The Passenger by Chaney Kwak

Author:Chaney Kwak [Kwak, Chaney]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-06-15T00:00:00+00:00

11:15 p.m.

“Sir,” says a man, landing his heavy hand on my shoulder. “You can’t go.”

A square-jawed Eastern European with the build of a bouncer steps up a few stairs to tower over me.

“I just need my medication,” I say. “Can I go to my room? I’d hate to bother anyone.”

I don’t actually need anything. I’m just restless. There’s only so much eavesdropping I can do to keep myself amused. I’ll bring back my copy of Moby-Dick, the book I bring on long trips, determined to finish yet never managing to read more than a few pages.

“The stair is closed,” he says.

I thought I was being sneaky, but he must have been watching the stairs from across the room. He looks exhausted, and probably also tired of nosy passengers like me.

“We bring you what you need,” he says.

“Oh, my pills are impossible to find,” I lie.

“It’s not safe,” he says.

“I can sign a waiver if I need to,” I say. “I really am going to be okay.”

Sitting around is making me morose. I don’t want to circle the atrium over and over, looking at the same passengers.

The man eyes my sturdy boots, really not unlike a bouncer deciding if a guy’s kicks are good enough for the club. “Okay, write down your cabin number. Someone will come with you.”

With my newly assigned minder, a woman half my height, I retrace the steps I took nine hours ago. Nothing seems out of the ordinary under the pleasant track lighting. But like the men’s room and its dirty water, there must be defects under the perfect surface.

Once I turn onto the hallway on my floor, I find a place transformed. The narrow corridor is crammed with men in tattered T-shirts and tight, faded jeans, piled into clusters and sleeping or playing games on their phones. These are not the cheery staff trained in small talk and wide smiles; these are workers who were never meant to be seen by passengers, those who toil in the bowels of the vessel operating machineries heavy and light, laundering, greasing, hammering.

All week, this hallway was a transient place, passengers politely excusing themselves as they passed one another sideways, or waiters scurrying with room service carts. Housekeeping staff materialized when most passengers were away on shore excursions or for meals and disappeared just as quickly. And when they ran into passengers, they would smile as if elated. Those crew, trained in saccharine North American customer service, are downstairs now, tending to the guests.

The corridor glows harshly. Many of the men are covering their eyes with T-shirts and whatever pieces of clothing they have on hand. Is this the real reason passengers aren’t allowed back, in order to continue keeping these behind-the-scenes staff out of sight?

Strange that these men stay in packs, their limbs and torsos touching even though much of the hallway remains empty. The air is unpleasantly warm and brimming with body odors, so it can’t be for heat. Is it because they’re more accustomed to existing

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