I BOARD EARL GREY’S BOAT. It’s one of those ridiculously large yachts, like in a rap video. We’re about to cross the Pacific Ocean, which has since been filled back up with rainwater since Earl drained it to save me. It’s amazing how Mother Nature can repair herself after we damage her. We’ll soon be en route to our fantasy Hawaiian suite, only a day after the horrible incident at the Space Needle. Earl thought I might need the vacation now, as I’ve been a little shaken up after almost killing the lead singer of the Icy Dragons.
After boarding the boat, the first thing I do is throw my arms in the air and yell, “I’m on a boat, motherfu—”
Earl cuts me off by raising a finger to his mouth and shushing me. He points to a sign that reads: PLEASE, FOR THE SAKE OF OTHER PASSENGERS’ SANITY, NO “I’M ON A BOAT” REFERENCES. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION.
Oh. Drats.
There’s another sign just below that one that answers my next question: YOU ARE NOT THE KING OF THE WORLD, JACK.
“So I can’t say ‘I’m on a boat’ or do any Titanic impressions? What are we supposed to do on a five-hour boat ride?”
“I think that’s obvious,” Earl says wickedly.
I smile. Oh yeah. Here we go.
“Fish,” he says.
I frown. Fish? Really? “What kind of fishing?”
“Tuna,” he says, smiling again. He winks at me.
“Ew,” I say. “Was that supposed to be sexy?”
“It was supposed to be. My dirty talk doesn’t turn you on?”
I shake my head. “Sometimes. But comparing a woman’s vagina to a fish is unacceptable.”
“What if I said ‘goldfish’? Goldfish are colorful and uniquely beautiful. Like you, my dearest Anna.”
I shake my head again. “Just stop. No fish.”
“Okay, then what did you have in mind?”
“Drop the double entendres and let’s move on to another F-word.”
“Oh, Anna,” he says. “I thought you’d never ask. Food it is, then! Let’s go eat in the dining hall.”
It wasn’t the F-word I had in mind, of course (it was actually two F-words: friending and Facebook), but it works. I’m hungry. Plus I don’t even have a Facebook account.
The boat is now sailing on the open water. We sit down at a table in the boat’s dining room, which turns out to be an Olive Garden. “I hope you like Italian food, Anna. Olive Garden is my favorite,” Earl says as a waiter drops off two menus for us.
What do I say? I mean, yes, I love Italian food . . . but I don’t know anyone who would mistake Olive Garden for real Italian food. “I like the breadsticks,” I say cheerfully.
He laughs. “You can be honest, Anna.”
Okay, if he wants to hear it . . . “I think Olive Garden noodles taste like microwaved plastic spoons,” I say. “And don’t get me started on their clumpy sauce. They should change their name to ‘Shitaly.’”
Earl gazes at me. I’m sure he’s going to toss me off the boat like chum for a shark. Instead, he just smiles. “I couldn’t agree more. And that’s why I love it. It’s another of my fifty shames, Anna.”
Wow. He’s bearing his soul to me. This is deep.
“You’re a strange man, Mr. Grey.”
“Just wait until we get to Hawaii,” he says. “You have no idea how strange I am.”
The waiter returns, and Earl orders two of everything on the menu. I’m beginning to think his relationship with food is a little screwed up. It’s a miracle that he’s in shape and has washboard abs. If I ate like he did, I would need liposuction once a week. He laughs when I tell him this.
“Oh, Anna,” he says. “If I waited a full week to have liposuction, there’s no way my abs would look like this. I have a doctor come in and suck out my fat every Monday and Thursday.”
“Do you think that’s healthy?”
“It can’t hurt,” he says.
I’m still unsure. “I’ve heard stories of people dying or being seriously injured due to cosmetic surgery.”
“Oh Anna, it’s not surgery; it’s a new procedure called ‘manual suction.’ A doctor comes over and literally sucks the fat off me twice a week using a Dirt Devil.”
It’s useless to argue with the great and mighty Earl Grey—if he can buy it, then it has to be good, right?
I am glad that he’s revealing more of himself to me. No matter how shameful his activities are (eating at Olive Garden, shopping at Walmart, paying for sex), they don’t discourage me from getting close to him. If anything, I feel a stronger connection to him with each new revelation. Is there a point where I will be overwhelmed and unable to handle his secrets? Is there something so shameful that it will cause me to leave him forever? How dark can things get?
After we finish eating, I retire to the upper deck to sunbathe. I’ve brought all 1,200 pages (or whatever) of Earl’s quiz to read through again. Earl lounges on one of the lower decks, buying and selling companies on his BlackBerry.
It takes me over three hours to read through the quiz for the second time. When I’m finished, I pick up my iPad and sit under an umbrella so I can have some shade while typing. I start the e-mail app.
From: Anna Steal <annasteal@hotmail.com>
Subject: Let’s Talk About Us
Date: May 23 5:05 PM
To: Earl Grey <earlgrey50@hotmail.com>
So I revisited the quiz. And I still think you’re insane if you want me to fill it out.
Let’s begin with the obtrusive questions about “hard limits.” Am I interested in “acts involving urine, feces, fireworks, golf clubs, or animals”? Um, no. Disgusting.
Also: The questions about what parts of my life I would let you control? Over the line. No way am I going to let you tell me what to eat, or when to eat it. Is this a romantic relationship or Weight Watchers?
Anna
_____________________
Less than a minute later, there’s a reply from Earl Grey. Somebody clearly wasn’t busy enough.
_____________________
From: Earl Grey <earlgrey50@hotmail.com>
Subject: Okay
Date: May 23 5:06 PM
To: Anna Steal <annasteal@hotmail.com>
Dear Miss Steal—
The hard limits are negotiable. I find that it’s always best to discuss these things in advance, however, so that you don’t wake up one morning with a Cleveland steamer on your chest and wonder what you’ve gotten yourself into.
The dietary restrictions are also up for negotiation. You don’t have to eat from a prescribed list of foods all the time if that’s not what you want. We can compromise. For instance, I can provide a list of foods to be eaten as snacks (baby carrots?).
Earl Grey
CEO, The Earl Grey Corporation
_____________________
I e-mail back that baby carrots might be an acceptable compromise. After I hit “send,” I put the iPad into sleep mode and set it aside. I recline in the lawn chair and close my eyes, ready to nap under the shade. Before I can drift off, however, something tickles my face. I open my eyes and what I come face-to-face with is definitely not a baby carrot.
I glance up at Earl’s grinning face. “We’ve got about an hour left,” he says. “I have an F-word in mind that can keep us occupied . . .”
After we run through a fire drill, Earl and I stroll to the front of the yacht to get a good view of our destination. I haven’t told him about the baby yet. He’s going to blame me for it; I need to wait for the right time to tell him he’s going to be a father.
“Have you ever been to Hawaii?” he asks me.
I shake my head. “I’ve never left the United States.” In the distance, I can see the sun setting over the Pacific Ocean. In the middle of the great big blue sea, a series of islands covered in beautiful lush green vegetation rises majestically.
“I can’t believe you have a place in Hawaii,” I say.
“I have an island in Hawaii,” he says.
Swoon.