2300 hours. 120 miles from St. Lucia.
Julian had a monster migraine. Soon after he turned forty, the debilitating headaches began. He had assumed the worst, a brain tumor. For a few weeks he avoided seeing a doctor because he couldn’t face having his worst fears confirmed. But Roger made him go after he found him sitting in a corner of their bathroom in a pool of his own vomit. They went to the neurologist together, holding hands in the waiting room even though both of their palms were clammy, and Roger left his side only when the radiation tech forced him outside.
“Migraines,” the doctor said, after an excruciating wait for the results. “Your MRI and CT were clean. It all makes sense. The vomiting. The waves in your vision.”
Julian and Roger exhaled, a collective breath that ruffled the papers on the doctor’s desk.
“It’s not a tumor,” Roger said in Arnold Schwarzenegger’s voice from Kindergarten Cop and they all started laughing, though it couldn’t be the first time the neurologist had heard the joke.
“But I’ve never had them before,” Julian said. “How could they just start out of nowhere?”
The doctor, a white-haired fellow whose bookcases were lined with pictures of grandchildren, smiled kindly.
“You’ve just had a big birthday, haven’t you?”
Julian didn’t answer. It was rhetorical anyway. The doctor had his chart right in front of him.
“Forty is not unheard of for the onset of migraines. In fact, some new literature is showing that more and more men are having their first episode in middle age,” he explained. “Happy birthday.”
In that moment, even though Julian had been grateful to Roger for forcing him to make the appointment with the best neurologist in Miami-Dade County and taking off work to accompany him, now he wished his boyfriend was not sitting there listening to the doctor talk about Julian getting old.
Roger was nine years Julian’s senior. He had thinning hair and a back that creaked. By contrast, Julian’s head of hair was shampoo-commercial-worthy and he bounded up and down the steps on the cruise ships without so much as a touch of charley horse, no matter how many times a day he did it. Julian loved being the younger partner. He had exclusively dated older men. And while turning forty in no way narrowed the age gap between them, somehow it bookended them both in middle age. He didn’t want Roger to see him that way, as a man on a collision course with fifty, someone who developed a medical condition simply because of the number of rings in his trunk.
Julian had left the doctor’s office immensely relieved that he was tumor free but still with a nagging feeling. What would come next? Perhaps a soft penis that no amount of coaxing or dirty movies could bring to a salute? Cellulite that was defenseless against the Total Body machine at which he prayed every morning?
“Cheer up,” Roger said when they reached their Volvo in the parking lot. “You could be dying. Instead you’re just old like me.”
The migraines always started with the same symptom, a stiffness at the base of his skull. The thin gold chain Julian wore around his neck would take on the feeling of an albatross. He knew one was coming before the black-tie gala when he struggled to put on his bow tie. He took his medication immediately and hoped to be spared the worst of the symptoms, since this was the biggest night on the cruise. But the moment he walked into the cocktail hour and the jazz trio sounded like toddlers with tambourines, he knew it was going to be a difficult night. Maybe Roger was right and he should find a job that he could leave behind in the evenings. A job where he wasn’t literally trapped.
And then the fiasco with the Feldman family happened. He wasn’t surprised it was one of the most vanilla-looking families on board causing all the commotion. It always happened like that. The motorcycle gangs would embark in their leather and chains, inked with dragons and flames on their massive biceps, and he wouldn’t hear a peep out of them the whole time. Not a noise complaint or a scuffle in the casino. Sometimes those guys were the surprise hit of the amateur comedy night. The bachelorette squads would cross the gangway giggling loudly, already drunk on Red Bull and vodka and life, and then the next day he’d see them all fast asleep at the pool, because they were young, overworked professionals who above everything else were just tired. But the families, the multigenerational clusters of slow-moving grandparents and fast-talking teenagers, of middle-aged parents getting crushed on both ends, they were always the source of drama. They were the ones for whom the Caribbean cruise was a trip, not a vacation.
He made his way down the hallway toward his room, stepping over a chorus girl from the late-night adults-only show making out with a busboy she’d ignore the next day. Normally he’d tell them to take it inside somewhere. Same with the line cooks who were smoking Turkish cigarettes while playing cards, ashing right into the carpet. But tonight Julian couldn’t be bothered. He needed to get to his room, lie in the dark, and wait for the migraine to subside. Above everything, he needed silence. His room was at the end of the hallway. He had one of the better cabins, with a small sitting area and a queen-size bed he loved to lie in on the diagonal. Roger was a cover-stealer and tosser-turner, so Julian relished his evenings in bed alone.
When he opened the door, Julian saw a small pool of light in the corner shedding from the desk lamp. In the desk chair sat Roger.
“Ahh!” Julian yelped in fright. “What are you doing here?”
“Surprise,” Roger said. He rose from his chair and looked like he was coming to give Julian a hug, but stopped himself short.
“You’re not well,” Roger said. “You have a migraine.”
“Yes,” Julian said, moving into the room and sinking onto the bed. “How can you tell?”
“C’mon, Julian. I know when you need to pee.” He joined Julian on the bed and took his hand. Roger wore a Dolphins string bracelet that Julian teased him about. Just because I love football doesn’t mean I can’t love you, Roger would say back every time. Don’t be so stereotypical.
“What are you doing here, Roger? How did you plan this? And why did you wait so long to tell me you were here?” Julian’s head felt like an aquarium, questions swimming in circles like bettas. “And who is watching Takai?”
“My sister has him. I’ve been having the best time watching you work without you knowing. It’s like Undercover Boss, except it’s ‘Undercover Boyfriend.’ Also, I’m technically not Roger. I booked the trip under the name Carlos Rodriguez and listed my occupation as traveling urinal salesman. Figured I’d have some fun with it. I thought you might have said something when you were reviewing the manifest, but it didn’t get your attention.”
Julian attempted a smile.
“That is hardly the strangest occupation I’ve come across. But nice effort,” he said. “I still want to know why you’re here.” Roger’s coming on the boat felt like an invasion of Julian’s territory, even if his boyfriend intended it as a loving gesture. It was a sign that Roger didn’t take his work seriously, if he thought he could show up like this. Julian would never just appear at the Dolphins offices and expect Roger to drop everything, even though he had promised to bring him into the locker room before a game at least just once.
“Actually, this isn’t the time to discuss this. And not because of my headache. You might think it’s cute that you showed up here under an assumed name and snuck into my room—”
Roger put up a hand.
“I did not sneak,” he said. “I found Lindsay and she let me in. Though I have to say I met the head chef when I was in your office and he had literally zero recognition when I introduced myself to him, and he said he’s worked with you for the past six years. Do you ever talk about me?”
“I like to keep my personal life personal. Sue me. Let’s say what this is really about, Rog. I shut down the marriage conversation the night before I left. I’m skittish. But do you have any idea what I see on the boat day in and day out? Tired couples desperate to revive their lifeless marriages. Families that can’t stand each other, trying to pretend otherwise, but, trust me, by the third or fourth day the jig is up. I trust you saw the little explosion tonight. The gloves come off even earlier if the seas are rough. You need to believe me that making it official, slapping on a label, is not all it’s cracked up to be.”
Julian’s vision suddenly zigzagged, as happened from time to time during his attacks, and he saw Roger as fractured, his face a million different planes.
“I’m sorry. I knew it was a risk, but every time I try to talk to you about it you say you’re leaving for a—”
“Listen, I have stuff to deal with,” Julian said abruptly. “Don’t wait up for me.” He stood up, even though his vision was still shot, everything around him wavy and with a halo effect. He left the room and let the door slam shut behind him, the sound like an icepick to his skull.
Julian wasn’t sure where to go when he left the room, but he knew he needed distraction and darkness. His first choice would have been the yoga room, which was usually free in the evenings and smelled like aromatherapy oils, but he remembered that it was booked by the Seattle chapter of Claustrophobics Anonymous for a private event. The CA folks had been coming on board for a while now, as part of an experimental immersive therapy. Julian didn’t think it was working too well because he still had to reserve a private elevator for them and open the breakfast buffet an hour early for their exclusive use.
Deck Three had an Irish-style pub called the Salty Anchor that was always kept dim, lit indirectly by the neon beer signs behind the counter. If he kept his back to it, Julian could be safe from the light, which was kryptonite to his migraines. Unlike everything else on the ship, carnivalesque and flashy, the Salty Anchor was intentionally mellow, serving as an escape room for people who needed time away from the action or their traveling companions. It was the perfect spot to nurse, or chug (no judgment from Julian), a drink in peace. He wasn’t supposed to drink when he took his headache meds, so he planned to order a tea, find a small table in a corner, and wait for relief. He was friendly with Jimmy, the bartender, who wouldn’t give him any guff for skipping out on a pint. If things were quiet, Jimmy might keep him company. Jimmy was straighter than a ruler, but he had a chiseled jaw, long floppy hair, and a sexy Cockney accent, so Julian was willing to overlook his disappointing preference for women.
It must have been Roger that he’d seen out of the corner of his eye at the chocolate fountain. He still couldn’t believe his boyfriend—partner, whatever—had booked himself on the Ocean Queen under an assumed name. It was true they often played little tricks on each other. Roger once put a picture of Julian as a pimply teenager with Coke-bottle glasses on the JumboTron at a Dolphins home game. Julian, knowing Roger had a major phobia of insects, once convinced him that their apartment had bedbugs and didn’t confess it was a joke until half of their clothing had been sealed in plastic bags. But this latest didn’t feel like April Fool’s one-upmanship. This felt like an ambush. Julian had often deflected conversations about their future by saying he was leaving soon for a cruise. So Roger had brought the discussion to sea, where the closest thing Julian had to a getaway route was to sign up for the daily Escape-the-Room challenge at eleven.
“Well, well, if it isn’t our fearless cruise director,” Jimmy said when Julian entered the Salty Anchor. “I heard there was a little episode at cocktails. The medi guys were pissed because they were in the middle of a Ping-Pong tournament when they got buzzed.”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Julian said and looked around for an empty seat. Tonight the place was jam-packed with guests, rumpled in their formal wear but not ready to call it a night. Bow ties were discarded and French twists were set free and everyone seemed to be speaking two notches above the appropriate decibel level. Julian almost turned to leave but realized that any place he sought out was going to be mobbed after the formal evening. He plopped himself in an empty chair near the bar’s front entrance.
“Tea, please. Herbal,” he mouthed to Jimmy, who nodded his understanding.
A waitress he didn’t recognize set the mug and a box of assorted teas down in front of him a moment later. The cruise ship had many long-standing employees: Jimmy, the barkeep from central casting; Oxana, the cabaret dancer who claimed she wouldn’t retire until her boobs were too saggy to hold up her pineapple bra; and Ralphie, the head of security on the casino floor, a tough guy who could spot a card counter with one eye closed. But the rest of them: the bellmen, the greeters, the shop clerks, the maintenance guys, and the Purell pumpers, they were like a revolving door of cast members. Julian formed few attachments because just as soon as he developed an inside joke with the maître d’ at the Italian restaurant or the gym manager learned which treadmill he preferred to use, they were gone. When the boat’s senior hairdresser went all Sweeney Todd on him last year, lopping off two inches instead of two centimeters (measurements were a constant source of confusion because the staff hailed from both the metric and imperial systems), Julian barely had time to give him the stink eye before he announced his return to Sri Lanka.
Julian liked it just fine this way. He was never, ever lonely, because you simply couldn’t be when you were surrounded by thousands of people with whom making small talk was your occupation. But he didn’t bother with close entanglements. Which was why Roger was totally overreacting about the head chef not knowing about him. Roger just didn’t get boat life. It wasn’t like at the Dolphins, where the same group of lawyers and accountants went to eat the same salads and turkey sandwiches in the cafeteria every day, sitting at the same table and complaining about the same annoying coworkers three tables over. Maybe that was why Roger wanted to come on board, to observe firsthand this major part of Julian’s life.
“Excuse me,” came a timid voice just as he was taking his first sip of tea. Julian looked up and saw Mrs. Feldman of the Fighting Feldmans. He couldn’t suppress a groan, but she didn’t seem to hear it over the din.
“I just wanted to say how sorry I am about the commotion earlier. I feel terrible if it made things difficult for you.” Whereas earlier Mrs. Feldman had looked rather attractive for an older woman, like one of those regal-bearing matriarchs on cable TV, now she appeared drained and haggard. If it was possible to age a decade in an hour, Mrs. Feldman had done so.
“It’s fine,” Julian said, hoping to sound reassuring. “These incidents aren’t as uncommon as you’d think.”
“Really?” Annette said, a glimpse of hopefulness spreading across the planes of her anguished face. “We really aren’t the types of people to cause a scene. We’re . . . We’re . . . I don’t know.” Her voice caught.
Julian smiled. “The boat brings out the best and worst in people. It’s a lot of togetherness.” He thought of Roger. Was he still sitting on his bed, waiting? Or had he gone to find wherever Julian was secreting himself?
Julian considered if being at sea together for the first time would bring out the best or the worst for him and Roger once their initial scuffle subsided and Julian was headache free. He tried to lighten his own mood with a favorite, if not a bit tired, joke among the crew: If the boat’s a-rocking, don’t come a-knocking. It would be uniquely intimate to be with Roger in his cabin, the private sphere that many a chorus boy had intimated they would gladly enter. He may not have advertised Roger to the crew, like the women who bored everyone with endless cell phone pictures of their families back home, but he did something far more important. He’d resisted the temptation that hung in every particle of air, that moved with every hip sway, that dripped like sweat off the beautiful bodies. The Ocean Queen was a gay man’s delight, but Julian had only looked, never touched.
“It’s okay,” Julian said and pushed out the chair opposite him. “Want to sit down?” Mrs. Feldman looked like a woman who really wished she could trade her heels for Keds right about now.
“Are you sure?” she asked, but she sat down before he could answer.
“Want to talk about it?” he asked.
He was rarely curious about the passengers. When you saw so many different walks of life routinely, each bizarre situation you encountered became less intriguing. He’d seen body piercings in places he’d thought biologically impregnable, love hexagons that made your basic love triangle milquetoast, and family situations that Jerry Springer wouldn’t put on his couch. But the drug revelation with the Feldmans, the fact that the Jewish Pablo Escobar might be on board, now that got his attention.
Mrs. Feldman raised her eyebrows and her forehead creased with a dozen horizontal ravines. The lines gave her face a softness and a sense of character. Julian had already frozen the muscles in his forehead and around his eyes so that his skin was as smooth as the inside of a seashell. The only benefit of his migraines was that his Botox was now covered by insurance. He wondered, looking at Mrs. Feldman, why he was so afraid to get older.
“Not really,” she said. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
A flash of light cut through the space between Julian and Mrs. Feldman and he winced, dropping the sugar packet he was fidgeting with right into the hot liquid.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes. I get migraines,” he managed.
“You poor thing. I can’t imagine it’s easy to have a migraine with all this mayhem around you. You should go lie down in your cabin.”
“I can’t,” he said. “I mean, I can. But I don’t want to. It’s complicated.”
She smiled warmly and Julian noticed an endearing smudge of pink lipstick on her teeth. “I think you’ve seen that I’m rather familiar with complicated. No judgments,” she said and began to laugh, almost hysterically.
“What’s so funny?” Julian scrutinized Mrs. Feldman. She looked kind of crazy, if he was being honest.
“Oh, it’s just that my kids would say that I’m the most judgmental person they know. So if they heard me say ‘no judgments’ to you, they’d have a fit.”
“You seem very nice, Mrs. Feldman. I’m sorry your family is giving you a hard time.” He could see how much it meant to her when he said their family drama was nothing he hadn’t seen before, so he took the opportunity to reassure her again that a few punches and shoves were practically commonplace on the Ocean Queen.
“So why is it that you can’t go back to your cabin?” Annette asked. She’d admonished him not to call her Mrs. Feldman. As if I don’t feel old enough, she had said, which struck a chord.
“My partner, Roger, surprised me by coming on the ship. He was waiting for me in the room.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” Annette asked.
“Not bad per se. It’s just that this boat has always only belonged to me and it’s uncomfortable to have him in my space. We’ve been together for three years. We have a dog, share an apartment, the same friends. Roger wants us to get married and I just can’t see the need for the label. I’m a witness to all these people who come on board to celebrate the life cycle events: anniversaries, birthdays, retirements. And they are under so much pressure to maximize the fun and make sure everyone they’ve brought along is happy. But you know who is always having the best time? The people who, when I ask them why they decided to take a cruise, just look at me and say, ‘Because we felt like it.’ No special occasion, no reason for forcing a good time. I’m not sure Roger gets that. He wants a label. Like those personalized shirts you see the groups wearing around the boat, especially on the first day. It’s like he wants us to have I’m with him T-shirts with arrows pointing at each other.”
“I understand,” Annette said. “Regrettably, I’m one of those people who tried to force the togetherness. And the owner of a personalized sweatshirt. I was instructing my children and grandchildren: You will make memories together and you will like it. You can see how well it’s working out for us. But I have to tell you, forced or not forced, label or no label, I like having people that are bound to me in some way. The older you get, the lonelier life becomes.”
Her voice quavered and Julian motioned for Jimmy to bring her a hot drink.
“I’m turning seventy tomorrow and I get to have all of my closest relatives around me. Yes, I have friends. Many of them. And they love to get together for parties and be there when times are good. But for them, and for me too, family will always come first, especially if and when—pardon my French—the shit hits the fan. The ladies I have lunch with might make me laugh more than my own children. They certainly laugh at my jokes more. The nurses and doctors I used to work with—I was the office manager in my husband’s medical office—respected me a heck of a lot more than my grandchildren do. Although I seem to be making some headway with my grandson. But what can I say? I’d rather be around my family, even if they don’t think I’m particularly funny or clever or interesting. Even if it’s obligation that brought us all together, I’m glad we’re here. Having a family brings obligation. There’s no doubt about it. But through fulfilling obligation, I think can come great joy.”
She took a grateful sip of the hot water with lemon that was set before her and continued.
“It’s kind of like the sky. You know how there are so many stars on a clear night that you can’t begin to count them? The people who make up our worlds—the friends, the coworkers, the ones we pass on the street who smile at us—they are those stars. They brighten our lives. But there are nights when it’s so cloudy that you can’t see any stars. Our family members are the stars we can call on to shine when we need a little light. And they have no choice but to turn on, even if they are far away, even if they would rather be doing other things.” She paused for a beat, squeezing more lemon into her mug. “Do I sound wise or just crazy? As you get older, it’s hard to tell.”
“Definitely not crazy. Have a very happy birthday, Annette. You deserve it,” Julian said, rising from his seat. “I’m suddenly feeling very tired and like I need to go back to my room.”
She gave him a warm smile and dismissed him with the wave of a liver-spotted hand.