ALL ABOARD!
The Misery-Loves-Com-Pany
Petty Cruiser Express
A little comedy about Negative Betty, Negative Bob, Gertrude—and the rest of the people we can never quite escape.
By J. A. Jackson
There comes a moment in every grown person's life when you realize something both beautiful and deeply disappointing:
Retirement does not mean you have retired from people.
Oh, no.
You may have retired from the job.
You may have turned in your badge, cleaned out your desk, deleted seventeen passwords you never wanted to remember in the first place, and carried your favorite coffee mug out of the building like an Olympic torch.
You may even have driven away from your former workplace singing, "FREE AT LAST!" loud enough to frighten people at the stoplight.
But somewhere, somehow, a Negative Betty is still waiting for you.
And if Betty can't make it?
Don't worry.
Gertrude has your address.
I had once believed retirement meant I would finally be free from the Gertrudes of this world.
You know Gertrude.
Everybody knows a Gertrude.
Gertrude can walk into a room where somebody just won the lottery and say, "Well, you know you're going to have to pay taxes on that."
She can attend a beautiful wedding and whisper, "I give it eighteen months."
She can look at a newborn baby and say, "Cute. Hopefully, he'll grow into those ears."
Gertrude does not merely see the glass as half empty.
Gertrude wants to know who drank the other half without permission.
Then there is Negative Betty.
Betty is Gertrude's spiritual cousin.
You can tell Betty, "It's a beautiful day."
Betty will look suspiciously at the sky.
"Too beautiful. Probably earthquake weather."
Tell her you planted roses.
"Aphids."
Bought a new car?
"Depreciation."
Going on vacation?
"Bedbugs."
Got a promotion?
"More taxes."
Lost ten pounds?
"You'll probably gain twelve back."
Found five dollars on the sidewalk?
"Somebody probably died there."
Betty has never met a silver lining she couldn't beat to death with a dark cloud.
And naturally, Negative Betty is frequently accompanied by Negative Bob.
Bob is equally gifted.
Bob doesn't just complain.
Bob provides supporting documentation.
If you casually mention that eggs are expensive, Bob has charts.
If somebody says traffic seems bad, Bob knows which mayor started it, what year it happened, and why civilization has been collapsing ever since they installed that second stoplight near the supermarket.
And then we have the most powerful member of this fascinating species:
MR. CRAP STARTER.
Mr. Crap Starter can enter a peaceful family barbecue where seventeen relatives are eating ribs and potato salad and announce:
"So… nobody's going to talk about what happened at Thanksgiving?"
Sir.
Please.
People are eating.
Then Retirement Taught Me the Terrible Truth
These people don't disappear when you leave the workforce.
They scatter.
Some are relatives.
Some attend your church.
Some belong to your book club.
Some live three houses down.
And sometimes—because apparently the Universe enjoys comedy—they live right next door.
Which brings me to the afternoon my muse saved me.
I had gone outside to check the mail.
That was all.
I wasn't seeking adventure.
I wasn't looking for enlightenment.
I wasn't trying to uncover the meaning of life.
I wanted my mail.
I had almost reached the safety of my front door when I heard it.
"Well, helloooooo!"
My hand froze on the mailbox.
Every cell in my body knew that voice.
Negative Betty.
I turned slowly.
There she stood.
And beside her?
Bob.
Of course Bob was there.
They approached with the determined stride of two people carrying information nobody had requested.
"Have you noticed what's happening around here?" Betty asked.
I had not.
But apparently, I was about to.
Bob immediately joined in.
"And another thing—"
Those three words should come with an emergency alert.
AND ANOTHER THING.
Because nobody has ever followed "and another thing" with:
"You're wonderful."
No.
"And another thing" means buckle up, buttercup.
A complaint is coming.
Betty took my left ear.
Bob claimed the right.
Not physically, mind you.
But spiritually?
My ears were hostages.
Betty complained about the neighborhood.
Bob complained about prices.
Betty complained about somebody's garbage cans.
Bob complained about somebody parking incorrectly.
Betty complained about somebody else's grass.
Bob apparently had strong feelings about delivery trucks.
They talked.
And talked.
And talked.
I nodded occasionally.
"Mmm-hmm."
"Oh."
"Really?"
These are the sacred survival words of a person whose soul has already left the conversation.
And Then My Mind Rescued Me
Something miraculous happened.
My mind simply said:
Girl, come with me.
And suddenly, I was gone.
Not physically.
Physically, I remained beside my mailbox holding three pieces of junk mail and a grocery store flyer.
But mentally?
I was standing at a magnificent harbor beneath a golden sunset.
And coming toward the dock was the largest, most spectacular cruise ship I had ever seen.
She was enormous.
She was elegant.
She was gleaming.
And painted across her side in giant gold letters were the words:
I nearly cried.
She was beautiful.
A brass band began playing.
The boarding ramp lowered.
Then came an announcement.
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome aboard the Misery-Loves-Com-Pany Petty Cruiser Express, where every complaint is complimentary!"
I stared in wonder.
Negative Betty appeared at the boarding gate.
She looked thrilled.
Bob stood beside her carrying three suitcases and what appeared to be a binder labeled THINGS WRONG WITH THE NEIGHBORHOOD.
"Welcome aboard!" cried the cruise director.
Behind them came Gertrude.
Then another Betty.
Then a Gilbert.
Then a Gil.
Then three Bobs.
Then a woman dragging two enormous suitcases labeled OLD GRUDGES and THINGS PEOPLE SAID IN 1997.
The crowd erupted in applause.
Apparently, these were preferred passengers.
Welcome to the World's Pettiest Luxury Cruise
The ship had everything they could possibly desire.
There was the All-You-Can-Complain Buffet, open twenty-four hours a day.
The Grievance Lounge, where every table came equipped with a manager you could demand to speak to.
The Petty Casino, where passengers could gamble using other people's business.
The I Told You So Theater offered two shows nightly.
At the spa, guests could receive the signature Hot Stone Resentment Treatment, during which heated grievances were placed directly upon the shoulders and carried for another twenty years.
There was even a special observation deck called The Judgment Balcony, where passengers could stand with binoculars and criticize strangers from a safe distance.
It was paradise.
For them.
The captain's voice came over the loudspeaker.
"Attention passengers. Tonight's activities include Competitive Gossip at six, Jumping to Conclusions at seven, and our annual Making Something Out of Nothing Championship at eight."
Betty squealed.
Bob checked the schedule.
"I hope they organized it properly."
Of course he did.
BWAAAAAAAH!
The horn blasted.
The great ship began pulling away from the dock.
I stood waving.
Not because I wanted anything terrible to happen to them.
Heavens, no.
I am a writer.
This is satire.
Nobody is actually being shipped anywhere.
But in my imagination?
Oh, my darlings.
That ship was sailing.
The Misery-Loves-Com-Pany Petty Cruiser Express glided across the sparkling ocean, carrying every unnecessary complaint, unsolicited opinion, recycled family argument, neighborhood grievance, workplace feud, passive-aggressive remark, and twenty-year-old grudge that had ever disturbed somebody's peaceful afternoon.
The passengers were having the time of their lives.
One woman was already complaining that the ocean was too wet.
A man wanted to speak to someone about the sunset.
Gertrude had discovered the dessert bar.
"These cakes are too sweet."
Naturally.
Gilbert was upset because his cabin had an ocean view.
"I specifically asked for something quieter."
Sir.
You are on a ship.
Bob had cornered the captain.
"And another thing—"
The captain looked terrified.
For one glorious moment, I felt sorry for him.
Then I remembered this was my daydream.
I gave him a lifeboat.
Meanwhile, the ship continued toward its completely fictional destination near the Bermuda Triangle, where, in my imagination, all petty complaints would mysteriously disappear into a giant cosmic suggestion box.
Not the people.
Just the nonsense.
Even my imagination has rules.
Back at the Mailbox...
Suddenly, a voice broke through.
"Are you listening to me?"
The ocean vanished.
The cruise ship disappeared.
The brass band stopped.
I was back beside my mailbox.
Betty was staring at me.
Bob was staring at me.
Apparently, I had been smiling.
This concerned them.
"Are you okay?" Betty asked.
"Oh, I'm wonderful," I said.
And for once, I meant it.
Bob frowned.
"What are you smiling about?"
"Nothing."
Because how could I possibly explain it?
How could I tell them that thirty seconds earlier, they had been enjoying unlimited access to the Grievance Lounge while sailing toward a cosmic Bermuda Triangle aboard a luxury cruise ship designed specifically for chronically dissatisfied people?
Some things should remain between a woman and her muse.
I gathered my mail.
"Well, I'd better get inside."
Betty nodded.
"We were just saying—"
"Oh, I know."
I smiled sweetly.
"I heard everything."
Technically, that was questionable.
But spiritually, I felt comfortable with the statement.
The Lesson I Learned From the Petty Cruiser Express
I walked toward my house while Betty and Bob remained near the sidewalk, already moving on to their next topic.
And that's when I realized something.
Maybe we can't escape every Negative Betty.
Maybe Gertrude will always find us.
Maybe Bob will forever have "another thing."
Maybe Mr. Crap Starter will continue showing up at family gatherings with a wooden spoon and an overwhelming desire to stir a pot nobody asked him to touch.
But we don't have to board their ship.
That's the trick.
Other people's misery does not require our membership.
Their complaints do not need permanent residence inside our heads.
Their negativity doesn't automatically become our negativity simply because they delivered it personally.
Sometimes, the healthiest thing you can do is smile, nod, protect your peace—and mentally book them a cruise.
So the next time someone corners you at work, church, the grocery store, a family reunion, or beside your own innocent mailbox and starts pouring doom into both your ears, don't argue.
Don't panic.
Don't even run.
Just close your eyes for half a second.
Listen carefully.
Far off in the distance, you may hear it.
BWAAAAAAAH!
That's the horn.
The boarding ramp is lowering.
The buffet is open.
The Grievance Lounge has plenty of seating.
And the magnificent Misery-Loves-Com-Pany Petty Cruiser Express is preparing to sail.
Bon voyage, Betty.
Safe travels, Bob.
Gertrude, sweetheart, your cabin is ready.
And Mr. Crap Starter?
Please report immediately to the Lido Deck.
They're expecting you.
This has been a work of comedy and imagination. No Negative Bettys, Bobs, Gertrudes, Gils, Gilberts, or professional Crap Starters were harmed during the writing of this story.
Although several were mentally upgraded to ocean-view cabins.
And frankly?
They complained about those, too.
Written by J. A. Jackson
Finding humor, imagination, and a little magic in the people and moments that make life interesting.
Until next time, protect your peace—and listen for the cruise ship horn.
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