Ride the Titanic! (2 page)

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.

‘Sometimes life sucks,’ she says.

‘It can’t suck forever.’

‘True, and when that time comes, I just want to be with my babies.’

‘And I just want to build my rides.’

She presses her head against my chest, takes a deep breath and lets it out. ‘Remind me how I became a mother again at forty-one.’

‘We had sex.’

‘Ah, yes, THAT.’ She runs her fingernail along my jawbone. ‘Fabulous sex, now that you mention it.’ Then she sighs again. ‘I thought Fiona would be the only opera in our lives.’

Besides our twins we have a twelve year-old daughter with a flair for the dramatic. Despite Sullivan for her last name, Fiona has Geena’s Italian heritage and is a Corelli through and through. Which is fine by me. My Galway Bay ancestors spent their lives trying to stay alive in the old country. No pasta for them. No wine. Just beer and potatoes and fog and futility. ‘Thank God for the Italians,’ I always say whenever I sit down to one of my mother-in-law’s stupendous ‘Sunday Suppers.’

A final fingernail poke, followed by a passionate kiss.
‘Collatione e pronta?’

I feel a sudden, unexpected arousal. ‘Sure, but I thought you had to work today.’

‘
Collatione
means breakfast. Why don’t you learn some Italian? Pop would be so happy.’

‘When I get time.’

Another fingernail poke. ‘After you start your new job you’ll have plenty of that.’

‘Job’ is right.’

‘Final offer’s today?’

All I can do is nod numbly, the way a man does when accepting a last cigarette before the firing squad. My interview with an HVAC company to design air conditioning systems for office buildings, has gone well so far.

Geena sighs wistfully. ‘I forget what it’s like to have two paychecks.’

‘While trapped in a cubicle all day long.’

‘Poor baby.’ Her lips are soft and warm on mine. ‘But you can spend your nights with me.’

‘For the last time, eggs are ready,’ I shout to an empty kitchen, holding a skillet of perfectly cooked, over-easy eggs – the way everybody likes them – and not a soul in sight.

‘Damn.’

The secret to a great breakfast is the same as a great theme-park ride; everything needs to be ready all at once: eggs, ham, grits, toast, pancakes – whatever you’re making, whether it’s roller coasters or rashers of bacon, timing is everything, including the riders showing up when they’re supposed to, damn it.

Fiona finally breezes in, texting away and humming a tune.

‘Sit and eat.’

‘In a sec.’

‘Now. Eggs are ready.’

‘Daddy!’ She plops into her chair. ‘I’ll weigh a TON if you keep feeding me the way Nonna does. Can’t I just have toast?’

‘You could stand a few pounds.’

‘No way!’ She shakes her thick auburn hair.

I say softly, ‘Let me ask you a question. Be honest. Promise?’

‘Promise.’

I make a quick check to make sure the coast is clear. ‘What if
Ride the Titanic
was in Vegas?’

‘You mean that boat thing you wanted to do when I was a little girl?’

‘You’re still a little girl, and it’s a ship not a boat, and forget the ocean, what if my ride happened in Las Vegas?’

I can’t help myself, I pitch it again while Fiona nibbles on a piece of toast, head down, seemingly somewhere else, but I can tell she’s listening because her feet stop jiggling. Normally she’s ‘Brownian Motion,’ darting here and there in random unpredictable directions, impelled by invisible forces. Not today. A good sign. When I finish she looks straight at me.

‘You on the real with this?’

‘Straight up.’

Fiona and her friends use street slang to communicate. I struggle to keep up with them, but most of the time my phrases are instantly outdated because they change constantly, which prompts gales of derisive laughter. But better to share my daughter’s world as a bumbling court jester, than to be cut off like a despot-king.

‘Bangin’?’ she says.

‘Mad. Totally.’

She smiles but doesn’t laugh.

‘Said it wrong, right?’

‘No, it’s okay.’ She nibbles her toast. ‘You just sound funny when you talk like that.’

‘And?’

‘The part about sliding into the water sounds rad.’

‘Only for the two night rides. Rest of the time it’s exit through retail.’

She shrugs. ‘I wonder if instead of. . .’

Her smartphone ‘plinks’ she glances down and blushes.

‘Adam?’ I say.

‘Sort of.’

‘Is or it isn’t.’

‘Such a pest.’ She slides the phone away, but glances at it like her boyfriend is hiding inside.

‘You two down low?’

Her face flushes. ‘Course not.’

‘Good. Last time I checked the calendar you’re twelve, not twenty.’

‘Who’s twelve?’ Geena bustles into the kitchen, twins in arms, heads swiveling in unison like bobble-head dolls.

‘Eggs got hard. Made you an egg sandwich. That okay?’

‘Great. Trade you two babies who need changing – again.’

‘Shit happens.’

‘Very funny. Gotta’ roll.’

Fiona says brightly, ‘Daddy told me about his
Titanic
thing.’

Geena’s smile fades as her warm brown eyes turn to ice. ‘Michael?’

Once again my heart chills at the thought of huddling inside a rabbit-warren of cubicles, wearing a short-sleeve shirt and tie, fiddling with CAD software nine-to-five. Despite this sinking feeling, I heft the babies and try to sound convincing.

‘Once I get the kids down for their nap, I’ll make the call.’

‘Hope to God you get it.’

Want the details? I’m a finalist with an Orlando-based construction company that needs a systems manager. So. . .during the first interview I make a big deal of my theme park ride background as a ‘relevant asset.’ Having Disney on the resume doesn’t hurt. Never does in this town. Neither does the fact that I am by profession a mechanical engineer and can grab a stack of HVAC system blueprints and plot an energy recovery curve without using a calculator. Anyhow, my shtick works because the company falls in love with me and schedules a final, ‘formality’ interview.

Today.

But changing careers in mid-life is like asking an oil tanker to hang a sharp left, or an ocean liner like the
Titanic
for that matter, and I’m off again, daydreaming about doing my ride in Vegas and feeling a hot rush of sensations as vibrant and thrilling as the first time I saw the
Indiana Jones
stunt guy jump over the fire pit.

Growing up, I dreamed of building bridges all over the world. Sleeves rolled up over my muscular arms, hammering steel, battling malaria, gorgeous native women hanging on my arms, adoring my every move, I would unite cultures and advance civilizations left and right by spanning impossible gaps with graceful, elegant bridges. Lost in the library stacks, nose buried in a book describing Roebling’s iconic Brooklyn Bridge, I imagined the Queen of England tapping her sword on my shoulders.

‘Arise, Sir Michael Sullivan, the greatest bridge builder of them all.’

But the only real bridge I ever worked on was the aluminum, carbon fiber, and steel one used in Disney’s
Indiana Jones Stunt Spectacular;
an outdoor, life action stage show filled with exploding fireballs and narrow escapes, and a spectacular ending with Indy and Marian flying through the air in a desperate attempt to escape the pursuing Nazis.