THE THIEF WEARS A SCARLET LETTER – PART 29
THE THIEF WEARS A SCARLET LETTER – PART 29
I cracked open the door, and there she was—a sweet, smiling woman, surrounded by a halo of imaginary bluebirds. She had this cheery, over-the-top vibe like a character out of a children’s show.
“Hello, sweetie,” she chirped. “Are you not feeling well?”
I blinked, trying to process her perky energy.
“I’m feeling better now that I got it out,” I replied, still feeling a little queasy.
“Well, here’s a little yellow sticker for your door,” she said, holding out a small, sticky piece of paper.
I stepped into the hallway and immediately saw that every door was covered in these yellow stickers. I squinted, confused.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“We’re not sure. It seems a lot of people have all come down with the flu at once,” she explained, as we began making our rounds.
We knocked on one door, and a voice screamed from the inside.
“WHAT?!”
The door swung open, and there stood a cast member—face flushed, his white kimono flowing dramatically with every twitch of his arm, his fan snapping open with all the grace of a demented flamenco dancer.
“WHAT?!” he screamed again, right in my face. “God damn it! I can’t get one moment of peace on this goddamn tugboat!”
“Hello sweetie,” I chirped back, unfazed. “Are you feeling sicky?”
“Goddamn it!” he shouted, slamming his fan shut. “I can’t stand this!” He dramatically cracked it open again, making an almost flamboyant gesture of frustration.
“Well, here’s a little yellow sticker for your door,” I said, holding it out.
Without another word, he slammed the door in my face, but I couldn’t help but laugh. It was all so absurd.
I continued walking down the hall, and it seemed like every door had one of those damn yellow stickers. The sound of vomiting echoed throughout the hall, a constant reminder of how truly miserable this place was becoming.
As the days passed, the ship felt like a ghost ship, its once-lively halls now silent and lifeless. The flu spread like wildfire. No coffee was served in the mess because “it could be the water.” The food became tasteless, bland mush that no one had the stomach to finish. Roaches were spotted in the food, crawling out of a friend’s rice during dinner. It was as if the ship itself had given up on us.
Rehearsals were pointless. We were told nothing except that a team of specialists was on the way to figure out what had happened. I didn’t have much faith in that.
The ship, despite its utter dysfunction, still plastered the walls with posters of the company’s movie logos—most of them in Italian, which no one could read. I saw one poster of Snow White, where she was surrounded by the dwarves and just waking up from being dead. A surreal image, really.
On a whim, I asked one of the producers if we could take the posters to decorate our rooms.
“Of course, just don’t get caught,” he replied with a smirk.
So, like pirates of the absurd, we began snatching posters from every wall. They disappeared at lightning speed. I grabbed the Snow White poster, and later that day, I carried it back to my room, proudly displaying it alongside the other company swag I had claimed that week.
That night, we went into Venice for a brief reprieve. When I returned to the ship, however, I was met with chaos: a ship-wide search for the missing Snow White poster.
Panic set in.
I dashed to my room, stuffed the poster under my bed, and began trying to devise a plan to sneak it back. Just then, there was a knock at my door.
I hesitated. It was Useless and Uncle Fester. Useless was furious, her face twisted in anger.
“Can we come in?” she demanded, voice sharp.
“Of course,” I said, my voice feigning calm.
Without any small talk, she cut to the chase:
“I know you stole the Snow White poster,” she spat.
“Who was the Judas?” I asked, trying to mask the fear rising in my chest.
“Never mind,” she snapped, her eyes burning. “Just get it back!”
Her voice was full of company-scripted threats. The whole speech was an exercise in bureaucratic venom.
“Stealing is a company offense,” she continued, her eyes narrowing, “and is punishable by termination.”
I could feel the heat rising in my face, but I didn’t flinch. Then I noticed something—there, hanging on the wall behind her was a stolen Winnie the Pooh poster. With every word she spoke, Winnie’s face seemed to twist into an accusatory glare.
The irony was almost too much to handle.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore:
“Is there anything else?” I asked, cutting her off mid-sentence.
Her face reddened, and without another word, she turned on her heel and stormed out. Uncle Fester followed, but not before giving me a cold, judgmental stare.
That night, under the cover of darkness, I slipped out and returned the poster to where it belonged, hoping that Uselessand the rest of the ship would just forget.
The next day, I spoke with Puppethead, the walking bureaucratic nightmare. He mentioned casually that he had once fired someone for eating a roll. I could only imagine how this Snow White heist would play out.
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