Aruba Mad Günther

by T L Yeager

  When I told friends that I was selling my business they were baffled. “You’re crazy Marlin, you’ve got it made.”

  One year after I started the business I landed on the coveted list— Thirty Entrepreneurs Under Thirty. I can still see my name, middle of the magazine article. Marlin Mack – age 28, Baltimore Maryland. One year after making the list, I sold my social media app for one million two hundred fifty thousand dollars. Apparently I walked away from tens of millions.

  “Keep it another year,” people told me. “Establish yourself in a few more cities, and then sell.”

  “Worst business decision of the digital age,” was the proclamation made by one magazine.

  The advice and negative comments were all about money. It boggled people’s minds that I could walk away from the money. The very way we think is corrupt. Like moths unaware of the damage caused by the flame, we fly toward the promise of the light, never stopping to evaluate its realities. Just spark some tinder, and we soar like kamikazes toward the pain and suffering.

  The smart phone app I created ushered social media into the lucrative bar scene. Computer code that makes the cocktail peddler more money. The concept was only innovative in the capitalistic sense of the word. It was moderately entertaining for a while, but after Mr. Henniker died, it became intolerable.

  It was Marie and Eugene Henniker who reached out to me when my life turned upside-down. I was thirteen years old when I met them. They were high school sweethearts, well known philanthropists, and the closest thing I ever had to a family. Mrs. Henniker died first and Mr. Henniker followed close behind. Mrs. Henniker was the penultimate mother figure. Her passion was caring for other people’s children. She wasn’t able to have any of her own. Mr. Henniker was a distinguished judge. Once he retired he became my personal professor on the intricacy and interworking of life. From astronomy to mechanics, philosophy to flying, he taught me everything except the law.

  “Steer clear of the law. It doesn’t suit you. You need to be outdoors.” He’d waggle his finger every time he said it.

  “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” He quoted from Walden on a daily basis. Mr. Henniker had me reading Henry David Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson before I could understand what they were saying. “Someday the light bulb will glow,” he’d tell me.

  After Mrs. Henniker died, Mr. Henniker promised to get his own funeral arrangements in order before he passed. “I don’t want you shouldering the load.” It was the only promise he failed to keep. Eugene Henniker spent the closing days of his life unconscious in a hospital bed I had brought into the house. Reading out loud from a wing backed chair, Walden became my Bible. I repeated passages over and over until I thought I understood them. Then I talked through them in my own words to cement the concepts. Mr. Henniker was in a liquid morphine fog and never responded, but he hung on for days. I’m convinced he was listening and waiting for the light bulb to glow.

  Two days after his death, at the funeral home, the director led me solemnly to a solid bronze casket. “No doubt you’ll want the best for someone as prominent as the Honorable Eugene Henniker.” The words had barely left his lips when I realized the mousy director was little more than a greasy salesman. Anyone who knew the Honorable Eugene Henniker would have known that he’d want the same as everyone else. Nothing more. I had been battling episodes of rage for years at that point.

  “Seriously? You fucking up sell everyone don’t you?” The venom running through my veins must have been visible. The funeral director’s eyes grew to saucers and he stepped back without a word.

  “And if I went down the road to another funeral home it’d be the same garbage. It’s just business, right?” My head was filled with blood by that point—throbbing above the ears.

  The funeral director said nothing.

  “What’s the best seller when your shitty up-sell doesn’t work? I want that one.”

  After the death and the up selling and Walden, success started to feel more like shackles than a path to freedom. Building a business was never going to elevate me from the trauma of my youth. Happiness was always going to be one step ahead. The realization quickly jaded my perspective. I started to see the world as a struggle for status, power, and the tallest pile of greenbacks. How was I any different than the greasy funeral director? I realized I was part of a vast army of automatons operating with the same set of faulty software— programming laid down over time, erasing the wisdom of youth, forcing us into a death march down the road of materialism.

  Walden changed how I wanted to live my life. It offered alternatives that I’d never considered. Could a simple life based on self-reliance with heavy doses of nature be the key to true happiness? Could work and leisure be equals? Was solitude as healthy as Thoreau suggested? Was it possible to create a life where cherishing the present moment was religion enough?

  In 1845 as a twenty-seven year old man, Thoreau built a tiny cabin near Walden Pond. The sojourn lasted two years, two months and two days. I had no intention of living alone by a pond like Thoreau. My craving was for nature on a larger, grander scale. The translucent waters of the Caribbean had filled my imagination since I first stared down mesmerized from an airplane window.

  I sold the business and its stressors, gave away my possessions and embarked on my own experiment to spend two years, two months and two days on a solitary adventure. One year in and here I am, rinsing lounge chairs and thinking about dead people.

  Spraying my way forward up the starboard walkway toward the bow, I hear the roll of a garage door. I look over and see Cletus holding the rope, slowing the shop door as it opens. The main marina building is baby-blue. It’s about twice the length of Voyager and runs parallel to the bulkhead where we’re docked. To the left of the office door there’s a garage door that’s wide and tall enough to accommodate a thirty to forty foot power boat.

  I lean on the railing and yell down at him. “Morning Cletus.”

  He lets go of the rope and steps out into the sun, shielding his eyes with a hand. “Howdy,” he grumbles.

  Cletus isn’t much of a talker. He’s from South Carolina and is the only ex-pat I’ve encountered who loathes his decision to move. His move was prompted by an article claiming that a dockhand in the Caribbean could make twice what they make in the states. I’ve heard the story twice and both times it’s ended with, “More money my ass. Fuck’in island.”

  His name fits him perfectly: Cletus Grimm. Even though he’s a pisser I look forward to seeing him each week, when he’s tasked with fueling Voyager, topping the water tanks and pumping the sewage. The captain is adamant that Cletus’s work on Voyager occur between the hours of eleven and one. Although the captain hasn’t confirmed it I’m fairly certain it has something to do with keeping him from interacting with the passengers. Cletus makes it a point to disobey the request.

  Last week he had a devilish hillbilly grin—the first time I’d ever seen him smile. When I commented on his good mood he said, “Made out all right at the bar last night is all.”

  Cletus walks to Voyager, the hand still shielding his eyes from the low sun. “Did you score again at the bar last night?” I ask.

  “Ah hell. That was a one-time deal.” He swats toward me with the hand. I drop the hose to the floor and walk along the railing following him toward the fuel pump near the stern.

  “What’s the word on the street this week Cletus?” I ask as he activates the pump.

  He lays the fuel dispenser on the wood and pulls a set of keys from his belt to open the fuel door on Voyager. “The Redskins suck again and the fuckin’ flu. That’s about it.” He talks with an assertiveness that makes you believe this truly is all there is to know. “I just tell people to keep their fuckin’ distance man. Ought a get a fuckin’ mask like all the Orientals wear. That’s all they show on the news. Orientals in fuckin’ masks.”

  I contemplate explaining that Asian is the politically correct term.

  In the distance, above the marina buil
ding, I can see Captain Reuben’s tan Datsun coming down the hill. A trail of dust rises above the prickly coastal scrub brush and drifts inland on the breeze. As he comes around the far end of the marina building he swerves to avoid a large pothole but under compensates and the pickup sinks and bounds, nearly bottoming out.

  “That pothole is going to swallow someone’s car one day,” I say.

  “Don’t tell me. Not in my fuckin’ job description man.”

  I back down the ladder to the main deck and step off Voyager. The captain pulls up alongside just past Cletus and gets out of the worn miniature pickup. “Cletus. Marlin,” he says.

  “Captain,” Cletus replies in kind. I sense their relationship is strained.

  “How’s it going?” I ask the captain.

  “Terrible,” he says reaching back into the cab to recover his phone. “Rose at the post office says they’re out of beds at the hospital. They’ve got people in the halls up there.”

  “All because of the flu?” I ask. Cletus grunts and goes back to his work.

  “Seems that’s the case. Rose said they’ve opened a ward in the elementary school up by the airport.” He looks at the ground and pauses. “She says people are dying.”

  “I had no idea it was that bad…”

  “Yeah, sounds like it spreads pretty easy too. I stopped by Bart’s place. He’s rougher than last night for Christ’s sakes.” He shakes his head and throws up his arms.

  “If it spreads that easily…” I trail off.

  “Yeah… How are you and Amira feeling?” he asks.

  “Fine.” I shrug. “Great.”

  “I think I might regret it but I’m gonna take a ride up to the hospital and see how Cheri and Jeff are making out. I called three times while I was out and about but nobody answered the main number.”

  “You want some company? I can ride along.” I regret it as soon as I say it. It’s good to get away from the boat for a bit but volunteering to go to the hospital immediately feels like a bad idea.

  “Your call. Climb in.” I hesitate and consider backing out but can’t bring myself to do it.

  “Where you two headed?” asks Amira leaning out the sliding door of the salon.

  Reuben has one foot on the floor of the Datsun and the other outside on the ground. “Running up to the hospital to check on the Cosgroves. Be back in a few.” The keys jingle as he falls to the seat. Amira waves from the door.

  Captain Reuben makes a u-turn and avoids the pothole on the way out of the marina. The Datsun bounces with each rock and rut.

  “How many passengers do we have coming in today?” I ask.

  “You hear they gave this thing a name?” The captain acts as if I haven’t asked the question. A commercial plays on the radio, the volume low enough that it’s barely audible.

  “A name?” I ask.

  “Yeah, they’re calling it the Paragon virus. It means top or best or something along those lines. Like the top virus.” He bounds up nearly bumping his head on the ceiling as we roll across the threshold out of the marina parking lot. “And eleven. Guests that is... To answer your question.”

  “You think they’ll all show?” The boat can hold a maximum of twenty paying guests but rarely runs at capacity. Since I’ve been here we’ve never had more than seventeen and we’ve always been a crew of six.

  “Hell. Hard to say. Hopefully not because Theo is apparently off island bringing in a boat from Bimini, so we’re going to be short as hell.” Theo from the marina is a jack of all trades mechanic that’s filled in for Bart on occasion in the past.

  “I doubt we’ll get them all. Based on last week and the flu getting worse,” I say.

  “You know I really screwed up last week. I should have listened to Amira,” says the captain. “I don’t take that lightly either.” Reuben hadn’t followed Amira’s recommendation that the Cosgroves be removed from the boat on Wednesday. No one asked my opinion, but I agreed with Amira. Flu on a boat is a very ugly situation. I can’t imagine there’s anything a virus exploits more than a bevy of potential hosts packed together in a small space.

  “Not this week though. First sign of anything and we’re shipping them in,” Reuben continues.

  “The scariest part was how quickly they both got worse. I mean they were a mess on Thursday,” I say. By Thursday Cheri was developing symptoms and Jeff Cosgrove’s condition had grown considerably more severe. Jeff’s breathing was rapid and shallow. His pulse ox level was low and Amira said he was confused about time and place. They were in the stateroom on the upper deck, right behind the captain’s quarters. Reuben could hear Jeff’s whooping cough all through Wednesday night into Thursday morning. As soon as Amira broke out the oxygen tank for Jeff, Captain Reuben changed his mind.

  After the Thursday morning dive a fishing charter run by a friend of the captain pulled up on our port side. Captain Reuben spotted them with binoculars in the distance running in deep water off the ledge. He raised them on the radio and found out they were about to head home. They agreed to ferry the Cosgroves in to shore. I think the captain felt torn about whether we should have taken them but the Cosgroves were insistent on not ruining the last full day of diving for everyone else. Cheri seemed tortured over her husband and sick about making a mess of the trip. Screw the trip, was all I could think.

  Although no one would say it, I think everyone was happy to see them go. Bart and I ferried them via dinghy to the TCI Hooker and wished them luck. As we returned to Voyager everyone was watching them disappear north across the Caicos Bank, anxious about what they’d left behind.

  The captain and I ride in silence up the main road toward town. Palms lining the highway are bent to the left from the prevailing northerly winds that sweep the island. The radio goes from commercial to talk show. The commentators sound mumbled so I turn it up.

  “The religious fanatics are climbing on the apocalypse bandwagon,” says a commentator. “Listen to this guy spout off.”

  “The day of judgment is upon us.” The man’s voice is stern and even, almost commanding. “This wand of death we have named the Paragon is Gods way of sweeping the damned to hell and calling his children home. It is a time of atonement, a time to ask for God’s forgiveness, a time to welcome the second coming.”

  A second commentator laughs. “Is it me or is there something completely screwed up here. You’ve got Islamic extremists claiming responsibility for creating this thing. You’ve got other religious zealots claiming it the work of their god. Let’s stop worrying about who started it and figure out how to stop it. That’s what I say.”

  “Absolutely. We’re a nutty bunch,” says commentator number one. “There’s nothing better for creating religious fervor than death and uncertainty.”

  “You got that right,” says commentator number two with a chuckle. “And in other, real news, Paul Lane, the head of Health and Human Services announced the release of more grant funding today.” The commentators drone on about millions in funding being poured into speeding research. They talk about university and private sector collaboration, failed clinical trials and top level firings at the CDC.

  “You mind if I turn this down?” I ask. Reuben reaches down and clicks it off.

  More quiet minutes pass as we cover the last of the six or seven miles into town. “Damn. I was hoping Rose was exaggerating again,” says the captain as he turns into the hospital entrance. A sea of vehicles line the drive and several are parked on the hills to the sides. The Datsun is small and barely fits through the narrow corridor.

  “Fricken mess up here,” says Reuben. The circle in front is blocked, preventing us from going any further. Reuben sets the Datsun to park. We shut the doors and stand in apprehensive silence. There’s a landscaped circle in the center of the drive. The Turks and Caicos flag whips in the breeze above us, snapping at the modern looking hospital.

  To the right of the turnstile entrance an a-frame sign lays face down like it’s been blown over. I lift the corner and read, ‘Isolati
on Protocols In Effect.’

  “Don’t touch a damn thing,” says the captain. “Keep your hands in your pockets.” I let go of the edge and stuff my hands into the top of my pocket-less board shorts.

  I follow Reuben, pressing through the turnstile using my shoulder. Chills run down my arms as we enter the lobby. The air conditioning feels like its set to frigid.

  The reception desk is empty. It consumes the lobby and a sign secured to the back wall says, National Hospital – Providenciales. I follow Reuben up to the counter. Visitor badges and marketing pamphlets litter the desktop and the floor beyond. To the left, a door is propped open. Beyond the door I make out the muted echo of footsteps and coughing.

  We move toward the door, stepping over the brochures that have spilled through the open gate of the reception desk. An elevator atrium comes into view. Then we make eye contact with a weathered man. He’s wearing a cream colored gown and is positioned upright in a hospital bed along the wall opposite a pair of elevator doors. His eyes are slivers amidst deep wrinkles. His wheezing is evident from across the room, like a smoker in the last days of emphysema.

  Looking left we can see down the hall where the doors to patient rooms are separated by occupied beds lining the corridor. A chorus of distant coughing tunnels toward us. It’s a different kind of coughing. Not like the common cold. It’s more of a deep chesty rasp, the octave low like a subwoofer—you can feel it pass through you.

  A nurse in full protective gear slogs up the hall. Captain Reuben cups his hands as if to yell. “Excuse me.” It comes out a normal talking volume and she’s turned into the closest room before he can get it out. “Damn.”

  The wrinkled man in the bed points at us. Or behind us. I turn around, and then the captain and I look at each other.

  “The door. I think he’s pointing at the door,” I say, tapping the frame of the door beside me. The man lowers the hand to his thigh. “Hello,” I say, stepping toward him and smiling. His expression remains fixed. He raises the hand and points at the door again, wheezing as he does.