Ride the Titanic! Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2015

  A Kindle Scout selection

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  For Jim Lewis,

  My creative friend who helped me ride the ride from start to finish.

  And Marian Young,

  My dear friend and literary agent who bought the first ticket.

  Contents

  Tuesday, May 6 - 3:06 am

  Tuesday, May 6 - 5:30 pm

  Thursday, June 9 - 3:30 am

  Friday, May 28 - 10:15 am

  Tuesday, November 5 - 9:35 pm

  Saturday, June 25 - 4:50 pm

  Monday, March 18 - 10:15 am

  Monday, April 2 - 1:00 pm

  Saturday, April 14 - 8:06 pm

  Friday, April 15 - 12:05 am

  Tuesday, April 18 - 10:00 pm

  About the Author

  Tuesday, May 6

  3:06 am

  It’s not the alarm clock’s neon-numbers that shatter my dream about a roller coaster with so many negative G’s I’m in outer space, it’s the high-pitched shrieks coming from the nursery that do the trick.

  I un-cuddle from my wife Geena, who stirs and moans, ‘Babiessss.’

  ‘Got ‘em.’

  ‘Thanksssss.’

  She crumples back onto her pillow. I pat her hip, roll out of bed, find my slippers in the dark and stagger off to feed the twins before they gum me to death with their toothless maws.

  One baby per-arm, I creep downstairs in the dark, feeling my way on the bare wooden steps, whispering, ‘Got to carpet these things or I’m gonna’ slip on my ass and drop the kids.’

  Got plenty of time to do it because I’ve done the math: Geena’s got a job, I don’t – outside the home – as the creepy saying goes, and I’m under 24/7 house-mommy-arrest until I start bringing home a paycheck again.

  Halfway down the stairs, without warning, my half-asleep mind transports me high above the Los Angeles hillside to behold the most iconic sign in the world:

  HOLLYWOOD

  I let it float there; bright, white, and seductive. Whenever a powerful image BANGS into my subconscious, I pay close attention. Sure enough, just as I reach the bottom of the stairs the bold, brash, letters dissolve into a new word that takes my breath away:

  LAS VEGAS

  ‘Holy shit!’ I hiss to Baby Angela, who shrieks, not from the word but from her escalating hunger.

  ‘What about you, Artie?’ I whisper to her twin brother Arturo. ‘What if the ride’s in Vegas? Huh, little buddy?’ I jiggle him up and down. ‘What do you say to THAT?’

  The twins break the sound barrier and I know I’m on the right track, because screaming will be a HUGE part of it.

  Run-of-the-mill ride designers use dry-erase wallboards with intersecting lines and squiggles and boxes and triangles to indicate ‘if this’ and ‘then that’ when they plan the path of a new ride. Me? Forget the markers, I run it in my mind; imagine every twist and turn, predict every surprise, anticipate every potential fault the way downhill skiers ‘run the course’ in their minds before leaving the gate.

  While I microwave the twins’ formula and tickle their feet, that’s exactly what I do. But not in the ocean. This time it’s going to be in Las. . . . . .. VEGAS, baby!

  If you’ve never been there, trust me, this city’s a separate planet in the solar system. Eyeball-searing desert heat, gin-and-tonics so cold you get a headache, and a dry, pitiless, baking sun that gives you wandering-in-the-desert visions of hitting the jackpot, swimming in money, swimming in pools, swimming in the arms of luscious lovers who satisfy your every whim, and then you squeeze your burnt-out, broke-but-happy ass inside an aluminum tube with wings and fly home to Mother Earth, penniless, but oh my God, so happy.

  ‘Angie, Artie. . .’

  I lean closer to my two favorite babies who stare at me like twin Bambi’s caught in my feverish headlights. ‘Screw the ocean. What if daddy builds his ride on the strip, right across from Bellagio? What if daddy’s Titanic sinks in the middle of the desert and then comes back again?’

  They smile.

  Maybe because at some deep-seated, non-verbal level they understand – like I do – it’s not the separate elements that make Vegas click like a triple-cushion billiard shot that wins the jackpot. Gambling? Forget it. No contest between Nevada and sin-city Macau. China’s money pit rakes in more cash in a day than Vegas does in a week. Wine, women and song? New York City all the way, sweetheart, the Big Apple takes the prize any day of the week. So. . . what’s the secret that makes the Vegas Bombshell Cocktail so damned successful?

  It’s the twist of the city’s wrist as she combines those dazzling ingredients into one gorgeous, irresistible shot glass to seduce sleep-deprived people with time on their hands and money in their pockets to come into her parlor. Then she grabs, shakes, and pours them into an ice-cold, air-conditioned world filled with non-stop gambling, entertainment and dazzling diversions like dancing water fountains and sky-high Ferris wheels. Her drink orders filled, she steps back, smiles and lets the good times roll.

  Half-drunk with images of this delirious city, while balancing bottles and babies like a juggler with bowling pins, I stagger into the living room, trip over a pile of toys that Geena stacked the night before and almost drop the babes, who shriek like banshees as I dance across the carpet trying not to fall. The daddy part of my mind panics at the thought, while the ride designer part bursts out laughing because this off-balance craziness will be a part of the ride: the rug pulled out from under you, no ground to stand on, not knowing what’s going to happen next, time running out, desperate to escape, and suddenly your life’s at stake and emotions sweep over you so HUGE that you forget that it’s just a ride.

  ‘Exactly!’

  I plop the twins on their pillows, plug the formula bottles into their gaping mouths and turn them loose to suck, while they stare at me with button-bright eyes that gaze into my soul, and I gaze right back, because at three in the morning, kneeling on the carpet, smiling down at my two happy babies, I know that Ride the Titanic has risen once again. And this time it just might work.

  Maybe ‘rebooted’ is a better way to describe a ride I created ten years earlier. At the time I was a contract ‘Imagineer’ working on Disney’s Indiana Jones Adventure: Temple of Doom. Working for the mouse was my golden opportunity to work alongside my father, a veteran ‘Imagineer’ who had worked for Walt his whole life. All my dreams came true that year; me and dad together, the ride opening on schedule, and riders screaming with fear and excitement. But then Disney laid me off, and two months later dad died, his spirit floating up to the real Magic Kingdom, while mine dropped down into deep hiding.

  With time, severance money, and Geena’s support, I slowly rose out of my depression, went into overdrive and came up with a ride that would be worlds different from Disney’s Indiana Jones-like caverns filled with writhing snakes and exploding volcanoes. In its place I ‘imagineered’ a full-size replica of the R.M.S. Titanic filled with passengers sailing out to a real sea – not just to look at the view and fall asleep during some boring historian’s recollections, or staring at taxidermy-like tableaux the way some folks were planning back then.


  No way.

  My customer base would literally ride the Titanic; a fully submersible, ocean-going ‘ride vessel’ outfitted with ballast tanks and a pressurized hull that would literally sink and then come back again and again.

  Imagine, if you will, two hundred platinum-ticketed ‘First Class’ passengers sitting inside pressurized chambers disguised as staterooms, while ride attendants dressed as stewards herded the remaining ‘steerage’ class riders into fifty-person ocean-going launches to watch the famously ‘unsinkable’ ship sink into the depths. And when it submerged, the thrill-seeking E-ticket holders onboard would literally experience what it’s like to go down with the ship – then return safely in a rush of foam and compressed air.

  The concept took my breath away – friends said my sanity, too, including Geena, who supported me during my wild adventure the way you handle a monkey with a knife; lots of care and plenty of distance. But she needn’t have bothered. I was sane the whole time because I was managing something much more than an amusement park ride.

  For instance, ever wonder what’s the big deal with the Titanic?

  If you ask that question to most of my ride designer friends, they’ll shrug it off, preferring to discuss ad infinitum a ride’s physical and mechanical aspects instead of the psychological ones. Me? I like to explore the roots of a ride before climbing up the ‘trunk’ and out onto the branches to reach those trembling leaves where riders are waiting for a thrill of a lifetime. And so, after months of historical research and interviews with Freudian and Jungian psychiatrists, I discovered an important ‘root’ about the Titanic.

  We don’t EVER want it to sink the way it actually did.

  Not forever, that is.

  The first time we hear this incredible story, or for the hundredth time, deep down we always imagine ourselves trapped in the same predicament and shiver at the thought of what it would be like to face what those poor souls faced on that starry night, when an iceberg shattered the steel plates that protected their warm little world from the ice-cold Atlantic. And while some people light candles in solemn remembrance every April 12, most of us, if given the chance, would buy a ticket so that we could ‘bring it back.’ And when the ride’s over we’d line up to go down with it again. . . and again.

  And while we’re talking about it at this level, consider the image of Titanic’s black stern trembling high in the air with thousands of victims about to take the plunge. It packs as much punch as Christ on the cross. Maybe even more. Despite Bob Ballard’s finding the actual wreck in 1985, despite thousands of high-rez photos, despite James Cameron’s blockbuster movie, Titanic in 1997, and thousands of books before and since – despite the truth of the story, the ship’s mythic power grows stronger with every passing year.

  A thousand years from now you and I will be long gone, but the Titanic will sail on, maybe with six smokestacks instead of her original four, a pure white hull instead of black, who knows? Stories change, Greek gods become Roman ones; myths endlessly adapt to suit a culture’s needs. But regardless of its shape and size, the Titanic will always be with us, sailing alongside the Iliad and the Odyssey, maybe out in front, leading the fleet.

  Back in the 90s I had my lion’s share of critics accusing me of exploiting an ‘epic tragedy.’ But solid market research and audience testing revealed tens of thousands of potential customers ready to buy tickets to Ride the Titanic. So, with solid metrics in hand and an airtight business plan, I confidently launched my grand ride, only to watch it sink without a trace six months later, when the housing bubble POPPED and the stock market collapsed, and chased my investors away from the ocean and into the hills.

  Ten years and six jobs later, the first love of my life returns with a BANG. This time dressed like a Las Vegas showgirl.

  While the babies guzzle, I run the numbers for doing the ride on land and try to low ball them as much as I can. But including the pre-load and a minimum of fifteen ride vehicles, the potential pass-through gross makes me shiver with excitement.

  ‘It could work,’ I whisper. ‘It damn well could.’

  Two hours and six spread sheets later, I take three deep Buddhist breaths to bolster my courage, center myself in the terrifying present and awaken my wife Geena. To hedge my bets, I hand her a cup of coffee before she can even lift her head from the pillow.

  ‘Honey, I got this idea.’

  With eyes bulging like Bugs Bunny on crystal meth, I start my pitch. She listens in silence, slowly sipping her coffee, eyes closed, seemingly not there.

  When I finish she says, ‘I never would have thought of Vegas.’

  ‘It came to me when I was up with the twins. Amazing, huh?’

  ‘The reason I never thought of it is because it’ll never work.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Your cost?’

  ‘For R&D I’m guessing fifteen million, give or take; preliminary studies, first passes, mockups, trials, stuff like that.’

  ‘Totals?’

  ‘Three hundred sixty-seventy million, but that’s way down the road.’

  ‘I see.’ Another measured sip of coffee. ‘From where exactly does this river of money flow?’

  ‘Don’t know that part yet.’

  ‘I see.’ Geena slides out of bed and heads for the bathroom. ‘Here we go again.’

  ‘No, listen, there’s lots more.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  I stand outside the bathroom door, allowing her the privacy of her morning toilet, but not being able to stop yakking. Sure, lots of internal changes need to be made, but the ride IS do-able. If anything, I can lessen the R&D because I’ve already done most of the spadework. The original Ride the Titanic priced out to just over two hundred-twenty million. A lot of cash back them, but I managed to raise a sizeable chunk before my dream sank without a trace.

  ‘Virgin loved the first one, remember?’ I say.

  ‘All Branson ever gave you was a smile.’

  ‘That’s all I needed.’

  And it was, because I managed to parlay Sir Richard’s smile into venture capital money that eventually became a seven-million dollar seed, unfortunately for a tree that never grew. But that experience proved to me the value of core enthusiasm. Branson had it for Virgin. I had it for Ride the Titanic. He could smell it on me like some kind of endorphin, and green-lighted my proposal with his maniacally happy grin and a fistful of development cash.

  Question is, can I make Geena smell those enthusiasm endorphins again?

  Like me, she’s a Disney brat who grew up inside the ‘mouse house,’ as her Imagineer father Joe Corelli described the Anaheim shop where he worked as a concept artist. Like me, she saw it all and did it all as a willing – sometimes wailing – family member spending hours with other Disney brats as guinea pigs on their ride engineer-parents’ prototype rides, experiencing every conceivable variation in ‘work light’ mode, which means all the magic was gone and just the guts visible for them to examine and poke and prod and question us after every run.

  ‘So. . .?’ I say to the closed bathroom door.

  Nothing but silence. Flop sweat trickles down the small of my back. The engineer side of my brain duly notes this as a sign of fear. The artist side of my brain panics.

  ‘Honey, what do you think? Be honest.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Doing it in Vegas.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ A swooshing scrub of teeth brushing, spitting, water running.

  ‘Anything’s possible out there, you know,’ I prod.

  ‘What about backers?’

  ‘Can’t sell a dream until it’s dressed up and ready to dance.’

  ‘I see.’ Bathroom door opens. ‘And how long will that take, do you think?’

  I feel a rush of excitement and a thrill of fear. Is she really buying into it? Can it be this easy?

  ‘Not sure just yet. A month, maybe two – three at the outside – to get all the parts in place.’

  Even though I see the telltale warning sign
of lowering eyebrows I’m too damn dizzy with my dream. But when she says softly, ‘Michael. . . .’ I know I’m in for a rough ride.

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘You are aware of the fact that we’re upside down on the mortgage.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And my NASA paycheck’s barely enough to cover expenses.’

  ‘I’m deeply grateful that you’re still receiving one.’

  ‘As opposed to someone who is not.’

  ‘Touché.’

  ‘And just how long my paycheck keeps coming is the question that needs answering. The shuttle’s long gone, privatization’s going full speed and Congress is gunning for the space station.’

  ‘I know that, but we still have our savings, and. . .’

  Her warm, brown, Italian, welcome-to-Rome eyes flare into Mount Vesuvius. ‘That IS not and will never BE an option.’

  I brace myself for what’s coming – not from my wife who I love – but the rest of Giovanna ‘Geena’ Corelli-Sullivan, Ph.D., a Long-Duration Psychologist who works at Kennedy Space Center, keeping astronauts from going nuts in orbit – and husbands like me – from doing the same on earth.

  Despite my fears I sail into the approaching storm.

  ‘I didn’t mean to suggest for a minute that. . .’

  ‘Reboot your operating system, Captain America. And do it now.’

  ‘But doctor. . .’

  ‘Now!’

  I stand there, mind blank, as she does a final quick comb-through, swipes on lipstick, conducts a two-second facial analysis in the mirror, and then turns and pokes my chest with a red nail-polished finger.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, Mike, your ride’s a good idea. Always was, and Vegas is a clever switcheroo. But we need to keep our own ship from sinking before we worry about yours. Capisce?’

  ‘You’re right,’ I mumble, my caffeine-fueled dreams deflating by the second.

  ‘I’m sorry, but you know I am.’

  She stands on her tiptoes, reaches up and slips her arms around my neck, her eyes motionless as she stares at me until I can feel her soul inhabit mine. And then she smiles that incredible smile of hers. I simply cannot help loving this woman. I just do. Even when she’s right and I’m wrong. Like now.