Ride the Titanic! (44 page)

True to her artistry, Celine sings live to playback instead of lip-sync. And as Ellie’s cameras swoop in and around her in a cinematic dance, Celine keeps looking at one camera in particular, so that whenever Ellie punches that one up on the console and feeds it onto the enormous water screen, Celine looks straight into your soul when she sings,

‘
Love was when I loved you. . .’

I believe every word. Blended with her plaintive face is a dazzling swirl of imagery; shots of the original
Titanic,
archival and black-and-white, then colorized, then in motion, then scenes from our ride, all woven in and around the music and the singer and projected upon a gigantic water screen that, if you happen to be landing at McCarren airport, you’re watching the world’s largest drive-in movie.

As she finishes her last, heart-breaking notes, hundreds of porthole lights slowly wink on all along the hull, as if the
Titanic’s
soul has been waiting for her music to bring it to life. Simultaneously, spot lights bathe the ship’s four majestic funnels and brilliant white upper works, while high above, glowing upon the water screen the golden words,
Ride the Titanic
spell out for all of Las Vegas – and the world – to see, that we are finally open for business at long happy last.

Those who think grown men don’t cry, never had their dreams come true.

As the applause for Celine’s song fades, it’s my turn to do something other than stand around with my mouth hanging open, star struck and stupid while the main event ebbs and flows around me.

‘Cue boarding,’ I say to Molly.

Her calm voice instantly responds, ‘Doors opening, sir.’

In response, an immense side panel set flush into the hull slides upward, much like a curtain in the theater, only ours is black steel and rivets. And as it rises, golden light spills out from behind to bathe the waiting celebrities and VIPs in a welcoming glow, like in the ending of
Close Encounters of the Third Kind,
when the mother ship lands. Equally hypnotized by the drama of the moment our passengers walk toward the radiant light, eager to see more of the glorious
Grand Staircase
, with its banisters curving like welcoming arms to enfold the eager travelers.

Teams of
White Star Line
uniformed stewards, their British accents crisp and precise, stream out like Spielberg’s friendly aliens to work the fringes of the three hundred-plus, invitation-only crowd.

‘Come along then, right this way. . . mind your step, madam. . . yes, sir, if you would just move this way if you please. . . yes. . . that’s quite all right. . .welcome aboard. . . .’

There’s something soothing and serene about a someone speaking with a proper British accent; as if all that can be seen, heard, and felt in this world has already been encountered, experienced and dealt with by this buttoned-down, laced-up, all-will-be-well person.

‘Nothing to worry about, all will be perfectly well, you’ll see. . . come along then. . . there’s a good man. . . . Yes. . . right this way. . . we’re boarding now. . . don’t want to get left behind.’

In response to the stewards’ masterful crowd control, the towering egos attached to towering celebrities surrender and flow like taffy toward the
Grand Staircase
and then down the gently curving ramp to the EMV loading area.

Back on the boarding ramp, Cameron’s film crew darts back and forth, capturing the final moments while the director stands stock-still, like Moses waiting to receive the Ten Commandments.

He spots me and says, ‘This whole thing retracts, right?’

‘Yes, so you’d better get on board, or you’ll end up in the water.’

He smiles wolfishly. ‘That comes later.’ He lopes ahead of his crew, shouting over his shoulder. ‘See you on the Ride Bridge.’

I check my watch. I’ve got exactly five minutes to insert Mr. Cameron into Molly’s world before racing back to the EMV boarding and join my lifeboat group before it sails away.

As with all ride openings, employees’ families get first dibs on the fruits of their loved ones’ labors. In our case, because of the night ride, it’s adults-only. And because of our packed celebrity list, we held a lottery for only twenty-five employees. The winners got formal tuxedos and gowns to blend in with the luminaries, prompting them to mock the Maiden Voyage by calling it ‘Prom Night.’ As a result, a happier gang of well-dressed, giggling, Gilded Agers you’ll never find, occupy the last three EMV’s in line. And the very last one to slide down the egress ramp into the water just before the ship goes down will be mine.

Just as I step inside the ship, a series of flashing red lights ripple around the boarding ramp perimeter and a klaxon horn sounds with a stentorian male voice proclaiming ‘STAND CLEAR. . . RETRACTING.’ Not exactly a cheerful ‘bon voyage,’ but our insurance company insisted, and so did the Las Vegas Fire Department, to ‘ensure passenger safety at all times.’

Sort of ironic; making sure everyone safely gets on board a ship that sinks.

Joe stands by the
Grand Staircase
with Geena and the kids. When he spots me he says cheerfully, ‘All present and accounted for, captain.’

We exchange a happy fist bump, doing our best to pretend our earlier conversation never happened. Men are good about that kind of thing, but women know better; if you sweep the truth under the carpet, sooner or later somebody’s going to trip.

In the distance, the boarding ramp has almost fully retracted into its home beneath Berth #44. The party tent still glows brightly, but this part of tonight’s circus is over. A swarm of hotel workers is already busy folding up the tables and chairs with lightning speed and will have everything packed and gone by the time the ride is complete. Their speed proves one of my many maxims: if you need something done RIGHT, go to New York. If you need something DONE, go to Vegas.

Joe taps my arm. ‘Let’s ride the ride,
paisan.’

‘You bet. Nice tux, by the way. Which museum did you rob?’

‘It’s mine.’

Geena says, ‘You have a tux, pop? I never knew that.’

‘Always did. Never had the occasion to wear it.’

‘Don’t tell mom that.’

Joe shoots me a look so complicated it could mean anything. But mostly means ‘Don’t even THINK about you-know-what.’ Then he says breezily, ‘We’ll go dancing when I get home – just like you and Romeo will too, when the party’s over.’

‘That’s okay, Pop. Romeo and I already had a great balcony scene.’

Cameron’s film crew weaves in and around the crowd as we descend the
Grand Staircase’s
curved ramp. The smarter celebrities instinctively show their best sides with casual, offhand grace, while the rest of the crowd gawks at the camera-laden men who go about their business with the focus and determination of a Special Forces team on a penetration mission.

Geena says, ‘General Cameron brought some heavy artillery along with him.’

‘Want to meet him?’

She kisses my cheek. ‘One Patton in my life is enough.’

‘MICHAEL! Over here!’ Cameron’s commanding voice slashes through the crowd babble like a razor slitting silk.

I pat Fiona on the shoulder. ‘See you guys in a bit.’

‘You’re coming with us aren’t you?’ she says nervously.

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world, honey. Just need to get Mr. Cameron to the Ride Bridge. Want to tag along? Pretty interesting stuff there.’

‘Ummm. . . .’ She shrugs, and her narrow shoulders made her dress bunch up slightly. ‘I’m okay here.’

‘Adam, you game?’

His face lights up like a solar flare, but just as quickly dies when he exchanges a meaningful look with Fiona, who suddenly looks twice her age and twice as wise.

‘Ummm. . . another time, sir?’

This Eagle Scout has met his match.

‘Deal.’

Joe calls after me. ‘See you in the lifeboat.’

Cameron and I enter the cool darkness of the Ride Bridge, located amidships in the pressure hull. If I had any trade secrets, he would have pulled them out of me with the ease of a corkscrew, such is the force of his personality, or charm, or whatever it is that makes certain extroverted people almost incandescent, like the way a light bulb filament generates supernova-like heat just before it burns to a crisp.

‘Got enough light to shoot?’ I say stupidly, trying to be the consummate host.

‘Not to sweat. These
Panaflex
rigs see black cats in coal mines. Huge ISOs. No grain, no problem, right, Mattie?’

The burly camera operator to his right twitches his lips slightly in answer, but continues filming in the confined area of our cramped, 30x15-foot space.

‘’Gimme ins and outs,’ Cameron says softly. ‘You too, Bobby.’

The other camera operator kneels next to Molly, aiming up at her as she works, oblivious to Cameron and his crew, all business, all the time. And for good reason: on the real
Titanic
terrible things happened just once
.
Ours have to happen again and again.

Cameron points to a video screen displaying a regimented string of fluorescent green ovals. The first four ovals glide forward. ‘Those the EMV’s?’

‘We call them lifeboats.’

‘Got ‘em, Bobby?’ Cameron snaps.

‘In the can, skipper.’

Cameron shakes his head in admiration. ‘That’s my guy.’

‘You okay here, sir? Need anything else from me?’

‘Go, go, go. Enjoy your baby.’

I turned to leave and hesitate. ‘So, what happens? I mean in your version of all this?’

He eyes me like I’m lunch. I put my hand up like swearing an oath. ‘I promise not to tell.’

‘That goes without saying. Besides. . .’ That smile again. ‘I’ll kill you if you do.’

‘So?’

He considers my question for a long moment, and then says, ‘Basic revenge story. Brilliant kid. Genius-type. Invents rides out of thin air. Gives it his heart and twisted soul, but they dump him in the end. He obsesses night and day. Decides the ride’s a monster that only he can destroy because it destroyed a part of him. So he rigs the thing to go down for good, with him inside.’

‘You mean the ship. My ride.’

‘Yeah, all your amazing shit. . . . All the hard work. . . all the good intentions. . . all the dreams. . . . BOOM, down they go, with him snarled up in the wiring like Ahab trapped on top of Moby Dick waving his harpoon, ‘Damned. . . white. . . whale!’’

He looks past me into the distance, his eyes focused on something only he can see. I do my best to delicately intrude.

‘Excuse me, Mr. Cameron, but will you and your crew be exiting in one of our lifeboats, or do you plan on staying here for the full cycle?’

‘Can’t. We need coverage of DiCaprio and the gang outside in the boats when they realize she’s going down for good.’

‘They know you’re using that footage in your movie?’

A quick smile. ‘A few, not all.’

‘Where I come from they call that stealing.’

‘That’s because you’re from Earth. I’m from Mars – also known as Hollywood – and those stars will jump at the chance for their fans to see their beautiful mugs in my film. Great publicity, free of charge.’

‘You could have told us you were doing this in the first place.’

‘I’m telling you now.’

‘Try asking next time.’

A quick bark of laughter. ‘Okay, okay, I surrender! May I please give you the publicity shot-in-the-arm of the century by turning your world into my world?’

‘Absolutely – Molly, please see to it that our guest. . .’

‘All set, sir. We’re routing Mr. Cameron and his crew through the maintenance bypass to the egress station. They’ll have a backup boat on standby waiting for them there.’

Cameron salutes her. ‘Thank you, captain.’

Molly blushes and half-salutes back.

He slaps me on the back and grins. ‘See you when it’s over.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Don’t call me ‘sir.’ Call me Ishmael.’

By the time I make it back to the
Grand Staircase
ramp, the massive, watertight exterior entry hatch is sealed. The closer I get to the boarding area, buzzing chatter fills the air, coming from the celebrities; laughing, chatting, and pointing to the artifacts on the walls, like life preservers, photographs of the ship, and video clips of the various scenes they’ll encounter, all designed to hold their attention until our ride attendants can board them.