The captain of Elysium Cruise Line’s newest and grandest ship, Countess of the Sea, currently docked at the Port of Miami, received an e-mail from his marketing director and sent this reply:
Dear Miss Bjornson:
Let me see if I understand you correctly. A certain apparently very wealthy young woman…the future Mrs. Culvertdale, you say?…has chosen to charter, for her and her bridegroom’s exclusive use, our magnificent new ship, in order to grace us with her wedding ceremony and subsequent honeymoon, during which bride and groom will ply the Eastern Caribbean with a complement of two hundred crew—all because she believes Countess of the Sea resembles a giant wedding cake? Do I have, then, a full understanding of the situation?
To which the marketing director replied:
Dear Captain Pfeffing: This is an outstanding opportunity for us, it being off-season.
To which the captain responded:
Dear Miss Bjornson:
I understood the line to be doing well. The bonuses were certainly generous—which, needless to say, we appreciate.
The marketing director wrote:
Dear Captain Pfeffing: Times aren’t always so wonderful.The industry is just now recovering from the recession, barely, and another economic slowdown seems always around the corner. The business cycle, you know. It’s simply prudent to bury your nuts for the winter.
The captain wrote back:
Dear Miss Bjornson:
Bury my nuts?
The marketing director clarified:
Dear Captain Pfeffing: Not your nuts. Not anyone’s nuts per se. Not any man’s nuts, certainly. We simply see this as an unexpected profit source—a windfall, if you will.
The captain explained:
Dear Miss Bjornson:
The staff works hard all season. Most work twelve, fourteen-hour shifts—very little sleep from December through May. They look forward to relaxing in between. It’s vital to restoring body and soul. I believe I speak for the crew in saying there are more important things than unexpected profit sources. Of course, it’s your prerogative to poll them yourself. Do your own market study, as it were.
The marketing director explained in return:
Dear Captain Pfeffing: Sorry to say, we can’t pick and choose our opportunities. We simply seize them or not, and I dare say, the cruise-line boneyard is littered with skeletons not designed to flex.
The captain replied:
Dear Miss Bjornson:
You’re lecturing me on ship design?
The marketing director replied in return:
Captain: Don’t you think you’re putting the worst possible spin on this? Of course I’m not lecturing you on ship design. Surely you know I didn’t mean that literally.What do I know about ship design? They float, that’s good enough for me. I haven’t the faintest idea how they float, and, frankly, I don’t care. As long as our passengers don’t drown, so we have a chance to sell them cruises in the future, that’s all I’m concerned with. The rest isn’t my business. I don’t even like water, to be honest. And I’m not that crazy about fresh air and sunshine. I’ve grown accustomed to doing without either. But this I do know: we, both you and I, have an obligation not only to ourselves and our staff but to our investors, who pay our salaries whether we like it or not.
I really think you’re letting your pride get in the way.
The captain summed up:
Marketing Director:
Now at last I do understand. Pride ought have nothing to do with it. I’ll be sure to pass that along to my crew.
The marketing director bristled:
Capt.: You know that’s not how I meant it. Threats aren’t productive. Technically it’s not your crew, you know? You don’t sign their paychecks.
The captain bristled back:
Mkt. Dir.:
I’ll pass that along as well.
The marketing director shot:
I was hoping this might go more rationally.
To which there came no reply.
To which the marketing director suggested:
Dear Captain Pfeffing: Perhaps a short phone call might clear up this little misunderstanding.
To which there still came no reply.
To which the marketing director slammed her fist on her keyboard, demolishing the numeric keys. Oh, how she despised that haughty Karma Weinberg. How she wished “the imminent Mrs.Angus Culvertdale” would be tanning herself on the ship’s deck when a giant intergalactic-alien-squid tentacle would pull her into the Bermuda Triangle and force her to breed to freshen its gene pool.
Just not before her honeymoon-cruise check cleared the bank.
Four
IN THE RESTAURANT LOBBY OF THE CHICAGO FOUR SEASONS Hotel, Diane nudged Les (and herself) toward their daughter. “Les, meet Karma.” Diane shifted her weight, wiped her palms on her dress, and cleared her throat. “Karma, allow me to introduce you to your, um, well, uh…”
“Father,” Karma said, completing Diane’s sentence with a baleful glance. She turned to Professor Fenwich and offered her hand. “Glad to finally meet you, Popsie.”
Les detected something vaguely sarcastic there. Nevertheless, girding himself, he opened his arms in a well-rehearsed, completely insincere gesture of paternal affability. “Please, call me Les.”
Karma, refusing to step into his embrace, withdrew her hand. “I’ll stick with Popsie.”
He looked her over in the dimness of the elegant eatery, this Gold Coast gastronomical temple to nouveau riche epicurean gluttony (as if you could tell the difference when it came out the other end). Sure enough, even in the impuissant light, he could (unfortunately) see Karma’s resemblance to her picture in Diane’s purse and, necessarily by extension, to himself. Popsie and daughter, mother and future son-in-law—one big happy family.
After shaking his future father-in-law’s hand on behalf of himself and his betrothed, Angus whispered something to the maître d’ and, (despite the languorous lighting) visibly enough for all to see, slipped him a folded hundred-dollar bill, whereupon Karma snapped her fingers for her little tribe to follow him to their window table.
Snapped her fingers.
So
