11,000 Virgins, nearly as many Daiquiris
Or The Sovereignty of Nonsense- Vacation During Wartime
At night and upon returning from days in port the ship and its passengers divide up. A cigar lounge in which the upper crust patrons and those wishing to smoke like them sat and enjoyed a bebop jazz trio. Others drink, watching the cute guy with the guitar singing every top 40 hit from the past 30 years, near the bar in the center of the ship. Some go to the variety shows being put on in the rear. The younger ones go to the discothèque. The disco was a garish spectacle. Everything on a cruise has to have some theme- and the theme chosen for the disco was “Medusa”. Green tendrils of plastic “hair” lifted the table tops which held aloft the candy-colored cocktails which glowed in the blacklight. Images of Medusa’s face carved into the wall had eyes lit up green- an ugly idol watching us. A two story video screen peppered with images from the dance floor in front of it gave revelers the chance to watch themselves partying- a perfect image of self-referential modernity. The music throbbed and ruled the young bodies.
Sitting on the balcony bar above this spectacle I met Doug.
Doug was 25 and currently on leave from duty in Afghanistan. We met in Medusa over drinks and voyeurism. Doug was a demolitionist and tonight he felt like talking about it. He told me about how his unit was shipped to Iraq but he was left in Afghanistan. He talked about his age (25) and how it made him the old man. Underneath the crushing bass drums that made our chests rumble as if from the inside out he told me he loved his job. They blew up our skyscrapers, so he was exploding their caves. “WHOOO! Man, I fuckin’ love it! BOOM!” He had sealed at least thirty of their asses in a cave. The alcohol was creating wild mood swings in him. In another 30 seconds, as if to sob, he said, “None of us should be over their man. We’re just kids.” I told him I had heard that our troops had little control over the territory at night. He said that chasing the terrorists was like “trying to grasp of puff of smoke in your hand.” He gestured accordingly. A cocktail waitress walked past us - caught his eye - and then he turned to me with a big smile and making a gesticulation that suggested a burst: “BOOM!”
Some other topics passed in conversation quickly. We watched. The bodies of young people writhing to the incessant bass that emanated from the sub woofer like an earthquake; the music pouring out on them like a spell that left them both dumb and aroused, easily governed. Just as I was about to get lost in the irrational motions on the dance floor, Doug said something I will never forget. He nodded over the ledge:
“We’re over there defending all this nonsense.”
I nearly fell off my stool. I came to my senses for a moment. I tried to ask whether he admired the sheer will of the terrorist enemy. An enemy willing to kill himself for his “cause” - while we consumers live for this nonsense.
“Life and death means nothing to them.” He said. And then, “BOOM! Right?”, he laughed and swilled his Red Label beer. Britney Spears’ song “I’m a Slave 4 U” came on. Some of the girls motioned us to come down and dance with them. We descended the stairs which were coiled with more of Medusa’s “hair”. The words of the song, heard over and over on the radio that summer:
“What’s practical/ What’s logical/ What the hell, who cares?/ All I know is that I’m happy/When your dancin’ there.”
In the sensory overload Doug lost himself. Entering the fray I could see a girl’s thong climbing out the top of her skirt as she shook her hips with all the verve and sensuality her 17 years of life could muster. I tried to stop thinking about what Doug had said. This is what we were fighting for in Afghanistan. The chorus was coming and the words came to my moist and dumb lips
I’m a slaaaaave, for you/I won’t deny it/ I’m not tryin’ to hide it”
I couldn’t make out whether Britney was singing to us - whether she was pledging sex slave fealty to we masses, or whether we were all singing back to her. My will ebbed away under the pull of the music: The moshing and grinding, the lights and bass swirling around me. Tonight on this ship the D.J. was the bishop of Puerto Rico- leading a bizarre liturgy in honor of Britney Spears, the saint of America. There were no virgins in this Rogativa.
The daiquiris, the bass, the sweat and the rollicking of our ship made us forget the conflict 7,000 miles away. If the Muslims could see this spectacle would they also lose the will to fight us- as Ambercromby lost his nerve when he saw San Juan’s devotion? Would they lay down their jihad, their religious doctrines, their ethnic grievances for this paradise of nonsense? This place where thought, responsibility and will fly from you like palm leaves in a hurricane.
I didn’t want to think of this as spiritual debasement. I didn’t want to think of the caves in Afghanistan, the Rogativa, or anything at all. I was having fun, damn it. As I danced and bounced with Britney Spears I almost began to cry. I looked for anything that would wash away my concerns even just for a moment and suddenly a light traveled the floor and up and I again caught a glimpse of that girl’s conspicuous thong. I then looked into the eyes of a friend on the dance floor, she unaware of all the turmoil in my soul smiled and we both mouthed the words “I’m a slaaaaave for you” and shook our bodies mindless. My senses were overcome in the deluge. There we were, my generation, on this pleasure ark declaring ourselves slaves.
I was having fun now. I smiled, looked upon the rhythmic shaking of girls all around me, and danced until I could taste my sweat.
