"Since this newspaper has learned that the Guru himself, who reportedly holds a Captain's license issued by the Indian government in 1959, will be the ship's Master, it has offered the editorial opinion that embarkation on this cruise may well be unsafe. (See editorial page.) The editors do not feel themselves qualified to comment on the Guru's religious status, but point out that the highly respected Guru Thomas Maharanji, confirmed ascetic and Professor of Eastern Religion at Harvard, has offered his opinion: The Guru Baalow Nee,' says Maharanji, lias once more found an ingenious way to separate those who seek religious truth from the burdens of their earthly riches. Since, however, in my opinion at least, the Guru has approximately the religious insight of a horned toad, his cruise will at best be enlightening only to the pocket books of those who are foolish enough to pay the ridiculous amount of $2,500 for their passage.'"
Sean raised his eyebrows. "Heavy shit," he said. "I must admit… "
Virginia Vagina exploded. "Are you going to believe that crap? Listen, the Guru is the wisest man on the face of the earth! He's… "
"Yeah, yeah, sure," Sean said, "but I don't care about any of that. Well, what the hell, the only way he can fuck up is to sink the ship, right? And I doubt he'll do that. Besides, the Daily News fails to recognize one important thing. If everybody on this cruise but us has put out $2,500 for three weeks, it's going to be a pretty damned high-class clientele. There aren't going to be many loonies or convicts or whatever else anyone might be afraid of. Anyhow, we're going."
"Doesn't scare me," John said. "If I spent nine months in the Nam and didn't get my balls blown off m just bet no Guru's going to do that for me.'
"I'll tell you something," Joe said. "The Guru interests me. I've heard some of the shit he's said, seen him on TV once, and I'm not sure he's the slightest bit nuts. I haven't figured out what he is yet, but some of the shit he says makes a hell of a lot of sense. Maybe it's the philosopher in me finding subtleties that aren't there, but I'm willing to take a little chance to find out."
"Yeah," Andrea agreed. "He makes sense to me too." But she wasn't about to tell anyone why.
"Ok," Joanna concluded. Tuck it. If you're all going I sure as hell won't be alone, and to tell you the truth, if the old Guru doesn't find an iceburg to run into in the Caribbean, it sounds like it could be a real gas. Count me in."
CHAPTER EIGHT
The scene at the dockside the next morning was predictably strange, but not quite what the Daily News would have led one to imagine. Not that Sean or Andrea or anyone else in their party could focus on it terribly well. They had managed to spend the entire night going from apartment to apartment-John's, Andrea's, Joanna's-concocting or falling into orgies, mini or maxi, at each location, and furthermore rendering themselves ineffective by means of smoking approximately twenty joints and sixteen pipefuls of assorted varieties of marijuana: ineffective and moreover hungry; and also thirsty; and generally spacey. Now, having stopped their two-cab caravan at Nathan's in Times Square to pick up hot dogs, orange juice, beer and jelly doughnuts for breakfast, they arrived at Pier 52.
"That's it!" Virginia cried, pointing to an immaculate white cruise-ship with Walt Disney balloons and bunches of bananas festooning the rigging. It was seven-thirty and embarkation was well underway.
"No kidding," Sean sighed, a little bit weary with Virginia's enthusiastic obviousness. "Is that why it has the words 'True Enlightenment' painted in day-glo psychedelic letters on the bow?"
"Gee, it's pretty big," Andrea observed. "How long would you say it was?"
"Lots bigger than a row boat and lots smaller than the Queen Elizabeth. How the hell should I know? Three-fifty? Four hundred? Four-fifty? Inches? Feet? Pounds? Decibels? Fuck, I can't even see any more, let alone think. Look at this goddamned pandemonium." Their cab eased to a halt at a crowded curb. Sean continued to mumble. "Pandemonium! Assengers pariving, bonis hlairing, sheople pouting, dorters propping luggage all over the place. We'll be fucky if we let get alone."
Andrea swung the cab door open.
"Excuse me, Miss!" A camera flash exploded in her face.
"Fameras clashing, wots of lierdoes…" Sean got out the other side and went to the trunk for their luggage.
A half dozen reporters descended on Andrea like vultures after a hot piece of carrion, pencils wiggling eagerly above efficient little pads, jaws greased up. "Is it true that the Guru led a procession down to a Village club where you were singing last night and offered you a fabulous sum of money to replace Lawrence Welk as his entertainer?"
Andrea blinked at them. "You call three grand fabulous? You do and you got the story right."
"Three thousand dollars? Was that the figure? Total?"
"No. There wasn't any figure. The figure was an illusion. That was the money. Three thousand. Yes." Andrea didn't know whether Sean had been talking like the Guru and she was talking like him talking like the Guru, or whether she was just talking like the Guru directly, or whether Sean was talking like her talking like the Guru only he'd started it, or…
She saw the reporters scribbling "$3,000" down on their pads in big block letters. The older ones underlined it twice and the younger ones three or four times.
"And you are Andrea Bentham, correct?"
"A-n-d-r-e-a B-e-n-t-h-a-m. Correct, last I looked. You will notice the subtleties of its pronunciation. If your could pronounce it correctly you would gain true enlightenment."
"I'll try to avoid it," one of the young ones promised, casting a doubtful eye on the ship. Suddenly Andrea was deluged with questions.
"How old are you, Miss Bentham?"
"Where are you from?"
"How long have you been performing?"
"Have you cut any records?"
"Is it true that all the Guru's followers you saw last night were indecently exposed young ladies?"
"Have you ever done strip-tease?"
"Do you believe in free love?"
Andrea frowned reprovingly at them. "Now how can I possibly answer when you all just keep talking?"
Joe Lee came up beside her. "They don't need answers. They just write up each others' questions. Don't you know anything about reporters?"
The jabbering ceased. Andrea took a deep breath. "I'm twenty-six, I'm from Madison, Wisconsin, I've been performing for two years, I haven't cut any records yet, not as I would define indecent, no, and I've never paid for love in my life. Any more questions?"
"Does your mother know you're going?"
"For all I know my mother's going."
Andrea bit her lip. That had been a stupid thing to say.
Sean had got their luggage into the hands of a porter and was standing at the bottom of the loading ramp waving to her to come. But the reporters didn't give her a chance.
"Do you mean your mother would go on a cruise like this?"
"Who is your mother?"
"Where does she live?"
"Does she believe in free love?"
"What was your childhood like?"
Andrea could see it now. Juicy headlines like "26 Year Old Singer Goes on Sex Cruise With Mother" were running through the reporters' heads and sure as hell they'd go through the Benthams in the Madison phone directory and get hold of her mother to check it out. She thought for a second. "I'll take these in reverse order. As a child I was miserably over-protected by excessively permissive parents, my mother never paid for love in her life either, she lives in a soap opera in Canarsie, she's the heroin, and she'd go on a cruise like this because she's going. She's over there." She pointed to a fat lady of fifty or so getting out of a cab ass-first who presented the world with a beautiful picture of what happens when you get your garters crossed. "Any more questions?"