Desafinado: Slightly Out of Tune - 7. Plastic Love But It's In Da Club

CHAPTER 7: PLASTIC LOVE BUT IT'S IN DA CLUB

The night was windy that evening. Outside, northeast winds were clashing with temperate, cool waters, creating a gusty but inviting atmosphere. However, inside the yacht, the warm, humid temperature was at its peak when Emil and Dan fanned themselves from the lush sweat that dripped from their armpits. Dan’s white polo shirt had smudges of armpit stains that not even bleach could remove, while Emil’s sequined gown made her body all itchy from all the sweating. The German guests were not in the best mood.

"Es ist so heiß," (It’s so hot,) said Emil as she climbed up the stairs of the passage deck.

"Was ist mit der Klimaanlage passiert?" (What happened to the air conditioning?) asked Dan.

"Wir bringen es in ordnung," (We're fixing it,) I answered, walking behind them as they faltered climbing the stairs.

In the saloon, everyone looked like depressed scrambled eggs with how defeated they seemed under the heat. Diana and Rocky, the stylish American couple, were sitting in the lounge scrolling through their phones. With how low Rocky’s polo shirt was unbuttoned and the way Diana blew air onto her husband’s chest, the faulty centralised air-conditioning had become a problem. The old lesbian couple, Sheila and Tess, both wearing matching duck-themed polos and white navy shorts, were in the minibar drinking a pint of beer.

Sheila saw me and said, "Oye mate, where do you think this fackin’ air conditioning’s gonna get fixed? We’re melting here." Her wife nodded.

"I’m getting the engineers to have a look at it. Please be patient," I said, pleading. Sheila just waved and continued drinking.

Albert and the Swedish guests were outside the main deck, sitting on the large alfresco dining table, catching some fresh air. I didn’t interrupt them since all four were having an intense discussion about soccer. It's probably a European thing since I’m more into baseball and basketball. I didn’t mind Erik’s arms over Albert’s shoulders. Ok, maybe it was hitting a nerve for me. But I just kept reminding myself that Albert would have dinner with me. And that’s all there is to it to get me through the night.

As soon as I turned around to head over to the lower decks, Candy appeared in front of me, like the spawn of Satan that she was, and said, "Damien! I swear to god that if the air-conditioning’s not getting fixed—tonight, I’m going to lose it!" She walked past me and casually said, "Tonight’s a truce," and giggled as she went her way chatting with Diana and Rocky. Her boyfriend followed with a camera in tow, not sure if he was off to a formal dinner or a funeral.

Unbuttoning my floral polo shirt to my navel, and swiping the sweat onto my linen pants, I tied my hair in a bun so that the air would at least circulate around my head. Walking down the lower deck hallway in this heat was making me feel lightheaded. I was on my way to speak with the engineers when I received a call.

"Yes Mariel?" … "It’s been delivered?"… "How about the toilet?" … "Yes. I wanted it rushed," … "Ok. Great. So it’s done," … "Ok, thanks."…

Suddenly, the majestic hum of centralised air conditioning was turned on, and the yacht was back to its glory once again. I wasn’t expecting the air conditioning to have any issues. This might be my karma for pretending to have an engine problem. But at least everything’s on schedule again.

"Dinner will start in 10 minutes," I said to everyone in the saloon. I went outside the main deck and told the Swedish crew, "Guys, dinner will start at 10." Everyone got up until I walked over to Albert and whispered, "Stay. We’ll have dinner here."

"Here? Isn’t this a bit romantic?"

"That’s the point," I said, as I sat next to him to the right of his seat. He wore a cardigan and some shorts, and he looked cute to someone who’d told me he had nothing to wear.

His eyes flitted from my outfit into the surrounding area. Back and forth he did, quite sheepishly, if you asked me. He was checking me out. And then suddenly, a beat from the light jazz music began playing in the background. He noticed the candle lights glinting in the recesses of every corner and the several bouquets of roses as the centrepiece brought by two assistants. He inhaled the ocean scent that added flavour to the ambiance, a literal scent produced by the humidifier, and said, "I admit. You’ve got game. This deserves a slow clap."

"I do, don’t I?" I said, looking glad it impressed him. I was nervous for a second. But the moment he leaned over and smelled the roses, I’d passed the inning.

"Alright. I’ll embrace all the romance you’d have to give. But I warn you, no flirting."

"We've been flirting since the day you got here. What are you talking about? It’s literally the basis of our friendship." I held up an empty glass and said, "To friends who flirt but do not have sex."

"I’d cheer for that." He did the same, holding his glass of water in the air. "To friends who flirt but do not have sex."

We were waiting for the first-course meal when I asked him, "So, how are you? How’s your day?"

"Huh?"

"How are you? Tell me how you’re feeling."

His brows grew quizzical. "Are you my therapist now?" He propped his chin on his palm, eyes peered away to observe the darkness of the ocean, and said, "I’m ok."

I may have annoyed him with the question. He resigned from the idea. I wasn’t joking or making a lighthearted attempt to start a conversation. I was serious. "I read on the internet about being on-page with another person having depression or anxiety. Please don’t take it the wrong way. I’m just a friend, asking how you are."

He looked at me for a moment—a blank canvas waiting to have some paint drawn in. He stared at me for a good five minutes until he opened his mouth. Nothing came out. But in my eyes, they were urging him. They were giving him the courage to say anything. He drew in one long breath and said, "This morning, when I didn’t take the pills."

"Yes?"

"It was…" I nodded, hoping he’d see in my eyes that I was there to listen. "It was difficult." And then his story began. "The minute we boarded the ship, I got into a panic attack. It wasn’t as intense as I’d usually have, just a mild one about going to the unknown…" And I listened. "That feeling of venturing out into something new felt stressful at first, and then it would gradually ease into something more familiar. I didn’t want to say this, but when we were chatting on the sun deck, it felt…"

As I listened to him tell me about his day, from the smallest fears to the little fears, and to the big ones that we keep underneath the bed hoping one day it won’t surprise us, he told me everything. I was thankful he did.

"… it was pretty exciting and really scary at the same time to have to dive like that." I noticed I’d been holding onto his hand this whole time. A pair of rough hands I seem to gravitate towards. Working hands that knew toil, sweat, and labour, I quickly let go.

"Sorry. I was too engrossed in your stories. I didn’t notice," I said.

"It’s ok. No harm done." He drank some water, almost delaying what he had to say; hesitant even. "You’re a good listener, Damien."

"And you’re a great storyteller. I enjoyed listening to you speak," I said, looking at him with much intent. He drank another glass and threw himself in, looking at the ocean. "There’s something in the way you speak that sounds—"

"—regal? It’s probably the British accent. I can do a Yorkshire accent if you're into sem’thin more coun’treh."

"No. What’s the word? Ah. Kind. Your voice sounds kind and soothing."

For the first time, he blushed. Even in that dim lighting, there’s no mistaking those reddened cheeks.

We were well off in the evening until a catastrophe struck. A mothertruckin’ disaster that only the gods would have an answer to. Candy was the first one to head outside the main deck. She walked over to us with her stilettos clacking like her mouth and said, "Well, look what we’ve got here. A pair of lovers enjoying the night." She pulled a chair and took a seat.

"What are you doing?" I asked, feeling outraged at her presence.

"We wanted to smell the roses. Oh, what do we have here? Like there are literal roses in the centre. How grand," she said mockingly.

Rocky said, in his slicked-back hair, "We wanted some alfresco. That’s why we’re here."

"Yeah. It’s stuffy inside. I think we’d have to wait an hour or so until the air conditioning’s back to full power," said Diana.

Soon, everyone was on the main deck. Erik sat across from me, next to Albert, while the other three Swedes pulled up chairs to sit beside him. The lesbian couple, Sheila and Tess, were in my row, sitting beside Candy, Emil, and Dan. Rocky sat across from Albert, as they were at opposite ends of the table. Diana sat on Rocky’s left, opposite Dan, with an empty seat beside her reserved for Lars. And Jeffrey, Candy’s boyfriend, was video-recording everyone. I honestly do not know what he’s doing. No one paid for a videographer.

I didn’t have time to process that my dinner date with Albert was being hijacked because the first-course meal was served as soon as they sat down at the table. Ryan, who appeared out of nowhere, was already explaining the meal.

"For the first course, we’ve got a sashimi of black bass with green strawberry-rose, strawberry-vinegar, and mint, paired with a 2016 Dry Rose of Sangiovese. Enjoy." Ryan scowled at the lesbian couple, who had apparently eagerly voiced their opinion of the service. He passed by the couple, curling his mouth.

"Is he going to come out and explain all the food? It looks a bit tiring, in my opinion."

Diana, in a sexy V-neck dress, said, "That’s their job, my dear. There's no sense in preventing the help from being the help."

"That’s right. Let the help be of service, as they say," said Rocky.

No one’s really said that, but you have, my friend. I glanced at Erik chatting with the Germans across the table when I said to Albert, "Sorry about this. Our dinner’s been hacked."

"It’s alright. There’ll be many dinners to come in the future."

I smiled at the notion of us spending lovely evenings like this. The next time we’re on a yacht, I’ll make sure it's just him and me enjoying ourselves. Then I heard that ingratiating voice say, "So, like Albert, what is it that you do back in the UK?"

I glanced at Candy, eating a slice of sashimi. She looked like she’d snarl at me if I pushed further. I answered, "He’s an entrepreneur—of things." Darting from my gaze at Albert, he snickered as we both went on eating our meals.

"What industry?" asked Rocky. "We might know the same people if we are in the same circle."

"Pharmaceutical," said Albert. "I sell drugs. Or buy them. Whichever goes." I snorted at the idea.

"Oh. I’m in stocks, bonds, and cash."

"You should exchange details, dear," said Diana. "You never know if Albert’s going to need an investment portfolio." I could smell the pyramiding scam in the air. But since they’re guests and paid passengers, I’ll let it pass.

The next course arrived, and Ryan described it as, "Classic king crab with citrus yoghurt and katrina cucumber, paired with 2015 Estate Chardonnay."

It was honestly delicious, and the yoghurt balanced well with the textures of the crab and the freshness of the cucumber, which excited my palate. I was becoming a food critic with how everyone was discussing the flavours of the food, like I had to give my opinion. I glanced at Albert, and he simply smiled. Erik kept on touching Albert’s arm whenever he’d need the approval of his stinky opinion. "Don’t you think the flavour blends well with the citrus?", "This wine is superb, don’t you agree?", "Don’t you love sitting outside and just smelling the ocean?"

What a piece of… Albert just nodded and said, "Yes. I think so too."

While I was there observing Erik and Albert’s one-sided conversation, I was busy slurping the crab legs, as they SHOULD be eaten, and wrecking the crab with a spoon to get the gizzards. I slurped so hard that everyone looked at me. Sheila also copied my style of deboning the piece of crustacean, and we were both slurping and sucking our way onto the plate. Everyone was quiet after that. They’re probably disgusted with pieces of crab innards on the side of my mouth, which, by the way, I was sure I had wiped with a napkin. Albert turned to me, gave me his napkin, and said, "You have, er, a piece of..."

"Where?"

"Right there?"

"Right where?" I asked.

I thought it was going to be a romantic moment for the two of us—him wiping the dangling crab meat off my chin, and me looking all love-struck and horny. But POS Erik mysteriously handed me a small pocket mirror and said, "You can look it up yourself. It’s right over there," so I had no choice but to wipe it myself. Erik, being the cockblocker that he is, asked Albert, "Have you watched this new film? It’s…"

Sitting there, I turned quiet for the next meal and the meal after that.

Four courses later, Ryan was in front of the table describing the final meal, the dessert. "We have a P.A. Bowen Farmstead Aquasco Jack with rhubarb jam, candied sunflower seeds, and vanilla-orange gastrique paired with a 2013 Temptation Zinfandel. Enjoy."

As the servers presented the food on the table, Sheila called over to Ryan and said, "Hey mate, is it really this small?"

Ryan said, slightly irked, "It’s a palate cleanser, madam. Do you want an entire plate of jam and crackers instead?" The way he said it sounded so condescending that I had to do a double take to see if Ryan had crossed the line. The Germans glanced at each other. Even the Swedes looked uncomfortable.

"Well… sure. I’m still not full," said Sheila, with her wife nodding sideways in the background. "Might as well have a plate of this tasty goo."

Ryan’s eyes lit up with the confirmation from his made-up (I mean, I made it up) arch-nemesis that his food was tasty. He quickly motioned to the servers to head over to the kitchen and prepare Sheila a tub of special crackers and jam. "Ok, madam. We will do as you wish."

"Did you hear that Tess, he’s doin’ everything that I wished for?" Bugger do I care, but this trip’s really been great," said Sheila, enjoying her plate. "5 stars all around, mate, I reckon."

As we ate our way through our own desert, Candy voiced an unwarranted opinion that no one asked for. "So Damien, who’s paying for who?"

"What?"

"Who’s paying for the food you’re eating?" There was a slight gust pertaining to everyone freezing up when they heard the question. Dan began choking on the sunflower seeds and drank a glass of wine. While giving me a sideways glance, Tess turned to her right to look at Candy, dangling her fork in the air. "Aren’t you a part of the staff, Damien?"

If Candy has figured out my true identity, it’s safe to assume that this bitch knows well that I own everything they see on this ship. She’s imploring me to use such tactics to reveal myself and catch it on camera. It was a complimentary dinner, anyway. So why is this bitch asking who’s paying for my food? What a kyoont.

"Er, well, er, it’s part of the package?" I said, making something up.

"So part of the package is for us to pay for your meal? I mean, like, we paid $30,000 per person, just to be on this trip. I mortgaged my car just so I could be here. And this meal, alone, costs at least $500." Jeffrey’s camera was on my face. Candy signalled for him to keep the focus on me as I covered my face, making me look like the guilty party.

"Hang on a moment, so you’re saying," said Rocky, throwing in the towel; he literally threw the table napkin on the table. "We overpaid?"

"No baby," said Diana, "It means… the help, being Damien, has taken advantage of the situation because of the colour of his skin." She then whispered or pretended to whisper into his ear, which was louder than usual, "You don’t see the brown-skinned people on this table, right? Look at him. He’s acting like he’s part of the guest."

"What the fu… I mean, what does that mean?" I said to this racist lady.

For more added drama, Emil pushed her chair away from the table and said, "Are you being counter-racist? Just because Damien is white doesn’t mean he has to be given prejudice for his skin colour."

What the fuck is a counter-racist?

"That’s right," said Dan, while giving another confusing opinion. "Nobody cares if you’re black or white. Everyone may sit at this table. Everyone should be who they are."

Erik chimed in. "I’m not saying it’s right. But if the indigenous community is left behind when a white-skinned person like him is clearly taking resources meant for the natives," he said, while pointing angrily at me, "that only means he’s a crook and a cheat."

Oh wow. So now I’m The Great Gatsby, suddenly. Then the eldest sitting at the table spoke. "I don’t know what’s going on, but all I’m saying is that Damien’s a nice bloke and I’m rooting for him," said Sheila. I liked that she was supporting me to a point that made little sense.

Everyone began arguing at the table. They left me to defend myself—mostly just me sitting there since someone or one person was defending me or putting me down. The conversation got confusing at some point, where the bone of contention fell in the hands of the Spaniards who colonised the Philippines for over 300 years, and there was a situational comparison to the creation of cryptocurrency, mostly started by one of the Swedes who kept swerving the conversation to Bitcoin.

All I noticed was that when Albert excused himself, which no one seemed to mind, Erik followed him. I wanted to get up and see how he was or what was going on with him. But whenever I tried to excuse myself, Candy would deposit another accusation that made the debate longer, strenuously making this debacle her longest and most watched video on YouTube and the stupidest debate I’ve ever seen in the longest time.

The bill, or the assumption that I was a freeloading pirate, was settled when it was agreed that I would pay back the $500 from their trip, which would be shafted from my salary (which doesn’t exist) since I own the fucking boat, and that this was a free dinner given to these heathens. They even got the captain on board, thanks to my marvellous winking at him to agree amicably to whatever they’re saying, taking matters into his own hands and punishing me with due diligence.

I could’ve easily thrown them off the ship, to be honest, if I really wanted to—have them fed to the sharks, just saying. But I was too exhausted, knowing that Albert and Erik may be somewhere on the ship having a nice time. Time with him that should’ve belonged to me. This night was the real cheat—not me.

Hours after the incident, or, let’s say, the unfair inquisition, I was smoking and drinking a bottle of beer on the fly bridge, chewing over something I didn’t understand. I sighed to myself, asking this very question: What am I doing here? Every answer pointed to Albert, no doubt. I wanted to move and force my feet to find him, but I wasn’t moving. A part of me said, give him space. Give him time. And that’s what I’m doing now, regardless of whether he’s having fun with Erik. I’m just here to wait. Or maybe I’m just being a coward in finding out the truth...

I took another sip, still trapped in my thoughts, and wondered, Is he okay?

"You have a light there, mate?"

I flinched at the husky voice behind me. When I peered over my shoulder, I made out the silhouette of a woman. How long had she been standing there? I listened to the clop of feet as she emerged in the shadows. An older lady with short white hair and a wrinkled neck; the matching duck polo and navy shorts were uncanny. Her large polo shirt was unflattering. She chose comfort. Definitely comfortable. She stopped by my side, poised with a cigarette dangling from her fingers.

I just threw my cigarette, so I said, "There’s a lighter hidden behind that box. There’s a match there."

She flicked her eyes over to me before walking to the glove compartment. She bent over and rummaged before straightening her back. Before the flame was exhausted, a glow illuminated her lined features. In its place, a trail of grey smoke curled above her head like a snake. Gazing at me with a pensive smile that edged her lips as she leaned back against the railing beside me, she kept an arm hoisted with her cigarette.

"So what brings you here, mate?"

Pondering the cause of the loneliness, I said, "Getting a breather."

"Ah."

"And you?"

"My wife’s getting a massage in our room," said Tess. She inhaled her cigarette and smiled wryly. "I’d rather smoke and drink beer. It’s healthier. Don’t tell her."

"Sounds lovely," I said with a smirk.

"That's right." Her lips curled. "As energetic as these nights can be, I play my part as the supporting wife by supporting my vices."

She blew out another puff of smoke, and I understood why she'd been hiding in the dark. I gazed up at the clearest of the night skies before taking a slow sip of my drink. I could hear the fizz of burning tobacco as Tess sucked and blew out an intoxicating breath. I played with my drink, twirling the beer in my fingers as she peered sideways, looking in my direction.

"How are you coping?"

I glanced her way, weirded out by her statement. "Sorry, what?"

"Your friend. The short guy—he’s sick, isn’t he?"

"Sick?" I mumbled. I was confused about why I had agreed with the sentiment. "Oh. Yeah."

"He was hiding in the toilet, crying. Then he went scuba diving with that bloke with a pretty face like nothing had happened. Afterward, I saw him looking over the waters like his pet had died. It’s like two different people. I don’t assume he has a twin, does he?"

"No," I said, looking at her. "He was crying?"

"Yeah. I thought you knew. You’re together, aren’t you?"

"We’re not together."

Her mouth tilted as she replied. "Ok. If you say so."

"But I’d like to… I mean, no. We’re not."

Her gaze returned to me with a subtle glint. "You know, my wife wasn’t always perky, happy, and bubbly like she is now."

"What happened?" I said, taking a sip.

"She's lost our first child. And our second. And our third. That was tough. Tough for me, but it broke her. It took her five years before she got over that." She pulled out her wallet and took out a photo. She then showed me a picture of her and Sheila with their five adult kids surrounding them. "Now we have five and twelve grandkids."

"Nice family."

"Thanks."

"Why are you telling me this?"

The woman’s dark eyes inspected me before sweeping a glance to the stairs leading down to the cabins. She drew the cigarette from her lips and dropped it to the floor. Her heel scraped it flat with her gaze still fixed on me.

"He’s going to need every support he can. I don’t know his story or your story, mate. But all I can say is he’s experienced loss, and it can drive anyone mad."

I wondered what she meant by it. "What do you mean?"

"Your man has lost someone. Someone, or something, in his life has died. Either you stay with him, or you let him be so he could heal. There are no options or choices in this. It's just the fact that you’re there, or you’re not. Choose your poison carefully, mate."

"Poison?"

"Yeah. Because at the end of the day, you’ll be purging it out of his system, or he’ll do it for himself. Make no mistake, depression’s a poison that eats anyone alive." She was about to leave when she said, "Oh, and by the way, I like your yacht. Really fancy."

Without another word, she glided back to the stairs on her way down to the cabins.

While I, without uttering a word and without an ounce of hesitation, ran down the stairs to find him. Soon. And fast.