The owner is due to arrive at
midday, and I spend the morning doing one last dust and vacuum, setting up
champagne in buckets and starching and folding linen napkins into fleur de
lyses. At 11.30 am I go to the main salon to do one last check, and
stop suddenly at the sight of a half-naked blonde woman sitting on a bar stool,
her upper half bare except for a giant red ribbon tied around her
surgically-enhanced, astronomically large bosom. She sees me
staring.
"Hi sweetie, I’m
Tiffany. The captain said I could just come on board. My bag is over
there. Can you show me which cabin is mine?"
My brain whirrs. The
captain hasn’t told me that we’re having extra guests, and had certainly failed
to mention that one would be a prostitute. Mind you, he had taken to
calling me a prude when I’d said I didn’t want to go to a strip club for crew
lunch, so perhaps he didn’t tell me to see how I would handle the
situation. I tell myself that it will not be a problem, I will not
repeat the Singapore scenario where I was told by the captain that I would have
to get used to being around prostitutes or get out of yachting. Older
and wiser, I try to convince myself. I hear Dana’s car
pulls up. Moments later, she comes on board and squeals,
"Oh hi Tiffany," and I see
that I am the only person who's been kept in the dark on this one. I carry
Tiffany’s suitcase down to her cabin, I can hear them upstairs giggling, and
rustling through the grocery bags that Dana has brought in from the
car. The stripper and the prostitute. It is going to be a
long three days. I leave the suitcase on the bed as that there is no
way I’m unpacking a prostitute’s suitcase, no way. Not only was I
pretty sure I didn’t want to see what was in it, but I was feeling pretty
unhappy that my job now extended to being subservient to a person who had sex
for money. As far as first day on the job experiences go, this one
had me feeling pretty poorly about my situation in life. A few years
later, retelling the story in a Melbourne pub, a friend would point out that
the prostitute probably felt a fair bit worse on her first day on the job, but
I didn't see that at the time. I go back up to the galley, where I see the
captain and Dana looking in the grocery bags, laughing at
something. I ask them what they are looking at.
“Oh, no, you can’t look in
here," says Greg.
“You will hate this," says Dana.
“Jackie O’ will definitely hate this," Greg agrees.
Jackie O?” I ask.
"Yep, it’s what we call you. You think you’re a cut above the
rest of us. You’ll be rich one day though, I can tell it, just by
looking at you. Our own Jackie O.” He looks back in
the shopping bag. “Nope. Jackie O won’t like this at
all." They laugh at me some more, and I walk off, miffed.
Ten minutes later, another car pulls
up, and I go out to the aft deck to greet the guests, standing next to Tiffany,
who is getting stares from the men in the shipyard as she stands there smiling
with the giant red bow on her naked chest. Two men in their
seventies climb slowly from the car, one is straight and tall with silver hair,
the other short and bowed over with arthritis, with a black patch over his eye.
“Which one is Mr M?” I ask Dana.
"The one on the right," she says. “The little
one. It’s perfect that he’s got a patch because his family were
Bermudian pirates.”
"Pirates?” Of the Caribbean?
“His house in Bermuda still has dungeons for the treasure,"
says Greg. I shoot him a look, trying to gauge if he is serious.
“It’s true,” says Simon. “His family really were pirates."
“But why does he only have one eye?” I ask a bit
frantically. No-one answers, the old men are now negotiating the
passerelle. They look very unsteady on their feet and my brain hums with the
oddity of watching a one-eyed pirate walk up a gangplank to be greeted by a
stripper, a half-naked prostitute, an Amish escape, a purple-faced captain and
an Australian girl who has no idea what she is doing in this story.
Mr M. finally reaches us, the
deckhand following with his bags. Tiffany goes over and hugs and
kisses the old men, I am keenly aware that by now the whole shipyard is
watching this charade. I want very badly to run away. Mr
M. grabs my hand in his arthritic, clawed grip, and pulls my face down close to
his to kiss my cheek. I try not to recoil, disengage myself politely
and smile and offer them a drink. I tell myself that it is only a
three day trip, and that anything is bearable for three days. I fix
them G&T’s and snacks, leaving them to canoodle with Tiffany, who sits
crossing and uncrossing her legs on a bar stool wearing only a tiny denim
skirt.
We leave the dock soon after, the
boat chugging slowly through the canal past the columned mansions with private
yachts tied up behind palm trees, and turn towards the Florida
Keys. We tie up
that night behind a private island and I set up for dinner while the guests
shower, laying the table for three with candles and flowers among the sparkling
wine glasses. I go into the galley, where I am treated to the sight of Dana
actually cooking, and cooking very well as far as I can tell. I ask
what is for dessert, as I’ve only been given the menu for entree and main, and
I need to set the cutlery.
“Oh, don’t worry about that, I’ll
tell you what to do after the main course”, she tells me, tossing a colourful
salad and putting a crusted whole fish into the oven to bake.
“Fine”, I say. I think it’s a bit weird she won’t
tell me but suspect that she’s not quite ready on the dessert front
yet. I serve the scallops to start while the guests talk between
themselves, Tiffany tries to pitch in occasionally and giggles inanely at
everything they say, stroking Mr M’s leg, but she is increasingly ignored as
they talk about business. I see Mr M. shift in his seat to dislodge
her hand from his knee, she lets it fall as if by accident, and quickly uses
the hand to grab her wine glass. She looks away from the table out across the
water, her crow’s feet highlighted in the flickering candles. She looks sad,
and old. Between courses, she excuses herself from the table and
walks past me in the main salon, down to her cabin. She is gone for
a few minutes, and I am waiting for her to return before serving the main
course. The owner tells me not to wait, but I run quickly down to
the cabin and knock on the door. She opens it, a cloud of marijuana
smoke envelops me and her eyes are red and barely open.
“I’m 39, you know. I
have five children, all boys, and the oldest one asked me the other day what I
do for a living. He is starting to suspect.” I think she is going to
cry. I don’t know what to say. “It’s ok," she says,
patting me on the arm, strangely thinking that I am the one who needs
comforting. “A few more trips like this and I will have enough saved
to never have to do it again. And as long as I have drugs,"and
she nods to the joint in her hand, “then everything’s fine.”
“Are you coming up for the main?” I ask.
“No, just save me some. They don’t want me there
anyway.” I hear Dana calling, and run up and serve dinner for two.
I clear the main course back to the
galley, only to realise that Dana has disappeared. I immediately
assume that she has gone for cocaine or a sleep, and check in our
cabin. She’s not there. I walk along the dock, looking for her, in
case she’s gone for a cigarette. I go back to the galley to wait for
her to return, I’m a bit stressed as Mr. M has asked that dessert comes
quickly. He laughs when he says that, a dirty laugh, and I practically run away
from the table, a creeping sensation at the base of my spine. 10
minutes later, Dana comes up from the guests cabins, smiling.
“Where the fuck have you
been?" I ask. "He's impatient for dessert- and I don’t
even know what it is! What am I serving?"
“Calm down, Mr M will be very happy with dessert, don’t you
worry.” She runs out into the salon, and comes back with two linen
napkins and two spoons. “Now Jo, you have to go out to the men, ask them
to follow you down to the guest cabins, open the door and say, 'Gentlemen,
tonight, dessert is served in the cabin.'" I look at her uncertainly, she
pushes me slightly, “Go, go now." And so, with rising dread, I fetch the
men and hear them whispering behind me as I lead them down the stairs,
hesitantly open the cabin door and announce, “Tonight...” And there, on a
bed covered in a sheet of industrial plastic, spreadeagled below a mirrored
ceiling, is Tiffany, covered in whipped cream and strawberries.
“Come in boys,” she coos, and they
obey. She is smiling, but her eyes are red. And I hand
the men their spoons and napkins, and leave them there, her there, being
crawled all over by two horrible old men.
I run upstairs to Dana.
“Isn’t it great- we had to
keep it from you, me and the captain, we knew you’d hate it-that’s what was in
the bags!” She is so pleased with herself, and we go out together to
the dock to have a cigarette, as my mind tries to avoid what I have been party
to. Dana lies face-down on the dock , craning her head to look in
the porthole. She calls me over, “Ooh, I can barely see," she
says. “Wasn’t it the funniest thing ever?” And she starts to laugh. The
side of my mouth starts to twitch, the way it does when you laugh at
inappropriate things, and it sets me off. Before long, we are
laughing hysterically, although when we stop, I wonder if Tiffany could hear us
through the hull. I am immediately ashamed of myself, and decide to
quit when we get back to Fort Lauderdale on Monday. This isn’t my
thing. Singapore be damned.
We wake to a grey and choppy sea,
and we set off for Key West. It is rough weather, and Dana reverts
to form by refusing to cook.
“I’m seasick," she whines.
“You work on a boat- what did you expect?” I ask angrily. She's
lying in her bunk flicking through a magazine. There is a swell, but
the sea really isn’t that rough, and I am convinced she is just being
lazy. I am standing in the cabin doorway with a pile of her fresh
laundry, and I see that the last pile I’ve done has just been pushed onto the
floor again.
“I’ve left the steaks out, you cook them if you're not
seasick. It’s not hard, I’m sure even you could manage
it.” With that, she turns out the reading light above her head and
closes her eyes. My brain snaps.
“Well you can stick it up your ass," and I throw the armful
of clothes all over her as hard as I can and run to find the
captain. As far as insults go, it wasn’t really one I’m proud of, if
purely for its lack of panache. The captain is in the bridge, and I
complain to him about Dana’s laziness and refusal to cook. He looks
annoyed.
“Dana is my princess and you will
do what she tells you to. And yes, you should cook the
steaks.” I go into the galley and bang and crash around as I am
cooking, things roll off the bench and I can’t find anything I am looking
for. My fury is at fever pitch by the time Dana finally comes up to
take over in the final minutes.
I am angrily watching her plate up
as I feel a tongue slide into my ear. I jump and scream as I turn to
see Mr M. standing next to me on tip-toes. I run to the other side
of the bench. Dana looks up quickly,
“Mr M. Jo’s not here for that, I’ve
told you that. The captain’s told you that. It’s not part of the
deal. That’s why we brought Tiffany."
“But Tiffany’s boring," he says petulantly, like a young boy
who is bored with his new toy. “She’s stupid, Jo’s much more
interesting.” He leers at me.
"What about me? Aren’t I interesting?” Dana says,
and takes his arm and leads him away, expertly grabbing his
attention. She looks over her shoulder at me as she leaves, mouths
‘You ok?’ and I nod at her gratefully. She knows how to handle him,
and I am aware that she saved me from having to either yell at him or push him
away. I find myself profoundly wishing for the kind of yacht owner who sees you
only as the help and therefore not as a potential conquest. I don’t
want to give the wrong impression of yachting here, this is the only time in
many years of yachting that an owner behaved inappropriately towards me, and it
is safe to say that this yacht was untypical.
The next day goes smoothly, apart
from Tiffany being bundled off into a car while loudly protesting,
“You promised you’d pay me
for three days!” while the men sit reading their papers, resolutely ignoring
the woman they’d eaten strawberries and cream off only the night
before. I am ecstatic to hear that we will go back to Fort Lauderdale
on Sunday night, a day early. The next morning, when Mr M. leaves,
he grabs my hand and says,
“It was perfect, everything is
going to be great, see you next time”, which I sincerely doubted, yet I say my
polite goodbyes and wave them off.
"Let’s go out for lunch”, Tiffany cries as soon as
they’ve left. This sounds like an excellent idea. I love crew
lunches. Paid for by the boat, they are a celebration of the trip just
finished, less of a ‘job well done’ meal than a ‘thank god they’ve gone’
meal. I say yes, and decide to quit that night instead, after I’ve
had a free lunch in a lovely restaurant. Except we aren't going to a
lovely restaurant, I suddenly realise as we pull into the giant car park of
‘Solid Gold’. Dana has gotten her way once again, and we are going
to her old work. Her old strip club. I look around nervously,
I have never been to a strip club, and given the events of the last week, was
even less inclined than normally to view the sex industry with an open mind.
Simon sees me panicking.
“It’ll be fine. See it as an
experience. You only have to do it once.” Singapore,
Singapore, Singapore, I think. I am an adult, I can go to a strip
club. For lunch. With my co-workers. Nothing weird here
at all.
We go inside to a cavernous room
filled with tall palm trees in pots and stars painted on a black
ceiling. The place is almost empty, a couple of bored-looking men
hold beers while half-watching an even more bored-looking young woman swing
around a pole. The ‘lunch’ on offer comes from a bain marie,
and as it is all crumbed, deep fried or covered in sauce, I can't tell if
there’s anything gluten free. I pile some wilted salad onto my
plate. At least Singapore had foie gras and Moet to offer while
stuffing around with my moral compass. We take our food to a
table by the stage, and we form a weird semi-circle. What surprises
me is that the men barely even look at the girl on stage, only looking up now
and then to see that she has been replaced by another. They comment, sure, and
rate them compared to each other, but then everyone goes back to talking about
work. It’s not quite the den of iniquity I had been
expecting. It all has a whiff of the mundane about it, not at all
helped by the strippers looking like they would prefer to be anywhere
else. This place was managing to be simultaneously seedy and
mundane.
Dana seems professionally offended
by the display, and eyes the girls critically. All of a sudden she
jumps up and runs off. She returns a couple of minutes later, eyes
sparkling,
“I’ll show them how it’s done. I
spoke to the manager, and he’s said I can strip for you guys, for old time’s
sake!" She squeals, jumps up and down like a cheerleader in her
excitement, and runs off. The men laugh, and go back to their
conversation; they know Dana well enough not to be surprised by
now. I however, am surprised enough to make up for all of them when
the girl I share a cabin with comes onto the stage, takes off her underwear and
starts bending over and swinging around the pole in front of us, only stopping
now and then to grin at us excitedly and give us the thumbs up. I have to hand
it to her, she approached the job with enthusiasm, and her body, even accepting
that some of it was made of plastic, is extraordinary. She is beautiful, and I
see that the bored looking men at the next table are no longer looking so
bored. When the song stops, she runs off, puts her clothes back on
and comes back to sit at the table, looking utterly happy.
“I’ve still got it”, she exults,
unable to sit still. The manager, who is standing with us, hears her.
"Too right babe! Any chance you’ll come back and work for
us?” She flicks her hair and looks at him coyly,
“No thanks Steve, I have a job that is going to pay me even more
than stripping!” I look at her strangely, as that probably isn’t
true, not with the money she could earn in big strip club like
this. Not for the first time, I wonder what she’s getting paid.
We leave the club, and Dana jumps
into the car excitedly, still on a massive high. I look at her, all
lit up and shining and exuding sheer charisma, and I would defy any man in the
world to say no to her at this very moment. She seems happy to be
stripping again, but it is clear that it’s not about the stripping itself, but
the attention, and the validation that she is beautiful in the eyes of men-in the
eyes of everyone- and definitely not too old. Not yet,
anyway. She clutches my arm like a little girl,
"Let’s go for a drink,
let’s let’s!" But I say no, I tell her I am tired but I am
actually going back to the boat with the captain in order to
resign. She gets a little sulky to not get her own way, but
convinces the young American deckhand to go with her. He looks like
all of his Christmases have come at once, and we drop them off near the Elbo
Room on the beachfront, where a live band is playing loudly. We drive along the
front, past the palm trees and Hooters and people
rollerblading, and I look out across the beach at the Baywatch huts, the
bronzed bodies playing volleyball and the kitesurfers flying high above the
waves, and I think that Florida had most certainly lived up to its
stereotype. I was sure that there were parts of America I
would love, but this here, this certainly wasn’t it.
Back at the boat, I go to my cabin
and rehearse my speech. I find the captain on the aft deck, sitting
up on the edge of the capping rail, smoking.
“How did you find it then?” he
asks.
“What, the strip club?” I ask.
"No," he smiles, “Although that Dana-she’s quite the
character, isn’t she? I nod. I mean the trip, with the boss.”
"It was an education," I say diplomatically.
“We didn’t think you’d cope, Dana
and I. With Tiffany and things. Not our Jackie
O. But you did well, and you passed.”
“I passed?” I asked wonderingly.
“Yes, and because you did so well,
I’ve decided that I’ll tell you what is really going on here. We’ve been
waiting to see how you did, because you see, it’s not exactly
legal.” I’ve been doing something criminal? I think
wonderingly, and my mind races back to the day when the guy I was living with
in Sloane Square told me I’d been living in a squat paying rent to a junkie and
not knowing it. Doing illegal things by accident is apparently my thing.
“What do you mean, exactly, by illegal?’
“Well, this trip was a trial run.”
“I know that
bit. We were doing a trial run for the owner, so he can
charter it out."
Yes, but what we didn’t tell you,
is that we are going to run an illegal brothel off Atlantis
Casino. Nassau. In the Bahamas”, he offers, seeing
my confused look. “Don’t worry, you were never going to have to do
anything like that, you would have just been crew like on any other
boat. Oh, like any other boat except that this one is a BROTHEL,
I think.
“Except Dana, he
continued. "She’s special. Without her, this whole thing
couldn’t happen. She’s the one that’s going to go into the casino
and get the men back to the boat. We can’t do it without her, that’s
why I didn’t back you when she refused to cook." I still haven’t spoken,
and am looking out across the water. He talks
faster. “We’ll all get a commission on the girls, it’ll be
like we’re going into business together- no captain-crew hierarchy. A
commission, from prostitution? my brain screams . I will
myself to look at the captain.
"Oh, this isn’t for me at
all. I can’t do that. I hate prostitution.” He looks at
me, visibly hurt that I have turned down the offer, clearly thinking that I am
judging him, which of course, I am.
“You’ll regret it, you
know. We are going to make so much money."
“Money just doesn’t mean that much
to me. I’ll be off the boat in the morning. Good luck finding a new
stewardess though.”
An Australian, working on a boat
setting up to be an illegal brothel, and not knowing it. It just
doesn’t get much better than that. As I take my pay from the
would-be brothel and order a taxi to the airport for a flight to Antigua, I
muddle over which one is more stupendously gullible: living in a Sloane Square
squat or working on a floating Bahamian bordello?
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