Cruising with Mom

I’m a good son. I know this because several people have told me so. All it took to go from “Can you believe the way he treats his mother” to “what a good son!” was giving Mom a cruise to Mexico as a Christmas present.

Mom has MS and gets around with a cane because of her balance issues. A rocking ship would only exacerbate the situation. Before leaving Birmingham I rented a mobility scooter for her to use on the ship and in our ports of call. The scooter’s speed was adjustable, with a range that allowed you to either lose a race with a snail, or win a fifty yard dash, all at the twist of a knob. The dozens of dings and dents on Mom’s Camry should have alerted me to the danger of giving her control of another motorized vehicle. It should have, but it didn’t.

I had planned to let Mom get used to the scooter in the parking lot of her apartment, but even disassembled the scooter weighed 150 pounds. After hoisting it into the back of my Prius at the rental place I decided it wasn’t coming out again until we were at the port of Mobile. Thus the first time she used the scooter was in a crowded terminal.

Well, to be more precise, the first time she used it was getting from the car in the parking garage to the elevator that led to the terminal. Mom never was one to waste time, so before applying the gas, she cranked the speed knob to HIGH. You know those automatic doors that sense your presence and then slide open? In a race between the sliding automatic door and a scooter set for Talladega, put your money on the scooter. Fortunately some of the millions of Homeland Security money that made its way to Alabama was spent on unbreakable glass, so no real damage was done…until she went into the elevator. “Where’s the brake?” she screamed, slamming into the back wall of the elevator. Releasing the accelerator lever never occurred to her. When I say “never” I mean “not once in the next six days.”

Either because of her evident handicapped status, or because of the trail of trampled feet in her wake, we were given VIP status and moved immediately to the front of the line. After checking in and receiving our room keys and Sale & Sign cards we were moved to the Priority Boarding waiting area. Twenty minutes later we were lunching on the Lido Deck, but only after Mom had plowed into a dozen fellow passengers. I noticed that her apologies following these impacts were decreasing in both length and sincerity. In fact I’m sure that on more than one occasion she took careful aim before hitting the gas.

We purchased Unlimited Soda cards, which may seem steep to some at $30, but the way we drink soda they lost money on us before the trip was over. Soon our cabins were ready for us and we went to drop off our carry on bags. We were in the lowest deck, as far forward as you can go and still be in the ship. I wasn’t sure what to do about the mandatory lifeboat drill. I knew from my last trip on The Holiday that we’d have to navigate five flights of stairs. I checked with the Purser’s desk who told me not to worry about it, Mom could use the elevator. The elevator took us as far as our muster station, but to get to the actual life boats, we’d still have to hoof it up a couple of flights.

At our muster station four different crew members gave us four different sets of instructions, including, “when no one’s looking, just go back to your cabin.” God knows what would happen in the event that ship actually hit an iceberg. Given the conflicting instructions, there was obviously no standard procedure in place. I guess we’d just go down with the ship. Well, Mom would go down with the ship. I’d revert from “what a good son” back to “can you believe he did that to his mother?”, waving a sad goodbye to the good ship Holiday from the safety of the lifeboat.

We were scheduled for the first seating in the Seven Seas Dining room. I was prepared to ask the Maitre D’ to move us to a table that didn’t require going up steps, but there was no need. Table 242, way in the back of the dining room, was on the same level as the entrance. On subsequent nights we made our own way to our table, but the first night we had no idea where it was, so one of the servers led the way.

I had already learned that it was safer to be behind Mom and her scooter, rather than in front. Our guide set a brisk pace, but since Mom still insisted on keeping the scooter speed set on HIGH, we were in no danger of being left behind. Everything was fine at first. Rather than slow the scooter down, Mom had developed a lurch and stop, lurch and stop method of navigating around corners. On the straight-aways it was every man for himself. Since our table was in the back of the dining room, she had a long path ahead of her. She double checked to make sure the throttle was wide open and then took off.

Her aim was spotty and as she drifted to the left she overcompensated and veered to the right, then a sharp left to avoid the table full of diners, followed by another right and so on. This zig-zag path down the aisle caused the arms of the scooter to snag the table cloths on either side of her. Table cloths, dishes, glasses and silverware came crashing down in her wake, me chasing to catch up with her, the waiter in front of her running for his life, all while she’s screaming, “Where’s the brake? Where’s the brake?”

At the end of the straight-away she was convinced to abandon the scooter and walk the rest of the way to our table. Our servers, Nabil form Morocco and Deni from Serbia, were attentive, friendly, and cute. We were seated at a table for four, but our tablemates never joined us. No doubt they saw Mom’s entrance and requested a safer table.

In the center of the table a chilled dish contained individually wrapped pats of butter. While we waited for our appetizers Mom took some butter, placed it on her bread plate and unwrapped it. She took one of zillion forks at each place setting and a knife and cut off a tiny slice of butter and ate it. She repeated this 3 times until the butter was gone, then grabbed another pat. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“Eating,” she said, as if the very question was absurd.

“But you’re eating plain butter.”

“It’s cruise ship butter,” she corrected me.

“Yes, it’s cruise ship butter, but more to the point it’s cruise ship butter!” She glanced at the people at table 243 as if to say, “See what I have to put up with?” and happily ate her second butter pat.

After dinner we went to the Americana Lounge for the Welcome Aboard Show. Kurt from South Africa, a passing barkeep, asked if we’d like a cocktail and Mom flashed her soda card and asked for a coke. I should explain that when people order drinks—even sodas that are bought one at a time—a fifteen percent gratuity is added to the charge. Since our sodas were pre-paid there was nothing to charge and therefore nothing to add a tip to. In other words, the traveling barkeeps don’t make a nickel off of passengers with soda cards, and therefore, we’re at the bottom of their priority list. Before they get to us, they collect a few orders for alcohol, and pass out the beers and cocktails before getting back to us. It may not be fair, but they’re out to make money and quite frankly I don’t blame them. I’ve come to expect it and have learned to be patient.

I explained all of this to Mom and to her credit she did try to be patient. After five minutes though, she stopped a server with a full tray and pointed to one of the glasses. “Is that a coke?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Niko from the Philippines.

“Thanks,” said Mom and grabbed the drink. Mind you it wasn’t her coke, or at least it wasn’t intended as such. Nevertheless, she claimed it. After that she stopped placing orders and just hijacked other people’s drinks. They weren’t even all sodas. I know she grabbed a martini once that she never paid for, but the servers were always too shocked to question her, let alone try to collect.

When the show ended Mom was ready for bed. On the way to our cabins my luck ran out and she ran over my foot. I took the battery from the scooter into my room to charge, thus rendering her immobile. On my own at last, I headed to the late night buffet before turning in myself.

FUN DAY AT SEA

I woke early for a vacation day, 8:00. I took a quick shower and then headed to the dining room for breakfast. I figured I’d wake Mom when I got back. Dinner is the only meal you eat at the same table, with the same people. Breakfast and lunch are spent at whatever table has an empty chair. Claude from the Ukraine led me to a table for 10 already occupied by nine farmers from Ohio. They didn’t know each other, they just happened to all be farmers from Ohio. The Ohio Farm Bureau arranged a deal with Carnival and 600 of their members were on the cruise.

This might be my only Mom-free meal. If I was going to engage in my usual cruise ship antics of assuming new identities it was now or never. I waited for the usual introductions to be made while I decided between being a circus veterinarian or a plastic surgeon employed by the witness protection program. But no one asked me who I was or what I did! Those selfish bastards! How dare they not show an interest in me! All they cared about were crop yields and corn subsidies. I ate in silence and when my plate was clean I stood up announced, “I hate you all!” and marched out of the dining room.

Back on deck 5 I knocked on Mom’s door. No answer. I went back to my cabin and grabbed the extra key to her room and let myself in. She wasn’t there. I checked the bathroom and it was empty, too. The scooter battery was still in my room, so where could she have gone?

Before leaving Birmingham I’d borrowed a set of walkie-talkies with a five mile range. I’d given one to Mom and kept one for myself, which was in my pocket. I took it out and pushed the talk button. “Mom? Where are you?” Silence.

I went to the purser’s desk where Mario from Venezuela asked if he could help me. “I’ve lost my mother.” He suggested that she’d gone to breakfast or perhaps to the pool. “You don’t understand,” I said. “She can’t go anywhere, not without her scooter.”

“Is that your mother?” Mario asked. “Perhaps she was kidnapped. Or pushed overboard.”

I went back to my cabin. With her mobility issues I’d always been able to count on her being where I last saw her. I had no idea where to look for her. Perhaps Mario was right. There was nothing left to do but alert the captain and request a room to room search.

I left the cabin again, wondering how I’d get to the bridge. I started down the passageway and there was Mom, cane in hand, hobbling toward me. “Where the hell have you been?” I demanded.

“I woke up at six and figured I’d go get breakfast,” she said. The Seven Seas dining room is large facility. Nevertheless, I couldn’t figure out why I hadn’t seen her there. Or why I hadn’t passed her on the way there. Or on the way back. Without the scooter it takes her half an hour to move 20 feet.

I’m certainly not going to call my own mother a liar. If she says she was in the dining room, then she must have been in the dining room. I couldn’t help noticing though, that for the rest of the trip whenever we passed our room steward (Lothario from Paraguay) in the hall he always had a knowing wink and a satisfied smile for Mom, but only a nod for me.

We attended the “shopping in Mexico” lecture in the Americana Lounge (during which Mom swiped two sodas), then checked out the ships shops. The casualty list was relatively low, Mom only knocked over one display of Tortuga Rum Cakes. We explored the rest of the ship, ate lunch and generally wasted time which is the best thing to do on vacation. At four o’clock we returned to the cabins to get dressed for Formal Night.

No one was brave enough to lead us to our table so it’s a good thing I remembered where it was. Mom’s driving had improved; she only snagged 2 table cloths. Nabil from Morocco proved again how attentive a waiter he was by having extra butter at Mom’s plate. She ordered the lobster tail and raved about it. I had the prime rib which was okay, but not worth getting dressed up for.

After dinner Mom was ready for bed. I dropped her off at her cabin, and with free time on my hands headed to the casino. Whenever I cruise I allocate fifty dollars for the casino. When the fifty bucks is gone (as it always is) then that’s the end of my gambling for that particular trip.

I don’t understand all the varied pay lines of the slot machines, and anyway, I don’t trust ‘em. It seems to me the odds are against you in Roulette and I don’t know how to play craps. I choose to lose my fifty dollars at video poker. I picked a machine at random and fed it a twenty dollar bill.

There were several variations of play available to me. I chose Deuces Wild and for each hand bet the maximum number of credits, which worked out to a buck twenty-five. My twenty dollar investment gave me 80 credits to play with. For every five or six hands I lost, I won a hand. Nothing spectacular, three of a kind, a straight—a full house once that paid thirty credits, which for me is a windfall. Eventually though I lost the few coins I’d won and fed the machine another twenty dollar bill. Nine of those twenty dollars were gone when I was dealt an Ace, Queen, Jack, and Ten of spades and a three of clubs. I held the spades and sat there for at least thirty seconds feeling sad and angry. It wasn’t nice of the machine to tease me this way when we both knew it had no intention of replacing that three of clubs with a King of spades.

Finally I pushed the “draw” button.

King of spades. Royal flush with no wild cards. I looked at the payout line. The machine operated on a progressive jackpot that kept going up until someone won it. When I was dealt the King of spades the jackpot was $6,240. I looked again at the royal flush, then at the jackpot amount. No lights flashed. No bells rang. Clearly I hadn’t won anything. I sat there for several minutes trying to figure out why I hadn’t won what it looked like I’d won. I looked at my credit balance. I’d had forty-four credits before this last hand. I now had 24,960 credits.

Not daring to hope, I pushed the “cash out” button, waiting for the sound of twenty-five thousands quarters dropping into the hopper.

Nothing. A message flashed on the screen: Please Call Attendant. I knew it was too good to be true. I raised my hand and the blackjack dealer saw me (Nancy from Canada) and she sent David from America to me. “Yes sir? Is there a problem?”

“I don’t know. I think I won six thousand dollars.”

He smirked. “It’s nice to dream, sir.” Then he looked at the screen. “Holy shit you won six thousand dollars!” he shouted and ran away. I looked helplessly at Nancy from Canada who shrugged her shoulders. David from America came trotting back with the Casino manager, Hottie from Who Cares, right behind him.

“Congratulations!” Hottie from Who Cares said.

“Frannit gleep,” I replied. “Bumblebox diggory zap.” After that nothing came out at all. My throat had never been so dry. I pulled a Mom and grabbed a mystery drink from a passing barkeep and downed it in one. Hottie from Who Cares had me fill out a form with my name, address, and social security number, then told me he needed to see some photo id. My passport and wallet were both in my cabin. I told Hottie from Who Cares that I wasn’t leaving this machine as long as it had 24,960 of my quarters in it. Hottie from Who Cares assured me that he and David from America would guard the machine with their lives and I was finally persuaded to go get my wallet.

On the way to my cabin I banged on the door to Mom’s room and shouted “I won six thousand dollars!” and kept going. I retrieved my wallet and ran back to the elevator, which took far too long to get to deck 5. It finally showed up and I pushed the 9 button. When I got off on deck nine I ran towards the front of the ship and into the teen disco.

Teen disco? Where the hell is the casino? Back to the elevator, and down to deck 8, then to the front of the ship to Doc Holiday’s lounge. Damn it! To the back of the ship…Americana Lounge. Where the blankety blank is the freaking casino??? It took me five minutes but I finally found it. Hottie and David were still at their posts, but when they saw me Hottie shook his head sadly and said, “I’m sorry sir, but if you take more than three minutes to bring your photo id you forfeit your winnings.”

“I see. And how many teeth are you willing to forfeit?” Hottie filled out a receipt for me and told me he left $10 in credits on the machine so I could keep playing. “Are you high?” I asked and pushed the cash out button. Believe it or not, the little yellow light on top of the machine started flashing for the ten dollar payout. I pocketed my quarters and followed Hottie to the cashier cage. Nicki from Belarus counted out sixty 100 dollar bills and gave me the rest in twenties.

Unexpected riches make me generous. “Are you allowed to accept tips?” I asked Nicki from Belarus. When she answered in the affirmative I told her to keep twenty for herself. Then I turned to Hottie. What about you? Can you take tips?”

“Yes sir,” he assured me.

“Indeed. How much of a tip would get you to have a night cap with me in my luxurious state room on the lowest deck, at the very front of the ship?”

He gave me an appraising look. “More than you won.”

I shrugged and tossed him a twenty, then beat a hasty retreat to my cabin where I locked my winnings in the room safe. Not a bad payout for a thirty-one dollar investment.

PROGRESSO

The pier in Progresso is four miles long. Fortunately we only had to walk a hundred yards of it before getting on the tour bus that would take us to points of interested and a couple of shops. There was no way to get the scooter onto the bus, so Mom relied on her cane. There were about forty of us gathered under the “Progresso Tour & Shopping” sign. They were polite enough to let Mom at the front of the line since she was feeble.

Politeness only goes so far, though. Our guide, a short Mexican woman with a ready smile led the way to tour bus a block away. She never looked back, confident that her group was right behind her, and soon she was out of sight. I could hear the grumblings and panic building up in our fellow tourists behind us, and soon they were in front of us, making a mad dash for the bus before it took off without us. I was in a bit of a panic myself and tried to hurry Mom as much as possible, but she’s only got so much hurry in her. She did her best, but we weren’t getting anywhere fast.

The bus was still there when we finally rounded the corner and we even found two seats together. It took ten minutes just to get off the pier, and then another half an hour driving into town. The driver described all the fascinating things we passed. “Look there’s a house! Look there’s another house! On the left we see a stray dog. Oooooh”

After a while the bus pulled over and we all piled out. Our first stop was the oldest cathedral in North America, and I have to admit it was beautiful. We stayed there for half an hour or so, then walked to some public square with lots of murals of Mayans being killed and tortured by the Conquistadors. Skulls and skeletons danced in the background as the Mayans were slaughtered.

During the brief walk from the cathedral to the square, dozens of local men and women, their arms literally covered in tacky souvenirs, descended on us. They didn’t say a word, they just enveloped us, arms outstretched, offering their wares. It was like a scene from Dawn of the Dead, only instead of zombies we were attacked by hucksters. Most of the women had itty bitty hammocks tied to their backs, in which slept babies of varying sizes. As they drew near I said “No thanks. Estoy bien.” And kept walking. Mom smiled pleasantly at them. They naturally interpreted the smile as an invitation to crowd in closer.

They got more and more aggressive, thrusting gewgaws and knick knacks at us. The men began shouting angrily at me, “Senor! Buy this for your lady!” Apparently they weren’t permitted in the actual plaza (reserved for tourists?) so they lingered on the perimeter while we studied the Slaughter of the Mayans.

Bathrooms were available at the square. The souvenir venders were all contained by the Neutral Zone, so I figured it was safe to leave Mom unattended while I emptied my bladder. When I went to wash my hands I noticed all of the soap dispensers had been ripped out of the walls. Not to worry, standing by the sinks was a local man holding a spray bottle of who knows what. “Soap, senor? A dollar a squirt”.

“All I have on me is six bits. Gimme half a squirt.” He did, but since I didn’t have any change left to buy a paper towel I relied on the ‘shake your hands real fast and then wipe ‘em on the seat of your pants’ method of hand drying.

Outside in the square, our group was heading down the street to the shopping destination. As soon as we hit the public street the baby-backed women and shouting men converged on us. The rest of the group, eager to avoid the street vendors, kept up a good trot behind our guide. Mom and I were soon left trailing the pack. As if Mom’s cane wasn’t slowing us down enough, we had to fight our way through the pack of people waving fans, wooden toys, woven handbags, and painted rocks at us. Finally, in my best high school Spanish I said, “we don’t want any. We aren’t buying any. Now go the hell away!”

Eager to drive the point home, Mom added, “How much?”

That was all it took. They descended on us like flies on a dead dog by the side of the road. I watched helplessly as our tour group rounded a corner. I had no idea where they were going, or how to catch up with them. Meanwhile, Mom is digging through her wallet, trying to find six dollars to buy a hand bag, ignoring my warnings that our group had left us behind.

Even after Mom completed the transaction we were still besieged. Is this how it ends? Abandoned in a strange land, sellers of painted rocks pecking away at our sun bleached carcasses? Suddenly the crowd parted. Our guide, she of the ready smile, had come back for us! The rest of our group had been deposited at a store. Our guide was content to amble back at Mom’s pace. Not only that, she shooed away the street vendors.

Twenty minutes later we joined our comrades at a local shop. I saw some skeleton pottery, similar to ones depicted dancing over the slaughtered Mayans. Mom was tired after her walk and found a folding chair to sit in. I said, “I’m going to the back of the shop to look at some pottery. Don’t go anywhere and don’t buy anything from anyone!”

I traversed the maze to the back of the shop. The skeleton turned out to be cuter than the ghoulish figures in the mural, but that only made it more appealing. I have no haggling skills, but it turns out my natural shock at hearing the inflated prices is almost as good. “Eighty bucks? Are you insane?” I turned to leave, which they can’t stand. I was physically detained while the virtues of real 100% terra cotta were explained to me. He kept insisting it was the deal of the century and I kept insisting he was out of his mind if the thought I was paying eighty bucks for a clay planter. Eventually he settled on $25 which was still too much if you ask me.

When I got back to Mom she was smiling triumphantly and waiving a fan at me. “Look what I bought!” she exclaimed.

I tried to smile back. “How much?” I asked.

“I bought it from that nice man outside,” she said, pointing to one of the ubiquitous street vendors. “And I got a real bargain!”

“How much?” I asked again.

“And it’s hand made!”

“Hand made? It’s plastic? How many Mexican orphanages have plastic factories in the back yard?”

“Hand made!” she insisted. “And he wanted twenty dollars for it! But I told him I wouldn’t pay more than ten! And he took it! I sure put one over on him!”

“You evil gringo,” I said. “You practically robbed him.” I didn’t have the heart to point out that the folding chair she was sitting in was next to a bin of those self same hand made plastic fans, selling for five dollars apiece. It wasn’t the hand made fan that made her so happy, it was winning the bartering game. I congratulated her again on a job well done and our guide told us it was time to head back to the bus.

There was one more stop, this time at a mall, but Mom was tired so we stayed in the bus. When we got back to the ship we had lunch on the Lido deck and then both took a nap.

At 6:00 I dropped Mom off at the elevator. The elevators on the Holiday are small, and with the scooter there’s not much room for other passengers, but that’s not why I dropped her off and took to the stairs. Every time she used the elevator she drove in with little problem, but then had to back out. She was forever confusing the backward and forward controls (and left and right as far as that goes). It took several minutes to get her out of the elevator, and never without banging into the walls or other passengers. When she did manage to find reverse she shot out like a champagne cork, driving blind, squeezing the accelerator, shouting, “Where’s the brake?” at the top of her lung.

It was much safer for me to walk up a few flights of stairs and avoid the mayhem.

After dinner we debated on whether or not we wanted to attend the Shout! show in the Americana Lounge. Neither of us were enthusiastic, but there was nothing better to do so we headed that way.

Daaaaaaamn! No one told me the male dancers were going to be shirtless from the waist up and in spandex from the waist down! I have no idea what the women were wearing, or even if they were there at all. Mom stole drinks indiscriminately from passing barkeeps and I ordered a drink or two myself, just to calm down. Mom wanted a camera to use in Cozumel so we stopped by the photo shop. She bought a camera (which is still in its original box, having taken exactly zero pictures in Cozumel or anywhere else) purchased a couple of photos from Formal Night, then headed for bed.

COZUMEL

Our Cozumel shore excursion was a submarine ride, so once again we left the scooter behind. It was deja-vu all over again as we and 50 other cruisers met our guide, only to be left behind as everyone rushed to follow her to the pier where our boat waited for us. I was convinced they’d leave without us, but I worried needlessly.

In fact, since we were “last on” that meant we were “first off”. The boat took us out into the gulf to another boat that served as a floating X. That is, it marked the spot, for minutes after the skipper cut the engines, the submarine surfaced off the starboard bow. As I said, I was first off and, following instructions, stepped into the hatch and climbed down a six foot ladder, then went to the very front of the sub and sat down.

I’m still not sure how they got Mom down that ladder, but they did. She says one crewman grabbed each of her feet and treated her like a marionette. At any rate, she joined me at the front of the sub. Our seats were on the left port side, facing very large windows. There wasn’t much to see at this point.

After everyone was on board, the hatches were sealed and down we went. Six feet. Twenty. Fifty. One hundred and one feet down! Mom and I looked out our port windows at a bunch of nothing while the guide described all the wonders of the deep visible outside the starboard windows. I turned around to get a peek but the starboard passengers were all out of their seats, faces pressed against the windows oohing and ahhing. I looked out the port window again at a bunch of green water and some sand.

For the next hour the folks on the right side of the sub got a show and a half while me and the rest of the port-side shlubs stared at a minnow or two. What a gyp!

The sub surfaced and again, I have no idea how they got Mom out, but she soon joined me on the boat that took us back to the pier. As soon as we got off the boat the skies opened up. This was no spring shower, but a real downpour. We sought refuge under a flimsy awning and a policemen took pity on us and fetched a ‘rickshaw’ taxi—a bicycle attached to a two-wheeled cart. It didn’t keep us very dry, but at least we didn’t have to walk back to the ship.

After lunch Mom wanted to do some shopping and we still had a couple of hours before the ship was due to leave. Since there were no busses or ladders to conquer, Mom retrieved the scooter. The gangplank off of the ship was pretty narrow. Anyone else would have slowed the scooter to a crawl and crept over the gangplank one inch at a time. Not Momma Kneivel. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead! She cleared the gangway with no problem, screeched to the right, and was off. Other tourists and rickshaw taxis fled before her. I caught up with her at the end of the pier.

She checked out several shops and found some earrings she liked, but—what a surprise—she’d left her money on the ship. I bought her the earrings but now that I was wise to her, I distracted her whenever she approached a jewelry store. We stopped in a local pharmacy where she bought enough antibiotics to last through three plagues. After that she was tired and ready to head back to the ship.

The pier side of the gangplank wasn’t flush against the concrete. There was a two-inch bump that she had to roll over first. She had the scooter right next to the ramp, but even at full speed, she couldn’t get over it from a stand still. No worries—she put the scooter in reverse and backed up to get a running start.

We had to clear security before boarding the ship. Purchases had to go on a conveyor belt to be x-rayed, and we had to walk through a metal detector. If there’s more than a handful of people trying to get on at any given time, it can bog down, and the line backs up. People stand on the gangplank, suspended over the gulf between ship and pier, waiting their turn to go through security.

Picture it: Mom has backed up to get a running start while PEOPLE ARE STANDING ON THE GANGPLANK.

She took off like a shot and cleared the two-inch step with a mighty bump which jerked the handlebars to the right. the front wheels rolled off the gang plank as the scooter tried to turn right, then Newton’s first law took over and the scooter slid sideways up the ramp, plowing into a little old lady laden with shopping bags.

“Where’s the brake? Where’s the brake?”

I could only watch in horror as the little old lady abandoned her purchases and clung for dear life to the hand rail. Miraculously Mom did not skid off into the drink, which in hindsight is too bad, as it would have made a great story. Crewmen came running, shouting in several languages. Billy from Malaysia led the little old lady onto the ship while Gulzar from India and Kris from Georgia pulled the scooter back onto the gangplank and slowly guided it down the ramp and into the ship.

Once inside, Mom put it in high gear and raced through the metal detector and never slowed down as she rounded the corner to the elevators.

That night we had our last dinner in the Seven Seas Dining Room. I think Nabil from Morocco and Deni from Serbia were sad to see us go. That would explain why they were crying as Mom left the restaurant after dinner, dragging four table cloths behind her, a trail of dishes in her wake.

We had rough seas that night. So rough that a stack of plastic cups fell over without any help from Mom. After dinner we packed our bags and left them in the hall for the stewards to take away. The rough weather was such that just standing still took an effort. Perhaps it was psychosomatic, but my stomach started to feel a little queasy, even though I was wearing a seasick patch behind my ear.

Better safe than sorry, I always say. I went to my medicine bag and took out the rest of my patches. One behind the left ear, one behind the right ear, one on each arm, a couple on my forehead, and one more on my neck just for good measure. Within an hour I was so drunk I couldn’t blame my stumbling on the ship’s motion.

Mom stayed in her room reading while I went to the Americana Lounge hoping for more shirtless/spandex dancers, but alas, it was Talent Night and all I saw were American Idol rejects and unfunny comedians, all of whom remained fully clothed. (Although in the case of one of the unfunny comedians, that was a good thing.)

By the time I staggered back to the cabin and went to bed the seas that had been merely rough before were now downright hostile. During the night the ship pitched so badly that I literally rolled out of bed, though I was still so drunk on seasick patches I slept through it.

The next day we joined the queue to disembark. It took a while, but considering how many people had to get off the ship it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. We cleared customs with no problem. A porter helped us get all the luggage to the car. Five days on the scooter had done nothing for Mom’s driving skills and she slammed into the back of the elevator in the terminal and slammed into the back of the porter in the parking lot. We put the luggage in the back seat and I hoisted the scooter into the hatch, grateful that Mom would never drive it again.

Six hours later I dropper her off at her apartment, tired, but happy. I went on to the Mobility Rental store and unloaded the damn scooter for the last time. Damn, that thing is heavy! By the time I got it out of the hatch I was all in. My back hurt, my legs were sore, and it was just too far to push the scooter to the store. The scooter was designed to carry people up to 200 pounds, which means it was not designed to carry me. Nevertheless, if I put the speed up a little the extra power should be enough to carry me across the parking lot.

I took a seat, turned the key, and squeezed the accelerator. Nothing. I cranked the speed dial up a notch and tried again. Nothing. I turned the damn speed dial all the way to the right and tried again.

The last thing I remember before crashing into the shopping carts was yelling, “Where’s the brake! Where’s the brake!”

Some people just aren’t meant to take a vacation

For a gay man, I sure do look at a lot of T&A

             Seems I can't take a simple 3 day weekend without mishap.  My room is on the 17^th floor of the North Tower of Double Tree Universal.  Three elevators service the North tower, which would probably be adequate if they traveled at a decent speed.  My first day here I waited so long for an elevator I missed the shuttle to the theme park.  When the elevator finally arrived it took another 2 minutes to get to the ground floor, and that was with no stops.

            Today I was prepared.  Rather than ring for the elevator 3 minutes before I was due to meet the shuttle, I pushed the button fifteen minutes before the scheduled departure.  Five minutes later it showed up.  I got on, pushed the "one" button and began the laborious descent, which was immediately interrupted at the 16^th floor.

            The doors opened and three black women got on.  I don't know if they were headed for a theme park, or the hotel pool, or what.  I'm sure there's an official name that describes their fashion style.  I simply refer to it as Bootylishus.  I smiled politely at Woman #1, who returned the smile; moving down the line, I smiled at Woman #2 who nodded back as if it pained her.  When I smiled at Woman #3 she completely misinterpreted it.  By the time I got to her, we'd only traveled one and a half floors.

            Woman #3 put her hand on her hip and glared at me as if I'd been glomming her for five minutes.  "Do I look good to you?" she demanded.         

            I kept my smile and, trying to be polite, said, "You look just fine."  I want to be clear. I said "just fine" the way you'd answer someone who said "how are you" but doesn't really care how you are. I did NOT say, "you look just FIIINNNEEE!!!" After answering her I turned my attention to the elevator doors, but she wasn't finished with me. If she was miffed when she thought I was scoping her out she was positively insulted when it appeared I wasn't interested.

            She took her hand off her hip long enough to tap me firmly on the shoulder.  "Whatchoo mean 'just fine'?"

            My smile was a little forced as I said, "Let's just say you're not my type."

            "Not your type?  You don't like women of color?"

           By now se were down to the 4^th floor.  I gave up on the smile altogether, drew myself up and said in my haughtiest tone, "I assure you madam, if I was into lop-sided bosoms and asses the size of Nebraska, I'd think you were absolutely fabulous.  As it is, you're just an annoying woman on an elevator whose over inflated opinion of herself is supported by neither facts, nor mirrors."  I then turned back to Woman #1 who had at least returned my smile.  "You, on the other hand, are a treasure; a diamond in a room full of cubic zirconium, a gazelle in a heard of heifers."   I would have gone on but the doors had finally opened.   I tipped my ball cap to woman #1, nodded curtly at #2, sneered at #3, performed a smart about face and  went outside where the shuttle bus was actually still waiting.  Only then did it occur to me that they, too, might be boarding the bus.

I was relieved when we parted ways at the pool.  The last I heard from them was Woman #3 indignantly asking someone I couldn't see, "What? Do I look good to you?"

 
 

Flash forward six hours.  I've been walking all day, in the heat, and my dogs are killing me.  Blisters on both feet, sore knees—I was walking like Fred Sanford and covered in sweat. I bought a soda and leaned against a lamp post.  Apparently I wasn't the only one exhausted.  Seated on the curb at my feet was a couple.  Both of them were wearing wife beater t-shirts but his was 4 or 5 sizes bigger than hers and had a few stains on the area that covered his ample belly.  Right away I liked this guy, as he is one of the few people who make me look skinny by comparison.   Not only that, he made me look healthy.  He sucked on his Marlboro like it contained the last oxygen in the world.  When he wasn't pulling on a cigarette the wheezing and coughing that constituted his breathing were clearly audible to me six feet away.  While he puffed and wheezed and hacked, she nibbled dispiritedly on one of the ubiquitous smoked turkey legs that are sold on every corner in Universal.

I'd never seen a woman wearing a wife beater t-shirt before.  Knowing how transparent they can be, especially when wet, I suddenly felt protective toward her and hoped she was wearing an adequate bra.  Naturally I looked to see.  I can't tell you if her bra was adequate or not, or if she wore one at all.  I was distracted by her cleavage.  I never thought of wife beaters as being especially low cut, but believe me when I say they are.  It wasn't the cleavage itself that intrigued me so, it was the disk.  I suppose I wouldn't have seen it had we both been standing, but from my vantage point looking down on her from five feet, ten inches, it was hard to miss.

Picture two flesh-colored half dollars.  Glue corresponding pieces of Velcro to each one, and then paint the other side of each coin with adhesive.    Glue a coin to each of your breasts and when the glue sets, line up the Velcro and shove your boobs together.   It took me only a few seconds to figure out the set-up, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out WHY.  It's not that female anatomy is a mystery to me—I was a corpsman for 4 years.  But female boobs are a mystery to me.  Why would you need to glue them together? 

You know how you can tell when someone is staring at you?  Usually when they bust you by looking you in the eye, I quickly avert my gaze and pretend I was just resting your eyes on them as I was innocently scanning the room.  Not this time.  When Boob Girl squinted up at me and asked in a nasty tone if I was enjoying the show I said, "What you call entertainment I call education.  The things I never knew before!  Thanks to you I feel I've earned a Bachelor's Degree in Breastology. With your permission I'd like to pursue my Masters."  I pointed to her chest and went on, "What the hell is that thing?"

She looked down to see what I was pointing at just as the hours-long battle between her sweat and the glue took a decided turn in favor of the sweat.  As we both looked, the disk on her left breast ever so slowly separated, spider-web like tendrils of glue trying desperately to hold on.  One by one they threads of glue snapped and finally the breast, free of the chains that bound it, slipped off in search of the Underground Railroad. 

It wasn't so much that her breasts lowered—although they did, a good 3 or 4 inches.  No, it wasn't the vertical movement that was so disconcerting, it was the horizontal motion.  It was if a tiny Moses was standing on her shoulder, raising his staff, while God parted the Red Sea.  At least I knew now what the glue disk was for.  Where once proud, perky, playboy cleavaged breasts burst from the wife beater in all their glory, now a pair of saggy, forlorn boob refugees couldn't even decide whether to stay on the front of her chest or on the sides.  I swear there was now room between her two breasts to park a third one.  She tried to mash them back together again, but the glue had given up the ghost.  I felt she was fully entitled to be angry at the clerk who sold her the defective glue, but since he wasn't around, she decided to be angry at me instead.  She poked her companion and when she got his attention she gestured over her shoulder and said, "Edgar!  This guy is staring at my titties!"

Wheezy, 400 pound Edgar was no threat to me.  By the time he climbed up from the curb to a standing position and caught his breath, I'd be a block away at least, blistered feet or no blistered feet.  Still, Rule number 1 for Wife Beater wearing rednecks named Edgar is putting on a good show, regardless of whether you have any intention of following through.  Thus Edgar looked up at me thru his mirrored sunglasses and said, "Hey Buddy."   Then he had to take a break while he coughed up some phlegm.  He tried again.  "Hey Buddy, are yew lookin' at my fiancé's tits?"

"Of course I am!"  I declared.  "Have you seen these things?  They're like Circus Tits!  I've never seen anything like them!  Moving here, moving there—I expect them to start juggling dinner plates any minute now!

Edgar was really steamed now, which only made him wheeze harder.  "You inbred sumbitch!" he said, trying to get off the curb.  "I'm gone whup yer ass!"

He was REALLY wheezing bad now, and coughing harder than ever, but even though I heard the rattle in his chest, he wasn't getting anything out.  "Dude, calm down!  You're gonna have a heart attack!"  I said.

I don't know if they planned it or not.  My attention was so focused on Edgar, who I had accurately predicted would take several minutes of calisthenics before he would be in a position to cause bodily harm that I forgot all about Boob Girl.   Edgar was still flopping around like a walrus but she only needed 5 seconds to get upright, as I discovered when I heard from behind me, "Circus Tits?!  CIRCUS TITS?!?"   With one hand she jerked off my Universal ball cap and with the other she smacked me upside the head with the smoked turkey leg.  Not once.  Many times. 

They smoke those things until the meat is falling off the bone.  Every time the turkey leg made contact with my face, or my head, or neck, or hand (as I vainly tried to fend off the blows), bits of meat flew off the leg.  Most of it landed on the ground, but some, thanks to a combination of turkey grease and Bob sweat, stuck to my head, my cheek, my beard, my neck, but mostly on my glasses.  She didn't stop swinging until only bone was left and with every swing she shouted "Circus Tits?"

It was clearly time to go, but with my glasses covered in grease and turkey bits, I couldn't see crap. Even I could see, I still wouldn't have attempted running, not with my blistered feet and achy knees. I hobbled and groped my way down the street while Boob Girl followed, throwing the leg bone at my back, and then retrieving it to throw again.   While she was stooping over to pick up the bone the third time I glanced behind me.  Through the one square inch of grease-free space on my glasses I saw her bent over. Her snaky left breast literally climbed over the right one until the nipple was poking out through the neck of the wife-beater.  It didn't merely flop out it CLIMBED out.

"Circus Tits!"  I screamed defiantly and hopped on the people mover that carried people to the park exit.  Behind her Edgar was calling "Maybeline!  Maybeline!  Fergit it!  We gotta go back and get the rental scooter!"  It's a damn shame Maybeline had to get between me and Edgar. He and I could've been great pals. Rental scooters—what a great idea!

 

Voyage of the Damned

Saturday:

I left Birmingham without mishap, but apparently when I changed planes in Tampa, my luggage didn't make the transfer. I was assured at the Fort Lauderdale airport that it would catch up with me before I sailed. Meanwhile my friend had had an out of town emergency and had to take his family to Naples. With no ride, I had to take a cab from the Ft. Laud. Airport to my hotel in Miami Springs--$70!!!

There was no Cuban restaurant within walking distance and I'd already destroyed my taxi budget, so I had dinner at a Honduran restaurant.

Sunday:

The next morning my luggage arrived at the hotel. I stole someone's slot on the shuttle to the Port of Miami arrived an hour early. The first thing I had to do was fill out a health questionnaire. I was tempted to get cute with it, but didn't want to be denied passage so I filled it out normally, which killed me. As you know, I HATE being myself on vacation.

Check in was very smooth, although I had to sanitize and sterilize my hands at several checkpoints before being allowed onboard. I was pleased to see they were taking no chances with the Norovirus. The cabins weren't ready yet so I had lunch at the buffet (after sanitizing my hands once again), and then placed dinner reservations for Sunday and Monday nights.

Simon, our Australian cruise director announced our rooms were ready and I went down to Deck 5 to drop off my carry on. The room was nice enough, but holy crap was it small! My cabin on the Carnival ship was quite a bit bigger. My luggage hadn't yet arrived, so there was nothing to unpack. For some reason my mini-bar was locked up. I had no intention of drinking a $5 bottle of water or an $8 bottle of beer, so I never asked that it be opened.

I was ready to go exploring, but first I needed to tinkle. I went into the bathroom, raised the lid of the toilet, and gagged. There is no way to say this delicately: a big gob of poop from the last occupant was smeared on the toilet seat. What is the point of sterilizing my hands every ten feet if you're going to expect me to sit in someone else's poop? I called housekeeping, but couldn't understand the thick accent of the person who answered. She finally made it clear that as soon as all the luggage had been distributed, someone would be by to clean. Nothing I said convinced her that this needed to be handled NOW. Finally I grabbed a wash cloth, ran it under hot water, soaped it up, and cleaned the darn thing myself. As soon as I finished I hurried to one of the hand sanitizing stations. I held my hand under the stream of disinfectant until the bag was empty. Even then I didn't leave but kept shouting, "More bleach!" to anyone in uniform who passed.

I had a decision to make. I'd be well within my rights to let this episode ruin the entire trip for me—and we hadn't even left Miami yet! I decided there was no point being miserable for a week and in spite of the crappy clean up job (and I mean that literally), I was going to have fun.

Dinner at Cagney's Steak House

Before I was allowed to approach the hostess I had to sanitize my hands. Once I was deemed clean enough she asked me if I wanted a table for one, or did I want to dine with new friends. Most definitely I wanted to dine with new friends. I was led to a table for eight. Two couples were already there: Vicki and Johnny, perhaps sixty years old each, and Paul & Bridget, about my age. I'd barely sat down when another couple joined us, a mother and daughter from Belgium.

We introduced ourselves to each other and concentrated on the menu. Once we placed our orders, the small talk commenced. Vicki and Johnny were frequent cruisers, going once a year. They were in one of the balcony suites. For whatever reason, Vicki liked to appear helpless. "Johnny? Cut my meat for me, Johnny." "Johnny? Hand me the salt, Johnny." Paul and Bridget were on their first cruise, and had an outside cabin. Helga and Hilda (or whatever their names were—I never did understand them) were also on their first cruise and had an outside cabin. When I admitted that I was in an inside cabin, and on one of the lower decks, yet, people started giving me the "be nice to him, he can't help if it he's poor" look.

I said, "I'd love to have a suite, or even an outside cabin, but when you're on a fixed income you have to stay within your budget."

"Fixed income?" Paul asked.

"Yes, I'm retired," I said.

"Damn! You can't be more than a year or two older than me. What's your secret?"

"Oh, good investments, I suppose," I said vaguely.

"What did you do before you retired?" Bridget asked.

"I'm an actor," I said. Helga, Hilda, Vicki and Johnny heard that and started paying attention.

Bridget said, "Really? On tv? The movies? I don't remember seeing you in anything." Our server appeared and passed out dinner plates.

"Oh I doubt you would've seen me," I said, smiling. "First, all my gigs were in the early 80s. Second, I was an adult film star. Of course, I didn't go by 'Bob Byrd' in the credits—my mother would've killed me. My screen name was Tommy Tripod." I nonchalantly started turned my attention to my knife and fork. By the way, Best. Creamed. Spinach. Ever.

Some of the folks didn't seem to know what to say next, but Vicki had no problem. She leered at my crotch and said, "Tommy? Why did they call you 'Tripod' Tommy?"

I shrugged modestly and said, "Well…you know." Conversation took a more generally turn with everyone contributing their fair share, but every time I glanced at Vicki, seated to my left, she winked at me. It was starting to creep me out. One of the photographers strolled over to us and paired off Paul and Bridgett and took their picture. Then he told Vicki to scotch over closer to Johnny. She did, and he took their picture, but then she scotched back over to me. "Tommy? Take a picture with me, Tommy." And she placed a hand on my thigh.

"WHOA!" I knocked over my glass of water. Vicki didn't seem to notice. I gently moved her hand off my thigh Helga spoke up and said, "Me too! I want to be in picture with big American sex star."

After dinner Paul & Bridget and Helga & Hilda excused themselves and left. I also said goodnight and started to get up, but Vicki pulled me back down to the chair. "Tommy," she said. "Your cabin sounds awfully small, Tommy. Why don't you come up to our suite and . . . have a drink?" She winked at me again.

I was having serious second thoughts about this particular identity. "Vicki, I think I should clarify something. The movies I made had an all male cast, if you know what I mean."

Without missing a beat she said, "Did you hear that, Johnny? You can come, too, Johnny!"

I would bump into Vicki and Johnny frequently over the next 5 days and every time I did, Vicki invited me to their suite for "drinks". Oh, what a tangled web we weave. Vicki insisted that I sit with them during the evening's entertainment (a magic show) but I told her I already had plans to meet someone else.

Monday

Most of the day Cuba was on our port side. We were close enough to Havana to see the downtown skyscrapers. But I'm getting ahead of myself. The Norwegian Pearl is a HUGE ship. My only other experience cruising was on the Carnival Holiday, which is barely a dinghy when compared to the Pearl. To get from my cabin to the mid ship elevators, I had to walk an incredibly long corridor between the ocean view cabins and the inside cabins.

I was on my way to breakfast, walking along at a good clip, when I approached an elderly couple walking in front of me. I slowed down, rather than run them over, and resigned myself to an even longer walk. The woman was slow, but steady. The man hobbled and drifted from side to side, making it impossible to pass him. Suddenly he stopped altogether. His wife kept walking, leaving him and me behind. I was trying to decide why he's stopped when he released a series of the loudest, foulest, blasts of gas I have ever encountered outside an Adam Sandler movie. They varied in tone and volume but the odor was consistent.

I suffered in silence for fifteen seconds or so, but when there was no sign that it was going to end I said, "For God's sake, would you stop? "

He neither turned around nor ceased the barrage. "It's natural," he said defensively as a particularly strong blast escaped him.

"There's nothing at all natural about what you're doing," I assured him. I certainly wasn't lying. It sounded like the philharmonic tuning up before a concert. "Can't you smell that? God knows I'll be carrying that stench in my clothing the rest of the day. I know you can feel it—your butt cheeks are jiggling."

"It's natural!" he repeated. He hobbled off, still pooting. I decided not to follow, but to wait until he was long gone. He'd just turned the corner toward the elevators when the cabin door behind me opened. A woman in her early 20s took one step into the corridor and then began to gag. She glared at me and said, "Oh, that's nice. What did you have for breakfast, helium and shit?"

When I cruised before it rained all day, every day. I'm happy to say the weather on this trip couldn't have been better. I grabbed lunch from the Garden Café and took it with me to eat poolside where I could glom the hotties. This was to be my lunch routine the remainder of the trip. Norwegian doesn't make it easy, though. There are no trays provided in the café. It was all I could do to balance a dinner plate, napkin, silverware, and drink.

After lunch I attended a lecture on the history of magic (much more enjoyable than the magic show itself from the night before). Then I wandered over to the first of many art auctions. The poor representative from Park West couldn't get a bid out of anyone. I finally felt sorry for him and offered two bits for a Chagall, but he didn't seem to appreciate it.

Eventually it was time to change for:

Dinner at Teppanyaki

I haven't figured out how, yet, but this meal is going to get me some kind of freebie from Norwegian Cruise Lines.

It started out simply enough. The Teppanyaki restaurant can only feed 40 people at a time, spread out over 4 tables. Any table I'm at is always "off" since I'm not part of a couple. There were only eight of us at my table, but one of those eight was a two year-old child named Remmy. Within seconds of being seated around the grill from which our Japanese Chef would prepare our meal I discarded my planned identity and created a brand new one in about 3 seconds.

Remmy ran around the room, unsupervised, stealing everyone's chopsticks and soup spoons. Well, almost everyone's. I was too quick for him. When I didn't let him have my eating utensils he started shrieking as only a two year-old can. We all looked expectantly at his parents. His mother said, "Remmy, would you behave, please?" You can guess how effective that was.

As Remmy continued to howl his mother said, "If you don't stop right now, we are leaving and you can stay in the cabin the rest of the night." This threat was repeated frequently, but Remmy knew, as did the rest of us, that Mommy had no intention of following through with it.

It wasn't until he was distracted by some new mischief that he quieted down enough for the adults at the table to introduce ourselves to each other. Jim and Beth, owners of a bakery in Michigan; Dick and Cindy, he a lawyer, she a housewife, from Ohio. No one cared about Remmy's parents so I can't tell you their names, or what they do for a living. And then there was me, Dr. Roberts, Child Psychologist in private practice in Washington, D.C., where I also consult frequently with the FBI.

"FBI?" Dick the lawyer asked. I had to be careful here…this guy might prove a challenge.

"Yes," I said. "You've heard of profilers, the psychiatrists who put together a psychological mug shot, if you will, of unidentified serial killers? I do similar work, only from another angle. You see, I've examined enough spree killers and serial killers that I've been able to identify specific childhood characteristics that actually identify potential killers while they are still children."

"That's impossible," Beth said.

"Not at all. It's actually been tested in the field. It has an 89 percent accuracy rate. Take little Remmy here," I gestured toward the brat. "Notice how his mother doesn't tell him to behave, but rather asks him to behave. Look at it from Remmy's viewpoint. He's being given the option to either behave, or act like a monster. Since he has a choice, he chooses to be a monster. Threats, when they are made, have no effect because they are never enforced." I chuckled knowingly and smiled at the little bastard's parents. "Oh, if only they'd let me threaten the little lamb, he's soon see that I meant business."

I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Of course I can't go home with him to ensure consistency, so I'm afraid it's unlikely that his future will change. Yes, little Remmy here is looking at life in the hoosegow. I don't say he'll be a killer—though I certainly wouldn't be surprised—but he'll be boosting cars and knocking over liquor stores by the time he's sixteen or my name isn't Robby Roberts."

To be honest, I don't think any of them bought it, but we are all united in our hatred for Remmy so they played along. Jim said, "Is there nothing they can do to prevent this?"

Before I could answer Remmy flung his miso soup across the room. Mommy said, "Remmy will behave please? "

"It appears he's doomed." I said to Jim.

The funny thing is, Remmy's folks never once got angry with me. Since they live with the little hellion I suppose nothing I said came as a surprise.

The Teppanyaki restaurant was just like any other Teppanyaki restaurant. No matter what you ordered it came with a piece of grilled shrimp. Rather than make a big deal out of it, I just left my shrimp on the side of my plate where it couldn't contaminate the rest of my food. Towards the end of the meal, here came the ubiquitous photographer.

He took a picture of Jim and Beth, then one of Dick and Cindy. When he came to me, I speared the shrimp on my fork and made a face at it. Rather than take my picture he aimed the camera at the Demon family. I said, "Hey! You didn't take my picture!" The photographer ignored me and took a snapshot of Remmy smearing teriyaki sauce all over the table. "HEY!" I said, louder this time. "Take my picture."

"No," he said, and started to walk away.

By now the rest of the table, were telling him to take my picture. He kept refusing. Finally I asked him why. "These are serious pictures," he said. "And you are not serious. You waste my time."

"Look here, Ansel Adams. I suggest you climb off your high horse and take my damn picture. This is my cruise and I want a memento of it." The rest of the table, indeed all four tables began telling this little weasel to take my picture. Finally he lifted the camera, without aiming at anything, and the flash went off. "Not so fast, Rembrandt! You didn't give me a chance to pose!" I once again picked up my speared shrimp and made a face at it. The flash went off and the photographer left.

After dinner I made my way to the Stardust Showroom where Second City performed. They were hysterical. Then it was off to the "big screen" to play Wii. The big screen isn't some 52 inch plasma. The big screen takes up one and a half stories. This is where the macho types had gathered on Sunday to watch the super bowl. After getting my butt beat by a group of eight year olds at tennis, baseball, and boxing, I went to bed. As I passed the bar next to the big screen I heard, "Tommy? If they had wrestling I would have taken you on, Tommy."

Tuesday, Cozumel

Before leaving Birmingham I arranged a shore excursion directly with the Sea Trek people. The Helmet Dive would allow me to breathe underwater while wearing my glasses, and without needing to shave first. The near drowning and unintentional skinny dipping that occurred the last time I was in Cozumel need not concern me on this trip.

Since I booked directly with the tour group, I couldn't rely on the Pearl to get me where I needed to be. With map in hand, I set out on my own. Thirty minutes later, I arrived at Jeanie's Dive shop, formerly known as Jeanie's Waffle House. Jeannie is a lady of many talents. I gave my reservation printout to the guy running the show and he handed me a diving helmet and pointed to a bench where some other folks were already gathered. Before long others joined us and when were ten in number the guide led us to the beach and gave us some instructions on how the helmets work, and told us what we'd be doing the rest of the day. A leisurely boat ride to the coral reef, and then we'd don the helmets and walk the ocean floor, twenty feet below the surface.

As were preparing to board the boat I took off my "happy tourist shirt", which I wanted to keep dry and was putting on my "don't wanna get sunburned while I'm in the water shirt" when the guide started shouting at me. He ran up to me and grabbed me and started pulling me back up the beach, all the while saying, "You can't go! You can't go!"

"I could if you'd let go of me!" I said.

He stopped pulling me long enough to point to the eight inch scar running down my chest. "You can't go! You had chest surgery. Under water you die! Twenty feet!"

"What are you babbling about? I've never had chest surgery in my life!" I lied. He pointed again to my scar. "It's a tattoo," I told him.

"I'm sorry senor. I cannot allow you to go. If you die, I am out of business." He assured me I'd get a refund, apologized again, and then was hit by inspiration. "Senor! It is resolved! You can go power snorkeling with my cousin!"

"How do you say 'bite me' in Spanish," I asked him.

I headed back to the pier where I wandered around the shopping areas, but nothing caught my eye. I was saving my souvenir shopping for Grand Cayman—Fred emailed me asking me to find an authentic Rastafarian type and buy a puka shell necklace. Since there was nothing for me to buy in Cozumel, I went back on board the ship.

I expected it to be empty since we were in port, but there were still hundreds of people on board, mostly poolside. So that the day wouldn't be a total loss, I went to the Garden Café for my lunch and started looking for a good spot to glom the hotties.

Several people had rearranged the lounge chairs into clusters, creating a maze for those trying to walk from one end of the pool area to the other. As I tried to traverse the labyrinth I stumbled and dropped my drink. It landed on one of a group of sunbathers, but all of them got wet, including some woman who was face down with her bikini top untied. Her boyfriend thought I was trying to startle her into sitting up and flashing me the goods. My protestations fell on deaf ears, and I was lucky to escape unharmed. As I quickly made my way to the other side of the pool area, a voice behind me said, "Tommy? You don't need little tricks like that with me, Tommy." I turned around and to my horror Vicki grabbed the top of her one piece and flashed me. I can only pray that now that I'm back on land, the nightmares will end.

Before dinner I went to the photo gallery to purchase the photo of my making a face at the shrimp. I figured the gang at work would get a chuckle out of it. Alas, the picture was not there. I found the photos of Remmy, Jim & Beth, Dick & Cindy, but no sign of the picture that the photographer never wanted to take in the first place. I went to the purser's desk to lodge a complaint. The woman on duty was very sympathetic, and indeed shocked at the behavior of the photographer. She asked me to wait while she fetched the Photography Manager. I told him what had happened and at first he claimed I was mistaken. I suggested he check the reservation list from last night's Teppanyaki dinner and ask my fellow diners if I was mistaken. Then he said that occasionally a photo will be erased accidentally.

"Disregarding for the moment that that is complete and utter crap, I find it difficult to believe that the one picture that is accidentally purged is the one picture that I had to fight to have made." He promised he would locate the missing photo and get back to me within 12 hours.

Once again I had to make a decision whether to let this ruin my trip or not. I reminded myself that I was here to have fun, and I put my anger aside until I got back home. Then I fully intended to raise merry hell with NCL. Crappy toilet seats and bullying photographers ought to be worth at least a free upgrade should I decide to cruise with these guys again.

Dinner at the Summer Palace.

Once again, I chose to dine with strangers. My hands had been sanitized so often that they had a permanent alcohol smell. I decided it was time to challenge myself. The novelty had begun to wear off on simply assuming a new persona at every meal. Tonight I wouldn't stop with a new identity. Tonight I was going to bring out . . .

The accent.

It seemed every announcement over the loud speakers was made by an Ozzie. With that many legit Australian accents it was too risky for me to assume one as well.

The last time I attempted an English accent, for some reason I kept calling everyone "darling" which didn't go over so well with the men in the group.

In the end I settled on an indeterminate Slavic accent. I left it vague whether I was a Croatian peasant or the Tsar of all the Russias. If I was ambiguous about my origins, I was specific enough about my occupation, although when asked I was quick to point out it was not a job at all. "It is a blessing. It is a curse. I would not wish it on anyone. Still, it provides a decent living. I am a psychic. My family has always possessed the gift of second sight."

This by far was my most popular imposture yet, even more so than Tommy Tripod. Everyone wanted a reading. Hell, I should have charged for them, I would have easily cleared a couple hundred bucks.

For each of my readings I asked the person to hand me something that had been owned only by them, something they had worn for a long time, something that over the years had collected the essence and aura of their owners—rings, watches, etc. I held the object in my fist and closed my eyes and concentrated. When the mood had been properly established I fed them a bunch of bull. "There is an object of great value hidden in your house. It appears to be little more than trash. Don't throw anything away without first having it appraised."

I told one man that someone was looking for him, perhaps a long lost daughter given up for adoption? "You never knew of her before, am I right?" Of course I was right—I made her up! His wife didn't look too happy about that one. I clutched the wedding ring of a hot looking specimen. When I opened my eyes I told him, "Stay away from the water! I mean, you can take a bath I guess, but do not go near the ocean! Danger awaits!"

His wife said, "We paid $45 apiece for Stingray City and we're going!"

I nodded my head subserviently and said, "The choice is, of course, yours. As are the consequences." I kid you not, before the meal was over people from the adjoining tables were lined up asking for readings. I may have to bring out this persona on a future trip.

I finally claimed exhaustion and excused myself. I spent the rest of the evening singing karaoke. I am happy to say there was absolutely no sign of Vicki and Johnny.

Wednesday, Grand Cayman

My shore excursion ticket told me to report to the Stardust Showroom at 9:45. I got there at 9:44, just in time to hear one of the assistant cruise directors say, "Okay, then if there are no more questions, let's go to deck 4!" All I could do was follow the crowd. There were 300 of us. I was among the first on the tender that would take us to shore. I smiled and waved at the couple from last night's dinner who were ignoring my psychic warning as they came aboard the tender. The smile froze on my face when Vicki and Johnny were right behind them.

I always knew there was a chance that two or more of my alter egos would crash into each other. I always figured that I'd just be non-committal and in no mood to discuss "work" and all would be well. But this was more than clashing identities, this was clashing ethnic backgrounds. I had to use my accent with Archie and Jesse, and remember to drop the accent with Vicki and Johnny.

Fortunately, when we go to shore we separated into three groups and herded onto 6 different buses. I was on a bus with Archie and Jesse. Vicki and Johnny were on a different bus. Disaster averted.

These buses had been altered so that they could carry the maximum number of passengers. There were two seats along the right side of the bus, and two along the left side. This left a narrow aisle in the center. However, attached to the right side aisle seat was a third seat that folded down, creating a seat in the center aisle. There were no supports under this third seat. It was simply attached to the seat next to it. I was the last person on the bus, so the only seat left for me was the "fold down" seat that was opposite the door of the bus.

I am not a slender fellow. I took one look at this seat which was already sagging without anyone sitting in it. Archie and Jesse were in earshot, so in my Slavic accent I told the driver, "I can't sit there. It will not hold me."

"That seat will hold anyone, mon. Sit down!" It was either sit, or miss another shore excursion, so I sat. The seat listed threateningly to the left. I placed my right foot on the floor and my left foot dangled in the well created by the steps leading from the bus door to the seats

Ash Wednesday is a holiday in Grand Cayman. The banks and most businesses were closed. We rode up one street and down another while our guide pointed out areas of interest. Then we pulled into a Rum Cake/Souvenir shop where we had fifteen minutes to shop. These were the same rum cakes I saw for sale in the Fort Lauderdale airport. I was happy to stay on the air-conditioned bus, but since my fold out seat was by the door, I had to get up in order for the rest of the folks to get off. Worse, I couldn't get on again until EVERYONE was on, because once I was in my seat, no one could walk down the aisle to THEIR seat.

I did sample a few different types of rum which wasn't the smartest thing to do on an empty stomach on a hot day. When the rest of our group was on the bus I pulled down my fold out seat and gingerly lowered my tush and we were off again, this time to Hell. I'm convinced that if you look up "tourist trap" in the dictionary you'll find a photo of Hell, Grand Cayman. Blackened rocks roped off next to another gift shop. That's all it is. Once again, I had to disembark so that my fellow tourists could go take pictures of rocks. I amused myself by chasing a few wild roosters around. Grand Cayman has wild roosters the way downtown Birmingham has rats.

Fifteen minutes later I followed the last passenger onto the bus and pulled down my seat and sat. We were now on the way to the boat that would take us to Stingray City. The bus went around a tight curve and with a grating sound the supports holding up my chair reached their breaking point. They snapped in two. I would have fallen onto the floor, but the broken seat was in the way. Instead I was dumped into the door well of the bus, after first banging the back of my head against the stainless steel handrail. I'm quite proud of myself: I remembered my accent while I let loose a string of curse words. From behind me Jesse gasped and said, "He was right! He predicted it would break and it did!" I finished the ride standing up.

We arrived at the boat along with another of our buses. Passengers from both buses boarded the boat and soon we were bouncing over the sea towards the sandbar. There was a "changing room/toilet" on the boat that had room for one person at a time. The line to the changing room snaked upstairs to the upper level of the boat. Archie and Jesse were on the upper level; I was on the lower level sitting next to—you guessed it—Vicki and Johnny. Across from us a young German couple was arguing about something. She kept pointing to the line to the changing room and he kept shaking his head. Finally he stood up and in front of God and everyone, pulled his shorts and undies off and reached into a duffle bag and pulled out a pair of swim trunks which he put on. Meanwhile Vicki, Johnny, and I all had an unobstructed view. I said, "Hush my mouth and call me a Nazi. You come sit next to me, Hans."

Vicki said, "Tommy? We can share him, can't we Tommy?" Actually we couldn't. The German couple apparently understood enough English to give both Vick and me a nasty look.

I was afraid that with so many of us the rays would be scared off, but they're greedy little buggers. When we left the boat we separated into groups of nine and there were plenty of sting rays to go around, even with all the other boats with groups from other ships. My one complaint was that there was only six pieces of squid. Hardly enough for each of us to feed the rays. I didn't realize just how big these puppies get. Some of them are HUGE. The waves would occasionally lift us off the sand and I was terrified I'd land on one of them, pissing it off. I admit I kept thinking of Steve Irwin.

I was among the first to interact with the rays for our photographer. You can tell how at ease and not at all afraid I am. That's Vicki behind me.

And now Johnny is behind me on the right.

After my pictures were taken I swam off to interact with other rays. Snorkels and masks were available, but with my glasses and beard, I couldn't use them. I still had a pretty good view since the water was so shallow and so clear. I was petting one of the rays when a man behind me said, "Dude! What the hell happened?"

I turned around and there stood Archie, wearing a mask, his face covered in blood, which continued to stream down his face from a cut at his hairline. He looked at the man who asked him what happened and said, "What do you mean?"

I shouted, "Holy crap! I was right!"

Archie looked at me suspiciously. "What happened to your accent?"

"Screw that noise!" I said. "Get me to some damn lottery tickets before I lose my mojo!"

We were in the water just over an hour. I would have been happy spending the whole day there. This alone made the trip worth while. It was hard to think of nasty toilet seats or rude photographers while getting super hickeys from giant sting rays.

After a quick bus ride back (standing, of course), Vicki, Johnny, Archie (with butterfly bandages on his scalp—I'm still not sure how he cut himself) and Jesse headed for a tender to go to the ship and change into dry clothes. I had an assignment I had to fulfill, though.

My instructions from Fred were clear: locate an authentic island Rastafarian and purchase a puka necklace for him. A quick look in the local gift shops showed only inauthentic Rastafarians. If I wanted the real deal, I'd have to venture away from the tourist areas and into the heart of the Island. I walked for perhaps an hour when I saw the ghost of Bob Marley standing behind a home made table covered with pipes. "Hello," I said. "I need a puka necklace."

He looked at me for a second and without turning his head, spit some red juice out of the corner of his mouth. "Naw, mon," he said. "I don't got no puka."

"That's a shame," I said.

He smiled, showing blackened teeth. "I got ganja," He said.

"Ganja? Is that better than Puka?"

"Much better," he promised.

Well. Won't Fred be surprised? "Okay. I'll take the ganja."

"How much?"

"I don't know." I tried to imagine how long a puka necklace was. "How about twelve inches." I said.

"How about a twenty bag," he said and place a Ziploc bag next to one of the pipes.

"Holy crap! Ganja is pot? I never bought pot before! How does this work? Do I ask you if you're a cop or do we just start haggling over the price?"

He was no longer smiling. "How it works is, you give me twenty dollars for the bag."

"That's no fun. I'll give you ten."

"Mon, this ain't let's make a deal. Do you want it or not?"

"Not, actually." He snatched the baggie away. I'm not sure, but I think he called me a blood clot, which I assume is an insult in the islands. I headed back to the Tender Area, thinking Fred would have to settle for a fake Puka.

After the $70 cab ride and the Honduran dinner, I was short of funds. I'd placed my debit card in my waterproof wallet before leaving the ship. I found a puka necklace in the gift shop for eight bucks and took it to the counter to pay. When I handed the clerk my debit card she said, "Fifteen dollar minimum if you charge." I looked around but didn't see anything else I cared to spend seven bucks on. Then I remembered that our bus driver had told us that the number one industry on the island was banking. He bragged that there were nearly six hundred banks on the island. With that many banks, how far away could an ATM be? I told the clerk I'd be back and I took off toward town, away from the beach.

I was right. It was easy enough to find a bank, but I'd forgotten it was a holiday. For some reason, all the darn ATMs were INSIDE the banks, not outside. I kept walking from bank to bank to bank looking for one with an outdoor ATM. I never did find one, but I did find one where your ATM card would unlock the ATM lobby. Minutes later I had cash.

I was also hopelessly lost. There were no people. No open businesses. No taxis. I tried back tracking, but after a couple of blocks the buildings all looked alike. I was just starting to panic when a bike rider nearly ran me over. I asked for directions to the beach and he pointed. Eventually I was back to the beach area, but several blocks from the tender area. At least I knew where I was going now.

I went back to the gift shop to buy Fred's puka, but it was closed. Dang, just how long had I been wandering around lost? I looked at my watch: six fifteen.

SIX FIFTEEN? The last tender to the ship leaves the island at six-thirty! Running is not in my repertoire, but I came close to a jog. I flashed my ship ID and driver's license at the guard at the pier entrance and kept on toward the Queen of the Carib, already nearly full of sunburned tourists. I didn't slow down until I'd crossed the gangplank was safely in the only available seat. It was positioned so that I was facing backward, but seasickness was the least of my worries. I gasped for breath, my throat raw, and the person next to me very kindly offered me some bottled water which I chugged gratefully. "What's the rush, friend?" He asked me.

"I nearly didn't make it," I said. "They keep warning you that time, tide and the Norwegian Pearl waits for no man. It'd be just my luck to be stranded here."

He looked at me in confusion. "Norwegian Pearl?"

I patted my waterproof wallet, checking that my nitro glycerin tablets were accessible. I turned around to face the front of the Tender and saw the Carnival Freedom getting closer and closer. Twenty minutes later a pissed off Tender Pilot pulled away from the Pearl and continued with his passengers to the Freedom. Crewmen on the Pearl assured me that it people frequently got on the wrong tenders, and indeed, just last week the Pearl Tender detoured to drop off an errant Costa Cruise passenger. Nevertheless, I still felt rather stupid.

Murder Mystery Dinner in the Indigo Dining Room

On Monday I'd stopped by the ship's library to sign up for the Murder Mystery Dinner. They told me to meet in the Stardust Showroom at 7:00 on Wednesday for my instructions. I was a little late since I had to change out of my sting ray clothes but they waited for me. There were twenty-four of us, divided into groups of six. Assistant Cruise Director Matt gave each us a sheet of paper with our identity, a script, and some sealed envelopes with clues to be opened at specific times during the course of the "investigation". Then Matt led us all to the Indigo dining room where, during dinner, we would solve our murder.

Once we were seated we went around the table and disclosed our identities to each other. When it was my turn I said, "Well this certainly brings back memories. I'm Lei Lanni, Hula Dancer."

The person on my left looked at my fine physique and said, "You have memories of hula dancing?"

"No," I said and hesitated. "I probably shouldn't' have said anything. It's not something I usually bring up with strangers, but since I did," I smiled shyly at my tablemates. "I don't have memories of being a hula dancer . . . I have memories of being a woman. I'm a post-op transsexual. Let me tell you, it made getting a passport damn near impossible, what with my birth certificate saying "female" and my passport photo showing me as I look now."

Another of my table mates said, "Oh my god! I saw something about this on the discovery channel! They give these women so much testosterone to make them grow facial hair, that they all get male pattern baldness." Wow. News to me, but it certainly worked to my advantage. I deflected all other questions and insisted we play the game, which by the way was a lot of fun. Everyone at our table really got into it, although there were frequent glances at me when people thought I wasn't looking.

During dessert one of the women said, "Okay, we all want to know." She lowered her eyes to my lap, but not with the same leering curiosity that Vicki had. "Does it work?"

"Not for you, I'm afraid. It turns out I was a gay man trapped in a woman's body."

An older woman on my left said, "Seems to me you could have saved yourself a lot of money and still had all the men you want. Well, maybe not. Judging by your current appearance I guess you must have been one ugly woman."

Thursday, at sea

A fun day. Second City had an Improv Workshop that was a blast. After the first few exercises, they shuffled us around. I don't think it was an accident that after the shuffling my new partner wasn't a fellow cruiser, but one of the Second City women. We were definitely in sync with each other. It brought back memories of the old days.

After the workshop I had another Glom the Hotties lunch by the pool. Since I never did buy Fred's puka necklace, I had some real money in my pocket. I wandered around the ship and somehow found myself in the casino. I don't gamble much, and when I do I limit myself to the slot machines. I don't understand all the subtleties of poker and black jack. Roulette and craps just confuse me. Even a chimp can keep hitting the "bet max" and "spin" buttons on a slot machine.

Even some of the slots are confusing, with different payout lines and combinations. Thank goodness the machine knows if you win or not, otherwise I'd be lost. I found a free machine and fed it a twenty dollar bill. I pushed the bet max button and then the spin button. Rats. I lost a buck. Nineteen to go. I pushed the buttons again and all hell broke lose. An orange light on the top of the machine spun and flashed. Bells rang. And on the digital readout on the machine the $19.00 kept going up, and up and up and didn't stop going up until it read $412.00.

I pushed the "cash out" button and got the hell out!

Dinner at La Cucina

I admit I didn't select the Italian restaurant until I happened to see Vicki and Johnny standing in line at Le Bistro, the French Restaurant. As usual, I told the hostess I wanted to meet new friends and I was led to a table for six where I took that last chair. Nancy and Warren, an older retired couple sat across from me. To my left was Janet, another solo cruiser. Next to her sat Gary and Beverly, there on their honeymoon. On my right were Beverly's parents, Susan and Ned.

We introduced ourselves and I stuck fairly close to the truth: "I'm Bob Byrd, from Birmingham, Alabama." We waited until we'd ordered before making small talk. Most everyone agreed that we were sorry our cruise was ending. This would be our last dinner on the ship. I said, "Speak for yourselves. This is my fourth cruise in a row and I'm leaving for the next one tomorrow."

"Must be nice!" Susan said.

"That all depends," I said.

The honeymooners, no experts in tact, said, "How do you afford it?"

I explained that three months ago I'd been diagnosed with Amdocs Syndrome, a terminal neurological disorder. Rather than mope around at home and wait to die, I sold my car, sold my house, and have been cruising ever since. "I have no idea how much time I have left. My primary care doctor says it could be months but my neurologist isn't as optimistic. Whenever I go, it will be with a smile on my face, that's for sure," I added bravely.

Everyone seemed uncomfortable with the conversation and was quick to change the topic. They avoided eye contact with me; as if they were afraid acknowledging me would somehow confer Amdocs Syndrome on them. Soon I was ignored altogether as Beverly told the rest of the table how Gary had proposed.

I waited until I was sure no one was looking at me and closed my eyes and allowed my head to droop on my chest. After a few seconds of no reaction I let my arm drop to my side and allowed my fork to fall. The next thing I new Janet was screaming and knocking over her chair in her haste to get away from me. I opened my eyes and started screaming right back at her. When everyone in the restaurant was staring I demanded, "What! What's wrong?"

"I thought you were dead!" she said.

I looked as innocent as I could and looked helplessly at the others. "I suppose I should be used to it by now," I said. "Some people have a hard time dealing with illness."

"But he was dead!" Janet insisted. Beverly glared at Janet and said, "I think you're mean."

I said nothing and twirled some spaghetti on my fork.

After dinner, Second City has a script-less adults only show in the Spinaker Lounge. I got there early to snag a seat near the stage. After their first two bits the same woman I'd been paired with at the workshop said they needed a volunteer from the audience. Several hands went up. She ignored them and grabbed my hand and led me to the stage. For the next ten minutes she and I were partnered and interacting with two of the Second City regulars. That REALLY took me back to the old days. I'd forgotten how fun it is to perform before a live audience. All too soon it was over, but I can still hear the applause.

Sadly I can also still hear, "Tommy? Are you sure you won't come up for a drink, Tommy?"