and journeyed off the ship at every port of call, into the quaint towns and cities of the last frontier (or something like that). After two months we had found much inspiration, ate a lot of free food, drank a lot of cheap drinks and sat at the shaky table of some long, hot card games, held discreetly in the bowels of the ship on select nights. This was a risky endeavor because we still hadn't received our first paycheck. But with a job like that, one can easily lose touch with how things operate on the mainland.
Fortunately enough, we were shacked up in a passenger cabin, unlike most other employees on the ship, who live below sea level. We were grateful, but it didn't take us long to kill the passive hotel room vibe of cabin 4011, and turn it into a bungalow with guts. Almost every night before going to sleep I'd look around and admire the nest we'd thrown together. At the entrance was a slim table with two glasses and an ice bucket on a silver platter, kept constant with fresh ice and covered with a lid. The Indonesian housekeeping fellas learned our preferences fast and well. They provided the freshest of living quarters and even made our bed with the "no tuck" request, all for only two bucks a week.
There was a single chair beside the table. It was never sat in, only used for throwing clothes and bags on. Across from that was the way-to-comfortable bed that made life easy at night, but far too difficult in the morning. The bedside tables on either side were cluttered with notepads, books (2 by Kerouac, and Tom Wolfe's "Electric Kool-aid Acid Test"), as well as framed pictures of our Moms, both passed. I also had an un-opened mesh bag of marbles, that my Aunt La had given to me long ago, because, she said I had already lost mine.
On the other side of the cabin was a small desk with little to no surface area, covered with work papers that I would never read, and our laptop computer that served the single, most important purpose of pumping out the music. There were pictures n' sketches taped on the walls, given to us by artists we had met onboard. My favorite was the treasure map that Charlie had found in the garbage room of the ship (if I could understand it, I'd still be out there hunting). On the mirror, we had taped photo strips of us from every little picture booth we came across during our time on land. There was a small TV that was good for recent movies and old cartoons- the classic stuff you can still appreciate, like Tom n' Jerry.
But best of all, there was the mini bar, which we had of course stocked to the brim with beer for getting drunk, water for getting sober and milk for eating cereal. And because we were in a guest cabin with the employee benefits of free food, amongst other things, we were the self proclaimed King n' Queen of room service, ordering multiples of everything, with plenty of fresh fruit- a tribute to Raoul Duke.
In terms of the job we had, selling high-end art for ____________________, it was the one and only dose I needed to confirm that I never wanted to work in sales again. It ain't me babe. No, no, no. When it comes to selling expensive shit you don't want to begin with, it ain't me you're lookin' for, babe. On my very first night, I sold a $6000 lithograph by an artist I can't remember now. After that, I couldn't close anything over 3 grand. Every so often Charlie would reel in a small whale for $10,000 or more. The biggest prize was a tag-team effort, in which we sold an $80,000 Miro original painting when we were on the Carnival cruise-liner. Other than that, it was one of the shittiest jobs I've ever had. Even despite the free food and the mints on the pillows, I couldn't stand the clean shaved, suited n' booted routine of trying to convince Gramma Jojo to spend her grandson's inheritance on a piece of art that she couldn't even see without her bifocals on tight. It weighed on my conscience and drove me to drink before every auction. When we finally had enough we told them we were through and hopped off the ship in the port of Vancouver, our beloved stomping ground from a year prior. We had lived and worked for a little over 4 months at sea, with little to show in the bank book, but a sense of accomplishment and yet another check of the bucket list.
Just so we're clear; yeah the job was wack, but the experience of living at sea was amazing. Let's get back to that....
The real cherry on top of it all was the infamous 'Crew Bar' that was located only two doors down from our room. If you ever land a job on a cruise ship this is the first place you need to seek out. This bar will always remain in my mind as one of the greatest hangouts I've come across. It was like that mythical tavern, hidden in the core of the earth. You would never believe it existed until you were sitting there having a beer with the Mole Man.
The Crew Bar was very small and unique, with only eight stools and a few couches, but it had an atmosphere that killed. Every time we walked in there life would cut to slow motion and the music from the juke box on the wall would become ominous. Of course, every good bar needs a character bartender and this was no exception. His real name was Jahroo and he looked, as Charlie put it, like an Indonesian Brad Pitt. Dude had style. He didn't speak much English at all, but damn it, he tried. He laughed at everyones' jokes regardless, and he remembered everyone's usual drinks, shots and limits.
The location of the bar was at the front (excuse me, the 'bow') of the boat, with small circular windows and that heavy, metal door with a wheel that you had to crank open like a bank vault. Upon stepping outside, the view of the infinite ocean was enough to make you believe in everything you'd ever doubted. And yes, at the tip of the bow, we looked down, saw the strength of the ship cutting through the waves and proceeded to re-enact the shit out of that cheesy scene from Titanic. You know the one.
The more I write about these untouchable moments shared with Charlie Lovebottumz, the more I realize that I'm sabotaging any chance to be with anyone else. But I can't help it. The more words that hit the page, the deeper I go into the memories. And maybe there's some unconscious madness to this. No girl with any interest in me would want to read this. But this is my history, and I cherish it like the air I breath.
