The Last Island

by Joan J. K. Groves

  “Hey, kid, buy me that chicken sandwich. I will pay you back,” said to me.

  “Mr. Vargas, I only have ten dollars to last to Friday and today is Tuesday.”

  I answered because I was standing in line, waiting for a hot cup of black coffee that would be presented to me, cool and brown.

  “Tell them extra mayo and no lettuce,” he ordered me.

  “Mr. Vargas...”

  I pleaded as I purchased the sandwich for him.

  “This ain’t nothing like the winter of ’51 in Korea,” another voice interrupted. Jackson, the security guard, always had a war story from Korea. The war had lasted three years but from Jackson’s telling, the war was one of those hundred-year wars. “Saw men’s feet freeze—freeze, I tell you. None of this frostbite simple new war stuff. I tell you, freeze solid, like ice cubes. Black feets all over da place. Some frozen in boots. Only one way to get dem out, had to take a rifle butt and whack dem so hard dat dem toes and feets broke like glass I tell you. Den we just poured the broken pieces out and picked dem up. Saved a big toe now and again but not much more. Yeah, dis ain’t no Korea. Shoot, wish I was back in Korea, good times den.”

  Jackson went down the hall. I purchased the chicken sandwich and carried it to old man Vargas. Steve kinda smiled as if he had won his argument and then began to grade some assignments.

  I looked onto the beach that for everyone else in Cleveland was 55th Street. Looking out the window, I knew that Steve would one day sit in old man Vargas’ chair but I was damned if I was going to be with him.

  Feet of snow, bitter low temperature, seven dollars to last till Friday. As I thought about it and the remaining four periods of the day—yes, `51 Korea did look good.

  I had once asked DeFrancisco why he had all the good classes. He was the department chairperson.

  “Because, I make up the schedules, kid,” he would reply.

  His answer comforted me because it was the truth but it would not save me from the wrath of fifty criminal girls who did not want to learn about voltage on a miserable Friday in a miserable hundred-year-old science room with miserable fifty-year-old science books.

  DeFrancisco had told me that if I stayed around long enough, one day I would make up the schedules—and then I could have the good classes. That was never a promise for I would not accept the terms.

  With each passing vehicle, the beach became more and more like 55th Street.

  The temperature was becoming ever more bitter cold, now. The sun had never risen and now it was painfully cold and misery was falling from the sky and onto the building and finally into me.

  There I was on the doorstep, frozen and covered in the melancholy of the day.

  Miss Sharon came out the door.“What are you doing sitting here?”

  “I have had the worst day of my life.”

  “It’s Friday, go home.”

  “My car won’t start. I have seven dollars. Can’t pay for a tow, taxi, or even a bus ride. If I leave, the car will not be here tomorrow. And it’s a fifty-block walk to my apartment at night through a snowstorm in Cleveland, Ohio.” I was one breath away from weeping. “Today, I have had the worst teaching day since humans learned to walk erect.”

  Miss Sharon looked down upon me and then sat down beside me. The snow had piled up on me and now was starting to collect upon her.

  Her final wisdom, “At least you got the worst day of your life over with.”

  Miss Sharon was kind enough to drive me forty-eight blocks. I walked two blocks to my miserable apartment and hoped my miserable car would still be in that miserable frozen lot in the morning.

  My apartment was on 107th and Euclid. It was a miserable room in a miserable building at a miserable location in Cleveland, Ohio.

  The front door was unlocked until dusk and now it was just after five o’clock and dark so I had to reach into my ragged coat to get the key to the outer door. Once inside, I had to get the key that would open my mailbox. Then, I had to get a third key to open the inside door.

  “What the—” I shouted.

  The instant I placed my hand upon the door knob, the door was thrust into my face. My mail and my school papers became a blizzard. A man pushed me aside with his forearm. I balanced myself upon the wall.

  What was that smell? Was it gasoline?

  There was no time to think and I did not really care. Before I could stoop down and begin to pick up my stuff, Mr. Smith, the landlord, came running through the door and stumbled over me. A black pistol fell heavily onto my papers.

  “Damn, he got away!” Mr. Smith said.

  “What the—” This was not a thought.

  “That guy was pouring gasoline in the hall and was about to light it.”

  “What the—”

  “Thought I had a clear shot at him this time.” Mr. Smith collected his gun and stood up.

  “This time?” I said.

  I collected my stuff and entered this miserable place of misery. Is it morning already? It was dark. It was always dark in Cleveland, Ohio, except for when it was gray. It was almost as if the gray form of my dirty miserable apartment had oozed outside except for the fact that the outside was an even more pitiful black.

  The only color was that of the weak-watted street lights shining on the road-dirt slush. That color made you feel as if you were a captive inside one of those green cathode-ray tubes looking out.

  The one thing I did know was that it was cold. You can see cold.

  — – —

  Better eat a big breakfast.

  I knew that I would have to eat till I could force no more food down my gullet. It was going to be a very long day.

  Fifty blocks.

  That was what I thought as I walked out of that miserable gray apartment building onto that pitiful black Cleveland, Ohio, street. With each block walked, I counted down: 50, 49, 48, frozen, 47, 46, 45, what the—, 44, 43, what the—, 42, until at last, 1—and what the—

  The car was still there and really, I was happily surprised because it is most difficult to buy a car in Cleveland, Ohio, for less than five dollars. The snow was piled on my pride and joy, an old blue Chevrolet. Eight cylinders (six worked), black and white leather seats (that were anchored by a chain to the frame), a spotlight (rusted out), three hub caps and one working windshield wiper, but what a killer sound system (a weak AM radio). The tires were worn past the tread, two windows went down and one went back up, and the key was a screw-driver.

  I did not know much but I had learned how to keep this Chevrolet repaired, so I proceeded to begin the day’s work. However, it is most grueling being a shade-tree mechanic in frozen weather in Cleveland, Ohio. The trunk had the tools and the equipment that I needed.

  I just had to walk from 55th Street to 38th Street once and back caked in ice. I picked away at the ice around the tires, freed the Chevrolet, and drove home. The breakfast had long since diffused from my blood but it is one of those choices that you have to make sometimes as a discerning animal—eat or sleep. I slept.

  — – —

  Is it morning already?

  It is one of those choices you have to make—eat or sleep. I was too hungry to sleep. The decorative scheme of my miserable rat-trap of a room was dirt on grease.

  Over on the other side of the table was a stack of ungraded assignments that were long overdue to be returned.

  Is this to be my life?

  It came to me, that working five days a week and then one day on Sunday was miserable.

  Remembering that I had not eaten in twenty-four hours, I brewed a large cup of coffee, sat in my misery, and looked at the now repulsive dirt sponge of 107th Street that forty-eight hours ago was the virgin sand in my fantasy.

  Wordlessly, the assignments sat there with thousands of words—waiting for me to place hundreds of words on top of words. What was thousands of words times hundreds of days times scores of years equal to in life terms?

  I did the math.

  That number added to my misery. />
  The apartment had an incinerator and Mr. Smith allowed the tenants to drop burnable stuff down a waste chute.

  The rest of Sunday was without misery and indeed most restful. I did not know, and still do not know, what constitutes a proper Sabbath but I did obey the Fourth Commandment that day.

  “My mother, bless her soul, would be proud of me.”

  I thought what a fine son I was, putting all those church lessons to practical use today.

  “God, it is so hot in here.”

  I began to wonder.

  “Mr. Smith must really have a fine blaze going.”

  Then, after thinking for a minute, I was most certain that he did have a fine blaze going. I was going nowhere and I had all this time to get there so I just enjoyed my wordless Sabbath. I was sure that there is a Bible quote, something about not worrying about tomorrow for there are worries enough for today and let tomorrow simply take care of tomorrow. I did not know until now what a fine Christian I was in my life practices.

  I should have been more faithful sooner.

  — – —

  February, March, April, May, and now it was June.

  “Hey, class schedules for next year are out.” Cool Lewis greeted me.

  He was cool. It was not that he was cool in the James Dean sense of cool; it was rather that Cool Lewis had style. He was up to the second in style and all this style came to an exclamation point in his mouth with that fine gold tooth.

  “You can get yours from DeFrancisco.” Cool Lewis spoke while looking at his hand full of papers.

  “Don’t want one, don’t need one. Soon this place will be so far behind me that it will not even be a memory.” I bragged with the boldness of a hero who was claiming the beautiful princess’s love after slaying the dragon.

  “With what’s-her-face gone, you will pick up her classes.”

  Cool Lewis had this inflection in his voice as if there was some reward in being sentenced to two hundred thirty-seven years in prison rather than being sentenced to life imprisonment.

  “Don’t care, except for the fact that I am gonna miss you, Mr. Cool Lewis,” I said.

  On the way out the door, there was Steve sitting in old man Vargas’ chair. He had a pile of assignments before him but he was looking over his classes for the upcoming year. “Hey, I’ve been assigned old man Vargas’ schedule,” Steve exclaimed. “Have you picked up your class schedule yet?”

  “No, I have not picked up any schedule for next term.” I grunted.

  “See, here only a short time and look, I have Vargas’ schedule.”

  Steve was cheerful.

  I could see no joy in wearing a dead man’s pants. Mr. Vargas had died in his English class just nine days ago.

  “That ain’t no kinda reward and besides, I am gone.”

  “Still saying that? Just go get your schedule.”

  As fate would have it, DeFrancisco walked into the room and handed me a list of classes for the upcoming year. I set the worthless paper ablaze and exited onto 55th Street in Cleveland, Ohio. As my old blue Chevy pulled onto 55th, I could see the blaze in the open window of the school.

  3

  I shifted in my plane seat next to my listening companion.

  “It takes a great deal of courage to do what you did.” This fine lady spoke to me kindly.

  I had never thought about my exit from Cleveland, Ohio, even once before today. Those days were gone and those days are not even a memory.

  I explained it to her. “It takes no courage at all to pull yourself from a grave if you’re still breathing.”

  “Did you like teaching?”

  She wanted to know.

  I had never thought about my teaching days once before today, either.

  “Loved science, liked most of the students and staff, loved transferring knowledge, hated administrators, hated stupid policies and procedures, hated grading papers. It paid.”

  My reply was academic.

  We fell silent.

  4

  The jet engines were mute outside the window.

  The money I took out of my pension plan when I left teaching in Cleveland had bought me this ride, the first great jet engine ride of my life, and landed me on the island of Vafa’favifinu’ uakotoba—or, as it is printed in the atlas, ‘The Last Island.’ It is the last island going north. It is the last island going south. It is the last island going west. It is the last island going east. The Last Island is the last island in the South Pacific.

  I set the time and date on my watch at nine o’clock and changed the date to October 13th.

  “What the—”

  I'm one second onto a coral walkway when my gear is spilled on the ground by some local retrieving his gear by pushing me aside and pushing my gear onto the ground—and not even a 'by-your-leave' to boot.

  “Don’t mind him.” I turned. The voice came from a giant of a man. Very tall, but rounder than he was tall. “That’s the Deacon.”

  I must have stared, for I know that no word came from my mouth. I had never seen such a large man. He helped me gather my gear.

  “I’m Ray, Manta Ray.”

  My palms opened reflexively and I redropped my gear while looking at him.

  He slapped me with great force on my back with a palm that was large as my back was broad and filled the air with a laugh that rivaled a crushing incoming tide.

  He handed me my gear.

  I stared.

  “The Deacon is a good guy; it is just that he ain’t much of no deacon. Or let me put it this way: if he were the deacon of a church, I would not want to be preached to by his minister.” He split my ears with a second laugh and put his tree limb of an arm over my shoulder. Looking down at me, he asked,“What’s your name?”

  “Vaughn.” I answered, somewhat in fear.

  “Good name—don’t mean nothing—but a good name. Maybe you will have a name that means something before you leave.”

  There was a third earthquake of a laugh.

  From his broad mouth to his expansive body, I did not have to ask him how the name Ray that his momma gave him became Manta.

  Manta, without asking, threw my stuff in with his and pointed to the empty seat of his rig and off I went with this man that was the size of three men. I didn’t ask. I didn’t care. The street was crooked and unpaved and sandy—it was not a frozen straight winter street in a Cleveland, Ohio.

  “Hey, Vaughnie, you don’t have much gear. Most people who come here have a department store of supplies.”

  What the—Vaughie?. One minute here and I am an ‘ie’. I did not say anything immediately.

  “Cannot buy a whole bunch with five dollars.” That was a lie for I really had the better part of fifty dollars on me. “About that Vaughnie stuff...” I spoke to him, looking away into the ocean to prevent any eye contact.

  “That’s okay. Yeah. Sounds good, don’t it,” Manta said.

  Manta drove on in his open-air dune buggy and I was quite pleased with him. He had not broken the Third Commandment and so as far as I was concerned he was still a fine Christian.

  “Where are we going?”

  It seemed to me we had driven a long time on such a tiny island.

  “Around the point to the LION Reserve,” he replied.

  I bolted upright and pulled my feet into the rig.

  “Lion reserve! You have a lion reserve on the island?”

  Manta’s laugh was the loudest yet.

  “What? A lion reserve, here?” I was yelling like a little girl who had just spilled an ice cream soda on her favorite party dress.

  “Yeah, we’ll be there soon.” He spoke without emotion.

  “I don’t see any fences or security.” I spoke in a sweat.

  “You don’t see any because there are none. Nothing to worry about, though, I promise you,” he said.

  “Promise me nothing. An unsecured lion reserve. What the—, get me out of here. Now!” I cried.

  Manta could not stop laughing. “Oh, Vaughn,
don’t be a Vaughnie. The Deacon is not afraid to come here.” Manta spoke with a smile.

  Manta continued to laugh at my expense. All that I could do was look around in fear. How was it possible to meet two crazy men at the end of the world in twelve seconds and not be alive at sunset to tell the third crazy person?

  “There it is, the Last Island Ocean Natural Reserve, or the LION Reserve, if you prefer,” Manta explained.

  The hardiness of his laughter caused his largeness to flow like an incoming tide. I checked to see if any outflowing tide had been placed on my seat.

  Manta stopped laughing minutes later.

  “Hey, Vaughnie. Want to work here?” Manta said this while getting out of the buggy and walking up the wooden stairs, opening the unlocked screen doors. “Saw your gear and literature at the airport. Don’t get many biologists and divers way out here. You can be in charge of The Last Island’s LION.”

  Manta and I talked for a bit. The conversation had nothing to do with LION, wages, or obligations. The suspicion that there was something more behind his offer than there appeared crossed my mind more than once but, in the end, I agreed to be the LION keeper.

  The LION was a marine museum with live and preserved displays, teaching locations, fossils, maps, literature, machines, devices, books, digital devices, and a group area, but the prime feature was an immense sea water aquarium at the rear. There were various other aquariums about, but the one in the rear was so large it appeared oceanic.

  “LION is yours to run.”

  That was all Manta had to say.

  LION was mine without administrators, papers, or procedures.

  “Yes.” I replied with one of those pregnant delayed answers.

  “I am glad, Vaughnie. I like your style.” He smiled at me.

  Cool Lewis would have loved to hear that about me. Me and Cool Lewis, just styling.

  5

  The LION was set in standard display style. The specimens and exhibits were up in a four-square linear box layout; this I casually noticed as I walked to the rear of the LION to my living quarters.

  My living quarters were tropical and open: a white painted floor and walls, a ceiling with a palm-leaf fan, and a mat rug in the center of the larger room. Screen windows with slat shutters were on each wall, and a large fan was suspended from the ceiling. One of the lesser rooms was a kitchen and eating room, and the other of the lesser rooms was quite a nice bedroom. The bathroom with a shower was a modern facility behind the bedroom. From the back windows was the sight of a fine white beach that exited into a clear, then green, then blue-green, then blue ocean. I was home.