Beneath the surface 25 Gold diggers!

Gold diggers ahoy!

Up in the gallery I wrote my diary and glanced about. Something quite fascinating caught my eye: a pair of gold diggers. The reality of gold diggers had never crossed my mind until that evening when two implant-clad women in their mid-forties turned up with particularly elderly husbands. Both women dripped gold and diamonds as they supported their husbands who appeared to be in their late eighties. My first naïve belief was that maybe they were their fathers but jovial genital cupping dispersed that thought. Unless there was more to it…
As with all things I had to figure it out. How did it work? Did they share a bed? (Each couple - not all of them). They all seemed to be having a good time, but where was the love? Did they grow to love each other? Did gold diggers simply service the old chaps until they died? Did they increase the servicing to make them die? Was there such a thing as malicious death by sex? I have known of men having heart attacks whilst in the act of rumpus pumpus. I remembered on a previous ship one reached orgasm and died during release. His wife was left with a corpse collapsed on top of her. How awful! Death and the orgasm face. I wondered if doctors knew instantly because of the facial expression. I know that is a dark subject but questions like that should always be answered!
Anyway the body remained in the morgue for five days because we were making a trans-Atlantic crossing. The strangest things happened at sea.What's more it was always horrible to hear the buzz of the morgue, knowing there was a body inside.
I was consumed by the thought of gold diggers. If (and I am being very very naïve here) everyone had a soul mate - what happened to the gold digger and their partner? Were they a gold trader? How did love work with them? How could a person really offer themselves to some old chap for the sake of money? Humanity amazed me - there was always something new and bizarre to comprehend. I could never understand the choices people made. I guessed the thought of living in luxury and having all your needs taken care of was quite a motivation. At that moment there was an increased motivation for me. Maybe I should search for a rich husband. No. I couldn’t live with myself - or him. I couldn’t bear not being in love with the person and the thought of intimacy… I would have to knock myself out. Naïve, romantic or just stupid?
I looked around the gallery and lecture theatre; there seemed to be a common theme: the majority of men were old and not what I would class as attractive. Although most had an attractive, well kept wife. That then lead me to the question: did unattractive men aspire to have money to increase their mating rights? What’s more most motivation originated from sexual motivation. So to attract the best mate in our society did a male only establish his hierarchy /alpha-malism through wealth? My mind was consumed. The three wealthy men I dated were wealthy to compensate for their small appendage. If that was the case did having a small dick motivate a man to get rich? Was he over compensating for inadequacy? Did all rich men have relatively small penises? Was I working on a ship serving small dicked men? I wondered if a survey had ever been made of penis size in relation to wealth. Inch per pound or dollar ratio. You could put it on a pivot table and only image the graph. One of my friends once said, ‘if the world was ruled by men with big dicks it would be a much more relaxed place. There would be no war...’
‘That would suggest that women could not rule,’ I responded.
‘Ah, I had forgotten to bring women into the equation…’ he replied.

The dripping of diamonds and gold over the women was mesmerising. It seemed there was some kind of extreme diamond-bling competition going on. Obviously it was formal night and that enabled a display of wealth competition. Were they displaying for themselves or others? The irony was there was a gemstone and gold fest taking place yet I had overheard a penthouse guest say, ‘darling we can’t afford that,’ talking about a fifty dollar portrait. Maybe their wealth was just an act, but if that was the case how did they afford one thousand dollars per day for a cabin?


After the second sitting numerous drunk guests stumbled and rebounded off furniture and walls from the dinning room. The atrium was like a human crash test derby as everyone attempted to grab anything they could to stop themselves falling over. What I found wonderful was with all the diamonds, the tuxedos and evening dresses the blue sea sickness stood out. I can dress beautifully but I can not be sick! I have always wondered how the wrist bands worked. A pressure point on the wrist was depressed (meaning presed in and not emotionally upset) and that somehow distracted the inner ear. So what made no sense to me was how seasickness and vomit actually helped a person. It seemed quite pointless. Was it a distraction from the motion?


Anyway we finally packed up the studios. Of course another set of guests noticed the lights had come down. They had had potentially five hours to have a portrait.
‘Honey I want a picture!’ she said a white haired woman with a slur. She repeated her self, this time waving her arms. The arm motion was a big mistake!
Jose turned slowly and gazed deep into her eye. The look was dark and the sniper was back. ‘No,’ he said slowly, gauging whether she would remember.
She frowned and studied him, had anyone ever said no to her? She seemed puzzled and considered testing him. The silence spanned the atrium, Jose was not going to play nice. He wanted off the ship and if she so much as said anything she was going to get it. The old woman sensed something and shifted, ‘oh darling there will be other formal nights!’ she said. ‘And you missed out,’ she said.
Jose silently turned back to arranging the chairs and said nothing. He paused studying the chair. Did he want to pick it up and throw it at her?
Marrissa stood shaking her head, ‘these guests expect everything - no?’
Jose glanced at her, he had won a small battle and the look in his eyes revealed a hint of joy.
Marrissa returned to packing things up, ‘disaster. These people disaster!’
She caught me smirking and paused, her English entertained me. Her sweetness combined with interesting word combinations made her fascinating. After the first few days we were managing to communicate, I had adjusted my vocabulary to make my wording simplier. It was not something I was terribly excited about but her language was improving daily. Admittedly I wished I could speak Spanish, but I could not. I had a respect for her courage to work in an environment where she was not completely sure of the language. Brave and persevering.

For the evening’s finale there was an interesting moment to the sounds of a lone pianist. The nutty old dancer was back in full force. In the atrium, next a waterfall adorned with glass and lights, the elderly lady danced waving her scarf. It was no average dance either- she had pulled out all the stops for a drunken flamenco. It seemed she had reached the point in being inebriated where she had convinced her self that she was the best dancer in the whole world. The arm waving, finger clicking and side jumps were creative. The stamping, clapping, and the ‘olays’ were attention grabbing. Although there was one thing that was astounding: spinning whilst on a moving ship. A couple of times I almost covered my eyes - she was precariously close to going for a swim. Just when you thought she had had it another little jump took her back to safety. I was transfixed, half willing her to fall in, half willing her to stop. The song came to the end, the old dear was exhausted. Some of the other guests clapped and she took her leave. Eccentricity on the seas might be a title for a book one day.




goylegatr

Beneath the Surface 24

Lunch was an interesting experience today. There was no line and no order; crew members barged in front of each other showing absolutely no courtesy.
‘They are one step up from peasants,’ said Amy. ‘This cheap labour is driving me crazy. How are we supposed to maintain our seven star deluxe when there isn’t any grasp of the English language or manners? This behaviour just isn’t necessary!’
‘In training today I corrected all the grammar in the handouts and handed them back to the Staff Captain,’ I said.
Amy turned and smiled at me, ‘good girl! What did he do?’
‘Nothing, but I was sure he was shocked by my cheek!’ I replied studying what looked like entrails for a main course. Entrails, sea kill and carrots for dinner. Beautiful!

I wandered back to my cabin to prepare for formal night. All the while I was embroiled in thought; ten years ago I worked for the same shipping line and strangely some people had worked there all that time. Why had they stayed? Why had I retuned?
Wandering the stark corridor, I ran into the social hostess - Kendra. She reminded me of a weathered blow up doll. Her plastered on smile covered eyes full of bitterness. I noticed she was trying to appear caught up in looking at the wall as she walked so I purposely stepped onto her projected route.
‘Hello,’ I said.
She grimaced. It was either that or an extreme Botox smile. I couldn’t tell.
I had known her ten years ago and she had been cruel to many of my friends on board. She had perfected the art of verbal poison and managed her fake façade perfectly. No hair was out of place, no bare skin without bronzer and no kindness in any cell of her body.
‘Kendra, I’m the new photographer - in fact I am sure I know you from ten years ago,’ I said.
She made a deep huff and looked me up and down, ‘I don’t think you made an impression then. I don’t recognised you and I don’t usually associate with photographers,’ she said.
She frowned and glanced me over, ‘it seems the class of photographer has declined,’ she said, smoothed her hair and strutted away.
Spiteful? Malicious? Who cared? She had just granted me a literary gift!
Her verbal darts had numerous colleagues in tears. When one of the shop girls had her hair cut she stopped and frowned, ‘you really should go to a professional hair dresser. You can always spot a cheap hair cut. Cheap hair cuts reveal a cheap person. Of course you can’t buy class…’
What did you say to that?
The look of viciousness was often focused on a colleague but as soon as a guest passed by an ultra-fast transformation took place. Kendra the nut nuzzler emerged, the sickly sweet alter-ego. ‘Mr and Mrs Hart! How wonderful to see you!’ Kiss. Kiss. ‘Look how beautiful that dress is? Who is your stylist and designer? You must give me their contact. If I could have a dress made like that I would be in heaven!’ She would say with a joker smile. Her tone of voice raised two octaves and could probably smash glass.

Prior to formal night we had a security talk. It was quick, simple and about terrorists.
The security officer talked with a flat tone and was wholly uninterested in being there. ‘Terrorists walk around the ship and write things down,’ he said.
Marrissa glanced at me curiously, what was she doing? A moment later she put up her hand.
The security officer nodded in her direction, ‘Felicity write in small book,’ she said. ‘Is she terrorist?’
What? Was that idea of a joke? Thank you Marrissa! Why don’t you just draw a marker pen beard on me during my sleep to really convince him. Great!
The security officer studied me - he was actually contemplating whether I fulfilled the criteria. I wrote in a notebook and had just been unintentionally trained in espionage. I hoped that wasn’t enough to incriminate me.
I glanced at Marrissa and she was smiling, she thought it was hilarious!

As we walked back to the cabin Marrissa kept chuckling to herself. She found what she had done hilarious. Would it have been so funny if I had ended up in the brig?
Along the corridor numerous signs advertised a crew party.
‘Do you want to go Marrissa?’ I said pointing at the sign.
She shook her head, ‘formal, no party. Too busy,’ she said sadly.
She was right, unfortunately the hours we were working didn’t enable fun unless you sacrificed your health. What a shame. In previous years on ship the photogs used to be party animals. My favourite parties were the fancy dress - Dress as a guest or Come as your favourite disease. I went as gangrene and had bits drop off. The winner was the Siamese twins. They had cleverly been plastered together and were cut apart with a mini-chainsaw. Inside the plaster was fake blood that spurted everywhere! It was amazing. Those were the days!

The second formal night of the cruise and the ship was in strong motion. Many of the guests carried a green tinge which did not really make for inspirational portraiture. Those who did survive visited our portrait studios. It seemed they were impressed by the quality of the work. Also they enjoyed being fussed over. I always made a real show of tie straightening, bra strap hiding and the alignment of jewellery. It made the guests happy and increased the professionalism of the portrait.
In a quiet period I made a huge mistake. I was talking to a guest I had known ten years ago and somehow I said I enjoyed talking to people of the same intelligence as me. Idiot! That does not mean I enjoyed talking to idiots. Instead, according to Sparkle, I had just overstepped the mark. I had set myself above my station. We had been discussing qualifications, he seemed perplexed that I was educated and working in what he considered a menial role.
When I said, ‘I really get on with the passengers and I enjoy talking to people of the same intelligence,’ there was silence. I had overstepped my servile role and likened myself to the entity that had paid to be served. An expression of disapproval graced his face. I could have kicked myself - in his eyes I was hired staff. A person lesser and there to serve. No matter whether I had won the Nobel peace prize the fact I was hired help no way intimated the same intellect or level. I sense that one comment could have repercussions. I wouldn’t be surprised if he made a complaint. ‘Captain one of your staff members suggested she had equal intelligence to me. I want her disciplined!’
An image of me being dragged from my bunk in a sack and thrown in the brig stampeded through my mind. It was ridiculous really - how could I maintain a ‘let me massage your ego,’ stance? It just wasn’t me.
In a quiet moment Robert sauntered over. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Okay,’ I replied. I had to keep what I had said to my self.
‘How do you fancy staging a mutiny when the big K comes?’ he asked.
‘Are you joking?’
He shook his head, ‘well I thought we could refuse to work until he pays us what he promised us.’
I quite liked the concept, it could be fun. Ironically I had just received an e-mail informing me I had just got paid a nice tidy sum for some work at home. I didn’t need to stay. A mutiny could be fun!
The conversation ceased when a rather drunken eighty something old women gyrated her hips about the fountain waving her silk neck scarf. She had requested the Carmen Bizet song from the quartet and danced like a Spanish maniac.
Robert and I glanced at each other in silence. It summed up our reality. You never knew when your conversation could be interrupted by an overly active, senile old dear.

After the final photo-session Jose and I broke down my studio while Marrissa and Robert broke down his studio. A group of old women watched us take down the whole lot, smoothed their skirts and sauntered over.
‘Darlings we would like a portrait,’ said the leader.
I glanced at Jose, a red flush graced his neck.
We worked on a seven star deluxe ship, what the passenger demanded you had to comply with. Jose and I re-built the studio. When the lights were tested the old buggers posed like fashion models and drunkenly laughed. It was apparent they were seeing how far they could push us. What’s more the reality was they didn’t intend to buy a single image. I had to play along while Jose stood with his arms folded. I could see how he would take each one out if he was a sniper. His eyes always revealed his thoughts and at that moment he was laying in undergrowth with a large gun and a silencer!