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The underbelly of a cruise ship: part one
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For a brief period (two years) of opportunistic curiosity, I worked on cruise ships, or, as I lovingly referred to them, three thousand drunks and one designated driver. I had heard it was one of the easiest ways to sit back and make a very decent buck. I had also heard it was one of the easiest ways to lose your soul. I never actively pursued it. One night, after performing in a huge theater, I was approached by the booking representative of one of the major cruise lines.
Let’s just say, for the ease and sake of my handlers here at Examiner, that it was no particular world class cruise company. If it sounds anywhere from vaguely to frighteningly familiar, you’ve been either a passenger or a colleague.
The ‘guest performer’ rank, like any other rank, has its privileges. One of the main privileges is a unique perspective on many levels (no pun... well, yeah we’ll get into that in a bit). First of all, you join the cruise halfway into its week. You are replacing another performer who has been on the ship since the middle of the previous week, and so on, etc, ad infinitum et tu Brute.
In a nutshell, you finish their week by performing at the Farewell Show, stay on board as that bunch of passengers leave the next day (and a new batch come on board) and then perform that night at the Welcome Aboard show. You stay until you're replaced mid-week by another guest entertainer and the whole thing starts to look like an Escher print. This way the passengers get to see two different guest performers. By the way, by ‘guest performer’ (and if you don’t know by now), I mean that I’ve paid the bills for the last thirty years making a living as a (groan, I hate telling people this) comedian.
I got to stay in the crew section, which is the one part of the ship where the crew doesn’t have to smile- and they freakin' don’t. Anywhere outside the crew section, it’s Gopher, Julie and Captain Stubing. Anywhere inside the crew section, Das Boot.
The crew is said to be comprised of some fifty five nationalities. Up top, everybody works together in a living It’s A Small World tapestry. Down below, everybody keeps to their own countrymen. The crew cafeteria, which was just a few yards from the comedian’s quarters, was the closest thing to a prison mess hall I’d ever seen. All the different groups stick to themselves in every nook and cranny. They all stop talking long enough to look up and give you the stink eye. You are, after all, the fifty sixth nationality. You’re the guest performer for the week
The crew’s animosity for the guest performer can be anywhere from passive to unbridled. They resent you. You are an intruder, making a lot of money for very little work, while they have to scrub toilets and adhere to a ‘ten foot rule’. The ten foot rule states that every crew member has to smile when coming within ten feet of a passenger.
They leave their dirty dishes outside your door. Don’t bother leaving the ‘do not disturb’ sign outside your door, if you even have one. They’ll steal it or reverse it just for kicks. One dancer in the onboard production company even said, “Oh, you’re the comedian? I’m going to (bodily function) on your door tonight when I get back.”
Oh, there’s another perk to your living quarters. It’s directly below the crew gymnasium. Let me rephrase that- it’s directly below the 24/7 crew gymnasium. No, let me put it this way- it’s directly below the weight room of the 24/7 crew gymnasium.
Next chapter: It’s showtime!
Stay tuned, my babies.
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