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Twenty-Seven
I’m back on the chessboard, but now
the black and white squares are grassy fields on a hillside. One field grows
white grass, the other grows black. They are neatly separated by a barbed wire
fence. I am astride a white horse on the black field, bouncing along like the
token cowgirl in a John Wayne movie (I’m picturing Ava Gardner). My steed is a
mountain of smooth muscle, beautifully rideable. I spur him to a gallop and
steer us toward a hedge, relishing the hiccup of gravity as we clear the crest.
On the far
side, we come upon the fence, composed of pure silver. Across from us, at the
center of the white field, stands a black horse. At first sight of us he
charges, lips flaring. He’s about to hit the fence when a shot rings out. His
legs buckle and he falls, sliding to a stop directly in front of us. This
frightens the white horse, who bucks wildly, tossing me to the ground. When I
gather my bearings, I am lying on my side, face to face with the black horse.
As I watch, his red eyes fade away and the rest of him melts, turning the white
field to black.
And then
somebody barks. And I wake up next to a dead hand. It’s mine. I fell asleep in
an odd position, and my left arm has gone completely numb. I use my
still-living right hand to nudge it out of my way, then peer across the room to
see the numbers 5:54. and a fuzzy
pyramid of pooch.
“Java! How
the fuck are you doing this?”
I am secretly
happy to see him; in the face of such an obvious dream (where were the evil
mimes? the radioactive pickles?), I am hungry for mystery. Java trots to my
side, slips his snout under my hand, and I give him a thorough scalp massage.
He is my favorite plush toy, and he knows it.
Then I
notice the trail of muddy footprints he’s left on my white carpeting. At first
I’m angry, but then I realize he’s just given up his secret. I creak to my feet
and follow his tracks into the kitchen; they end at the sink. The cabinet door
is unlatched. When I pull it open, I discover that my pipes now come with a
backyard view. Evidently, John installed a hatch providing easier access to the
plumbing, but neglected to close it when he fixed my garbage disposal last
week. As if to demonstrate, Java ducks under the pipes and bounds into the
yard, then turns to give me one of his Lassie-barks.
“Yeah-yeah.
Very impressive.”
I reach for
the rope tied to the hatch and pull it shut. But now I’m a little sad, because
I have once again wiped my life clean of enigmas – I, who used to have so many.
I also realize that I am not getting
back to sleep, so I head for the shower.
My seven
a.m. landscape is cold and foggy – no surprise there – so I grab a big black
jacket that I haven’t used for a while. As I slide into my truck, I feel a lump
in my breast pocket and reach in to discover a lone Swisher Sweet. This should
probably be a disconcerting event, but it’s not. Lately, I’ve had this
black-pit feeling of being Harvey’s accomplice – I did, after all, marry the
murdering son-of-a-bitch – and the chance to perform an act of penance is quite
welcome. And penance it will be – this thing looks like a core sample from the
Mojave Desert.
I actually
consider the long drive to Port Townsend, but ritual is hard to break, so I
follow my ruts to Gig Harbor. I park at the Jerisich Dock, start my cigar with
the fleur-de-lis lighter and trudge waterward, puffing like a freight train.
The taste is truly awful, and I wonder if this is how great Catholic martyrs
are born.
A strip of
candy red extends from the end of the pier like a windsock, and some
crazyperson is sitting in the middle of it. Faint Morse code blips into my
brain: This would be a kayak. Kye-ack.
As I draw closer, the crazyperson removes his knit cap to reveal a mop of hair
that matches the boat. Some loony kayaking rocker teen with dyed hair. He spots
me and calls out in a high voice.
“Christ!
Are you smoking that thing on purpose?”
And I’m
running, scanning the water for black horses and evil mimes, my sneakers
slapping the planks. I’ve been waiting so long to speak these syllables that
they come out in sing-song.
“Roo-bee!”
I skid to a
halt. Ruby is laughing her head off.
“Well don’t
kill yourself!”
I’m
helpless. I can’t get to her without sending us both into the drink. All I can
do is repeat my recitative.
“RoobeeRoobeeRoobee!”
She claps
her hands together. “And your name is
Channy!”
I’m all
dicombobulated, so I stuff the cigar in my mouth and take a huge drag that
sends me into a fit of coughing.
“Heh! What
the… hemm! What the hell are you doing in that thing?”
“Why, I’m
kayaking, honey. It’s a noun and a
verb.”
“But you’re
in Mexico!”
“You’re
right. I’m in Mexico.” She gives me a wide smile. “Someone’s lost track of her
mental calendar.”
“Entirely
possible. Would you get your big luscious ass out of there so I can molest
you?”
“Best offer
I’ve had in six hours. I’ll meet you at that little landing next to the ramp.”
“Gotcha.” I
walk the length of the pier as Ruby paddles beside me. She’s much better at
this than I would have guessed, pivoting the paddle from one side to the other
with nary a hitch. She rolls onto the landing, pulls up the kayak, and then I
charge, yanking her to her feet for a huge hug. I can feel the icy water from
her wetsuit as it penetrates by blue jeans. I’m also crying.
“Jesus,
Channy. Are you all right?”
“I just
missed you, you crazy bitch.”
She lets
out a theater laugh – Beatrice in Much
Ado About Nothing. “You’re getting so
codependent. What’ll I do with you?”
I rediscover
the cigar in my hand (nice thing about Swishers, they’d stay lit through
Hurricane Katrina) and I take a final drag, pulling the spark all the way down
to the tip and hurling it into the water. Amen.
“You’ll let
me buy you some fresh-baked bread at Susanne’s.”
“Ay, lass.
Now you’re talkin’.”
Ruby
deposits her wetsuit in the trunk of her car, ties her kayak to the roof rack,
and ducks into the bakery restroom to swap her shorts for a dry pair of jeans.
I, meanwhile, obtain a loaf of Dutch crunch, warm from the oven, and a serrated
knife. Ruby spreads a wad of butter on her first slice and watches with greedy
eyes as it melts into the surface.
“This is
pure genius,” she says.
I take a
bite and adopt a rapturous expression. “I’m a carbohydrate Einstein. So.
Mexico? Mexico?”
Ruby grins
like a kid in front of a birthday cake.
“I have such a story for you! But first:
appetizers. We went kayaking in Mazatlan, at this little island across from the
big hotels. When we reached the tip of the island, we hit open ocean, and these
long swells came in to lift us and then gently set us back down. As we were
paddling back, this Mexican supermodel came strolling along the beach topless,
with the most perfect set of gazongas I have ever set eyes on. Poor Harry was having
a stroke trying not to look. I told him, ‘Honey, I’m going to stare at her, so go ahead already!’ As you may have
guessed, I got totally hooked on the kayaking. We got in pretty late last
night, but I was so jacked up I woke up at five, stole Harry’s kayak, and you
know the rest.”
“And may I
say, you look amazingly at home with that paddle.”
She laughs.
“Perhaps in a previous life I was an Aleut.”
“I went to
school with an Aleut.”
Ruby takes
a huge bite of bread; it takes her a while to chew it down.
“Excuse my
piggishness. Apparently I’ve worked up an appetite. So! Puerto Vallarta. We
caught a bus to a ranchero, where we embarked on a rather advanced hike over
these hills – sort of the beginnings of the Sierra Madre. The humidity was
stunning; I felt like a human sponge being wrung out. We ended up at this
little riverside park, where they had tile tubs fed by natural springs and an
enormous iguana who stared at us from the crotch of a tree like a surly green
security guard. We forded the river and discovered thousands of pastel
butterflies, solid squares of pink, yellow, blue and white sunning themselves
on the far bank. Our guide walked right into them, and they rose in a cloud,
like backwards confetti.
“By the
time we got to Cabo, we were a little worn out, so we took a boat into the
waterfront for some low-impact shopping. We were immediately set upon by
peddlers, so we sought refuge in this pirate bar, where this loco waiter brought us our drinks
balanced on his head. He was good!”
“How was
the food on the ship?”
“Oh!” she
says. “Oh! I can’t even start. When I got to the final bite of our final meal,
I held it up to Harry and said, ‘From now on, everything I eat will taste like
shit.’ Tell you what, though. I saved copies of every single menu. Why don’t I
bring them, next time we get together, and I’ll give you a detailed narration
of each meal.”
With this,
she takes another bite of bread, sips at her coffee and leans back in her
chair. Her expression is one of utter contentment, like a woman who has fallen
profoundly into love. But she seems in no hurry to explain.
“What?” I
demand. “What?”
She closes
her eyes, then opens them slowly. “I don’t know what I like best: the event
itself, or the chance to tell you
about it.”
“Yeah yeah.
I’m flattered, I’m touched, yada yada. Now out
with it!”
She smiles
yet again, and indulges in one last pause before taking the plunge.
Ruby
Everything
on the ship had an artistic theme, and the karaoke took place in the Starry
Night Lounge, before an enormous wallpaper re-creation of its title work. As
you might have guessed, Harry and I went there every night. He had the chance
to sic his well-drilled repertoire on a whole new crowd of swooning females,
and I had the chance to explore an impressive selection of standards and
showtunes. I developed an immediate following among the seniors, who enjoyed
swinging and fox-trotting to my songs.
At the end
of our first evening, our Australian hostess Lani asked me if I was going to
try out for the Legends concert. For the next four evenings, passengers would
come to the Starry Night and sing a song by a legendary performer. If the
audience decided you were the best at that song, you would appear as that
performer in a Vegas-style show before 1,500 of your fellow passengers.
I actually
thought of opting out. The contest was obviously aimed at amateurs, and it
wouldn’t be entirely fair for me to participate. That thought lasted about half
a second. If my ship was gonna have a show, I
was gonna be in it.
One
problem: none of the female roles were from jazz or Broadway. I halfway thought
of cross-dressing as Sinatra, but I chickened out. So began my journey through
the popular music of the late 20th century.
The first
night was Aretha, and the song was “Respect.” I assumed it was about the
singing, and I thought I pretty much nailed it. But then, out comes this perky
young Filipina, and she’s got choreography,
for God’s sake. So much choreography, in fact, that she’s dropping notes right
and left. No one seems to notice, and I’m out.
The next
night is Madonna, “Like A Virgin.” I grew up on that song – hell, I think I
lost my virginity to that song. But I’ve learned my lesson, so I throw in a
couple of sexy moves when I can. However.
The next contestant is this sexy Italian kindergarten teacher from Long Island,
and she throws in the kind of moves that no
kindergarten teacher should ever
know. At one point, she pulls out a classic Madonna maneuver, lying with her
back on the stage while she’s singing. So! Am I going to get the part? No way.
My third
chance is Gloria Estefan, “The Rhythm is Gonna Get You.” I can totally pull off Gloria – I grew up in
Florida, after all – and I prep myself with some salsa and rhumba moves before
adjourning to the Starry Night. But then…
The
rowdiest pack on the ship is this alumni group from Indiana University. They’re
easy to spot, because they all wear red, all the time – massing down the fiesta
deck, crowding the blackjack tables, doing the frug in the Warhol Club. In the
swimming pools, they wear red bathing suits. Nice people, but loud, and the
constant red-ness gives off an unsettling Nazi vibe.
I sing a
couple of tropical warmups – “Jamaican Farewell,” “Girl from Ipanema” – but at
nine, when the contest begins, there’s a rumbling like someone just lifted the
gate at Pamplona. The wide front doors swing open and in rolls the Red Sea,
filling every available nook. As you might expect, they’re here for a cause: a
50-year-old with dried-out smoker’s skin and frizzy hair with traces of several
different red dye jobs. She actually seems quite nice, and she throws in some
decent Cuban dance moves, but her voice is a creaky, smoked-out mess. Doesn’t
matter. When the Red Sea explodes, she’s a winner.
I can’t be
the good loser this time. I wait till the next singer takes the mic, then give
Harry’s hand a squeeze and we make for the back exit. We’re halfway through the
Internet café when a door opens, and out pops our KJ.
“Lani!
How’d you…?”
“Every
ship’s got its secret passageways,” she says. “Look. That sort of shit” – she nods back toward the club – “is a truly
unfortunate part of my job. It happens at least once a cruise. But I want you
to know, I know exactly how good you are, and I know this stuff is all beneath your talent, but I can’t
stand the thought of you not being in that show, and I really want you to come back tomorrow night.”
“I’m…
thanks, Lani. But I don’t even know the song.”
She hands
me a rectangular object wrapped in wires. It’s an IPod. “You will, if you
listen to that. We usually only give these to the winners, so they can practice
for the show. But screw the rules! We’re in international waters, right?”
“Oh Lani,
I…”
“Oh Lani
nothing! Do your homework, young lady. Whoops! Song’s over. Bye.”
She’s back
through the door and I’m left floating in flattery. We retreat to the arcade,
where Harry and I work out our frustrations on a combination jukebox/electronic
drum set (mostly Led Zeppelin) then on to the Matisse Jazz Lounge for martinis.
When we get back to our cabin, I find a mysterious package on my bed. It’s a
DVD of the Legends concert from a previous cruise. Somebody really wants me to get this part.
Which is
Britney Spears – “Hit Me Baby One More Time.” I never liked it much, but the
next morning, when I strapped on the IPod and tried it out, I was surprised to
find out how well it suited me. Britney has this deep, low pocket that she
slides into, and it seemed to wrap around my voice like a form-fitting dress.
After it scratched a few grooves into my synapses, I tried out the DVD and
studied the moves of the ship’s dancers. (I ignored their Britney, who was
Aunt-Zelda-sings-at-your-wedding awful.) If I could work a little of the
choreography into my audition, it would give me a nice edge. I pushed our bed
to the cabin wall and put myself through some paces. It was pretty sexy stuff;
I caught Harry peeking from the bathroom as he shaved.
The costume
was a cinch. I picked out a short pleated skirt (intended for some imaginary
night of dancing), shiny black shoes that might pass for patent leather, and
white knee-high stockings. Then I stole Harry’s white dress shirt and tied it
above my bare midriff. Voila! The classic parochial slut, and we were off to
the bar.
Little do I
know, I have become a cause celebre. The regulars are pretty cheesed off about the
Red Sea incident, and impressed that I am now risking four-time loserdom. A
group of Japanese tourists has migrated to the front row for the sole purpose
of cheering me on. I am the 1980 U.S. hockey team, the 1969 Jets. When I begin
with Peggy Lee’s “Fever” (designed to work up my “sexy”), the crowd lets out a
practice uproar.
Come
audition time, I’m up first, and I guess I’m better than I expected. I have
wisely inserted my dance moves into the generous spaces between the vocal
lines, so I can concentrate on one task at a time. Rolling into the ending, I
strike a pose at each of four beats, raking a hand along my skirt and over my
hair as I arch my back. The place goes nuts.
But then,
out comes my competition, and I have every right to be nervous. If you didn’t
tell me otherwise, I’d say it is
Britney, this 19-year-old chicklet with legs up to Canada, an utterly fantastic
ass, nice rack, big Hollywood lips and a head of hair that rains down in thick
ribbons of blondeness. She’s a fucking shampoo commercial. The music begins,
she vamps to the front of the stage and out comes this voice like an LP played
with a concrete needle.
Game over,
right? Don’t bet on it. Because Britney II has an entourage of fratboys, and
it’s almost as if she’s offered a night of carnal pleasures to whoever yells
the loudest. On the first vote, in fact, the ovations are too close to call.
But this only serves to piss off my fans even more. A short, bespectacled man
jumps in front of his Japanese peers to cheerlead, and when Lani’s hand pops
open over my head I am blown backward by the loudest, scariest sound I’ve heard
since a Navy air show on Whidbey Island. I am deafened, I am adored, and even a
pack of horny fratboys cannot match it. Lani brings the mic to her mouth,
declares “I think it’s Ruby!” and my fans burst forth in a fugue of coyote
yips. My life-long dream of playing Britney Spears has come to pass.
By now
you’re probably wondering about my talented boyfriend. Unlike me, Harry was no
slut for every passing star. He wanted only to be the King. Even though the
part of Elvis was the final male audition, making this an all-or-nothing
attempt, he would consider no other. As it turned out, his loyalty was richly
rewarded – because nobody else tried out. Harry was summarily crowned, and
asked to sing “Hound Dog” as proof of his prowess. He was excellent, of course,
but I gave him a whack on the butt nonetheless, for the gross inequity of our
respective situations.
We spent
the next day kayaking – and perhaps that’s another reason I got so attached to
it. We paddled within the glow of victory, and I could barely hear the sounds
of frigate birds, motorboats or waves on rocks with “Hit Me Baby One More Time”
playing interminably through my head (without, I might add, the assistance of
an IPod). That afternoon, I discovered what a small, magnified community is a
cruise ship, and how quickly word of my travails had spread. My biggest fans
were the seniors, who relished the fact that someone who sang their songs could beat a teenybopper at
her own generation’s music. Strangers would shout to me in the corridors – “Hey
Britney!” “Karaoke girl!” “Go get ‘em, Ruby!” – and whenever we came upon my
Japanese posse, they weren’t happy until I hugged each and every one of them.
That night’s dinner was a formal-dress affair, and when I entered the hall in
my jade-green sequin gown, they applauded
me. It felt like some wacky Fred Astaire musical, and I ate it up like crème
brulee.
You might
expect Harry to be taken aback by all of this, perhaps even a little jealous –
he was Elvis, after all. But Harry was precisely the opposite, confident enough
in his own talent to understand that my four-part battle had become something
extraordinary. He had a permanent goofy grin plastered to his mug, and he never
tired of telling everybody that he was sleeping with Britney Spears. I think he
was also proud that everybody else was finding out about his talented
girlfriend, and excited that he would finally get to see me in my element. It
didn’t hurt when the Japanese contingent would bow down in mock worship and
chant “Ellll-vis! Ellllvis!”
The show
was actually pretty easy. They had done it cruise after cruise for God knows
how long, and had it carefully programmed for shaky amateurs. After donning our
costumes (available in three different sizes), we adjourned to the “green
room,” which was really just a small landing next to this metallic,
Navy-looking stairwell. Harry’s Elvis costume – the white Vegas jumpsuit –
seemed to turn him into the class cutup, and he went around punching holes in
the tension. He turned to Melanie, in her early-Madonna see-through dress, and
said, “I hate to mention this, honey, but we
can see your underwear!” I also remember our lead showgirl, Holly – she of
the perfect six-foot body – using the stairway rails to stretch in ways that
would send the rest of us to the hospital.
Playing the
youngest of the icons, I had to wait an interminable amount of time before my
escort, a lovely gay dancer named Geoffrey, came to whisk me away. We braced
ourselves beside the entrance, elbows coupled, listening for the cue in
Britney’s intro (I believe it was the word “vixen”), and then he gives me a tug
and leads me to a star at center stage. My job is to sing the song without
straying from that star, lest I trip up one of the schoolgirls in my “posse,”
but of course I’m after brownie points. Britney II and her fratboys have every
right to be suspicious about the way the same moves I used in my audition are
matching up with those of the dancers. The audience just knows, instinctively,
that something about my performance is “tighter” than the others. I jolt into
that same four-pose ending and freeze with my troupe, taking a loofah shower in
the sound of 3,000 hands. It is indescribably sweet.
Geoffrey
comes to fetch me back, and we stand in the wings as Harry does his stuff. He
definitely has the best production values in the show: the classic 2001: Space Odyssey intro, followed by a
verse of “Hound Dog,” followed by “Jailhouse Rock” with a half-dozen twirling
babes in Ray-bans and Capri pants. He throws in a couple of leg-waggles and
sings his usual excellence, eliding one forgotten phrase with what he calls the
Elvis Mumble.
Holly
Perfectbody comes to lead him off, and then comes a surprisingly touching elegy:
a spotlight on an empty stool as we listen to clips of Sinatra talking about
his life. Michael, a journalist from Seattle, comes out in a tux and
short-brimmed fedora to sing “My Way” in a voice eerily similar to the
original. As the orchestra wells up, the rest of the legends return, and our
escorts walk us through a simple choreography. We take our final bows (more
loofah, pass the shampoo) and run up the aisle to a nearby lounge for photos. I
was tugged away by Harry, who continued talking like Elvis as he kissed away a
major portion of my makeup.
“Hey
Priscilla, wanna celebrate?”
“And what
do you call what you just did?”
“That’s
just preliminaries, bebe.”
“Well first
we’d better return these getups.”
He ran a
hand under the hem of my plaid skirt. “Sure they wouldn’t let you keep this
just a little longer?”
I had no
choice but to squeak like a Mouseketeer. “Mr. Presley! You bad, bad man. I’m
gonna tell Colonel Parker on you.”
“I’m pretty
sure he’d be on my side. Meet me in the Mattress Lounge?”
“That’s Matisse,
you pedophile.”
“Pee-doh…
Whassat?”
“Jerry Lee
Lewis.”
“Oh!
Uh-uh-huh.”
Harry held
my shoulders, keeping me still with those blue eyes, and spoke like Harry
again.
“Seriously,
Ruby. You were incredible up there. I never dreamed you were that good.”
I kissed
him thoroughly and sent him off to the men’s dressing room with a slap to the
hindquarters. He gave me a pistolshot with his fingers, said, “Thankyou.
Thankyouvermuch,” and joined James Brown in a march backstage.
Between
chit-chatting with Aretha and Gloria (silently forgiving them for beating me),
receiving my compliments from Geoffrey (“I had you picked out as a pro from
square one”) and swapping back into my civilian clothes, I was the last one out
of the dressing room. When I came back out on stage, the theater was profoundly
empty. I have a superstition that goes, Any time you see a mark, hit it, so I
ambled up to the star and buried its east and west points under my pumps. A
burst of short-term memory washes over me, but it flutters away like a
riverbank of of butterflies and I arrive at a wall of sadness, as if my veins
have all gone indigo. A surge of gravity yanks me seaward, but I fight it,
pressing down on that star and turning my legs into treetrunks, letting the
tears do what they may.
“Everything
OK?”
You could
forgive me for thinking it’s God – a gruff, booming baritone emanating from
stage left. I twist from my star to discover a large man in a double-breasted
navy suit. He seems to be in his mid-fifties, balding, with a thick salt-and-pepper
beard, but he exudes a virile energy – executive bouncer, high-class Mafioso.
“Stage
blues,” he says. “You’ve hit an emotional peak, and now the moment’s gone. It’s
all downhill from here – but at least it’s a tall hill.”
I perform a
few eye rubs to clean the slate.
“No
offense, but who the hell are you?”
He lets out
a guffaw on a single note, like the ones produced by opera singers during party
scenes. “Haw! I’m Albert Camarelli, and I’m quite a fan. You are a marvelous
singer.”
“Thank you,
Mr. Camarelli.”
“Please.
You can call me Al.”
“Al.” I
take a second to scan the empty seats, trying to put a name to my symptoms.
“But you’re wrong, Al. I’m familiar with stage blues. I’m a… professional. And
I’m wondering why I had to work so fucking
hard to get this stupid, shitty little part.”
“There are
no small parts, just…”
“Oh save
it, Al!” And here I am, crying again. Al comes over and places a hand on my
shoulder.
“I’m sorry.
Shouldn’t throw cliches at a pro. Would you like to take a walk with me on deck?
Just for a few minutes?”
This seems
a little forward, but Al’s aura emanates benevolence.
“You should
know,” I say, “I’m already taken.”
He smiles.
“Everybody knows that. You and Elvis are the golden couple. He’s pretty good,
too. Nowhere near as good as you.”
“I wouldn’t
say that.”
“Honey,
there’s jazz and then there’s the easy stuff. You’re a jazz singer.”
I turn and
do a little squeegee job on my face.
“You’ve
heard me sing jazz?”
“All week.”
“And I’m a
jazz singer?”
“Most
definitely.”
“Okay, Al.
Let’s go for a walk.”
I take a
last, doleful look at my star before following Al up the aisle. The elevator
opens on the forward pool area, populated by a few late-night drinkers and a
chain-smoking teen in a Ramones T-shirt.
“Britney!
You are hot, honey.”
“Thanks,” I
say.
We walk a
few feet more and Al says, “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
I flash him
a secret grin. “A teenage boy just called me ‘hot,’ Al. What do you think?”
“Haw! Mind
if I puff a stogie? It’s a Cuban, so it’s now or never.”
“Nah. Go
ahead.”
Al turns
away from the breeze, cups his hand and lights up. I wander toward the railing,
eyeing the low strip of Baja California, a handful of lights popping from the
darkness. Al joins me, proffering his prize.
“Care for a
puff?”
“Sure.” I
twirl the tip in my mouth and take a drag. The smoke carries a rich coffee
edge, plus something unexpectedly sweet, like a good port.
“That is
lovely,” I say.
“You’ve
done this before.”
“I’ve got a
friend who smokes Swisher Sweets.”
“Egad! On
purpose?” He takes it back, tips the ash into a designated container (installed
after balcony passengers found themselves being attacked by flurries of gray
snow), then works the end into an orange glow.
“So! Ruby.
Would you play some word association with me?”
“Sure,
doc.”
“Gershwin.”
“But Not
For Me.”
“Straighten
Up and Fly Right.”
“Nat King
Cole. The trio years.”
“Vocalese.”
“Take a
famous instrumental solo and apply lyrics to it. Created by Lambert, Hendricks
and the incomparable Ross.”
“Lush
Life.”
“Ooh! Billy
Eckstine. Smokey stuff.”
Al stops
and turns because he thinks he’s got a meaty one.
“Mack the
Knife.”
“Merry
little tune about a serial killer. Kurt Weill, for The Threepenny Opera with
Bertolt Brecht. They told him the show needed a prologue to explain the main
character; on the way home, he heard a trolley playing that familiar three-note
motif: doo doo doo doo. Famously
recorded by Louis, Ella, Frank and of course Bobby D. Weill also wrote Moon of
Alabama, recorded by the Doors, and September Song.”
“Um, uh…”
Al is running out of steam. “A Small Hotel?”
“Rodgers
and Hart. Al? Are we playing Jeopardy?”
He comes to
some kind of decision and snaps his fingers. “No. You’re it, Ruby.”
“So we’re
playing tag? Yaknow, I’ve really got to meet Elvis in the Matisse…”
“No!” We’ve
arrived at the aft swimming pool. He waves me into a chair. “Just two more
minutes, I swear.”
I take a
seat as Al heads for the bar. He takes out a key and opens a cabinet, then
returns with two glasses and a bottle of champagne.
“Al! You’re
gonna get in trouble.”
He gives me
a wink. “It’s all right. I’ve got connections.” He pops the cork, fills us up
and raises a toast. “May you never have to sing Britney Spears ever again.”
“You devil!
You have come up with something I cannot refuse to drink to.”
Al sits
down and arranges his legs until he’s comfortable, then he leans forward and
laces his fingers.
“I’ve been
watching you all week, Ruby. It takes a real connoisseur to know how good you
are, and I knew it after three seconds. I spent the rest of the week making
sure that I wasn’t hallucinating. You have this ability with a song, to mold
it, craft it like a fine sculptor – and God forbid, have a little fun with it.
What you don’t have is this godawful need to flatten out the tone and sap out
all the warmth.”
“Like Diana
Krall?” I ask.
He laughs.
“As in, makes my skin Krall. No. You have this marvelous old-fashioned
sensibility that never, ever should have gone out of style. Actual vibrato,
actual phrasing – call it torch singing, or vocal acting. The seniors
appreciate it, because they grew up with it, but only two people on this
fucking ship understand precisely what makes it work, and they’re both sitting
at this table.”
I smile and
take another sip of Al’s very good champagne. “You know, Al? As long as you’re
not some highly articulate stalker, I could get to like you.”
“Haw!
That’s good, because you might be seeing a lot of me.”
“Um… Okay.
Why?”
“I’m the
vice president of this cruise line, Ruby. I’m also the entertainment director.
We get a lot of older passengers on our Alaskan cruises – people who still know
and love the great songs. For that and my own purely selfish reasons, I’ve
decided to set up an old-fashioned jazz club, just like the ones you would see
in one of those old Astaire movies, and fit it out with a small orchestra and a
singer. And I want you to be the
singer.”
That’s
about the time I lose it. I slam the table with both hands and yell “No!”
spilling half my coffee and alarming the couple at the next table.
“Yes!” says
Ruby. “I start next month.”
“That is
incredible! That is… Oh! Oh Ruby!” I circle the table to give her a hug, and
then I grab a handful of napkins to sop up my coffee. It’s amazing how quickly
my thoughts revert to my own selfish needs.
“But… Does
this mean you’re leaving?”
“Not at all.
The cruises are out of Seattle. A week on/week off kind of thing.”
I feel a
little dizzy, awash with joy. It’s true – empathy is a workable drug. But I’ve
got one more doubt.
“Is this…
Is this enough for you?”
Ruby tents
her fingers. “I believe the quote was, I will no longer chase a dream that
doesn’t chase me. Well honey, this particular dream stalked me for a week and
then toasted me with champagne and Cuban cigars! And I think by now I’ve got a
handle on my basic needs. I need to stand in front of people and sing to them.
If it’s on a cruise ship instead of somewhere on Times Square, then so be it!”
We both
relax into our chairs, chewing our perfect bread. Ruby lets out little
aspirations of wonder left over from the Mexican Pacific. Then she snaps to and
raps her knuckles on the table.
“Oh,
Channy. Me me me! I completely forgot – did you hear anything about Kai?”
Don’t think
I’m not tempted. I have huge, carnivorous things crawling inside of me, and if
I don’t expose them to the light of day they will eat me alive. But I am not
about to rain on such a spectacular parade.
“Nope,” I
say. “Haven’t heard a thing.”
Photo by MJV
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