The driver hollered back through the open-air truck lots of times throughout the long, winding trip, acclimating us to the island. He pointed out touristy points of interest and asked us all to tell where we’d come from and introduce ourselves to the group. I learned that the old woman on my right was Gladys Rosenbaum from Newark and the old lady on my left was Ginger Schmidt from Sandusky. They were old high school chums that didn’t mind that I’d split them up because I was a handsome young man, and they were both widowed. The old couple from the airport, Al and Evelyn Becker, hailed from a small town in Nebraska. And aside from the honeymooning couple, Kenny and April Jaworsky from Chicago, who were in their midtwenties, I was the youngest guy there by about thirty years.
It took us a solid forty-five minutes of driving on the wrong side of the road to get from the airport to the other side of the island, where our resort was located. We’d passed a multitude of crappy houses and cars, and I wondered when Paradise Isle would start looking like, well, Paradise. That didn’t happen until we turned up a long stretch of road that led us to our resort.
The Seacoast Majestic Resort.
It was a lush retreat tucked away in a breadth of palm trees and other colorful native vegetation. The driver gave a honk and a wave as we drove through the open security gate and passed what I could only assume was the employee parking lot and a pair of iguanas mating on the other side of the road.
I’d already seen at least a dozen lizards on the ride in, but this was the first pair that I’d seen mating. Most of the oldies in the truck got a good laugh out of it, and I think I saw every finger point at least once. Those poor old lizards. Wasn’t it bad enough that they could never use enough lotion? And now they were getting mocked for doing what was probably the only positive thing they had in their lives.
The thought of mating pulled me right back into the here and now. I was seconds away from a resort full of tail, a hotel room, and unlimited drinks. I could hardly wait. I rubbed my hands together like a hungry man being served a T-bone platter, and Gladys looked up at me.
“You getting excited?” she asked, her Jersey screech on point.
“You bet.”
“What are you gonna do first? Go snorkeling?”
Snorkeling? I wanted to laugh. That was a term one of my college buddies had used to mean going under a woman’s skirt. I waggled my eyebrows behind my shades and my hat. “If I’m lucky.”
The truck rounded a bend, and to my surprise, a nice hotel sprang up behind the palms, and just like that, off in the distance, I could actually see the ocean again.
Sweet.
We parked beneath the porte cochere. The driver hopped out as if his seat had ejected him upon braking and began to unload our luggage while a uniformed man waiting in front of the hotel came around to start helping all of the oldies off the bus.
“Welcome to the Seacoast Majestic, sir,” he said to me after everyone else had gotten off. “You can leave your luggage with me while you go check in if you’d like.”
I glanced over at the mound of suitcases he’d collected from the trusting seniors. As a cop, something about that just didn’t sit right with me. “Mmm, it’s okay. I didn’t bring much, just a small bag. I think I can handle rolling it inside with me.”
He bowed at me like I was some kind of celebrity while the driver rolled my carry-on over to me. “As you wish.”
As I wish?
Fuck.
The guy didn’t even want to know what I wished.
But at that precise moment, I wasn’t even sure if I knew what I wished. If a genie suddenly appeared before me, would I wish that Pamela had never slept with her ex in my bed? Would I wish that the wedding had gone off without a hitch, which in turn would have allowed me to actually be here on my honeymoon with my wife and not just an itchy palm? I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d wish for in this moment. I hadn’t taken the time to think about it yet. So instead of belaboring the point, I did what was expected of me. I padded the driver’s hand with a ten spot and rolled into the lobby of the Seacoast Majestic.
The lobby was better than I’d hoped. Two stories of balconied hotel rooms opened to a vaulted ceiling. The walls were navy and white, all nautical like. Everything looked like it was freshly painted and not like I’d stepped into a time warp like some hotels I’d stayed in. The furnishings were upscale. There were nicely cushioned wicker chairs and vases on tables and shit. There was a gift shop directly across from the hotel check-in desk and a fancy-looking clothing store next door.
“How may I help you, sir?” asked the woman at the desk as Kenny and April Jaworsky sauntered off with new matching neon bracelets and hotel maps.
“Checking in. Drunk, Danny,” I said.
“I have a reservation for a Pamela Drunk. Is this it, sir?”
I wiped my palm against my greasy forehead. “Yeah, that’s it,” I muttered.
“Is your wife here, sir? I’ve got her wristband if you’d like to go grab her.”
Just. Fucking. Perfect.
“She’s not coming,” I said. “Long story. Where’s the bar?”
The woman in front of me was probably in her midforties. Cuban or Puerto Rican, perhaps. Her hair was pulled back from her face rather sharply, but she had a cherubic face that dimpled when she smiled, softening her features. “Aww, I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, her head tilting slightly to the left. She plucked a trifold brochure from a little stand and opened it up, circling something on the right side. “We have singles putt-putt on Thursday nights, and singles dance lessons with Freddy Garcia on Fridays at eight.”
“Swell,” I said through a clenched jaw as she attached my all-inclusive wristband and room key to my wrist. “The bar?”
“There are several bars, sir. There’s one just behind the stairwell there. The main dining room is just behind it. There’s also a swim-up bar at the pool, and another bar in the clubhouse by the restaurant down at the beach.” She tore a hotel map off the pad in front of her and pointed out all the different locations of interest. Then she circled my room. It was outside. Like a motel.
I couldn’t get to it fast enough. Of course, I stopped at the bar before heading to my room. There was always time for Rita.
9
My room wasn’t far from the main building. Maybe a half a block at most. The motel rooms curved around the main building, following the coastline, I assumed. The motel buildings were on the left side of the palm-tree-lined cobblestone driveway, and the main resort building on the right. I found lizards everywhere on the walk to my room. They were in the trees, in the mulch, and on the road. I hadn’t been prepared for how many lizards I was going to see on this trip. But, I didn’t happen to see any more lizards fornicating.
And trust me.
I was looking for them.
There were three levels of motel rooms. Street level, one level above, and one level below the street. My room was on the street level, number 277. I was thankful I didn’t have to take any stairs. I opened the door and a hearty blast of air-conditioned air hit me like a pair of iced testicles on a woman—cold and unexpected.
The room was nice. Big. Bright. Tile floor. Enormous bathroom. Huge big-screen TV with a mini bar and a microwave. And there was a balcony with sliding French doors that faced the ocean.
“Fuck me! An ocean view!” I muttered, not entirely surprised that Pamela had spared no expense. My money was like Monopoly money to her—she didn’t have to work for it, and she could always get more by passing Go. I opened the balcony door and the quiet, salty air welcomed me with open arms.
“Hey, Drunk, you finally made it,” it said. “What are you waiting for? Drinks are down here.”
“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” I promised aloud, silently praying that I’d be chanting those words in someone’s ear before the end of the night.
The view wasn’t even a partial ocean view, like where you had to look to your right, squat low and squint to see it. It was quite literally a full-on ocean v
iew. The resort was built up on a hillside, so you could see everything from a bird’s-eye vantage. Straight below me was all vegetation. Like an island jungle. But if you looked out further, beyond the jungle, a private beach along a serene cove opened out into the ocean with a few islands dotting the horizon. A boat was anchored in the middle of the cove, and people were swimming, kayaking, wakeboarding, and snorkeling in the sheltered crystalline blue water. The beaches were white and sandy as promised, and I could see the pool and the clubhouse the desk clerk had told me about, only steps away from the shoreline.
I had to admit it.
It was pretty fucking epic.
Strutting back into my room, I left the sliding doors open and sat down on the bed. For the first time since I’d left Missouri, I pulled my phone from my pocket and turned it on, curious if anyone had noticed I was missing yet. While it booted up, I tossed it onto the bed and went to shower. I felt a strong desire to scrub off the disgusting layer of sludge that gripped every crevice of my body and shampoo my hair. Screw it. I might even use conditioner.
Minutes later, I reappeared, dripping wet and with a fluffy white towel swathed loosely around my hips. I appreciated the puddle of water I left in my wake, as that meant I didn’t have a woman chasing behind me, nagging me to dry off properly. It was anarchy at its finest.
I sat down, and my thick hair dripped water onto the foot of the bed, soaking the duvet. Phone in hand, I began to check my messages.
So many calls from my mother. I was thankful the woman hadn’t gotten into texting. It was much easier to ignore voicemail messages. Unfortunately for me, Pamela was a texter. And a chatty one at that.
I scrolled through the messages, scanning them for the fuck I didn’t have and therefore couldn’t give.
“Danny, please…”
“It didn’t mean anything…”
“Where are you?”
“I’m worried about you…”
“I’m going to call your mother…”
“Your mother says she doesn’t know where you are…”
“Now she’s worried too…”
“Danny, please…”
I swiped left and hit the red Delete button.
Then I blocked her number.
But as I sat there, staring at the suitcase Pamela had lovingly packed for me, I found myself upset about the time she’d made me waste. About all those promises we’d made. About the dreams we’d shared. And I found myself growing angrier and angrier by the second.
Fuck her.
And fuck her perfect tits.
And fuck that ass that I never got to fuck.
Fuck it all.
I lifted the suitcase she’d packed me off the table and rushed it over to the French doors, nearly breaking my neck when I slipped on my own trail of water on the tile floor. I stood there on the balcony, holding my suitcase over my head, with my towel hanging on by a thread. I hadn’t packed a single fucking thing in that suitcase. Every pair of shorts. Every pair of trunks. Every shirt. And every goddamned pair of underwear had been purchased and subsequently packed by Pamela.
Did I want to spend the next two weeks of my honeymoon thinking of Pamela every time I put a shirt on?
Hell no.
Did I want to feel bile welling up in my throat every time I got lucky and another woman put her hands on the underwear that Pamela had dressed me in?
I’d rather piss fiberglass.
So I reared back and heaved that bag out into the great beyond. It was cathartic. And necessary. Not only had a twenty-seven-pound weight been lifted off my shoulders, but also a one-hundred-and-twenty-pound woman had been lifted off my shoulders.
Goodbye, Pamela.
I turned around and paced back into the room. My towel fell off, and the second it hit the floor was the moment that I realized that I’d just chucked every shred of clothing I owned in Paradise out over the balcony.
Fuck.
10
I left my hotel room wearing the underwear and shorts that I’d worn on the plane, but I decided to forgo the polo shirt. Not only was that also a product of the P word, I decided it didn’t match my new hat. I’d have to go to the resort clothing store at some point, but right now I was itching to get down to the beach.
With my wallet and passport shoved into my back pocket and my phone in my front pocket, I realized there was nothing else I owned in the room, except my small ditty bag in the bathroom. The feeling was actually pretty fucking liberating. Like I had nowhere else to be but where I was.
Amen to that.
I had a general sense of where the clubhouse and beach were, but in order to actually get down there, I had to follow the signs posted on the motel’s exterior walls. The signs led to a staircase that, I kid you not, was about twenty klicks down the side of the hill. I wondered how all the oldies did that many stairs. Wouldn’t they have heart attacks on the way? Now I was curious if I’d find resuscitation stations in little glass-protected cubes that said “Break with Cane in Case of Emergency.”
So I took off down those stairs, wishing I at least had a drink or a woman to keep me company on the trek. Having neither, I paid a lot of attention to the jungle I was winding my way through. There were lots of enormous ferns, yucca plants, and cacti beneath the palm trees. I only knew what a yucca was because it was one of the few house plants that my mother seemed incapable of killing while I was growing up. What really got me, though, were the number of chickens, lizards, and cats lounging about on the stairs. Something about seeing chickens chilling with cats and oversized iguanas in the trees really spoke to not being in America anymore.
By the time my feet hit sand, the sun had almost found its way to the far end of the ocean. Ready to call it another day, it streaked the horizon a hazy shade of orange and ushered in a calm navy-blue sky. The temperature was a balmy seventy-nine degrees. Perfection in my eyes.
Straight ahead of me was the lit pool, complete with swim-up bar as promised, a grotto waterfall, and an assortment of hot tubs and kiddie pools. Beyond the pool was the clubhouse, with its long covered front porch. Both the pool and bar area were lit with overhead strings of white globe lights, and the bar had glowing neon under-the-counter lights. I felt like the party was finally about to get started.
The beach was to my right. Rows of lounge chairs lined the sand, and further down the beach, a cabana overflowing with paddleboards, wakeboards, and kayaks, which I assumed were available to be checked out, sat quietly waiting for morning to come once again. The only thing that seemed to be missing was the women.
I set my course for the swim-up bar, which was also a bar for those just lounging poolside. A stocky man of some sort of Hispanic descent shook a cocktail shaker, his hips moving in rhythm with his shakes. Two shakes over one shoulder, hip hip, then two shakes over the opposite shoulder, hip hip. If there was a sweeter sound in the world, I wasn’t sure what it was.
I sat down at the end of the bar next to a married couple, but no sooner had I sat than they stood and wandered off with their drinks. I looked to my right, and who was sitting at the end of the bar? None other than Al Becker from Nebraska.
Nebraska and Missouri really aren’t that far apart from each other. In fact, one corner of Missouri even gets so friendly as to play just-the-tip with Nebraska, so I felt like Al and I could share some commonalities. I slid over, leaving a chair between us, and waited for the bartender to take my drink order.
When he looked up at me, I pointed at him. “Margarita. On the rocks.”
“Lime? Strawberry? Raspberry?” he asked, already pulling out a glass and filling it with ice.
“Lime. Extra salt, por favor.” I turned, glancing at Al, and scanned the beach looking for Mrs. Al. “Where are all the women?”
Al swiveled his chair to look up at me. Seated on a barstool, he really didn’t seem that much shorter than I was, but his feet dangled inches above the ground while mine were flatfooted on the concrete. “Eh?” he said, cupping his ear.
; I leaned in a little closer. “The women,” I shouted. “Where are they?”
His mouth formed a little O as it had done in the plane terminal. “She’s taking a nap. Jet lag.” His voice was hoarse, like he had an overabundance of phlegm in the back of his throat.
I nodded, glad to know that Mrs. Al was catching up on her Zs. “Where are the rest of the women?” I shouted over the low rumbling of music on the bar’s speakers.
“Eh?” More ear cupping.
I glanced up at the bartender, pleading with my eyes for him to help me out. “It’s early,” was his response.
I shook my head at Al.
“Where you from?” he asked.
“Missouri,” I said.
More ear cupping.
“Missouri,” I shouted.
He nodded. “What part?”
“Kansas City.” I made sure my mouth was closer to his ear this time.
“The Royals had a good year last year.”
I nodded while I sipped the drink the bartender handed me. “You’re from Nebraska, right?”
Al nodded.
“What did you do there?”
“Eh?”
“For a job. Work,” I shouted. Hell, was I going to have to break out Pictionary? How did his wife do this all day?
“I owned an implement dealership. Case IH.”
“No John Deere?”
“Fuck John Deere.”
Right on, man.
“This your first time here?”
The guy behind the bar laughed.
“Nah, this is my second time.” Al took a sip of his drink. “This year. We’ve got friends here. But we’re gonna live here full-time now.”
Drunk on a Plane Page 4
