“I’ll walk, thanks,” I said and returned to my room to put on some sunscreen and then I set out down the beach. They called it Seven Mile Beach but it wasn’t that long. It was maybe three miles to the southern end where the bulk of the shops and restaurants were. Three miles of hot, soft sand and Jamaicans trying to sell me ganja, cigarettes and homemade jewelry.
I hadn’t exercised for real in months. I walked from my apartment building to the bus stop and then to the elevator in my office building. I was dying out there among the beach resorts and sunbathers. I spotted a small bar and made my way there for some much needed refreshment and rest. I considered strongly just calling a cab and heading back to the resort but only after a Red Stripe.
The bar was called Beachside Bar & Grill. It, like many other establishments in Jamaica, was little more than a shack. It had no doors or windows, just a thatched roof, a bar and a cinder block wall that formed the back of the place. Picnic tables sat in front and the smell of jerk chicken drifted from the steel drum turned barbeque.
“Red Stripe, please,” I told the guy tending the bar, feeling like I’d just found an oasis after traveling the desert.
“Comin’ right up, sexy,” the man told me in a thick Jamaican accent. He was a cute, thirty-something Jamaican man with a big smile. Sexy? I kind of liked that.
“Is the chicken ready?” I asked him as he bent to pull a bottle of beer from the cooler.
“Yes, ma’am. You want some fries wit dat?” he replied.
“Yeah, sure,” I told him. He removed the bottle cap for me and slid the beer across the bar.
“I’m, Willy,” he told me.
“Erin,” I replied and extended my hand. Willy wasn’t having it. He leaned over the narrow bar and hugged me. Jamaicans were a friendly bunch but not usually this friendly.
“Nice to meet you, Erin. Have a seat and I’ll bring da jerk chicken and fries out when they are ready,” Willy told me.
“Thanks,” I replied and found an empty picnic table. The Jamaican beer was ice cold and tasted fantastic. Several minutes later, Willy brought me a heaping plate of jerk chicken and fries along with a bottle of jerk sauce.
“What do I owe you?” I asked.
“Um, let’s see. Red Stripe, chicken, fries comes to twelve dollars,” Willy replied. I pulled a twenty from my pocket and handed it to him.
“Keep it,” I said.
“Oh, thank you, ma’am,” he replied and bowed before heading back to the bar. I tested the jerk sauce in the bottle and not finding it too spicy, I squirted some of it on my fries. I tried one and found it still too warm to eat. Instead, I pulled some moist chicken off the bone and tasted it. Damn, that was good stuff. I pulled some more and popped it into my mouth and took a sip of beer to wash it down.
“Excuse me,” a man said to me, suddenly standing at the side of my table. He was in his early thirties with wavy blond hair, cropped close above his ears but longer on top. He wore a beard, trimmed close to his square jaw. He was tall, muscular and tan with brown eyes. He wore an unbuttoned camp shirt adorned with palm trees, cut off denim shorts and not much else other than the shark tooth that hung from a leather cord around his neck.
“Uh, yeah?” I answered.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked me. I looked about. Two of the other seven picnic tables were empty.
“Uh, I guess not,” I replied.
“Cool,” was all he said. He sat directly across from me and offered me his hand. “They call me, Rick,” he said. I held up my hands covered in jerk sauce.
“Sorry, I’m a bit messy. I’m Erin,” I replied.
“Nice to meet you, Erin,” he said. I felt a bit self-conscious. What did this guy want? He looked like he’d been wandering the beach a long time but his shirt probably cost a hundred dollars. He just sat there.
“You want some chicken?” I asked him trying to be polite.
“Yeah, thanks,” he said and picked up the chicken leg and tore a big chunk of chicken off. This was kind of weird. Was he homeless or something?
“I don’t mean to be rude, but what do you want?” I asked him. Rick stopped mid bite and looked up at me.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you,” he said and began to get up.
“Wait! I didn’t tell you to leave. I was just wondering what you wanted. I mean there are other tables. Why sit with me?” I asked. Rick sat back down.
“Just being friendly and you looked like you could use a friend,” he said. That surprised me.
“Do I look that lonely?” I joked.
“As a matter of fact, you do,” he said.
“Really?” I asked more seriously now.
“You don’t have any friends with you, no boyfriend, no wedding ring,” he told me. He was right.
“I came here alone...to Jamaica, I mean,” I replied.
“Why?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I just wanted to get away,” I replied.
“I know the feeling, Erin,” he said and took another bite of chicken. I nibbled on my fries, the half chicken way too much for me to eat.
“So where are you from?” I asked Rick. I was sure he’d tell me he was from California or Florida. There was no way he got that tan up north.
“Just up the road,” he told me instead. I frowned, not understanding.
“I mean where’s home,” I clarified assuming he thought I meant where he was staying.
“Just up the road. I live just up the road,” he told me.
“You live here?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” he answered.
“You’re American though, aren’t you?” I asked. Rick wasn’t from Jamaica originally. He had no accent. There were white people that were born Jamaican citizens but I didn’t think Rick was one of them.
“Yeah, I’m from Philly,” he said.
“Why do you live here? How long?” I asked, suddenly intrigued by the idea.
“I got sick of the rat race about four years back, so I retired. There was no way I could have lived in the states on my savings for the rest of my life so I moved here,” he explained.
“Retired? What are you, thirty?” I pressed him.
“Thirty-three,” he said.
“You retired at twenty nine? How is that even possible?” I asked.
“I live a simple life. I made good money when I was younger but it took a toll. Long hours, lots of stress. I just didn’t want that anymore. There has to be more to life than that, right?” he told me. That hit a nerve, mainly because it sounded all too familiar.
“That’s crazy. I’ve heard of people doing stuff like that but I’ve never met anyone who did. How do you make a living?” I wondered.
“My savings, odd jobs, I drove a taxi for a while, whatever I feel like,” Rick told me. Then he asked me where I was from. I almost didn’t want to tell him.
“Chicago,” I replied. Rick grimaced.
“I hate Chicago. I used to go there on business. Cold, crowded, dirty, muggy in the summer,” he replied. I might have defended my hometown usually but considering Rick lived in Jamaica, what was I going to say? It has great museums?
“Philly isn’t much better,” I replied.
“I can’t argue with that. Neither was New York, Washington, Atlanta or Dallas. Miami wasn’t horrible. Don’t even mention Detroit,” he said. I laughed.
“I guess I see why you’re here. There was three feet of snow on the ground when I left. It’s supposed to snow again before I head back,” I told him.
“Those aren’t the only reasons I came here. I’d probably be dead if I hadn’t. That’s not hyperbole. I was out of shape, my blood pressure was off the charts and I was having chest pains. It turned out to be stress but it woke me up. I used to be all about the money and success. I wanted it all, the big house, the fancy cars, a big bank account and a corner office. Instead, I was going to have a heart attack or stroke by the time I was forty,” Rick explained.
A wave of recognition hit me. I wasn’t as b
ad as Rick but I had my own problems. I had a reoccurring ulcer and back pain. My doctor told me it was all stress. I was out of shape, hence the stop here at the Beachside Bar & Grill. It wasn’t hunger as much as fatigue that caused me to take a break. But I easily dismissed those feelings. I wasn’t as bad as Rick. Some stress and tension were normal, right? Rick continued.
“Here, I feel great. No stress, my blood pressure is normal and the chest pains have disappeared. I sleep great and I’m in great shape. I even bought an old sail boat that I’m restoring. One day soon, I’ll move aboard and sail around the Caribbean. When I get sick of that, I’ll do something else,” Rick said.
“Sounds amazing. I wish I could live like that,” I said, only half seriously. It was one of those things people said but didn’t really mean.
“You can. Just do it,” Rick said. I took the last sip of my Red Stripe.
“Yeah, right. Well, nice to meet you, Rick. I’m going to head back to my resort,” I said as I stood up. Rick just watched as I prepared to leave. I gathered the plate and the empty bottle and took it to the bar. “Thanks, Willy,” I told him and grabbed a napkin to clean my hands.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he replied. Rick still sat at the picnic table watching me. I finished cleaning my hands and walked past the table.
“Nice talking to you,” I told Rick but he stood up and blocked my way.
“You want to come over for dinner?” he asked. Well, that was unexpected.
“I...uh...,” I began to stammer.
“Look, I know I’m just some guy you met on the beach but I don’t bite. I promise. I’d like to talk some more. Besides, I make a killer ackee and salt fish,” he told me. I’d never dared try the Jamaican national dish but I guess I should. I shouldn’t have even considered going to dinner at a strange man’s house but so far, my vacation wasn’t turning out like I’d hoped. I guess dinner couldn’t hurt, right?
“Yeah, alright. Where? When?” I asked him, kind of surprised that I was doing this.
“I’ll pick you up at around five. Where are you at?” he replied. I told him I was at the The Palms and he told me he knew it.
“OK, see you at five,” I said. Rick winked at me and turned to leave. I watched him go. He was handsome. I envied him but I knew there was no way I could ever do what he had. That wasn’t for me. I was a city girl and I enjoyed the comforts of an urban life. Besides, I wasn’t the adventurous type. I turned and began walking back to my resort but I took my time. I enjoyed the sights and sounds as I went. I was on vacation after all.
>>O<<
I went down to the lobby a little before five that evening. I’d spent the afternoon reading and sipping frozen drinks on the beach. I didn’t fall asleep as I did the day before. More rowdy hedonists from the nude resort walked by midway through the afternoon. Two women weren’t even dressed and they stopped to make out with one another right in front of me. It was more entertaining than annoying. They were crazy.
I didn’t have to wait long. I heard a loud engine, not unlike a lawn mower, approach and then a moment later, Rick stopped in the driveway on an old scooter that coughed gray smoke out the tail pipe. “You ready?” he asked as the motor quieted a little.
“You want me to go on that?” I asked. Rick looked down at his scooter. He almost seemed offended that I wouldn’t want to ride on it.
“Yeah, why not. It’s not far,” he promised. I shrugged and climbed on behind Rick. He wasn’t wearing a helmet and I didn’t see one for me. “I’d tell you to hold on but it doesn’t go that fast,” he joked and he twisted the throttle. I held on to him anyway. The engine got louder and higher in pitch but the scooter hesitated. Then after a moment, it began to move, but slowly. It was only when the drive went downhill did the scooter pick up any real speed.
“You weren’t kidding. This thing can barely get out of its own way,” I said as we veered onto the highway.
“Yeah, but once it gets going it’s hard to stop. The brakes are worn out,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not and I didn’t want to know. I just squeezed Rick tighter. We rode on the edge of the highway as cars passed us and often each other. The rules of the road in Jamaica were more like guidelines. Drivers did pretty much what they wanted and the other drivers just moved out of the way. It was organized chaos with an emphasis on chaos.
We were only on the two-lane highway for a few minutes before we pulled off and rode down a gravel road. A hundred yards or so off the highway Rick pulled up in front of a small house, a shack really. It was built of cinder blocks, a common building material in the humid climate, without proper windows. It wasn’t any larger than my living room back at home but there was a covered patio in the back. Instead of glass, the windows were just wooden shutters.
“Home sweet home,” Rick announced after I climbed off the scooter. He leaned the scooter on its kickstand and climbed off as well.
“It’s nice,” I said. Rick laughed.
“You’re very gracious,” he replied. I smiled. Rick apparently didn’t have any illusions about his abode. Behind it sat the sailboat he had mentioned. It wasn’t what I expected. Instead of a modern fiberglass hull, it was made of wood.
“Is that the boat?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. That’s her. I ought to be finished restoring the old girl just about the time I’m too old to sail her,” Rick joked. “C’mon around back. It’s more comfortable on the patio. No air conditioning inside,” he said. I followed him around the little house and he offered me a seat in one of the brightly painted Adirondack chairs on the patio separated by an equally colorful table. “Drink?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure. What do you have?” I asked.
“Rum, Red Stripe, Ting...uh, water,” he offered me.
“Red Stripe sounds good. Thanks,” I replied. Rick ducked inside his little home through a louvered door. He returned a few minutes later with his arms full.
“Mind grabbing your beer?” he greeted me as he stood before me and turned sideways. I plucked the beer from under his arm and another, his I assumed, as well. “Thanks!” he said and went to the old cast iron grill on the opposite side of the patio and dumped his arm full of ingredients and utensils on the table next to it. Arms free, Rick pulled a bottle opener from the pocket of his still unbuttoned shirt and tossed it to me.
“Thanks!” I replied. I pried the top off of each beer and set the opener aside. This was kind of nice, a welcome change from the resort and an authentic taste of the real Jamaica. Rick had an easy way about him that made me feel comfortable and right at home. Rick began preparing dinner as I watched.
“Have you had ackee and salt fish?” he asked.
“No. Been too afraid,” I admitted. Rick chuckled.
“I thought it was scrambled eggs and fish the first time I had it. The ackee doesn’t taste like fruit. It actually tastes a bit like scrambled eggs. The hard part is getting the fruit when it’s ripe. If not, it’s poisonous,” Rick told me.
“Hence my fear,” I replied. Rick held up an ackee fruit. The red-orange fruit was split open into thirds.
“Not to worry. Once it splits open, the fruit is ripe. You remove the seeds and meat, discard the seeds and eat the meat,” Rick explained. Inside the fruit were three black seeds that reminded me of black olives. Attached to that was the yellow meat, the edible part, that did look a bit like scrambled eggs.
“I trust you,” I replied.
“Are you always so trusting of strange men offering you poisonous fruit?” he asked.
“That doesn’t happen often back home,” I told him.
“The strange men or the poisonous fruit?” Rick asked.
“Yes,” was all I said in reply. Rick chuckled as he fired up his grill and went about chopping the fresh peppers and onions. He split a clove of garlic, crushed it and tossed it in the pan with some oil. After that, he tossed in the peppers and onions into the frying pan. “I’ve never seen anyone cook on a grill like that,” I said.
�
�It’s all I’ve got and really all I need. Back in Philly, I had a nice apartment with a gourmet kitchen and a million gadgets. This is so much nicer and a lot easier to clean up,” he told me.
“You’ve really bought into this whole simple life thing, huh?” I replied. Rick tossed the salted fish that had been soaking in a bowl of water into the mix.
“I thought I’d miss all the stuff, you know. I don’t. Not even a little,” Rick said.
“I don’t think I could do it,” I replied. Rick turned and gave me a look. He didn’t say anything but his expression told me he thought I was wrong. He tossed in the ackee and sautéed the mix for a minute or two, adding some spices as the dish cooked. When he was satisfied, he served up the dish into two bowls and joined me in the other Adirondack chair. He handed me a bowl and a fork. “Thanks,” I told him.
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