Freedom of Choice

In places it was reminiscent of industrial Eastern Europe architecture; oppressive and dark, promising only misery to its occupants. Even the windows managed to occlude light between its rusted frames. The air, a combination of unendurable humidity and a stifling lack of circulation, colluded to choke the life out of anyone cursed to breathe it in. So I found the crew area of the oldest ship on the fleet, where I found myself for one week. Two cruises.

There are aspects of that week which made it the best contract possible (directly influenced by its short duration). I never paid for my alcohol, I was secretly given the password to a login which accessed the internet for free, I was berthed in a cabin with a port hole (which will be the only time I ever see one of those without sleeping my way to the side of the ship), and I had the best looking crew ID picture of all time. That alone guarantees that my next crew ID will be hideous. The one I’ll have for six months.

However, the biggest surprise that came out of this contract was the slop chest. The slop chest is just one more way that the company can take back its money from crew, offering nutritional delights like Twix and cans of Pringles which become far more appealing after looking at the free meal offerings in the crew mess. Often little more than four shelves with a plastic razor, condoms of questionable reliability, pocket sized Listerine, two bars of Irish Spring, and a limited variety of junk food, I find myself easily resisting its charms most nights onboard.

Except what I found on this ship left me speechless, and then effusively gushing in awe. This ship, with its awkward and counterintuitive layout, its small and ineffectual disco, and its overall air of “special” (the short bus variety), has the most amazing slop chest that anyone could ever imagine. It is a claustrophobic room in the forward-most area of the first deck, accessible only by walking up to the second floor, through guest area, and then back down to the first floor via a hidden staircase. Yet it houses aisles of goodies, a veritable Wal-mart on the high seas, without the asinine happy face. Should you find yourself in want of undershirts or underwear, shoes, socks, luggage, a mini web cam, a Swiss Army knife, a cornucopia of both sugary and salty junk food delights, a bevy of soap or toothpaste choices, or the trusted name of Trojan, you needn’t worry. This slop chest had it. No longer could anyone argue that they didn’t have the ability to track down deodorant, and therefore couldn’t help their rancid perspiration. Rather, they had a buffet of scent and brand choices.

While I will not miss the ship or its drunken, classless passengers, I will miss the sheer volume of unexpected possibility on offer there.