I recall one day when I was waiting in an extremely long line for the chef's special. I was standing next to a woman prone to explosive outbursts. The slightest inconvenience set her off. Normally, I would give this woman a wide berth as I would an irritable junkyard dog with especially sharp teeth. But on that day, the kitchen was packed, and, as a result, I lightly grazed the woman's hip with the edge of my tray. The tap was barely perceptible, but the force was enough to incur her wrath.
"Say excuse me when you bump into someone," the she-devil said.
In the beginning of my contract, I recoiled at these threats and apologized profusely. I was careful not to upset anyone because I felt uncomfortable being yelled at by my peers. After a few weeks had passed and I was no longer the new guy, I told myself I didn't have to take shit from anyone, especially from those who held the same position as me.
A tiny girl once yanked on my tie while I was waiting for appetizers. For the most part she was joking around, but I heard from fellow coworkers she was often extremely rude. A friend of mine once rejoiced when he saw her crying because he hated her so much.
Upon hearing this, I realized these miserable pessimists were purposefully being nasty to compensate for their inferiority in size, skill, work ethic, and intelligence. This environment produces hardened individuals who are likely to push you out of the way because they ignorantly believe that, in a packed restaurant, they are the only ones in a hurry. The time-sensitive nature of this business combined with 140 consecutive eight-hour workdays leaves little room for manners.
I arrived on the ship with a group of friends I met during training at Piney Point, Maryland. Initially, I stuck close with them in the crew mess. I viewed the other hordes of strangers with disdain. I assumed many of the laborers were mindless cattle wasting their lives as wage-slaves. As each day passed, I gained more confidence and branched outward from my start-up entourage. There were many sub-sects I previously viewed as impenetrable, but I soon found myself infiltrating their ranks.
Ships harbor an extremely diverse population organized into cliques. The restaurant department is the largest. Waiters hang out with other waiters. Occasionally, a cook or pastry cook is included. Deck hands are easily identified by their blue jumpsuits. The engine workers often sport thick beards and filthy uniforms. I have never spoken to a person in the engine department, but I have befriended an Seafarer's International Union (SIU) apprentice.
The apprentices are seamen and women in training. They work one month in each department: restaurant, deck, and engine. After all three samplings, they head back to school for further training before they work on massive cargo ships sailing around the world. I can differentiate between starboard and port, but the SIU apprentices, deckhands, and engine workers know much more specific nautical terms, and they are often inked with tattoos that reflect this knowledge.
My SIU friend expressed his anxiety securing the mooring lines when the ship docks. These ropes are extremely thick and super taut. If not secured properly, the tensile strength is enough to fling the rope like a whip. They have been known to cut people in half. These men and women are the true sailors who keep the ship running. As a man who can barely start a lawn mower, I have developed a great amount of respect for them.
The most coveted group of all, however, is the Filipino Mafia. Filipinos dominate the cruise industry from the working class level, and this ship is no different. The Mafia possesses valueable inside secrets, and they often hold the best positions that receive the highest pay with very little responsibility. If you make connections with the Mafia, your life will be much easier.
Before I delve into the specifics, allow me to define the parameters of the Filipino Mafia. This group is not limited to natives of the Philippines, but the Mafia also includes those from Guam and the Mariana Islands as they are also fluent in the Filipino language.
There are several restaurants on the ship: two complimentary dining rooms, the buffet, a diner, a bar and grill, and five specialty restaurants. A few eateries share the same kitchen, but all of the kitchens are only separated by a few staircases. When supplies run low in one restaurant, it is inevitable that workers will steal them from another venue. Managers are aware of this common thievery, so they lock up such valuables as carts and coffee pitcher lids.
If you can't find what you're looking for, make friends with a Filipino, and he'll give you what you need. I've seen Filipinos hide bread and saucers in unmarked cabinets and random closets so that no one else uses them. This practice, of course, is not allowed because we are encouraged to share especially when we are busy, but having a secret stash is very convenient when supplies become nearly impossible to find.
My front waiter is from Mariana Pacific, and she speaks Filipino and stashes bread illegally. The two practically go hand in hand on the ship. All the Filipinos babble in their foreign tongue, even though we are only to use English in guest areas. But, again, this does not deter the Filipinos. They don't have to follow the rules because they make the rules. The managers, like policemen in Sicily, hold little sway over them. Everyone secretly knows who's in control.
In my restaurant, we have a general manager, an extremely organized and efficient woman who has been in this business for many years. And we also have a quasi assistant "manager" who makes sure the operation is running smoothly. This man, let's call him Roger, is from Guam. Although his name tag says he is only a waiter, Roger is the don of the Mafia. He is the Godfather.
Roger is an extremely affable fellow who has figured out how to beat the system. Managers have asked him several times to become an assistant manager, but he has refused each time because he works fewer hours yet makes more money as a waiter. Here's the kicker: he never waits on tables anyways; he manages the waiters.
If you need keys to unlock the janitorial closet, you find Roger. At the end of the night, Roger assigns sidework based on how early your section closes and how many hours you've already worked this week. Before you leave, you must check out with Roger. Only when he approves can you go home. This man possesses a lot of power, and, if you befriend him, he can pull some strings for you.
There's a secret spot in the restaurant where there are no cameras, and a closed door conceals you from the prying eyes of the manager. This place is called Cafe Coco, a tiny menu closet where I have been spending the majority of my evenings. After making connections with both the hosts and the Mafia, I have managed to secure an extremely easy schedule that entails very little guest interaction and virtually zero effort.
This is how it works: Roger closes your section early. It's seven o'clock, and you have no tables because the host is your buddy and he's purposefully slamming people because he's slightly sadistic. The difficulty of your night is often dependent upon how favorably you are looked upon by those in power.
The host sends me to the closet with a giant stack of menus to change out the inserts. I lock the door behind me, and immediately the clatter and chatter of the dining room ceases. I roll up my sleeves and turn on some music. Occasionally, I feast upon a three-course meal delivered by a network of smugglers. A member of the Mafia or a risk-taking individual is willing to order any appetizer, entree, or dessert under the pretense that this food is for the guests. This is a beneficial loophole of not ringing in orders into a computerized system. When the managers aren't looking, this person sneaks into the closet and drops off the food.
Roger knows what's going on behind closed doors because he is guilty of this himself. Many of the workers are unsatisfied with the food in the crew mess. The menu can often be disappointing and bland, so many people sneak food from the main galley. We are not permitted to eat the food prepared for the guests unless they serve the leftovers for a late night snack.
The guests' food is tantalizingly better than ours. The difference in quality leads many waiters to hide beef loin inside cupboards of sidestands. If you see a waiter ducking down with a fork in his hand, he is probably scarfing down his pilfered dinner in secrecy. This practice is a petty misdemeanor compared to a Filipino party in Roger's room. I've heard tales of Filipinos eating filet mignon while the rest of us swallow the commoner's grub.
As I spent more and more time with my shipmates, I began to realize my first impressions were wrong. I formed strong bonds with certain friends as we got to know one another over meals and excursions on the islands. The experience began to feel less like work and more like a giant sleepover.
In the back of mind, however, I know that friendships here have limitations that one doesn't always encounter on land. Friendships form quickly, but they can end just as soon. Crew members are always coming and going, so one must be careful not to get too attached. Given our demanding circumstances, we crave comfort and inevitably we reach out to one another...
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