Devil Takes the Starboard

Chapter 1 - Flying Colors

All Hazie’s life, people had told her it was a stupid dream of hers, wanting to succeed in foodservice.

That nobody in their right mind wanted to flip burgers and take orders for the rest of their life–and it might end up being the rest of her life; not everybody managed to work their way up through the ranks of the restaurant industry, no matter how ambitious.

That even if she did land herself a position head-chefing at a glamorous restaurant, it wouldn’t measure up to her posh expectations, all table-touches and compliments from gracious diners–that the long hard shifts in the grueling kitchen heat, dealing with customers’ idiocy year after year, would drive her insane quicker rather than slower. That she’d probably end up with a broken marriage and a debilitating drug problem under her belt. Anyway, didn’t most people want to grow up to be doctors or lawyers or Hollywood actors, or anything else that mattered?

And okay, maybe it was stupid to choose her career path–such a central pillar of her identity itself–on her helpless obsession with watching men eat. But she’d gone for it, and what’s more, she’d done so without any encouragement, unless you counted the similarly-inclined voyeurs she encountered in AmeriCorp Online chatrooms, which she didn’t. Out in the real world, her proclivity wasn’t a common topic of polite conversation.

Three years ago, she’d had the stroke of luck to be hired on at Abundance Catering, the world’s most exclusive staffing company, poached by a recruiter out of the backroad dive bar where she ‘managed to make an art form out of delivering cheap beer and fried cheese’--the recruiter’s words, not hers. And even in her starting position as an overnight inventory stocker, the paycheck afforded her comfort beyond what she’d ever hoped for. That she lived in a modest apartment six months out of the year, when she was away from her service quarters at the prestigious resort of Costa Dulcera, was more a play in her waiting game than anything else. She could have bought a house, but she didn’t plan to be alone forever, and that sounded like something she’d shop for alongside her happily-ever-after.

It hadn’t taken her long to earn herself a promotion. Her meticulous attention to wine and its service made her a shoe-in for the position of butler’s apprentice, a post few women could boast they’d held within the company. It was heavy work, hauling the barrels and maintaining the shelves, and most of what she did was behind-the-scenes, but her invisibility afforded her countless opportunities to overhear goss–ahem, to listen to her surroundings and learn.

Other than wine expertise, the lexicon was the first thing she picked up: the language of these eccentric aristocrats the resort specialized in serving, these ‘feedees’ and ‘feeders,’ devoted to complete indulgence no matter the price they, or their partners, paid in pounds added to their frames. As a matter of fact, that was what they got off on most of all, and if Hazie really thought about it, it wasn’t like the weight gain did nothing for her–after all, it was a natural consequence of spoiling oneself to excess. Had she even slightly weaker of a work ethic, she could have gotten easily swept up in it all, but she had a job to do, and it wasn’t stealing husbands from her paying clientele.

So she kept quiet as she absorbed, as if through osmosis, the ins and outs of her function, as well as the names and faces of the regular guests, and Abundance’s business affiliates…

It was on a balmy morning, as she went to put up the mop and bucket she’d been using to clean the wine cellar floor, when a pair of figures strode past her in the open-air corridor. The first, she recognized as the resort manager, in his tan linen suit and impeccably-shined shoes, but it wasn’t until the woman with him spoke that Hazie was able to put an identity to the back of her sleek blonde ponytail: that was the VP of Consumer Relations for CorpQuest, International. (She wasn’t sure, exactly, what the company sold; all she knew was that everyone they serviced was incredibly wealthy and incredibly important.)

“...The palate of a sommelier, a fine sense and memory both for pairings and cuisine…and a beauty, to boot. She’s wasted ‘below deck’, I’m telling you that,” the manager was saying to the VP. “You’d never know she came from nothing. I say, I’m telling you that.”

“Well, if she’s really worth the onboarding costs…and your finder’s fee…then I shall be all too lucky to have her onboard for Expanding Horizons,” said the VP. “Inform Rupert at once to send her along her way for my assessment…”

The next time anyone saw Hazie, it was Rupert, walking into the cellar just as she was perusing the bottles, rotating each one attentively as she searched for the perfect bottle of cabernet to accompany a steak dinner to be served that night to an international oil tycoon and the wife who relished eating and drinking his money. “Breakfast?” offered the old butler, passing her a palm-sized slab of hardtack. (He was this old-fashioned fellow, who believed work must be accompanied by a certain amount of compulsory misery, especially in their line of it. He’d always praised her self-restraint in a way that suggested he knew something of her secret desires, which she appreciated. What was the harm in soaking up a little praise for her valiant efforts to protect a career she could have ruined with a single misstep?)

“Thanks, Boss,” she said, taking his offering in hand to suck on one of its corners until it softened enough for her to bite into.

“The resort’s tailor is asking around if anyone’s seen his measuring tape,” said the butler.

“And you’re passing the message along to me because…?”

He shrugged. “You always seem to know where everything is, is all.”

“I saw it out by the palms in the courtyard, next to somebody’s hammer and three empty bottles of Minnesota Gold.”

Rupert scoffed. “The man enjoys his whiskey as much as he enjoys his work.”

“Oh, come on, you knew that already,” said Hazie with a roll of her eyes. “Speaking of things you might know…I heard a rumor today that one of the back-of-the-house girls is getting poached by CQI. Someone under your supervision, in fact. So, who is the lucky broad?”

Rupert smiled. “The tailor also asked if you would report to him to be fitted for a waitstaff uniform.”

The bottle Hazie had just pulled from the shelf nearly slipped from her hands. “M-me?”

“I shall miss you, Miss Holloway. But my superiors are right: you’re a rare bird. It’s bloody criminal that you not be allowed to fly…”

***

It wasn’t just the tailor who turned Hazie into his personal canvas that afternoon. Makeup stylists and hairdressers had all pitched in to doll her up, and the result was almost a shock to her eyes in the surface of every glass surface in which she passed her reflection on her way to her mock service. Gone was the simply-dressed back-of-house specialist, hidden under layers of expertly applied makeup that made her lips pout and her eyes pop, with sticky gloss and eyeliner wings sharp enough to cut diamonds. They’d doused her in jasmine perfume that wafted up into her lungs in the tropical heat, ironed her hair into elaborate curls and streaked it through with chestnut lowlights and golden-brown highlights that they said added ‘dimension’, and crammed her into a low-cut button-down, loosely-knotted tie, and tiny skirt. The ensemble said much more than ‘at your disposal’--rather, it was an invitation: ‘for your entertainment’.

And when she reached her destination, a marble terrace overlooking the glimmering blue beach, her guests were already waiting for her: the VP herself, lounging in a pool chair in her string bikini and sheer cover-up, alongside a plump male escort, his robe open to let the dome of his stomach breathe and relax around the volume of fine fare from whatever meal they’d just come from…or perhaps simply because the tie wouldn’t close. Between them, on a glass table, sat a carafe of something orange and sparkling in a bucket of ice–some sort of jazzed up Aperol spritz, if Hazie had to guess. She could have picked out any single article of clothing between them at random and it would’ve been worth more than her life. Though the gentleman watched her with a glazed-eyed smile as she reached over to refill his flute, suppressing a flush as the summer breeze blew up her skirt and against her backside, the VP watched her like a predator.

“Good afternoon, my friends,” said Hazie, quietly, as she filled the VP’s glass next. She knew better than to say much more, unless she was prompted. She didn’t know what the VP’s deal was, whether she was truly one of those ‘feeders’ she’d heard so much about, or if she simply held onto her post for its paycheck, but if she was to succeed, there was a protocol. If someone wanted you to schmooze up their feedee, they’d make it clear.

“The same to you, darling,” said the VP. After sipping her drink, she looked Hazie up and down and asked, “So, what’s on the menu today?” Nevermind that there was a pair of menus on the table next to the ice bucket.

“The chef has put together a dish that he highly recommends: braised branzino drizzled generously in a tangy citrus butter and topped with blistered cherry tomatoes, capers, and lemon zest, accompanied by a creamy risotto and potato gratin,” Hazie recited without missing a beat.

The VP affected a smirk. “Sounds delightfully calorific! He’ll have that,” she announced without asking her charge. Hazie briefly looked into the man’s eyes for confirmation, but the VP kicked at her foot and shot her a stern glare. Crap, she thought: she’d done something wrong. The VP’s ice-blue eyes held Hazie’s gaze in a way that told her it would be unwise to question her orders again, with or without words.

“Of course,” she said, looking back at the woman and affirming her acquiescence with a vigorous nod. “You’ll be wanting the basket of garlic bread, yes?”

“Obviously,” said the VP. “And bring him extra butter!”

“Posthaste,” Hazie agreed, even as she grew more and more uneasy. “Any–I mean,” she stopped herself before ‘Anything else’ could escape her lips. Better to come with offers than to appear to expect demands, right? “What else may I have the pleasure to bring you?”

“A green salad for me, skip the dressing,” said the VP.

Hazie made it to the kitchen and back in record time, feeling numb as she sat everything down. She’d have liked to stand around and appreciate the results of her work, and the gentleman was certainly handsome enough to enchant her as he worked through his entree, but she knew the afternoon wasn’t hers to enjoy. Besides, she was kept busy, between refilling drinks, removing plates, wiping down the table, and replacing one linen napkin after another. Besides, that was probably the VP’s real husband–and even if it wasn’t, even if she’d merely borrowed him from an esteemed regular for the purposes of Hazie’s mock service, was it worth risking the wishful thinking?

By the end of the meal, there was nothing left on the table but glassware and the remnants of dessert: pineapple cobbler with ice cream for the both of them, although the VP opted to spoon her own serving past her companion’s lips after he’d polished off his own. Hazie took her cue to make herself scarce.

Later on, in her service quarters, as she paced the floor, a sudden movement caught her eye.

A letter, slipped under the crack of her door.

No, a scorecard, from the hand of the VP herself, evaluating her performance, in a handful of metrics, on a scale from 1 to 10:

Speed: 10
Efficiency:10
Menu knowledge: 10
Coordination: 10
Conversation: 10 (Notes: speaks graciously, avoids unnecessary interactions, projects air of humility)
Sex appeal: 10 (Notes: coquettish, shy, cute)
Obedience: 7 (appears to contemplate doubting authority, but ultimately holds tongue)

And there it was. With a nearly perfect score, Hazie Holloway was set to spend her first summer at a nebulous new venue.

***

Hazie thought she’d earned herself a promotion. Apparently, it was actually a kidnapping.

The eve of the last day of her term for the year at Costa Dulcera, she reached the back lot, a flagstone haven beneath whispering trees upshot with winding vines bearing delicate buds. Those nighttime birds were crooning into the darkness, the insects chirping their beloved little melodies. It was humid, but not hot. It was beautiful, and she couldn’t have asked for a better send-off as she waited for her escort to the airport. After she landed, she was supposed to be provided a taxi back to her apartment building in upstate Maine, to await her next orders. She was to be sent off to her assignment for CorpQuest weeks afterward, but at least she’d have those weeks to herself.

Someone had lied to her.

She wasn’t waiting for a quarter hour before a thick strip of cloth was tied around her eyes, her hands wrestled behind her back and manacled together.

She didn’t scream–not because she wasn’t afraid, but because she had a feeling doing so would only get her punished.

“No sudden movements, now,” said a deep, gruff voice behind her.

Sturdy hands guided her forward and forward, up some steps.

“Is…is this another test?” Between labored swallows, she somehow conjured the words.

“Think of it more as a precaution…”

She heard a muffled voice over an intercom.

A long silence.

Then, a whirring…

She willed herself not to fall asleep, but she fell asleep anyway.

When she awoke, the blindfold was off. The seat she was in was unmistakably a plane seat, but there were no windows, and for some reason, she was chained to the armrest.

“Oh, good…you’re awake.” Her left-hand neighbor was this woman in her twenty-somethings, with smudged makeup and her brown hair up in a black scrunchie, all frayed ends and frizz. “Better get comfy, sugar-bean. Middle seat’s the newbie’s price to pay.”

Hazie blinked into the harsh overhead light. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, come now, she’ll make up her worth before the end of the summer,” said the man to her left. His slicked, black hair was mussed from the flight, and the manhandling, no doubt, and his face was tired, his cheekbones hollow, his eyes red-rimmed, but his smile was eager, the creases of his shirt starched to perfection, his vest seeming to gleam. “The name’s Bernard. The lovely lady over there is Dolly.”

“And don’t you look well,” said Dolly, smirking at a joke Hazie had yet to get.

“You sound like you expected me not to,” said Bernard.

“A semester at Marge Mass’ personal estate? Please. I expected they’d have to put you in first class.”

Hazie looked up and down the rows. “All the seats are the same,” she said, still missing something. She recognized the name of Ms. Maas–that was the CEO of CorpQuest. Still, she knew she was in the dark about a lot of things, even if the blindfold was gone.

“If you only knew the bitch,” said Dolly. “It’s a miracle she didn’t get her way with the poor guy, otherwise they wouldn’t have been able to cram a third in between us. But what’s your name, Third?”

“I’m Hazel. Um, Hazie. Hazie Holloway.”

“Well, it’s certainly a pleasure, Hazie,” said Bernard, extending a hand to shake as far as his handcuff would let him.

“Pleasure?” Dolly laughed. “We’re chained to our chairs, idiot.”

“Don’t pretend like this job doesn’t do you good.”

“Don’t pretend like you’ve ever done anyone good in your whole life!”

Hazie tugged at her own restraint. “If you two’ll be done arguing…I’m not quite sure what I’m in for, and I could sure use some advice…”

“Advice? Sure, here’s some advice,” said Dolly. She sounded American, New York if Hazie had to guess. “If you can’t find your personal bright spots, it’s gonna suck, it’s just gonna. But sooner or later, it gets better. You find your place among the sheep…or you learn to dress in wolves’ clothing.”

The plane gave a sudden lurch. Hazie gripped the armrests, her stomach flipping like an omelet.

“Oh, honey,” Dolly cooed, straining her own chain to place a hand over Hazie’s. “You nervous, eh?”

“No.” That was a lie.

“It’s gonna be fine. Let’s sing.”

“Let’s what?”

Dolly didn’t wait.

‘Oh the sea is red and the moon is white,
As we set our course by the northern light,
The harpoons are sharp and the casks run dry,
And the cook with his grin and a glass for an eye!’

“What?” said Hazie, and yet, she had started to sway to the rhythm.

‘Heave oh my boys, oh my lassies, ho!
We’ll strip the bones down and leave the skull,
From the port to the stern does the carnage slide
And the Devil takes the starboard!’

The plane dipped violently. Hazie’s grip tightened, but Dolly kept singing, her voice a net cast wide over the turbulence. Hazie tried to join in, but she couldn’t quite follow.

When the wheels touched down, the final notes trembled on Dolly’s lips.

Hazie still wasn’t sure where she was. Who she was?

But she knew this: Dolly’s hand was still over hers, steady and warm. And when guards came to uncuff them and they descended the staircase, a sleek black boat waited in the falling snow, its torch cutting through the fog like a promise ready to break.