A PLAGUE ON YOUR HOUSE – PART 28

 

A PLAGUE ON YOUR HOUSE – PART 28

The so-called “Greek Cruise Ship” looked less like a vessel and more like a cautionary tale. It sat slumped in the murky water of the shipyard, like a washed-up relic that had given up trying to float. A tired hulk, its once-white paint was streaked with rust, grime, and a questionable yellow-and-blue logo plastered on the smokestack: an African American cartoon face with a 70s-style headband—equal parts surreal and offensive.

And above it all, black smoke coiled from the stacks like a warning from the heavens. We weren’t boarding a cruise ship—we were checking into a maritime asylum.

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At the base of the ship, a yellow gangway groaned under our hesitant steps. Our luggage was dumped in chaotic heaps, as if they'd been air-dropped by a cargo plane. At the top of the gangway stood our welcoming committee: a ferry boat crew member with all the charm of a customs agent at a prison transfer.

We kept smiling. Teeth clenched. Eyes darting.

Once inside, we were shuffled into a bare common room with a few sullen crew members who looked like they'd aged a decade just being there. Then came the real fun: Human Resources.

We lined up to get our room assignments, and the vibe was DMV meets military boot camp. I stood with another cast member, humming “Stayin’ Alive” just to cling to a scrap of sanity. That ended fast.

“NEXT!”
The voice cracked through the room like a whip.
“I DON’T HAVE ALL DAY!”

I shuffled forward, heart sinking.

“Passport!” barked the HR drone.

I lied.

“I don’t have it on me.”

A cardinal rule of working overseas: never hand over your passport unless absolutely required—and even then, make them pry it out of your cold, overworked hands.

“I want it when you get it!” he growled.
“Here’s your key. Your room’s not ready.”
“NEXT!”

I barely blinked before another voice snapped at me from the next table:

“Go get your own luggage. They’re on break.”
“If you don’t get it now, you won’t get it until tomorrow.”

“Where’s the holding deck?” I asked.
“NEXT!” she screamed.

No answer. Just the sound of my soul crumpling like a poorly packed duffel bag.

I spent two hours dragging my luggage out of a cavernous hellhole packed with duffels and trunks, dodging territorial crew members who shoved me out of elevator lines. Eventually, I found my shoebox cabin. I opened the door, stumbled in, and flopped onto the narrow bed, where I immediately passed out like a wounded soldier on a cot.

And then:
BONG! BONG! BONG!

Cue the bell system. Not one bell. Not three. But a whole sonata of dings and redundant announcements.

“Please listen for the upcoming announcement.”
“This is the announcement before the announcement.”
“Disregard the earlier announcement about disregarding announcements.”

I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Or vomit.

Now, I’ve lived in NYC. I’ve done cruise ships before. Small rooms don’t scare me. But this was claustrophobia in three dimensions. And for the Character Department—the cast members in full-costume roles—it was worse. Ten of them, crammed two per cabin. A violation of both dignity and decency.

Some of our own gave up their rooms to help. Cast unity, remember? But unity doesn't change company cruelty. Just delays the breakdown.

That night, I sat in the mess hall and stared at a plate of something masquerading as dinner. I ate it. Big mistake.

Within an hour, I was sprinting to the bathroom, violently ejecting dinner in stereo.

My stomach flipped like a gymnast. My skin went clammy. My forehead burned. I crawled back to bed, a human caution sign, curled into myself like a question mark.

And just as I started to drift into a feverish haze...

Knock knock knock.

Someone was at my door.