|
|
 |
|
THE NEXT GENERATION PART TWO: CRISIS AT SEA
|
Sailing, sailing over the
bounding main, etc.
of TheColumnists.com
|
The cruise ship Paradisio pulled anchor from San Francisco on April 27, heading north to Alaska. Capt. Spinakos is anxious to avoid the recent mishaps experienced by other cruise ships, such as runaway infections and collisions with docks. He has instituted strict controls, but some passengers are not happy with "rules" that seem to mess up their leisurely vacations. |
DAY TWO: April 28,
2007
SOMEWHERE AT SEA
Herman Gruberstenkle of Boise, Idaho, slept fitfully in his germ-proof, inflatable "sanitation chamber." He was dreaming, as usual, about the germ that had his number. He knew one was lying in wait for him on this cruise and would strike at the first opportunity. That's why Herman always took four or five extra sanitation "tissues" from the dispensers Capt. Spinakos had ordered installed at all entrances to the dining rooms on board ship and carefully wiped his silverware and any areas of the table that might have been touched by human hands.
In his dream, The Germ had a mean and ugly face and a scratchy, fibrous voice that growled things like, "You've had it, Hermie. I'm your personal Germie--and I'm gonna GET YOU!" In the dream--maybe it should be called a nightmare--Herman carried a gun resembling a blunderbuss which fired sanitation wipes. But they just splatted against The Germ and evaporated instantly. Oh, how he wished he had a spray gun that could douse The Germ with hydrogen peroxide! But a guy can't think of everything to bring on a cruise!
 |
This is The Germ that Herman Gruberstenkle constantly battled in his nightmares. Note the close-set eyes, furrowed brow and the determined set of mouth. |
While Herman slept, the medical team in the ship's clinic, deep in the bowels of the vessel, was going over the more than 800 swabs taken from inside the cheeks of all passengers after boarding. Capt. Spinakos had instituted this unusually thorough procedure because he wanted to identify and isolate any passenger who came aboard sick. Although the 18 pages of fine print in the documents all passengers were required to sign did stipulate that any patient who knowingly came aboard in bad health could be put ashore at the next port, Spinakos knew of few captains who would enforce this rule. It was considered bad for business to take it too seriously, but Spinakos didn't want to be in command of any ship forced to abandon its cruise because of widespread infection.
Lab technician Adrienne Clover was doing the analysis of samples this evening while Oliver Huston, the ship's official head doctor read through the list of patients seen during the day and pharmaceuticals dispensed. Suddenly, Ms. Clover looked up from her microscope.
"You know, I've always wanted to say this! And now I have my chance: I think we have a problem, Huston,"she said, smiling. "It's so cool!"
The gruff Dr. Huston frowned, but hurried over to his assistant. "Let me see," he said, bending over the microscope. His eye quickly recognized a highly infectious bacillus, zipping back and forth, gobbling up blood cells.
"Good grief!" he exclaimed, then added: "I've always wanted to say that, Ms. Clover. You have a right to be concerned. If I'm not mistaken, that's the virulent Tasmanian fruit fly bacillus! We've got to head this off immediately! Who's sample did this come from?"
Ms. Clover scanned the sheet in front of
her to make double sure she'd read it right. There was no mistake.
"It's that goofy guy from Idaho," she said. "You
know, the one who wanted us to install a germicidal spray in
his shower stall. The same one who sleeps in that big plastic
bag all night."
Dr. Huston frowned even more profoundly, then got on the phone to roust Capt. Spinakos from the card game he usually was playing with the ship's officers at this late hour. As expected, Spinakos had a fit. He wanted to know if the infection could be contained until they reached Seattle the day after tomorrow. They weren't scheduled to put into any other ports along the way.
"I guess we could lock the guy's stateroom and tell him to eat whatever he can find in the mini-bar," Dr. Huston suggested.
They both agreed to let Herman sleep the rest of the night on grounds his immune system probably needed the rest. They would address the issue first thing in the morning.
DAY THREE: April
29, 2007
Nearing Portland, Oregon
It probably would be fair to state that the prior evening's concert performance by Fabiola Moskowitz would remain long in the memories of all who attended. Capt. Spinakos had taken his usual box seat, waving at the passengers grandly as they filed into the Grand Ballroom. He loved classical music himself and was really looking forward to the performance by this veteran Las Vegas entertainer so favorably commended by Cruise Director Betsy Carmichael. She had signed Fabiola herself, which somewhat made up for her regrettable decision to schedule a week of maritime disaster movies in the ship's theater.
But Spinakos got a distinct sinking feeling in his gut when Fabiola, dressed fashionably in a lavender tuxedo, tap-danced to the piano bench and launched into what he told the crowd was his "signature number." At first, the slow tempo of the number and grand flourishes Fabiola gave it actually fooled Spinakos into thinking it was something by Debussy. Then the tempo picked up a bit and he realized the Fabulous Fabiola was playing "The Woody Woodpecker Song." As passengers looked from one to another in bewilderment, Fabiola grinned widely and began to sing: "Ooooh-ooh -hoo-haha, Ooooh-ooh-hoo-haha, it's the Woody Woodpecker Song!"
 |
playing "The Woody Woodpecker Song" in his first concert. |
To compound the felony, Fabiola then did something quite extraordinary: He leaned over and put his face right next to the keyboard, so the camera set up to show his flashing hands instead filled the two giant screens on either side of the stage with his contorted puss as he warbled, "He'll peck a few holes in your head!"
With nowhere to go but up, Fabiola seized the initiative and took the show even lower, segueing into a rather arch rendition of "Chopsticks" to which he had added, "my own original lyrics," most of them almost diabolically calculated to offend anyone Asian or, for that matter, anyone who had ever met an Asian.
Later, when Fabiola finally got around to playing some legitimate concert pieces, he played them only as medleys. Not once did he actually get through a complete piece of music.
"My guess is he can't remember anything but the highlights," trumpet player Timmy Nelson had observed after the show. "But you got to give it to him: He didn't muff any of the Woodpecker lyrics."
Before meeting with Dr. Huston, Capt. Spinakos got Betsy Carmichael's attention by pounding on her stateroom door at least an hour before her normal rising time. She had succeeded in outrunning him all last night, but now it was time to "face the music," in a manner of speaking.
"What were you thinking?" Spinakos demanded when she finally opened her door. He felt he had been using that line rather often with her lately. "Didn't you ever see this idiot's show before signing him?"
Well, Betsy explained, she actually hadn't. Fabiola was her cousin and her Aunt Tess had sworn he was a sensation in Las Vegas, so she didn't waste time signing him. As it turned out, he was a lounge pianist and this was the first time he'd actually done an "act" anywhere. She admitted Fabiola still had to work out a few kinks.
"Kinks?" said Spinakos. "Let
me tell you about kinks, Betsy!"
He explained he'd already confronted Fabiola and told him to
forget his second concert and, for that matter, all the rest
of the concerts he thought he was going to play this summer.
They would buy out his contract and pay him off. They would put
him ashore in Seattle, where he might be lucky enough to get
work as a sidewalk piano player in front of the Space Needle.
"So, you know what your cousin tells me," Spinakos went on. "He tells me his contract can't be cancelled at least until the conclusion of this cruise. He says he's playing again tomorrow night and he's sure he'll be much better. I checked with the company lawyers in Miami and they say he's got us on that point. So, Fabiola is playing again, all right. I suggested he come out wearing a clown suit!"
Spinakos wasn't the only person on board who was hopping mad. Two dozen passengers had demanded a refund of at least half their cruise fares on grounds the entertainment was unprofessional. The Liu family of Vancouver, B.C., was threatening to sue over Fabiola's "ethnic insensitivity" and the band members were refusing to accompany Fabiola if he played again.
"He's humilating us," band spokesman
Timmy Nelson had complained to Spinakos. "If you don't do
something about him, we will!"
But Betsy and Spinakos didn't need to check any contracts on
that score. The band members would have to accompany Fabiola,
no matter how bad he was, and that was that.
Herman Gruberstenkle was outraged when Dr. Huston informed him he was infected and would be put off the ship and checked into a hospital when they reached Seattle at 7 AM the following morning. In the meantime, they told him he was confined to his cabin.
"You can't do this!" Herman ranted. "If I picked up this disease, it had to be on board this ship! I'll sue your ass!"
When Dr. Huston explained the test swab was taken from inside Herman's mouth right as he boarded the ship, he insisted the nurse must have carried the infection. But Dr. Huston was clear on that, too. They'd tested all the people who administered the tests and all were clear of infection.
"It's your germ, Mr. Gruberstenkle," Huston said firmly. "You brought it with you and you're taking it with you!"
Herman wondered how that could be possible. He was so careful. He was freakin' fanatic about cleanliness. But then there were those dreams and that miserable Germ character who had it in for him. Could that be true? Was he the Typhoid Mary of the cruise ship Paradisio?
Loretta "Daffy" Ronzoni had troubles of her own that day. Her husband, Peter, had been a raging monster ever since he'd been escorted out of the dining room on their first night on board for not wearing the proper clothing. He'd refused to go to dinner the following night, skipped the Fabiola concert, the movie and everything that was an "official" activity for cruise passengers.
"I don't know what I'm going to do with him," she told Prof. Kazmarek at breakfast. "He's eaten all the nuts, candy and chewing gum in the mini-bar."
"Does he know you can rent a tuxedo right here on the ship," said The Professor. "He'll need to wear one to the Captain's Dinner tomorrow night anyway. How could he have not known about the dress code for dining?"
"He doesn't believe in rules," said Daffy. "He doesn't wear his seat belt when he drives and he doesn't salute the flag or bow his head in prayer at public meetings. He quit smoking 25 years ago, but he lights up every time he sees a NO SMOKING sign. I mean, he carries a pack of cigarettes around just so he can do that. He's still a rebel, Professor."
The Professor wasn't too happy about this course of events. He was afraid Pete Ronzoni would show up for the Captain's Dinner and do something awful to get back at the ship and its rules. And from what he could see, this ship captain was a direct descendant of Captain Bligh. He wouldn't tolerate any messing around. He'd already heard the rumor that they were putting a guy off the ship in Seattle for having a runny nose or something.
Back in his cabin, Pete Ronzoni was trying to decide if he should start emptying the little bottles of booze in the mini-bar when he heard a light rap on the door. He took his time answering, so when he finally opened it up, there was nobody there. He looked up and down the corridor, but saw no sign of anyone. Then he noticed a small package at his feet. He picked it up, tore the wrapping paper off and found a video cassette labelled "Just for You!"
Grumbling, he closed the door and took the tape over to the VCR. He figured it was bound to be some cruise line presentation of "rules" sent to all violators. But he plugged it into the slot and turned on the TV anyway. He heard enticing salsa music first, then a sexy young woman appeared out of a fog. The film was black and white and mysterious looking. The girl was carrying a tray with two big containers of some kind of gooey dessert. She walked right up to the camera and said, "Hello, ma fren. My name Olivia de Portillo." She literally cooed, winking her eyes seductively. "Ah hope you don' forget ma name when time come to 'member dose who serve you on...Paradisio!" Then she began to sway to the music and slowly vanished into the fog. The last image was her name in big letters on the screen: OLIVIA DE PORTILLO, YOUR WAITRESS. The whole thing didn't last five minutes.
 |
beautiful young woman carrying a tray of gooey desserts. Yes, it was the waitress, Olivia de Portillo. |
Pete ran the tape again and grinned. He wouldn't mind some of that--and he did kind of feel hungry for dessert, too.
He began to get dressed. It was time to rejoin the cruise world--on his terms.
DAY FOUR: April 30,
2007
Seattle, Washington
Capt. Spinakos spent most of the morning in port conferring with lawyers who had flown up from Miami to meet him on board. They first discussed the case of Fabiola Moskowitz and quickly reached a conclusion: The Fabulous One had them over a legal barrel. They had written his contract so that he couldn't skip out on them if a better deal came along. Consequently, he was right about being locked in until the end of this cruise in early May.
Then they talked about passenger Herman Gruberstenkle. The ship's medical team had gone to his stateroom to take him, under quarantine, to a local hospital in Seattle. But Herman had jammed the door and wouldn't let them in. He was insisting on finishing his cruise.
"I'm not sick, so I'm not leaving here," he sneered through the door.
They told him they wouldn't bring him any
food, but that didn't bother him. Herman didn't eat anything
that didn't meet his own health specifications, so he'd brought
along a large supply of dried fruits, cereals and powdered milk.
They told him they'd turn off the power to his stateroom, but
that didn't bother him either.
"I have a porthole," he told them, "so I can see
fine in daytime. At night, I'll be in my sanitation chamber anyway."
They thought it might be dangerous to turn off his water and shut down his shower and toilet facilities, so they debated forcing their way in or just letting him finish the cruise.
"What's the difference if he stays in his room?" asked one of the lawyers. "He won't be infecting anyone in his room."
So, when the ship pulled out of Seattle late that afternoon, Herman was still on board and comfortably locked in his cabin.
Fabiola Moskowitz felt vindicated. The lawyers had backed off and he was all set to perform that night. He knew he might draw a sparse crowd, but he also knew he'd do much better this time. He had a "sing-along" planned and was going to try breaking the record for fast-playing of "The Minute Waltz," which he was sure he could do in 42 seconds.
While Capt. Spinakos fumed at his inability to stop Fabiola from trashing the classics once more, the cruise band members were brainstorming. They knew just playing sour notes behind him wouldn't deter Fabiola, who played a few of his own from time to time. They also knew their pay would be docked if they boycotted the concert.
"Too bad we couldn't just saw the legs off his piano," mused clarinetist Sol Hardy.
"Aw, he'd just lay down on the floor and play the sucker," griped Timmy Nelson.
Then Nelson stood up and clapped his hands. "Gather 'round, boys," he said. "Sol just gave me a pretty good idea. Listen to this..."
That evening, the Captain's Dinner went off as scheduled, almost a perfect social event but for one slight setback to its decorum. Peter Ronzoni had decided to attend the dinner after all and, believe it or not, had rented a tux. He admitted to himself that he looked quite dapper wearing it, but to show up "in costume" would be simply an act of surrender on his part to the absurd rules of the cruise line dress code. That just wasn't him.
As usual, Pete and "Daffy" were seated with Professor Kazmarek and his wife, Hilda, and the party of nuns they'd been stuck with since all the rest of their college "reunion" group had dropped out. When Capt. Spinakos strolled by their table, he was delighted to see Mr. Ronzoni dressed in formal evening clothes.
"Good evening to you all," Spinakos said, bowing to each of the ladies and nodding at each man. "I must say I'm very happy that you are with us tonight, Mr. Ronzoni. I very much regretted having to bar you from the dining room the other night, but I'm happy it has worked out well. I think you look quite handsome in your tuxedo, by the way. As you look around you tonight, don't you have to concede that it's refreshing to see so many men and women dressed in exceptionally good taste, enjoying themselves on a formal occasion?"
"Why, yes, I do, Captain," said Peter. "And yet I still believe that one should dress the way one believes he looks best, which is why I have so thoughtfully modified your dress code to better express the real me."
At which point, Peter Ronzoni rose from the table, turned to gaze out the windows to the gently moving waves and lifted the tails of his tuxedo to display virtually his entire buttocks. On one butt cheek he had carefully lettered with indelible ink, using a hand held mirror, the words 'Kiss Me' and on the other the word 'Captain.' He had carefully cut out the entire butt end of his tuxedo pants. He emphasized this by shaking his posterior from side to side, aiming directly at Capt. Spinakos, and pointing with his finger at the exact spot where the words 'Kiss Me' appeared.
The nuns probably were the least favorably impressed by Pete's performance. One of them, in fact, fainted head first into her vichyssoise. But Capt. Spinakos turned various shades of dark blue.
"You will rue this day," he said between clenched lips. "Mark my words. You will rue this day!"
Peter laughed in his face and started taking bows until he noticed most of the formally-dressed diners around him weren't smiling.
"I think you just shot yourself in
the big toe, Petie-boy," Daffy mumbled to him.
The Professor looked quite mortified, especially since he had
introduced himself to the others at their table as a former teacher
of Peter Ronzoni. As usual, Hilda seemed more amused than shocked.
She had been about to whisper to Daffy that she thought her husband
had a nice ass, but thought better of it.
That night would go down in cruise ship history as the first "Moon the Captain" Dinner. It was such a dramatic event that it quite took the spotlight away from the major tantrum that Fabiola Moskowitz threw in front of his sparse audience little more than an hour later.
Before he walked out on the stage in the Grand Ballroom, Fabiola had been gloating for hours. He had won a major victory over Capt. Spinakos and the cruise ship line and his show would go on. He just hoped it wouldn't turn out to be a Pyrrhic victory, costing him more than he actually got out of the deal. Still, he planned to really seize the moment that night and put on a totally smashing show, redeeming himself so completely that he'd probably sell out all 500 of the special "Fabiola the Magnificent" CDs that he'd had pressed for his cruise ship debut engagement.
Then the announcer introduced him over the public address system, the curtains parted and Fabiola tap-danced out to his piano...and nearly tripped over it! A hush came over the crowd of about 45 people as they realized what had been concealed behind the curtains. Aghast, Fabiola stood back on his heels and stared at what used to be his own personal $50,000 grand piano. Someone had taken some kind of saw to it and literally cut it in half. Piano strings curled up in all directions from the wreckage . Keys were scattered over the floor like teeth from a broken jaw.
Fabiola lost it. Big time. He screamed;
he bellowed; he bawled like a baby. He beat his fists on the
floor. It was SO embarrassing. People fled the Grand Ballroom
as fast as their walkers would let them.
 |
looked after it was sawn in half. Further dismemberment of the instrument followed. |
"That's very unprofessional," Timmy Nelson observed from backstage. "It's just a piano after all. And I'll bet he never finds the saw. I think it went overboard about 100 nautical miles back."
DAY FIVE, May 1, 2007
North to Alaska
Capt. Spinakos made an announcement over the public address system at 10 AM that morning. He notified all passengers that they had altered the ship's itinerary and would not be stopping overnight in either of the usual Canadian ports--Vancouver or Victoria, British Columbia. They would try to beat an approaching storm and head straight for Alaska.
Of course, the approaching storm had nothing to do with it. Lawyers for Herman, the Idaho germ freak, had filed suit against the cruise line and Capt. Spinakos for life endangerment. Attorneys would be waiting for Paradisio to dock in Vancouver and would instantly serve Spinakos with the papers--and also would present him with a subpoena for all the ship's health records. Those lawyers would be joined by the lawyers retained by Fabiola Moskowitz, who wanted to sue Spinakos for the willful destruction of Mr. Moskowitz' piano. The Archdiocese of San Francisco also wanted to present the captain with papers asking him to explain in court why he had allowed an unruly passenger to shock Sister Mary Teresa Devlin so badly that she had fainted and nearly drowned in cold soup.
"I've already been summoned to a meeting with the board of directors next Tuesday in Miami," Spinakos groaned to his personal staff. "I think this is the end for me--and I've barely started my career!"
Spinakos reasoned it would be smarter to dodge those legal bullets and bypass two ports rather than try to fight back now. Sure, passengers would demand rebates and his staff would have to find accomodations for them in each Alaskan port until they could get back on schedule. He needed time to figure out what to do.
He had one thing stuck in the back of his mind: That pregnant clause in the contract every passenger signed, stating the captain had the right to leave any seriously disruptive passenger behind at the first stop reached after an altercation. That's what he'd do, all right. He'd dump Ronzoni, Gruberstenkle and Moskowitz at some dinky Alaskan port where it would take them a week to get back to civilization. He could explain he needed to anchor offshore anyway to let his engineers carry out emergency repairs, sending the "three stooges" to shore in the fastest tender available.
Then, at about 4 PM that day, an even more intriguing idea came to mind after he was called to the bridge to witness an amazing sight: An enormous iceberg had drifted into the ship's path in those cold and choppy waters between Vancouver, B.C., and the less populated northern reaches of British Columbia.
"We're starting to see lots of those, Captain," said Second Officer Harry Lamb. "It's the global warming thing again. Icebergs from Alaska up through Greenland are calving little icebergs as the heat softens them and the little bergs are starting to drift south, right into our sea lanes. We picked this one up on radar more than an hour ago.
Spinakos studied the iceberg with his binoculars. For a "little one," it seemed awfully damn big to him. It looked like a mountain, floating right down the route to Vancouver. He noticed there were lots of lot-sized flat areas on its surface and craggy outcroppings where it looked as if a small boat might land.
"Could one of our tenders moor there,
Lamb?" Spinakos asked.
"I suppose so," said the second officer. "But
we'd need to head over there right away or we'll be long gone
past it."
"Stop all engines," The Captain
said, smiling wickedly. "I have a plan."
AFTER THE CRUISE
May 14, 2007
When the first press reports about The Castaways hit the wire services, Spinakos had already cabled his resignation to the cruise line headquarters in Miami. He had made peace with the fact that his maritime career was permanently in the toilet. All he cared about now was getting away from anything that reminded him of cruise events, germ-conscious passengers, Boomer troublemakers and piano players from Las Vegas.
Two weeks earlier, Spinakos had ordered cruise security to seize passengers Peter Ronzoni and Herman Gruberstenkle, along with contracted shipboard entertainer Fabiola Moskowitz, load them and all their gear onto one of the small power boats used as ship tenders and take them to an iceberg floating off the coast of British Columbia. Mr. Ronzoni's wife, Daffy, had insisted on going with her husband. They were given more than enough supplies to last them a week and maritime authorities were immediately notified of their exact location at sea. Out of the goodness of his heart, Capt. Spinakos had donated the ship's own grand piano to Mr. Moskowitz, so he might keep his fellow castaways entertained until rescue boats arrived.
Peter Ronzoni was philosophical about the situation. As he stood on the iceberg and watched Paradisio disappear over the horizon, it reminded him of the final chapters of Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein," in which Dr. Frankenstein's Monster is left stranded on an Arctic iceberg, drifting north into the frozen wastes--the immortal man-made creature, doomed to drift forever in a vast wilderness of total silence.
"I'll be back," Ronzoni said aloud to no one in particular. "Just you wait and see, Spinakos!"
Daffy wasn't paying any attention to her melancholy husband. The Fabulous Fabiola was holding her in thrall, playing a very slow, very romantic, very classical rendition of the theme from "Looney Tunes and Merry Melodies." She hoped he wouldn't spoil the mood by trying to sing like Porky Pig.
Idaho Herman wasn't paying any attention either. He had zipped himself up inside his "sanitation chamber" and was praying no ancient frozen viruses were now springing to life as the iceberg continued to thaw.
Back home in Santa Lucia, California, Prof. Dwight Kazmarek and his wife, Hilda, were eating a late breakfast and chuckling over the story in The Santa Lucia Herald about the rescue of the Ronzonis and those other people by the U.S. Coast Guard. Apparently, the Canadians didn't want to get involved, so they just let the iceberg drift until it entered U.S. waters. Mrs. Ronzoni had begged for some red paint from the cruise ship and used it to write a giant "HELP" sign on the ice that helped rescuers find them. They were all taken off safely, but Mr. Ronzoni performed an especially malicious act just before boarding the Coast Guard cutter: He shoved Mr. Moskowitz's grand piano off the iceberg into the sea. He offered no explanation for his behavior.
"You know, I don't think I'll be wanting
to see those Ronzoni people anytime soon," said The Professor.
"I think they got what they deserved. But, you know, I do
have one terrible regret about our trip."
"What's that, Dwight?" asked Hilda.
"Well, we got such good service from
all the cruise people that I gladly signed that chit for an automatic
15 percent gratuity to all of them," he said. "But
I really wanted to give a little extra to that lovely young waitress
who used to bring us those delicious pastries in the morning
and those great desserts every evening."
"Well, why didn't you, Dwight?" asked Hilda.
"It's funny, but try as I might, I just couldn't think of her name," said The Professor. "She really ought to have tried a little harder to find some way to stand out, so we'd be sure to remember her name."
Hilda sighed. Rather than gloat, she figured maybe she'd put something "extra" in an envelope and mail it to Olivia de Portillo care of The Paradisio. It was the least she could do, right?
©2007 by Ron Miller. The illustrations are from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA. This column first posted May 28, 2007. The characters are all fictional and the author especially wants readers to know that his recent sea voyage on a Celebrity Cruise ship may have inspired these satirical columns, but his experience with that cruise line was nothing but a pleasure from start to finish.
You
can comment on this column online. Please address your message
to either "The Editors" or Ron Miller. To send an email,
click here and don't forget to mention Ron's name: talkback@thecolumnists.com
|
|
|
Archives |
|
|