Robert Browne: Down Among the Dead Men

The cruise to the Mexican Riviera had been Jen’s idea. After her best friend, Debbie, had dropped out at the last minute, Jen had offered the vacant slot to Beth, and Beth had jumped at the chance to get away for a long weekend. She just hoped she wouldn’t have to spend their entire vacation keeping tally of Jen’s conquests.

The aforementioned Julio was a bartender they’d met up on the pool deck, where they’d gone to get some sun before dinner. He wasn’t tall, but he was definitely dark and handsome, and yes, Beth had noticed how nicely his derriere had filled out his tight white shorts, and she could fully appreciate Jen’s enthusiasm.

“From what I can tell,” Beth said, “Julio’s no boy. Has hair on his chin and everything.”

Jen grinned. “It’s the everything that I’m interested in.”

“Doesn’t the cruise line have some rule against the help fraternizing with guests?”

“Calm down, girl, you’re not in court. We’re on vacation here, remember? There are no rules.”

“You sleep with him, you could get him fired.”

Jen’s grin widened. “Trust me, I’m worth the risk.”

“Oh, brother.” Beth rolled her eyes.

“Why are you always such a prude?”

“I’m not a prude, it’s just-”

“I know, I know, only when it comes to me.” Heaving a sigh, Jen pulled off her T-shirt, then reached back and untied her bikini top. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Sis, but I’m all grown up now. You don’t have to protect me anymore. If anything, I’m the one who should be doing the protecting.” She paused. “Speaking of which, how’s your head?”

“Pounding, thanks to you.”

“Hey, I can’t help it if you’ve got a stick up your butt about anything remotely provocative. If you were smart, you’d find a Julio all your own.”

“Not likely.”

Jen flung the top aside and Beth instinctively averted her gaze. She’d seen her sister naked plenty of times over the years but suddenly felt as if she were invading Jen’s privacy.

Maybe it was the boob job, which Jen didn’t hesitate to flaunt at every possible opportunity. Or maybe it was the close confines of this budget traveler’s stateroom they’d been stuck in. They didn’t even have a window-or porthole, to be nautically correct-and the light in here was weak and depressing. They were practically on top of each other, and seeing Jen’s newly acquired attributes waving hello from less than two feet away did not exactly warm and comfort Beth.

“I’m no doctor,” Jen said, slipping off her suit bottom now, “but a couple hours with the right guy and I’ll bet those headaches of yours will clear up real quick.”

“That’s your solution to everything, isn’t it?”

Jen shrugged. “More or less.”

“Just do me a favor and take your shower,” Beth said. “They’re seating us in less than fifteen minutes.”

Dining on a cruise ship is an elaborate affair.

Long, intricately set tables crowded with your shipmates, some of whom are dressed to the nines. Two or more waiters. A five-course gourmet meal that has the potential to be mediocre but is actually quite good considering the amount of food being pumped out of the ship’s kitchen.

Beth ordered an escargot appetizer, a Caesar salad, seafood chowder, medallions of beef, a plate of cheeses, and a scoop of green tea ice cream. A definite case of eyes bigger than stomach.

They’d been surrounded by food from the moment they’d first stepped foot onto the ship that afternoon, but Beth had passed on the burgers and greasy fries and pizza slices and soft-serve ice cream offered upstairs on the pool deck. And by the time dinner came around, she was famished.

Jen, on the other hand, had opted for a liquid diet and was drunk before the meal was half-over. Ordering only an appetizer and a small salad, she washed it all down with a couple of colorful rum drinks that came in tall glasses carrying the cruise line’s logo. Add that to the three Dos Equis good old Julio had served her by the pool, and it wasn’t long before she was a candidate for the Long Beach drunk tank.

Of course, they were quite a distance from port at that point, so Beth figured it didn’t much matter. Still, she tried more than once to get Jen to slow down, but Jen wouldn’t have it.

“Loosen up, Aunt Martha, I’m just getting started.”

The problem was that she was wildly unpredictable when she got drunk. Or just plain wild. Once the liquid started flowing, you never knew which Jen would surface, and while all were quite beautiful, few of them were pretty.

By the time dessert was served, she was well into an unapologetic flirt session with the newlywed husband sitting next to her. Much to the chagrin of his sadly mousy wife.

Maybe “flirt” was too mild of a word. This was an all-out, full-frontal assault.

“Let’s go dancing. You wanna go dancing?”

“I–I don’t really dance,” the man said, shooting his wife an awkward glance.

“Oh? You look like a dancer to me.” Jen reached over and squeezed his bicep. “There’s a lot of muscle under that fancy jacket.”

The man colored slightly, then shrugged. “I work out.”

“Ugh,” Jen said, then put her lips to her straw and took a noisy final slurp of her second drink. “I can’t stand working out. The sight of all those treadmills up in the gym gives me hives. If I’m gonna get sweaty it had better be worth my while, if you know what I mean.”

Her speech was slurred, but she managed that patented Jen fuck-me smile, and Beth wondered what had happened to her newfound lust for Julio.

“When I need to shed a few pounds,” Jen continued, “I just call the man with the magic wand.”

The newlywed’s face went beet red then and Jen laughed and shook her head.

“Not that kind of wand, dummy. My surgeon.”

“Surgeon?”

“You know. Liposuction?” She waved an imaginary lipo wand in the air, then turned in her chair, facing him, and leaned back slightly. It was a tricky maneuver for someone so drunk, but she managed to avoid falling on the floor. “Take a guess.”

“About what?”

She cupped her breasts through the black fabric of her cocktail dress. It was obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra. Not that she needed one.

“How much you think these babies cost me?”

Beth pushed her ice cream aside. “All right, Jennifer, that’s enough.”

Jen shot her a look, then turned again to the newlywed. “Well? How much?”

Despite his scowling wife, the man stared openly at Jen’s offering, and Beth knew there’d be storm clouds in the honeymoon suite tonight.

“I dunno. A couple grand?”

Jen laughed. “A couple grand? Where does your wife get her work done? JC Penney’s?”

Her voice-almost a screech now-rose above the din of the dining room. Not only were most of the people at the table gaping at her (forks held in suspended animation above their creme brulees and flourless chocolate cakes), but a few from the adjoining tables were staring as well.

“Jen, please, you’re drunk. Let’s go back to the cabin.”

Ignoring Beth, Jen turned to the elderly couple directly across from her and smiled at the silver-haired husband.

“Tell me the truth now. Do these look like they’re only worth a measly two grand?”

And with that, she unceremoniously yanked down the top of her dress, exposing herself to their small corner of the world.

She threw up halfway back to the stateroom. They were on the stairs leading up to Deck Seven when she gripped the rail.

“Are we swaying? Why are we swaying?”

Beth steadied her. “We’re on a ship, remember?”

“Uhhhh. I don’t feel so good. How many drinks did I have?”