Purgatory on the Pacific

“Timmy, put your mask on right this instant!” She held a book at her side, a plasti-wrapped novel she had bought in the gift shop earlier that day. It was hard to read with the soft rocking of the waves, anyway.

“But I don't friggin’ wanna…” whined the nine-year-old. 

“Don’t you use those damn words in front of your mother, boy!” cautioned a man developing a beer-gut, features shrouded and voice slightly muffled by the air-tight enviro-mask he wore. “And I won’t have you endangering our family, eh?” 

Timmy grumbled a few indistinguishable words then consented, grabbing a mess of dextile plastic and nozzles. It was one size too large, and bright blue--but for a grey, oversized caricature of an influenza cell with snarling teeth and malevolent eyes printed on the side. All the kids in school laughed at him for it, because they had the 4.0’s, not aged and potentially faulty gear with a “totally shizzy baby drawing’' all over it. 

Timmy seethed as he pulled the mask over his face.

To be fair, there had been one kid who hadn’t ridiculed him for his gear, Bunny Macks. But she kicked the bucket the year before when Coorslight swept in. Macks had even worse gear, which looked like it had been found in a dumpster of ancient relics, back to the land of dinosaurs and Britney Spears, and had most likely attributed to her blotchy-faced, keeling-over demise, along with a formidable dismissal of that season’s vaccines. In any case, Timmy was now the sole punchline of Mr. Vivada’s elementary class. In any case, the air had taken on the slightest hint of barbecue that unfortunate day last year.

“Honey, I think I’m going to buggin’ blow my brains out if she doesn’t stop with the hopscotch!” cried the man. “Four days, and who knows how many more… I can’t do it. I can’t do it…” he thought. “I’ll be here for a couple more viruses…”

“Language, Verne.” quipped Pollyanna. “Let her be, it’s not her fault there’s a lockdown.”

A twelve-year-old was bouncing on one of the two twin beds in the small room, much to the irritation of her father. Wendy was a deep-space explorer, launching herself higher and higher into the stratosphere of an alien planet in the year 2330. Hopefully, she’d be working for NASA by then. 

“Wendy darling, quit it, please. You’ll have hours to jump once we get back home, I promise.” pleaded Ben, to no avail. He sighed and wished this gear came equipped with earplugs. 

Timmy was sitting in front of the tv, fixated on an incoherent cartoon; Wendy was still bouncing, with less enthusiasm; Polly was settling back down to read, or trying to read with the allotted vision (“dang the old models!”), the book she had bought: “Steamy Stories from Saturn” She was prone to this sort of literature. Verne sat at the small desk in the corner, wishing he was back at the homestead, back on solid ground.

“I feel carsick,” cried Wendy, no longer an astronaut (mind you, not exploring Steamy Saturn).

No one answered--they all felt it, to some extent. Being locked up on a boat did that to you.

“Mommy, can I have more medicine?”

“Shu’ up, I’m trying to watch!” piped Timmy. His goggles flashed.

This exclamation brought Verne around to the moment, and his eyes burned. “I don’t want to hear any more out of you, okay? You brought us into this, eh?!” he was pointing at Wendy as if he might cast a malicious spell. “It was you who dragged us in!” 

Pollyanna didn’t seem to notice this, so engrossed was she in the softly pornographic tales. 

Verne started again, and in his mind’s eye, he relived the journey: 

Wendy and her “Galactic-O’s” (always Galactic-O’s…); shaking the box upside-down with her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth; the slip of paper printed on inexpensive material which announced a “Cruise of a Lifetime!” ticket on the Pacific Ocean get-around hosted by “BouzesCruzes United”--and when Verne saw that, well, one thing just led to another, and all of a sudden--the meeting with the boss, Mr. “Buttkisser”, to book time off for the cruise, and the throwing of chairs that ensued; the screaming of a pampered toddler, which shot forth from “Buttkisser”; “F-I-R-E-D” printed on the man’s lips--but Verne didn’t mind all that. He was doing just fine, sticking it to the man… so far. The job was crap, anyway--the firm kick he planted on his ex-employer’s behind before he ditched…

Verne was dizzy with contempt. It was a hoax, after all--there wasn’t a drop of liquor to be found on the “S.S. Seltzer,” and what the he--

“Mmmmommy!” 

Polly looked up at her daughter and sighed. 

As she trudged to the medicine cabinet, everyone settled back into their solitary positions. She thought about the trip to the coast after Verne had been fired for reasons known only to him. It was him who had decided to take the family along with Wendy--in the middle of flu season. “And of course, that’s why tickets were so cheap…” And Verne had acted like such an idiot when he had found no liquor on board, due to the fact that there had never been--she agreed (not aloud, of course) that it was misleading when the company owners had such a name as “Bouze”. 

Suddenly, an intercom buzzed overhead, and a voice peered into the Pinello’s room: 

“May I have the attention of the guests and crew, your captain speaking. Those infected with the Budweiservirus have been antiquated, and lockdown protocol is hereby lifted. You are free to remove PPE for the remainder of your stay. Thank you for comply--” at this, the voice broke down into a coughing fit, and the Pinello family, who had been standing upright, eyes hopeful, dismally settled back into their previous spots. The coughing was then replaced by yelling which grew more distant as the voice was dragged away, before the intercom was hastily switched off.