by J. M. Parker
He stopped for a moment to grab his drink. “It’s funny,” he said, “three days driving out, three days driving back. A mile up and down the volcano and I can’t remember a time he wasn’t smiling.”
“Your dad ever get the chance to dive out here?” said Suzanne.
“No,” said Bannon, “he never got the chance.”
The group sat for a moment before Bannon spoke again. “Well, I’d say that’s enough about me. How about another round?”
Whiskey shots came shortly after and the group knocked them back. Bannon went for a cigarette and Suzanne followed him outside. In a side alley they kissed. Bannon said he needed a bed and she said she wasn’t sure. After a few more drinks the group started to disperse, Suzanne stayed, said she’d see them later. She walked Bannon to the beach and said she wanted to swim. He told her she was drunk, but she kept insisting. He buried his backpack at the base of a tree, removing the med kit and the framed photograph and burying them a few yards away. He stripped off his jeans and shirt, Suzanne standing close by, faint traces of sweat marking her cotton bra and panties. The moon hung overhead, its reflection shimmering on the surface of the sea, and Bannon felt a pang of guilt as he thought of the helicopter spotlight and all the searching boats. Suzanne hesitated. “You coming?”
“Sure,” said Bannon, shaking his head. “Just shy.”
“Liar.”
She slipped her hand into his and pulled him on to the water, when they heard the sounds of other swimmers. “God, I feel unoriginal,” she said.
“Don’t sweat it,” said Bannon, dragging her into the surf, and she squealed as her body hit the water and they disappeared into the spray. They came gasping to the surface, Suzanne beating her fists playfully against his chest.
Across the silver reflection of the moon another group of girls ran laughing and screaming in mock cries of panic. Behind them came another figure, a man, emerging naked from the silvery water and chasing after them, splashing water and cheering into the night. Suzanne looked at the girls, their skin showing through their transparent underwear. “Oh” she said. “Is that what I look like?” Bannon flashed her a big grin, kissed her, and dragged her back into the sea.
When they reached the beach the backpack was gone. Bannon dug furiously at the sand, disappearing farther and farther into the ground. He came out of the hole cursing, sand covering his face as he tracked back to the med kit and the photo, digging them up and slumping down beside his work. His shoes and T-shirt were gone. Suzanne stood watching, half dressed and holding his jeans out to him. “I’m sorry about your stuff.”
Bannon said nothing; he just sat, gripping the photo in his hands.
“What are you going to do?” said Suzanne.
“Guess I’ll try and find it,” said Bannon, rising as he spoke. He snatched the jeans from her and pulled them on.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“It’s just…”
“It’s okay. What?”
“I just don’t really know the way home.”
Bannon sighed, taking her in, still soaking wet and standing half naked in the moonlight. “Alright,” he said, “we’ll get you home first.”
They searched the beach for a while, looking for her jeans and finding them by the base of a tree. Above them Bannon’s T-shirt lay snagged in the upper branches.
“Perfect,” said Bannon.
At her doorway they stood shivering while she fumbled with the lock. “You still going to look for your stuff?” she said.
Bannon hung his head, exhausted. “I’m guessing it’s gone by now.” Sadly, he turned to leave.
“Wait. You still need that bed?”
He stood there thinking about the question, barely clothed, his shadow stretching out over the wall and, in the partial light of the door, he thought it looked a little frail. “Sure,” he said.
They fucked for a half an hour, moving awkwardly as they fumbled to the end. When they finished, they barely spoke. He slept a few hours before he left, waiting by the beach for the shops to open, the last of the nightgoers stumbling past and jeering at his disheveled appearance. He spent the last of his baht on a T-shirt and shoes from the first store to open, then wandered on in search of a bank. His money changed, he set off looking for food.
A little later he caught the smell of bacon drifting on the morning air and he headed for it, finding a flight of stairs leading up to a dimly lit Irish bar. A sign outside read, “Corned beef all day.” A door flew open and a little cleaner burst out into the sunlight, mop still in hand as he yelled a string of Thai profanities back toward the bar. A voice followed him out, Gaelic sounding. “Fine, don’t clean it. But I’ll be needin’ that mop from ya.” the Thai hurled the mop back into the bar, still yelling as he rushed past Bannon, who headed upstairs.
In the low light of the room he surveyed the scene: a small stage stood in the far corner, various posters of famous Gaelic soccer teams hung on grubby walls next to a colorful assortment of jerseys and scarves. He caught the sweet smell of bacon and a second smell, creeping acridly from behind the closed door of the men’s room. Three tourists ate breakfast, glancing at a bald-headed, moustache-sporting Irishman who stood behind the stool-lined bar with his red-haired hands outstretched on its surface. A name tag on his chest read “Sullivan” in big, block capital letters. He looked at Bannon and said nothing. “Serving bacon?” said Bannon.
“If you can stand the smell,” said Sullivan.
“For bacon.”
“Irish breakfast?”
“Sure.”
“Want the eggs scrambled?” said the bartender, not seeming to be offering a choice.
“Guess so.”
“Sausage, tomatoes, and black pudding too?”
“Black pudding?”
“Pig’s blood.”
“Good?”
“Don’t eat it if you don’t want it.”
“Alright. Get an orange juice too?” said Bannon, knowing he was pushing his luck.
“It’s not freshly squeezed.”
“I’ll still have one.”
“Wait will be about twenty minutes.”
“For the orange juice or the breakfast?”
“Twenty for the breakfast. Grab the juice from the bar.”
Bannon waited at the bar as a group of tourists turned to leave. He looked back to the bathroom; water was starting to trickle out from beneath the door. Behind the bar Sullivan emerged from a kitchen where two Thai boys tended to a row of hissing pans. Bannon headed over, “What happened in the john?”
“Pipes are backed up. It’s a mess.”
“How bad?”
“Like a junkie’s stomach in there.”
Bannon flashed another look at the bathroom. A nearby table shifted in their seats and Sullivan barked in their direction, “Don’t humor me, you prudes.” the group rose and left.
“Listen,” said Bannon, turning Sullivan’s gaze back toward him, “I was wondering about the job opening.”
“Job opening?”
“Well looks like your cleaner just up and left.”
This time Sullivan glanced at the bathroom. “You don’t want that job.”
“I’m hard up. And I ain’t bad at fixing things. Could probably lend a hand behind the bar if needed.”
“I don’t pay well.”
“But you do pay?”
Sullivan threw a big hairy hand to his forehead and mopped the sweat on it. “Alright, you eat breakfast and get to the bathroom. We’ll see about the rest once you’re done.”
“Thanks.”
*
Water sloshed into his shoes and he felt the damp seeping between the tongue and the fabric. Shit and vomit pooled on the surface. Loose pieces of toilet paper drifted by cigarette butts as his feet squeezed bubbles from the soggy clumps of tissues on the floor. He snaked drains and plunged bowls. He mopped, scrubbed, and bleached, the shit and grime leaving skid marks across his forearms. When the work was done, he sto
od in the middle of the polished tile, in total juxtaposition to the sparkling room around him.
Sullivan paid him right away. “I took out the cost of breakfast.”
“Christ,” said Bannon.
He bought another set of clothes and threw away the used ones, grimacing at the waste. In the following weeks he repeated that dire task twice more. He slept on a decaying mattress in a storage room above the bar. In the mornings he would clean and in the afternoons he loitered by dive shops, listening for word of the castaway. Some nights he worked the bar and he woke once behind the counter, his face stuck to spilled beer and his head throbbing. He earned little but spent less. Christmas came and went while Bannon sat in his derelict apartment, listening to the mice scratch the plaster in the walls, the framed photo in his hands, his thumbs and fingers tracing the worn image of his father.
He worked the bar on New Year’s and watched as couples counted down and kissed. The next evening Sullivan found him scrubbing the sinks. Bannon didn’t notice him enter, and Sullivan laid a handful of baht on top of the sink. “Holiday bonus,” he said, “go have some fun tonight.”
Bannon thanked him, waiting as Sullivan exited the bathroom before he seized the wad of cash and slipped it into his wallet. He felt the heavy air of the day creep through a boarded windowpane. “Storm’s coming,” said Bannon, a smile stretching across his face, a sudden excitement seizing hold as the sky began to darken.
3
The last of the crowds scattered as lightning struck a palm tree, the crack of its scorched trunk sounding above the thunderclaps. Flames sparked in its branches and smoke pillared up toward the sky. Beyond the fire, storm clouds massed on the horizon. Bannon felt raindrops thump against his skin and he turned away as another fork of lightning ripped overhead and the sky quivered with electricity.
Once-empty bars became packed as scores of partygoers tried to escape the rain. Drunken witnesses spun tales of the destruction and they drank through the night and on into the early hours of the morning. When the bars finally closed, they moved in disorientated packs, shielding their faces as the wind whistled through the streets and rain clattered against the rooftops.
Bannon headed home, water gushing across the concrete of the road. In the burned-out shell of a house he saw a pair of enormous lizards basking in the cool of the pooling water, their scaled bodies as long as his arms could stretch. A stray dog appeared and stood at the edge of the fallen wall, barking at the lizards, its hackles up along its back. Bannon watched as one of the lizards raised its head, a gray tongue slipping from its jaws as it rose up on its talons and hissed in the dog’s direction. Water parted around its scales as the lizard waded through the flood, its marble black eyes shining just above the water line and fixed on the dog. The dog stood for a moment longer, moving a paw tentatively up the rubble and barking once more at the encroaching creature before whimpering and retreating, Bannon moving close behind.
*
In the shelter of his cramped room he searched out the red medical kit and took a pair of sleeping pills. The color had started to chip from their surface and he paused before he ate them, wondering how long they’d rolled around in the bag. He slept for the rest of the day, uncomfortably at first, waking as thunder continued to roll overhead. The storm eased in the afternoon and he fell into a deep sleep interspersed with an old recurring dream: Two figures ran along the edge of a lake, Bannon just in front of his father, lean muscle starting to build around his teenage frame. The gap widened as he pushed harder across the shore, passing an imaginary finish line, throwing his arms up in celebration, and dancing on the spot before he stopped and turned. His arms fell as he saw his father, sixty yards back, doubled over with his hands pressed against his thighs. He tried to straighten up before he sank onto a knee. Bannon moved to help, stopping just short of his father as he held a hand out toward him and gradually began to stand. Bannon looked back at the man as he walked the last few yards between them, watching as his father reached a hand toward him, and he caught the familiar smell of engine oil on his skin. The man smiled as he tussled his son’s hair. “You’re getting fast,” he said.
“You okay?” said Bannon.
His father breathed sharply before he spoke again. “Probably shaking off a cold. Don’t worry, I’ll win the next one.”
“Sure,” said the boy, craning his neck to see his father’s face. “Hope so.”
“You take another lap. I’ll get myself home. Have dinner waiting for you.”
“It’s alright,” said Bannon, “I’ll come too.”
His father tried to smile before he coughed into his hand. “You get that lap. Don’t need you worrying about me just yet. I’ll see you at home.”
Bannon watched as his father turned away. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
His father looked backed over his shoulder and nodded at his boy. Behind him the city skyline sparkled in the evening sun. “Yeah,” he said. “Now get to running.”
*
In the intermittent bursts of light Bannon pressed through a mob of wasted travelers as he tried to reach the bar. A young boy threw an arm around him and pointed out the girls. “You see it, man? The night belongs to the hunter.”
The door clattered open and through it came a group of men: three of them, their clothes soaking and covered in sand, two of them carrying a plane propeller. The crowd stared at the thing. Wiring was spilling from its shaft and most of its blades were singed black. They hoisted it to the bar. “Look what we pulled out of the sea,” said one. Screws were found and a group of drunks held it steady as the bartender fixed it to a wall, the wood creaking beneath its weight.
“You think someone was flying out there?”
“Waves could have dug it up.”
Lighting flashed overhead and the walls shook. “Is it getting better or worse out there?” said the bartender.
“Worse.”
Bannon stood pissing when the power failed and curses rang from the stalls. Waitresses filled rice bowls with spirits and left them burning on top of the bar, the orange light flickering across the crowds. The power returned to a cry of cheers. The waitresses fanned the bowls and offered them to the nearest customers. Bannon drank and he felt the booze run hot into his stomach. The party carried on, the Stones on the jukebox, their guitar chords and maraca turns punctuated with rolls of thunder. The door swung open again, cracking against the barroom wall as a long shadow fell across the heads of the crowd.
A tall, slender figure paused in the doorway, tapping a foot against the frame and knocking the water from the sole of his shoe. Slowly, he moved into sight, studying the place, his eyes shifting from green to blue in the fluttering light of the bar. He wore his hair in a neatly combed part, a pencil moustache balanced elegantly above his lips. A well-cut linen shirt hung on his frame and the crowd parted as he moved further into the bar, his handsome features unchanged until his gaze seemed to fall on the propeller and his teeth flashed in a devilish smile. “Of all the bars,” said the Frenchman.
*
People hushed as the Frenchman moved onto his stool. Champagne in glasses of all shapes and sizes lined the bar. Behind them stood the bartender, a look of shock on his face as he studied the bills in his hand. “The wild tempest,” said the Frenchman, “and me, at the mercy of the beast, and what mercy was forthcoming?”
“What happened?” said a girl, her eyes fixed on the speaker.
“Ah, mon cher,” said the Frenchman, “there I was, two days back, misinformed and stranded, the storm coming in.”
More people edged closer and the Frenchman urged them on, gesturing to the champagne. “Come, come, drink with me.” he held his glass a little higher and his voice carried effortlessly across the group, as a couple of patrons eyed the propeller with looks of disbelief. “I swear it,” said the Frenchman. “There I was, no land in sight, marooned in the wind and the lightning, held in the arms of the tempest, the sea darkening beneath me.” Still the doubters gazed skeptica
lly at the propeller and the Frenchman laughed, slapping a manicured hand against his thigh. “Still you disbelieve? I must convince you.” he scooped up a handful of glasses and shoved them toward the cynics, the champagne frothing as the bubbles darted to the surface. “It was the wind first, rattling the very bolts of my craft.”
“What kind of plane?” said one of the cynics.
“Piper. A beautiful piece of machinery,” and he sprang to his feet, pointing to the propeller on the wall and crying out through mock sobs, “to see her like this. How cruel the world is.” Laughter broke from the crowd and the Frenchman paused, his face a picture of delight as the lamplight flashed in the pits of his eyes.
The crowd grew larger as the Frenchman continued. “Lighting struck me, ran the length of the wings, bridged the cockpit, the whole flame electric blue. Zeus, the grand thunder chucker, he has never thrown a better bolt. Spun me toward the ocean, the whole thing shifting beneath me,” and he let out a melancholic sigh, “the waves; to have seen them like that—Magnifique.” he paused to sip champagne, the crowd breathless, Bannon edging closer as the Frenchman resumed his performance—the plane skimming across the wave tops, the flaming wings hissing in the spray as they dipped back and forth. “I caught a wave. Tore the wing away. Mon helice, too. Such force, I was skimming like a stone. The cabin breached, the side fell away. I swam,” he stopped and gazed back at the propeller, his face reflected in the unscorched patches of metal, and he smiled. “We are small creatures, no?” the Frenchman raised his glass a final time and the crowd around him followed suit. “Here’s to having fun all the time.”
*
Bannon smoked in the shelter of the doorway, the rain finally slowing and the wind pushing little ripples across the surface of the sodden ground. He took another drag and studied himself in a puddle, the joint held between his lips, the ripples like wrinkles on his face. “You look like shit,” said Bannon.
