The Cruise Ship Comedian

Chapter 4: The Crew Bar

Sup? I’m back. Are the days between posting getting closer together or further apart? (My guess is the latter.) I really struggle disciplining myself to write while desperately wanting to. I’m probs The Weakest Link of Substack. One of my friends donated a few Ritalins to the cause, but I’m too scared to take them. Dr. Laura reminded me,

“Christina, children take it.” 

Oh ya. Which reminds me, someone else gave me an Adderall last year. I put it in a bottle of Ibuprofen thinking surely I’d be able to tell it apart from the other pills and now I wonder if I accidentally took it for PMS.

Anyways, speaking of getting no work done, this week (more like month) I’m writing about a magical little place on board where all us crew go to do nothing. That sweet haven you retreat to after your 20 hour shift. The crew bar. I heard stories about it before I ever did my first cruise gig. Tales of dollar beers and $7 bottles of wine. A place so below deck I get that same creepy feeling I get in underground parking garages that go a little too deep- I can handle a P1, a P2,  but P3 I start to feel like I’m in the Cattacombs. I grew up on made for TV movies about earthquakes where cities collapsed on people. But hey, I’ll let those flashbacks slide for cheap beer.

Because I’m a “guest entertainer,” I’m actually allowed to drink in guest areas, but that can get dicey and pricey. It is good to have “us” (the crew) away from “them” (the guests) since contractually “we” can’t sleep with “them.” I once got into an awkward situation with a guy from Ottawa (hey there ain’t a lot of Canadians on board- it was natural we chatted.) But when it got a little Tindery, I had to be direct:

“Listen, contractually I can’t fuck you. Sorry… But if you could do me a favor and fill out this comment card… Seems like you wanting to do me equals five stars. I’m your “Vacation Hero.” (iykyk) 

So ya, crew bar is playing it safe in my books. The place ain’t easy to find. Someone will try to explain where it is but they assume you know the numbers and letters of each staircase on the ship, which I don’t. There’s one ship where the only way I know how to find crew bar is to cut through the gym. (Now THAT’S a walk of shame.) But once you’re in, it’s a whole world of loud international music and horny dudes making out with women who look a lot different than the ones on their phones. It’s a place where monogamy goes to die. (Or maybe just go in a coma.) 

I get in line to get a glass of wine. (A reasonable $1.75. Take that, LAND.) The bartender lets me know it goes well with Pepsi. 

“You mix your wine with Pepsi?”

“Yes. Taste better.”

Not sure if that’s due to his palette or the quality of the wine, but I don’t really drink pop so I’m gonna pass on his hot tip. He doesn’t say “Cheers” as I take the vino. Instead he says,

“YUM YUM!”

One of my friend’s had previously been on this ship and alerted her last fling I was on board. He had no problem spotting me. (I’m the blonde.) In a stern, Serbian accent (as if there’s any other kind) he marched right up to me and said,

“You’re ______’s friend.”

Not a question. He knew. We chat. I’m friendly, upbeat, while his tone was more like, “Careful, there could be genocide under the table.” He goes on and on about how lonely he’s been since _____’s been gone. Nobody leans into the word lonely like someone who works on ships for 8 months at a time. I can’t blame him. Most people don’t even like jobs for 8 hours at a time.

I’m getting low on my wine and don’t really want more (maybe the Pepsi was a good idea) so I head back to my room. While I love the fact my friend was scoring out here, I can’t see myself getting fingered while the DJ blares “FOLLOW THE LEADER LEADER LEADER LEADER FOLLOW THE LEADER GO GO!”

CUT TO:

My second cruise. The first one was only five days, and clearly I can jill off for that. Some how my first two-week contract seemed longer. Having a wee romance would be nice. The ship can be creepy at night. The tumultuous rocking, unknown spooky noises… Most of which turn out to be the hangers in my closet clinking together cuz I never unpacked, but still, I could use someone for protection, just in case Poseidon comes knocking.

Now I don’t know what turns you on entertainment wise… maybe you like us comedians, maybe you like a hot dancer, talented singer, but I will fully out myself and say I have a weakness for…

(Drumroll please)

Dueling Piano Players.

Don’t judge me. Or do. I don’t care. I think it might be a small step above the people who enjoy Dave & Busters. (Hey I’m captivated by actual human beings who know all the words to Billy Joel classics and not just a ball getting rolled into a hole that says “50.”)

Now there’s no real slick way to pick up a dueling piano player. I guess the first move is to throw a buck or two in his tip jar which is as close as I’ll ever get to feeling like to be a man at a strip club. It only got embarassing when he was like, 

“You have a request? You wanna hear something?”

“Ohhh… no I’m just looking.”

Ooops. I guess most people slip a piece of paper with “Proclaimers 500 miles” written on it under their money. I must look I’m trying to board the piano. 

This seems like a good time to retreat to the crew bar. I’m working with another comic who is good friends with my podcast partner Jen Murphy, so at least I have a drinking buddy. When The Piano Man walks in bar he looks a little surprised to see me. (Most people assume I’m one of the guests, especially the first week I’m on board.) He comes over with the other dueling dudes and we all chat until we’re so hungry we all have to go for late night reubens. 

This after work routine continues for a full week, until after one rueben he finally goes, 

“I have more beers in my room if you-“

“Totally.”

And we left so fast which you can do on cruise ships cuz there’s no cheque to wait for. It’s all included, baby.

It’s interesting how as you mature in your dating life, first night hook up questions go from, 

“Do you have a condom?” 

To:

“You are single, right?” 

(Ironic when they answer no to both eh?)

He’s in an open relationship and is quite honest confessing he couldn’t survive out here for that long without at least having the option to connect with someone. (I might be paraphrasing. He might have said “have sex with someone.”)

I thought about making this blog a two-parter but knowing how shitty I am at disciplining myself, if I said “To be continued…” my cliff hanger would probably dangle for so long you’d forget what was hanging. So at the risk of Substack labeling this a 5000 minute read, lets get down to the dirty part. And I don’t just mean bilge water. (That’s proof to the company I’m doing my safety training.)

As most of you know, cruise ships combine two things: Buffets and constant movement. Throw that in with my genes full of Crohns, colitis and purged gallbladders, and you know I’m in the line of fire for… digestive disruption… I don’t want to use the word diarrhea cuz I heard a story about a comic who was over heard saying he has the D word and security immediately reacted, quarantined him, and cancelled his shows for the night. That was pre-covid, when they were less on the look out for coughs and more about butt stuff.

Even when I like someone, I can’t do back to back sleepovers. I prefer an every other night schedule. On ships we know our romances have a D day. (No pun intended.) I’ve seen a lot of crew members have romances and they’re powerful while on board. But when one moves to another ship, or back on land, it gets tricky, unless you’re the two Virgos who figured it out and are now engaged. (They quit working on cruise ships.) You tend to want to binge fuck when you know you don’t have much time left together, but I manage to play it cool cuz sleep is my actual bff . (Despite the fact I’m writing this at 1:22am.)

I won’t go into detail about us doing it cuz who knows what you’re doing as you read this, or who’s in the background, plus I’m seeing someone now and don’t want to scar him anymore than Googling me could, so imma fast forward to the part after the sex, where we both try to fall asleep. (Seems like this happens faster for dudes.) 

You know when a bed is pushed up against a wall, and you’re on the wall side? That awkward crawl you have to do over the new notch on your belt to go to the bathroom? (Come to think of it, I actually have this problem at home currently.) When you really have to go but you also don’t want to wake the other person or let him think you wanna do another round on top? Well on cruise ships, those kind of trips can be a little more frequent you want.

The first time I MacGyver over his body I quietly whisper,

“Just going for my after sex pee.”

(I’m very pro-active at preventing UTI’s.)

But what I didn’t know until I got to his bathroom, was what was about to be deported from my body was much more than that. And much more frequent. Once, twice, three times a lady. Shit, why didn’t I just go back to my room?! Cuz that’s the problem with diarrhea- you don’t know it’s diarrhea until it’s diarrhea. By the third time Donkey Konging over his body, the snoring slightly changes rhythm, which makes me fear I’ve woken him. Is romance on cruise ships doomed by our bodies coping with the high seas and high buffet plates?

In the morning he says, 

“Sorry if my snoring kept you up.”

To which I responded,

“Sorry if my diarrhea kept you up.”

(There were some real Dolby style sound effects.)

Ooops. I meant to write about the crew bar and some how I’ve veered the story into that part of my brain that replays the post Mexican restaurant scene in Bridesmaids. Very YM “Say Anything” eh? But this is how some nights in the crew bar end… And other times it’s just me and the other comic hiding from the guests drinking giant cans of Fosters in the brightest bar lighting of all time.

Maybe I should have just written about the sex.

Once again, I’m not gonna put a full blown “To Be Continued…” here, cuz now you might fear more bowel content,

BUT-

Something from this chapter is gonna make a comeback later in the trajectory of these tales. 

Can you guess what it is?

Until next time,

Don’t forget to disembark from your ship when you’re supposed to, no matter who’s room you sleep in otherwise you WILL get a call from your boss screaming, 

“GET THE FUCK OFF THE BOAT! NOW!”

Xoxo

The S.S. Walkinshaw

P.S. If you want to hear me discuss this embarassing night with Jen Murphy on our podcast “Jillin Off” scroll way back to the episode called “Stick it to the Wall.”

P.P.S. This is NOT the dueling piano player I slept with mostly cuz he’s gay so he would never do me, but this is my super talented friend JR Neal. Can’t you SEE THE MAGIC?! How can you resist?