"When are we going to meet at the greasy chopstick next?" I asked.

            Greasy chopstick wasn't fair. The sushi restaurant Beth and I were sitting in had been recommended from several different people who told me it was the best in New York City, even the best outside of Tokyo. I live near the United Nations, and hearing favorable praise as such from diplomats, and the people who worked for them, well, how could I resist? Beth and I talked as we dined on sashimi and raw ginger, commenting to each other quietly that we were the only Caucasians in the whole restaurant, which was quite busy. Everyone else was Japanese, which was a noticeable fact 95% of the time I ate there–the ultimate seal of approval.

            That system of culinary logic reminded me of a restaurant from my youth, 1,000 years ago really. It was a place called The White Kitchen. My family would often drive up the Gulf Coast to Pass Christian, and along the way we always stopped to enjoy a meal there. It was a tradition. We began going initially because we'd noticed all the truck drivers were parked there, which according to legend is supposed to be a good sign. If the truckers who were on the road all the time frequented this road-side chophouse, it had to be good. And it was. The sushi restaurant was the same. Filled with Japanese who were familiar with, and loved sushi and sashimi, it had be good. It was great.

            On the whole, it was one of the cleanest, tightly-run places I've ever been to. The fish they served was so fresh, there was no odor. The staff was so tip-top, correct and friendly that you didn't even realize you needn't lift a finger. The little bathroom down the hall in the back was so spotless you could probably have eaten in there too. Clean and precise. Perfect, in fact. This all probably contributed to the moment Beth and I spontaneously christened it "the greasy chopstick." It was funny every time we said it, especially when we were in there. We giggled and laughed like everything had always been okay.

            My relationship with Beth began on my first boat trip; actually, it began a bit before that. However, when I say "boat trip," I don't mean a Swan Boat trip in the lagoon at Audubon Park, or the Circle Line around the Hudson, or even the President Paddle Wheel up and down the Mississippi in New Orleans. What I'm talking about is the newest, most magnificent ocean liner there is; the Queen Mary II.

            That "a bit before" the boat trip was actually a very hot and sticky day in Manhattan. I was running late, crawling out of a subway carrying two floor lamps and pair of shopping bags full of heavy brass accessories. I was on my way to an Architectural Digest event at Doris Lesley Blau's new antique shop in the Fuller building, and was to meet Harry at 5:15 PM. Harry is my best friend.

            When I reached the top of the subway stairs, I peeled my cell phone out of my pocket and saw that I had many messages. As I listened to each one, I became increasingly enraged. They were all from Harry.

            "Where are you?" Beep. "I've been waiting in front of this building for fifteen minutes." Beep.

             "I told you, you shouldn't be late." Beep. "It's hot, hot, hot outside!" Beep. "Where are you?" Beep.

             "If you're not here in five minutes, we'll never be friends again. I'll never talk to you again. I'm serious, Marc." Beep.

            "Goddamit, I'm leaving here if you're not here in the next two minutes. Fuck you. Fuck you." Beep.

            These messages had all been left in a tone of fierce anger, and all in the course of four minutes. When I rounded the corner, I cut through the festering crowd of people baking in the sun, walked from the sauna-like 59th Street subway stop at Bloomingdales, across the sizzling block to Park Avenue, and then down the blistering block down to Madison. That's when I spied Harry. He clasped his cell phone shut (no doubt calling me again) and looked up. We said nothing. When he realized I was drenched wet with perspiration and weighed down with enormous lamps and chunky shopping bags, his facial expression gradually changed from acrimonious to neutral. He'd decided to play it safe, although I did catch a glimpse of his face looking slightly ashamed. But maybe it was just melting.

            I'd gotten to him, but he wouldn't let go of his bravado.

            "I really thought you wouldn't show up. I was gonna leave here." he finally said, looking down at the ground as we trudged along.

            "Eat my ass Harry, you're a dick" was my angry, yet whimsical repartee.

            The city was having the kind of weather that really made you just want to get away, more than anything else. Or maybe just get way from everyone else.

            We reached the building and practically fell into the front door. I was immediately relaxed physically and mentally from the flush of wonderful, cool air. So refreshing, like being re-born–just what the doctor ordered. We went up in the elevator, and I suddenly remembered what a wonderful building it was. We walked into the gallery, still growling and nipping at each other, and started to mingle and chat with those already there. All anybody talked about initially was the weather. Suddenly, I was approached by one of the attendees. She walked straight up to me, this bright, pretty, fresh-faced girl with blond hair, smiling and looking rather charmed and excited. She told me her name was Beth, and then asked if I was Marc Charbonnet. I told her it was nice to meet her, and said "Yes, I'm Marc Charbonnet." I'm always secretly delighted when people approach and ask me that. I find it amazing that I'm known without knowing who others are. It has never stopped being a little thrill, and I allow myself that.

            She looked right at me and said, "Would you like to go on the Queen Mary?"

            Not quite understanding what she was talking about at first, and realizing that Harry was probably still pouting right beside me, my first impression was that she was the most polite fag hag I had ever encountered. Then I realized she was asking me about a boat.

            Still hesitant, I asked, "What's the Queen Mary?"

            "It's the new Cunard Ocean Liner. The biggest and best that's ever been made." she replied.

            "Oh, it is?” I said.

            "We're asking different interior designers if they would like to go." she continued.

            "Well, how much does it cost?" I asked, and before she could finish saying it was actually free, I was saying, "Oh yes, yes!"

            "You can bring a guest too," she went on, "and all you need to do in return is give a speech or two on interior design while aboard."

            I looked over at Harry, who earlier had been snapping and grr-ing, but having overheard the whole thing, now had quiet, puppy dog eyes.

            "Oh no. It won't be you." I said calmly with a smile.

            But after a couple of drinks and a few hors d'oeuvres, and the flowing conversation, I laughed and said to Beth, "Oh yes. Harry would love to go... the Queen Mary is for us." and Harry piped in and announced that it would be perfect because I was a Queen and he was a Mary. See?

            It would be several weeks before we could even get the boat trip plans ironed out, and many, many more months after that before the boat would finally disembark. This was August, and the boat wouldn't be leaving until June. Almost a year! I was told that the boat hadn't even made its maiden voyage, and we would be on what was called the "first run" of maiden voyages.

            So that was how I met Beth. It was because of her that Harry and I would be able to take this holiday, quite unexpectedly. The entire thing was a wonderful surprise, it was literally like a game show on television; "Come on down!" But, I began to equate that sort of happiness with Beth, I found her absolutely charming. She and I began seeing each other in rapid succession at different Architectural Digest events during that year. She didn't work in editorial, but in marketing, and was in charge of building up clients. This involved getting them excited through meetings with the designers, and following through on ideas that would come from marketing to get these people excited to, say... be at a party at the new Lalique shop on Madison, or a get-together at Christie's, or showing a new dress line at Miu Miu–you get the picture. There's always something, a new furniture line, a new dress line, a new automobile showing. So I of course would always be at these things, and we became very friendly. The year passed quickly.

            I was scheduled to give two talks during the week-long trip. As the decorator/designer on board, I felt I had to look and play the role. Why not? When packing, I loaded up on the necessities; ascots, blazers, dinner jackets, tuxedos, four or five pairs of shoes, two beautiful panama hats, and pocket squares that were precious vintage Hermes or Versace. You know, just in case. I felt I was ready for my close-up, and could not have been happier with the new extra luggage I had to buy in order to fit it all.

            As the day grew closer, I learned that we were going to be eating our meals in the Princess Room. Oh, how exciting! I knew I would feel so much more at home in the Princess Room, it was far finer than the main dining hall, the Britannia. Soon, I found out more details about the accommodations, and it all just kept getting better and better. I soon realized we were going to be traveling so very, very first class. I learned we would be staying in a state room that had a small seating area, two full size beds and a full bathtub in our bathroom. The room also included butler service, and a very large private deck that overlooked the ocean. I was beaming!

            big day finally came. I was going to arrive on the dock with hat boxes and gaggles of luggage, ready to make my entrance. But when my car approached the boarding gate and I got out, I realized there was some sort of snafu. Everyone was being told that the Queen Mary was experiencing a temporary delay. We were instructed to walk from the pier, and wait en masse at the Sheraton Hotel on 7th  Avenue and 50th Street, in the grand ballroom, until the matter had been attended to. The crew would come and retrieve us when they were done. They smiled and coddled and apologized as they told all of us all of this, and were so, so sorry for the inconvenience. But, there was undercurrent of stress in their tone. One of the attendant's faces lit up when she patted a piece of my suite of  T. Anthony luggage (purchased at a House Sale at Christie's), and told me I could keep it there to be brought on board ahead of me.

            Not the way you want to begin a long cruise in the middle of the ocean. What could they possibly be doing that they wanted all of the passengers away from view of the ship to do? Openly seeing crew members performing repair work on a cruise ship would probably make passengers feel safer. I began to wonder.

            We were soon rounded up again and told to return to the ship, and I got my answer (via the quickly spreading gossip). An elderly man had died on the voyage from Southampton, and his corpse was being unloaded. Yep, they were right, that would've been a downer to see. Actually, I always thought they threw those bodies overboard, but I guess that's an urban legend.

            We finally boarded the Queen Mary. I imagined in my head a little champagne bottle crashing on the front of the ship to christen our trip. With me holding it, of course. I walked around and began calling Harry on my cell phone. We hadn't actually met up, but had agreed to meet in the ship's ballroom after we both got on. I walked and walked, and when I finally found what I thought must be the ballroom, I looked around and was taken aback. Everywhere I looked I saw old people. I mean, really very old, like a retirement village. Bald heads, gray heads, shrunken heads, wheelchairs and walkers and oxygen tanks. You just wouldn't believe the people you saw; I couldn't believe some of them would even be able to take a week at sea. There were banquet tables with large trays of cold cuts, which had apparently been laid out to appease everyone after the unanticipated stiff-handling wait and hold up at the Sheraton.

            I approached an employee, who was helping an elderly woman in a wheelchair wipe cheese and crackers off of her blouse, and asked, "Where is the waiting room for the Queen Mary?"

            She looked up in mid-wipe and cheerily said, "You're here Sir!"

            "Where are the young people?" I straight-out asked.

            "You’re the young people." she said with a look of slight abdication.

            I looked again through the room, and suddenly I spied in the far corner of the ballroom, Harry. He had his cell phone to his ear, and a look of disbelief on his face. As I had mine to my ear as well the whole time, he had actually overheard this woman tell me that this indeed was the room, which he was also having a hard time believing. I see... they had neglected to tell us we would be traveling on a floating old-folks home.

            Strike one.

            I sat down for what seemed like the first time all day. Harry joined me, and we chatted about the situation. I guess it wasn't all bad. Suddenly a woman next to us began to get up, and tripped around and twirled. Harry leapt up and caught her, thank God, and placed her back in her chair as she gasped for air and praised him repeatedly. I wouldn't be surprised if she put him in her Will.

            "Good Lord," I thought to myself, "we might have our first broken hip before we even leave land." Was there a hospital on this thing? Or a morgue? Perhaps I should have taken it as a sign, one of those little disastrous events at the beginning of a trip that seems like it's trying to tap you on the shoulder and let you know that something's off. But I'd already agreed to the deal.        

            I decided I wouldn't let it dampen my spirits, and popped a Dramamine. I'd never taken Dramamine before, but decided to try it because I'd heard it would keep me from becoming seasick. Harry and I decided to just make the best of it and enjoy ourselves, and headed over to the first class area. On the way, we chatted about how it was good that we both knew CPR, in case we needed to resuscitate anyone before trip's end. It was just then when it struck me that these people were going to be the audience for my speeches.

            We arrived at the ship's first class admittance area, and it was a ghost town. There was nobody around. We kept walking and walking, went up several ramps, still no one around. It began to occur to me how big a ship like this actually was. Soon we reached at least a few more human beings, who smiled at us, and then suddenly there were some waiters handing us champagne. We had arrived! We caught our breath and approached the area where I was told to go. We looked back, and now could see almost two blocks away from where we were, an enormous area with mobs and rows and crowds of people. "Oh, they must be the steerage." I thought.

            I found the appropriate person and, relieved, handed him my ticket. He looked down, and then up at me, and said, "There’s a mistake."

            "A mistake?" I said.

            "Yes," he replied, "You're not staying on the eighth level, in suite 898, You're on the ninth level, in room 978." I just stood there looking at him. The difference between a suite and a cabin is huge, which I could see on the floor plan he was pointing to as he explained this to me. Actually, I just guessed, because the whole time he was talking my face had been locked with his. If you'd peeled away my mask of composure, you might have seen the face of a baby about to cry. Harry just stood next to me, perplexed.

            Having that particular room was one of the main reasons I had been looking forward to this trip. This couldn't be happening. I couldn't imagine what sort of horror was going to await us at the next level. Were we going to be given janitor uniforms and mops and told where to report for duty? Have to row the oars? Walk the plank? Suddenly I broke my zombie-like calm and said briskly, "How can that be? I received this information months ago."

            "Well, somebody made a mistake, you should actually be checking in over there." he replied almost cheerily, as he pointed way over to the riot we had just looked at a few blocks away.

            "With that crowd?" I asked, almost pleading.

            "Yes." he said, abruptly loosing his smile.

            Strike two.

            That's when the fact that this wasn't just a bad joke hit me. Tremendous disappointment seemed to close over me like an iron maiden. I was supposed to travel like a star in a state room with lots of closets and baskets of fruit. Now they were telling me I was going to be in a closet, and would have to shout my lecture to a room full of hearing aids. What a bitter pill. Suddenly, these mysterious feelings of pure rage just seemed to come right out of me. I almost became like another person, and seemed only slightly in control of my actions.

            "I'm NOT going into any other area!" I stomped my foot and shouted. "This is where I was told that I should board the ship!"

            This man had been so nice, and actually quite correct, but he obviously wasn't familiar with people who could have such a conniption. He signaled for assistance, and a small crowd started to gather around me.

            I was approached by a public relations man, who asked "Is there a problem?"

            "There's a HUGE PROBLEM!" I turned to him and said without missing a beat.

            It was explained to me that I had been misinformed. The cabin that I would occupy was actually a level higher, and half the size of the suite. Plus it had no bathtub and no butler service. Well, that just wasn't going to do. I pointed to my boarding pass and said "This states the eighth level!"

            The public relations man at the counter said, "This is your room," pointing to level nine, "this is where you're staying."

            "This is NOT where I'm staying!" I shouted.

            I made such a scene that people stepped back two or three steps. The whole time Harry was trying to calm me down, "Marc, relax, relax, it's fine... it's going to be okay." I'd gone from being the delightful, colorful guest interior designer... to the most ugly, horrible American tourist you've ever hated. Oh, Jesus, what a mistake. I screamed and hollered and ranted and raved, stopping at nothing until I got what I wanted. I wanted opulence, and I wanted it NOW!

            Some woman who was an even higher-up had to be called. The poor thing wasn't even in her little uniform, and had to be dragged down from her room. She was obviously asleep from the exhausting docking preparations, which included sneaking a corpse off board. Now she stood bleary-eyed and puffy-faced in front of this enormous man, screaming and hollering and waving his hands in the air, holding his hat-boxes and demanding to be placed in his eighth level room. She again explained that there had been some sort of incident where, obviously, this information had been misprinted and given to me. She was so very sorry, but she assured me that I would love my room, and she would love to show it to me.

            When we all walked into my room, the stewards were just standing around looking at me. They didn't know where my luggage was. Unable to resist, I said "Of course you don't know where my luggage is! It was sent to the room that I was told I was staying in! Go there immediately and get my luggage!" Oh boy. Most of them scrambled away, and those that stayed chatted with me, amazingly, and that's when one of them accidentally dropped the bomb. I found out that John Cleese, of Monty Python fame, was staying in my original eighth level room. They had given my room away to him at the last minute. He was also, as they had referred to me, "entertainment," and would be performing on stage, yapping about comedy for his free ride. I would be in the hand-me-down room right above him.

            Strike one million

            Our little steward wandered in and said, "Sir, is there anything I can do to make this easier for you?"

            "Just get me to London as soon as possible!" I screamed with a shrill voice, practically blowing him out of the room and slamming the door with the sheer power of my lungs. We sat there with no luggage, which contained my many dapper decorator outfits. I felt like my trip was turning into an episode of Fawlty Towers.

            Harry, who had just about had enough of my ranting and raving, broke the silence by telling me he saw all the maids and stewards down the hall (they were all from Mexico, Panama and Ecuador) trying on my jackets and imitating me, screaming and hollering, "I'm not going!" and wearing my clothes as they laughed. Of course this wasn't true, but it made for good laughs later. Like it does now.

            As the stewards were finally delivering my luggage and then running away as fast as they could, I decided to call Beth. I needed a friend. I didn't reach her, but left a message. "Beth," I said seeking commiseration, "you can't believe this injustice. They told me I was traveling at the Princess level, eating in the Princess room and everything. Now they've forced me into the Britannia. It's a big old folks home's dining room! It's just awful. Awful! How can this be?

            Then I got a little carried away. That ended up being the first of about twenty phone calls that I made to her, each more frantic and upset than the last, and probably sounding a bit blaming, even though that wasn't my intent. Beth wasn't really aware that this type of behavior was part of my personality. It's true. I didn't only call her, I called everyone I knew (to the tune of how many dollars, I don't know). Crying and pleading, saying I didn't want to go.

            In between the phone calls, Harry kept running into the room, then out again, then back a while later. Each time he was out of breath, and gasping and telling me how fabulous the ship was. While I was having a pity party, he was running around the ship, exploring it all, enjoying it... and life. Ugh, what a big baby, what an asshole I was!

            I was inconsolable, just crushed. What a huge let down. Actually, if I had known what I ended up with were what the original arrangements were, I would have been thrilled just the same. But being told you have a butler, a bathtub, a large area to sit, and a huge sleeping area and a tremendous private deck all for yourself, and then shown half of that, and then find out you were lied to and bumped-down... well, it's hard not to feel pathetic. It was a perfect situation if someone wanted to feel sorry for themselves. So much for making the best of it.

            Although, even to this day, I wonder if it had just been timing. I didn't know until after the fact, but apparently it had been the Dramamine that I had a reaction to. In retrospect, I did act a bit like a dope fiend denied his fix.

            There was a huge fireworks display going on right outside the window, in celebration of the Olympic torch being run through the city (which we had seen being carried by in a precession while sitting around on 6th Avenue waiting for the boat to smuggle off the cadaver). I thought the fireworks display had been near the pier, but soon realized it was actually being held on the Queen Mary itself, as the boat left at the opening of the Atlantic Ocean's channel out to sea. It was so loud, and you could hear the crowd going "ohh" and "ahh." I wouldn't even turn my head slightly to look out the window. I was so angry. It's my geriatric, second-class, luggage-less, John Cleese-hating, corpse-smuggling cruise ...and I'll cry if I want to!

            To calm myself I just kept sporadically making phone calls to poor Beth. I always got her home voice mail.

            Later, I calmed down and we went to dinner. As we approached the Britannia, I looked deep inside myself and discovered I still had a stockpile of axes to grind. I flatly told the people in the restaurant that I refused to sit at a table with "...other old people." Harry was speechless. So they smiled, said "Right this way Sir!" and proceeded to lead Harry and me through an obstacle course across the arena-like dining area, a collision course of walkers, people movers, wheelchairs and tripping over people's canes and crutches, which were strewn here and there, not to mention the people using them. It took five minutes to walk from the entrance to where they finally sat us. They said "Here you are!" and plopped us down literally at the absolute worst possible table in the whole grand place, a two-seater by the kitchen door, practically in front of it.

            Touché.

            There was a huge stack of walkers near our table, and next to that a bunch of baby chairs. The end and the beginning, all displayed on the side of the staircase. It was so funny to see a baby chair near our table. "Who's going to need it? A bib maybe, but not a baby chair!" I said to Harry with a slight sneer. "There are no babies on board this boat."

            I lit up a bit when I saw that we had two divinely handsome Nordic servers. They could not have been nicer, and spoke at just the right screaming level to drown out the clamoring crash of dishes, plates, and silverware were being thrown into the bins a mere two inches behind my head. How delightful.    

            After that rocky send-off, more time passed (and all of the Dramamine wore off). The iceberg that had threatened to sink my whole trip thawed, and I warmed up. I began to enjoy myself.  We got into the routine of things, and I realized how wonderful the whole boat really was. It's amazingly enormous, like a floating city. My talks ended up being a success, and no one needed to strain to hear them.

            We'd get dressed for dinner every night, and the meals were great. I could be seated with anyone. Some nights we would gamble in the casino, chat with the other youngsters (young being under 50 years old–there weren't many of us). I even won the karaoke contest a couple of times. On several evenings, we tried out the ballroom dancing area. I'll confess I had actually taken months of ballroom dancing in anticipation of the trip. On my first opportunity to try out my skills, I joined the ship's matron in a Rumba, and almost dislocated her neck when I stepped on her gown's train! She was indignant, and Harry was just laughing as he sat in the gallery watching the carnage I had caused on the ballroom floor.

            Harry's birthday coincidentally occurred while we were on board, and I'm glad it did. We had an unforgettable party for him in the Britannia room, with him plopped unexpectedly in front of a lit birthday cake, suddenly being surrounded by a crowd of old people who automatically seemed drawn to the celebration, advancing on him with their walkers and canes, clapping and grinning. It was like Dawn of the Nearly Dead. We were all laughing so hard we had tears in our eyes.

            One night we went to the discotheque. It took quite a while to get there, two elevators and two long walks. When we entered, there was a lot of frantic dancing, screaming and singing going on with all the music and strobe lights. I remember the first night we went, I asked a girl to dance. She was the youngest person I could find in the dark disco. I was a little shocked when she politely refused, and I said, "Oh come on, everybody's dancing in here!" She said "No," firmly. I actually took it a bit hard. I went back to the room, and was actually sitting on the bed pouting, again.

            The situation took me back to memories of the 8 O'Clocks in New Orleans. 8 O’Clocks was a pre-debutante dance where parents sent their kids to learn to how to socialize. I'd go, and no one ever wanted to dance with me. So I wound up sitting on the sidelines and eating too many desserts. Eating desserts and playing with decorations, and watching my brothers and cousins dance. Do I sound like I'm feeling sorry for myself? Guilty. I think more than anything I might have been projecting onto the woman in the disco, as I think I saw a bit of myself in her, from the beginning of the trip, Her refusing to lighten up and enjoy herself was me refusing to lighten up and enjoy myself earlier. My attempt to bring her to the "other side" was really my confirming my ability to do the same, and it felt like a rejection of that. I told Harry what had happened, and he was such a good friend, he just piped up and said, "Don't let it get to you."

            I told him that it actually really did, and began to explain my psychoanalysis. Finally Harry huffed his hands in the air and interrupted, shouting with a broad smile, "The hell with this. Let's go down there again!" practically forcing me to go. So smart. We got back down there and walked in, and I turned so I had my back to the woman in question. I said to Harry, "Look. She's right there, with brown hair." Harry suddenly had the oddest look on his face, his mouth rounded and his eyes were just staring. I said, "What?"

             "Turn around slowly." he said.

            "I don't want to." I said.

            "No. You have to turn around, slowly." he said almost excitedly.

            I pretended to be looking at a neon light fixture, and turned around to sneak a peek. To my surprise, I saw that the woman I had asked to be my dance partner stood no higher than three and a half feet. She was a dwarf!

 

Part two of The Boat…next Monday.