Easy in the Islands

by Bob Shacochis

  Fish had no interest in the money but Glasford snatched the bill from the white man as soon as the fellow’s hand came out of his pocket.

  “You lucky dis time,” Glasford said to the man below him in the boat.

  There were no cars on the road. Not even a stray donkey they could hijack into service. Glasford said he wanted to wait for the ride he believed would come but he caught up with Fish when Fish went ahead without him, trekking the long miles back to Momma Smallhorne’s. She was already up when they arrived at dawn, a fire sparking in her cookshed, baking soda bread and warming yesterday’s coffee.

  “I suppose you hear by now,” the old woman clucked at them. “I just receive de news meself. Scamps blow up Richmond Park. Is dead white people everywhere. Dey place a bomb in a poor billy goat. Oh, Lahd, when dis wickedness goin stop?”

  Momma seemed happy to have a big story to work with. Fish didn’t want to spoil it for her so soon by telling her the true account. They settled themselves gratefully into Momma’s two shaky chairs and had her bring a pint bottle of rum and biscuits. Glasford poured and drank and appeared revitalized, though his eyes looked slack.

  Fish’s fatigue left him helpless to prevent the sadness pooling in his outlook for the day. He was sure that the woman in the motorboat would have liked him if only she knew what sort of man he was, that he was a man who had determined truths in his life and tried to live by them. Don’t take from me what I wouldn’t take from you. That’s what she had cried to him. It struck a nerve, even if he couldn’t be certain that she indeed lived that way herself.

  “Fish, drink up, you fallin behind,” Glasford said. “What, you sleepy? A guy like you daht blows up white people?” It was a joke but no light came into Glasford’s eyes to support it. Fish knew he was being mocked.

  Fish’s bed was three minutes down the road and he wanted it, but his mind was carrying on against his will and would allow him no peace. Yes, it was true in many ways that he and the people around him were, as Glasford had said, like rocks on the bottom of the sea. What gave a man cause to rise up, Fish didn’t know. Glasford on the gallows, Glasford in a limousine, surrounded by flags and personal bodyguards and beautiful women. How much did it matter? A rock had lost its gravity and was lifting toward the surface. Fish could only see the emptiness left by its passage.

  Glasford was starting his talk again. Next time, he was saying, we get a gun.

  —For Tay and Linda Maltsberger

  Hot Day on the Gold Coast

  It’s steamy hot and the radio’s loud. Fifties stuff: shoop shoop, dee doo, waa-oo, my babee left me. I once knew the words and sang along in a wine-cooled voice. The blues and the bop dribble my heart between them like a basketball. Here’s a ballad of love. Here love is lost and much missed. A saxophone player squirts his high-rising juice out of the box.

  The house is blistered white, with gables and gingerbreadish scrollwork milled by some Victorian craftsman gone daftly baroque. It is jungled-up and bug-eaten and can’t be seen from the street, a residence that offers no clue to my uptown breeding. We have plenty of privacy here.

  The sun has hopped off the ocean and nuzzles through the canopy of ficus leaves to brighten our breakfast on the porch stoop. For me a sweet, stringy mango and a domestic beer suffice, while Tericka picks through a bowl of protein capsules and vitamins. The kid rolls around on a blanket in the grass with a bottle in her mouth.

  “Tericka,” I say.

  “Yes?” she says.

  “I feel pretty good.”

  Tericka was born and raised in Titusville, Florida, the Space Coast. She is nineteen, has a tattoo and a baby. Not my baby. The father’s an astronaut but I’m not supposed to know which one. She receives love letters on NASA stationery signed Ace, Forever. I lie awake at night counting nose cones like silver sheep. Our man must be one of the newly chosen, still nameless and faceless to the world at large, a fresh Faustian hero in waiting. Tericka won’t say; it’s been classified. Oh, him, she says dismissively, and smiles wide. When a flame is struck his child displays mothlike tendencies.

  The tattoo is of a small rocketship, orbiting her left breast.

  We sit side by side on the top step. Elbows on her knees, Tericka’s orange bikini top gulps air and my attention is fixed there. On a morning as pleasant as this, I can’t take my eyes from it—the rocket, the trace of orbitry, the round atmosphere where perhaps gravity grows, the distant planet, darkish red and volcanic. For the moment all I can think of is that she is very proud of her motherly tits. These are tits like tropical mountains. The Daughters of Oahu. The Pitons of St. Lucia. (I prefer this imagery to the celestial surfaces.) These are breasts that hold no grudge against the natural world.

  My own anatomy suggests the need for tuning. The stomach sags, the spine wants to bend, the lungs do penance for various sins. My hips are still very firm and boyish, I think, but there has been much amiss in this temple of flesh for one year too many. The soul has made contingency plans in case of sudden emergency. For my sake and for Tericka’s peace of mind I voice a resolution, which as a gentleman I will stick by.

  I will jog.

  “Oh, Lord,” she snorts. “Starting when?”

  “Starting now.”

  Her tone has kicked a small dent in my vanity, but given further reason to honor the commitment to tighten the belly and build the biceps. Flood the brain with baptismal oxygen, add to the expectancy of life.

  “You’re not going to run in your underwear, are you?”

  Already I am doing preliminary exercises to alert unused musculature. I touch the toes, stretch the hams. Perhaps I should fall on my knees and pray for safe passage. “Of course,” I answer with the haughtiness of a pro. “Everybody does.”

  “Oh no, they don’t,” she says. “You’ll flop out the way those boxers are cut. Let me get you your bathing suit.”

  “No,” I say. “These colors just beg for speed.” My shorts are sky-blue with a trim of fiery red.

  “I’d better get you a safety pin, then.”

  I do not protest since she has considerable knowledge of the pitch and yaw of various missilery. She fastens my unstitched fly and gently hefts my thinly protected balls.

  “Don’t hurt yourself, Weber,” she warns.

  “I will be a better man for all this,” I tell her.

  “You’ll be a better man if you can think of a less boring way to keep in shape.”

  “Ah, Tericka,” I admonish her. “This sport has swept the nation. Millions of citizens can’t be wrong.”

  “Yes, they can,” she says firmly. “You’ll find out.”

  I crouch in starting position. She opens the front gate for me and I fly past her under the arch of yellow allamanda, out of our palmed and fruited shady seclusion and on to the street. I turn down the avenue headed east, toward the coast where I shall take a northward route to the Palm Beaches. The sun is all over me and gee it’s hot. The pavement burns through the thin soles of my tennis shoes but I am too much in motion to turn back. Movement and pace are the key now. Cramps threaten the instep but I sprint onward.

  The seedy residential blocks of Lake Worth disappear behind me. The voices of many nationalities sweep out of the doorways of pastel bungalows. Finnish. German. French-Canadian. Cuban Spanish. Colombian Spanish. Jamaican. The drawling, spitting, tongue-flopping gobbles of indigenous Floridian humanoids. Whoim da fuckhell smayshup mah baym-boo bong I’ll killem! Old people everywhere. Dangerous drifters by the dozens. Bohemians and bikers and the lumpenproletariat enjoying themselves in the sun.

  Past the all-night shuffleboard courts, lights blink and the barrier tilts down across the railroad tracks. The best I can do is run in place, high-stepping like a halfback, while the engineer spitefully blasts the locomotive’s horn. The noise is ferocious. The ground shakes, rumbling under the weight of orange juice being rushed north. I am anxious to be on my way. Beside me, an older woman with sun-wrinkled face and hair white-blond glares at me from behind the wh
eel of her stupendously long car. The window slides down electrically and she speaks to me words I cannot hear over the roar of the boxcars.

  “What?” I shout, beginning to huff just slightly.

  She shakes her head impatiently and purses her lips. I learned long ago to ignore the wealthy matrons of the land until introduced by someone trustworthy, because they are righteous, narrow-minded, and sometimes cruel. The caboose thunders by and leaves behind a rare moment of silence, soon violated by the driver.

  “Young man, I know you won’t mind me telling you this, but you should be in jail.” Her voice is refined but conversational. She only wants to assure me that I belong somewhere.

  “Thank you,” I say, praying for the guard to rise so I can get away from such an awful person.

  “You’re quite welcome.”

  There is a note of satisfaction in her voice. I believe I have impressed her with my unexpected gentility. The window returns, the lights cease flashing, the road is clear. The car flows forward with the current of traffic, an unmasted clipper ship, drifting I hope toward some catastrophe with the blessings of my middle finger.

  On the flats of my toes, I weave a way through gangs of consumers in the downtown district. Everyone is sunburned, sundressed, or Bermuda-shorted. Pink faces of turistas bob up and down on a sea of fluorescent polyester. I hurdle the occasional poodle that barks into my path, and jump out of the way of roller skaters. Past the butcher, the baker, and the adult bookstore. One entire block smells of spices and fresh coffee. The sidewalk opens up after La Scala Ristorante and my stride becomes less restrained, full of confidence. Bryant Park is empty except for a lone gull feeder and a quiet audience of Royal palms. The bridge across the intracoastal is the first station of my itinerary, and I come on to it feeling that I have miles and miles left in me. Maybe I’m not so bad off after all.

  The water below is aquamarine and sparkling. Along the railing all the grandfathers are lined up fishing and I love the tranquil sight of them. Perhaps the best thing my old man ever did for me when I was a kid was take me with him to the jetties and teach me the finer points of cast and reel, the subtle tricks of bait and lure. Until he struck it rich, purchased a yacht, and forgot about me. Months later, my mother refreshed his memory during the course of litigation.

  These fellows here are landmarks, as consistent as the warm weather, patient, gentle sportsmen until the big one strikes. I know most of them from my walks to and from the beach with Tericka and child. All of them turn to see what they have never seen before.

  “What’s the hurry, Weber?”

  “Running in this heat? You should be so lucky you don’t drop dead.”

  “Shame. Put some pants on.”

  Sam, a retired driveway salesman from upstate New York, trots alongside me for a moment. “A school of blues, Weber,” he says. “Right underneath me, hitting on anything. Rubin caught one with a candy wrapper on his hook. And me, right there. I didn’t getta one, I’m telling you. Maybe I shoulda said a Hail Mary or something. Holy cow, look at that. Watch out!”

  Directly ahead of us the aging mass of Guido the Gorilla, a former soccer player for the national team of Italy, blocks my route. His pole is bent double and he has stepped back almost into the highway to struggle with it. The nylon line slashes left and right. His face sweats with ecstasy.

  “Yank him up! Yank him up!” Sam cries. “It’s a record-breaker!”

  I sidestep behind Guido off the curb just as he gives his pole a tremendous jerk. The rod nearly slices my ear off as it whips by and is snapped in two by an oncoming car, popping out a headlight with a bang. But the force of Guido’s effort has saved his catch. A huge, banquet-sized fish sails across the railing of the bridge. It writhes through the air like a gleaming piece of shrapnel, tail twisting and evil-eyed. Over the head of Guido and into traffic, it bounces off the hood of one car which will now need repair. Airborne again, the fish smashes through the window of a delivery van which keeps going after severe swerving. Chased by Guido the Gorilla, caterwauling down the road, retired but not to be cheated. That Guido’s in good shape for a man his age.

  Over my shoulder, I see that Sam has thrown his arms into the air to exalt his recent vision of the almighty Pisces. “Wow!” he shouts hoarsely. “Weber, wait, where are you going? Come back.”

  Where I am going I think is obvious, so there’s nothing to say. Besides, I feel a bit knackered and at this point it is essential not to disrupt the breathing pattern.

  “Weber, come back. It’s against the law.”

  But by now I am on the drawbridge section of the span, the highest point on the bridge. To the left and right the back bay separates the mainland from the barrier island, a skinny piece of real estate known as the Palm Beaches, a place known to the more discriminating European families as the only new world locale with acceptable standards. It is true that certain Americans have declared their aristocracy here.

  From my vantage point, the ocean is in view, glittering through the palms and Australian pines. The sight of the sea invigorates me like no other, my blood jumps from the smell of its primordial salt. Out there beyond the steely horizon is everything else in the world. Although my lungs hurt, there is in me a desire to run forever. I suppose I have encountered that zone in all sports where the metabolic interfaces with the mysterium tremendum. A few of my steps fall through time and for an instant I am eternal. Even though the police car slowly tailing me reinforces the uncertainty of my well-being that I think Sam was hinting at.

  On the downslope to dry land, the cruiser stalks me like a barracuda. Something is of course wrong but I’ll be damned if I know what it is. Out of the corner of my eye I check the immaculate blue uniform of the driver, his humorless mouth, the angry lines of his cheekbones, the eyes entombed in black sunglasses. In a paradise of tanned bodies and bleached hair, his face is unsunned. Trepidation adds a little boost to my stride. As an entrepreneur involved in a very lucrative importation, a business that has in fact kept the Gold Coast golden, neither I nor my banker can afford to talk to this man.

  As I leave the bridge my first footfall is acknowledged by the shriek of sirens. There is an amplified rustle, and then a tinny, rasping voice which addresses me publicly. “All right, sport. Hold it right there.”

  I don’t even look at him but keep running obstinately across A1A, the coastal highway, and into Casino Park where the one-way drive loops up around the parking area, then back along the beach, past the pier and the shops, and exits again where I enter. Because the lane is filled with cars headed out, the police car cannot follow me. The cruiser accelerates into the circular drive that will eventually bring him back to me, but even with lights spinning he is slowed by the ubiquitous winter traffic. Not running but racing, I head for the pier to lose myself in the crowd out there. I am panting out of control by the time my feet touch the first brown boards. The wood feels soft and loamy after the gravel in the street. The smell of creosote is as snappy as spirits of ammonia. I am safe among the fishermen but in need of counsel.

  I keep moving, trying to regain control of my lungs. Hyperventilation helps restore a dreamy sense of proportion to the day. There must be hundreds of anglers out here elbowing each other for a spot along the rail. Down below the ocean is transparent; trash sways back and forth on the bottom.

  In a white guayabera, linen pants and a Panama hat, my friend Bert stands pensively down at the end of the pier, six lines out into deep water. He has years of seniority in this prime spot. Out here on the pier from seven to ten every morning, Bert has become an expert on the weather, salt-water fishing, human behavior, pipe tobacco, and smuggling. He has invested heavily into many local operations. He owns three banks. A courier brings him daily market reports at nine with coffee and croissants. He is my banker and I rely on him. Once again I need his advice.

  “Bert,” I say.

  Bert does not turn around but remains leaning over the pier railing, examining the water.

  “Web
er, is that you? Why are you gasping? Even if it isn’t you, be quiet. There’s a cobia down there. I can feel him, I know what he’s thinking. He’s playing with me, Weber.”

  I have tried not to hear the siren as it circled the drive, but now the wail is unavoidable. The sound approaches the pier entrance and then stops.

  “I think the police are after me,” I whisper.

  Bert wants to know why.

  “I don’t know why,” I answer, my voice escalating. “Everything’s airtight, Bert. I have the happiest people in the world working for me. I don’t get it. Here I am out jogging and I get a tail on me and then bam, as soon as I set foot on AlA he gooses the siren. Bert?”

  Reluctantly, Bert stops watching the water and turns to look at me with his calm, green eyes. He is a little man, thin, and mostly bald. His face is smooth and benign, strangely unweathered, boyish and intelligent. A real charmer, a sweetheart—all the trademarks of a successful crook. He gives me the once-over and shakes his head compassionately. I am instantly on my guard. Bert’s compassion in this sequence is usually a prelude to disaster.

  “What is it, Bert? What have I done?”

  He sucks professorily on his burl pipe. “Weber,” he says. “You remember Jimmy Jamaica, don’t you? He got in on the ground floor back in the sixties. Set it up perfectly. Perfectly. Took care of everybody, never stepped on toes. One day he forgot to pay for a pack of Lifesavers in the drugstore. Walked out with them in his hand and they grabbed him. He panicked. One thing led to another and that was that. Remember that fellow named Sundown from Gainesville? He could wheel and deal with the best of them but he lost everything because he shot his neighbor’s dog when it wouldn’t stop yapping. Alfredo the Ass down in Coconut Grove? Same thing. Same damn thing.

  “Carelessness, Weber. People forget that a good businessman is one hundred percent business, no matter what he’s doing.”