Beneath the surface - passengers 13

Passengers.
Okay so how often do you see wheelchairs lined up in a corridor? Was I working on a floating rest home for the wealthy? The passengers were aged fifty to decrepit. Most of the men followed a strict code of visual conformity. During the day the uniform was beige Bermuda shorts, a white polo neck with expensive logo, long white socks and sun glasses that were larger than the man’s face. White hair, a dazed look and plenty of balding lead me to only one conclusion: cloning had taken place.
There was slightly more variety amongst the women. Some had white hair, died dark hair or bright orange hair, all of it arranged in a spectacular, gravity defying bouffants. How did they manage to get swimming hats on that? Hmmm which came first chicken or egg - buffont / swimming cap?
Again many of the ladies appeared dazed or as if they had been caught in a wind tunnel. Plastic surgery was rife on board and the general expression of pure g-force crossed with sheer terror would freak anyone out in the dark. During the day light hours I found passing by the swimming pool a bit of a concern too - some of those old dear’s implants were floating on the surface wrapped in old people skin. (Yes I know it is cruel but a breast should not reach the other side of the pool before the swimmer, nor should it float behind!)
When the female guest’s were dressed they too followed a strict rule: gold and white clothing accessorised with white diamante visors and giant sunglasses. It was like being present in an eighties golfing tournament. My favourite was the shinny leopard skin romper suits for the sexier and more daring of the women. They took great pleasure in strutting past the old men with a look of seduction. Wives would peer bitchily over the top of their sunglasses - to achieve this feat they required a step ladder.

That evening a decision had to be made, it was an important decision, one which caused numerous power struggles. Who got the bottom bunk? To make the process fair Marrissa and I sat in the cabin and stared at each other. After a while I waved a coin at her and pointed at my head and then my bottom. Maybe I shouldn’t have pointed at my bottom but how else do you say tails to someone whose English language is limited? I pointed at my head again and then at my bottom.
‘Si,’ she said when I was pointing at my bottom. I assumed she selected tails. Or maybe she wanted to see my bottom. Or maybe she wanted me to put my bottom in the sea? It could have been any but merrily she called the wrong side. It was tails. I showed her the result and she rolled her eyes and sighed. With a look of pain, I pointed at the bottom bunk and shrugged as if it was the only choice I could make. Marrissa’s face revealed complete and utter dejection. For the next few months Marrissa would have to climb up and down the ladder every time she wanted the loo, every time she wanted to lay on the bed and had further to fall if a storm hit. She also had less space, so if she got amorous it would be more difficult. I, on the other hand, had to live in fear of the bed collapsing and a huge arse crushing me to death. Which was worse? Arse crush or constant climbing? Either would result in night terror.


Retina Blue (Volume 1)