“Caribbean Vacation” (not starring Chevy Chase). Part 11

The fact that the last twenty minutes had not involved any interaction with farm animals or juntas, and that Valerie had recently smiled, gave me the feeling that maybe the worst was behind us. Perhaps we’d discover we were not rehearsing scenes for the sequel to The Out-of-Towners. We gathered up our luggage, proceeded without incident through customs and headed towards the exit. We had this unspoken confidence that just beyond the front door our uniformed driver would be awaiting us; our Long Bay Beach Resort opulent carriage would be ready to transport us to our island hideaway.

We walked out the front door, suitcases in tow, only to discover that there was no elegant shuttle anywhere in sight along the curb. In fact, there were no curbs at all. The front door had opened to a narrow ribbon of concrete that was at the same level as the ground, aka the road. Added to this disarming image were two beat-up compact cars and three Men of Tortola leaning against the wall. Disappointed as I was at this revelation, I was unwilling to give in to discouragement’s loathsome grip. I snapped into action employing the “island way” method and my supreme prowess of deductive reasoning before delivering, “Damn, I was hoping they’d be waiting for us. I guess they’ll be here in a few minutes. What do you think?”

Valerie must have been operating on the same fuel of enthusiasm, as she quickly responded, “I bet you’re right.” Then she added, “Boy, the people here sure seem to be moving slowly. Guess it’s the pace of the tropics.” Nodding agreement, I began to more closely survey our surroundings.

The scene fanned open onto our first panorama of Tortola’s landscape: lush, broad-leafed green foliage, palm trees bowing to greet us with the gentle wind and vibrant floral specks of reds and yellows everywhere. The captivating perfume of ocean and island flowers wafted gently around us, beckoning with long slender fingers. I closed my eyes and momentarily surrendered to its seduction. Upon opening my eyes, I scanned the horizon hoping to see our shuttle approaching. In the absence of any vehicular movement, my attention was drawn back to the three men standing along the sidewalk. All three were wearing what appeared to be the local Men-of-Tortola garb comprised of light-colored and baggy cotton pants, short-sleeved cotton buttoned-down solid colored (and soiled looking) shirts and sandals. The furthest man from us was about thirty yards away, with the closest around ten yards to the left of where we were waiting. All three sets of eyes appeared closed.

Sudden movement to my left caught my attention as the man standing in the middle position against the wall straightened up, began walking in lazy strides and was clearly looking in our direction. I looked to my right, thinking that he must be looking for an arriving friend. There were no other people beyond us. As I turned and looked back it appeared, curiously, that he was almost within striking distance and looking directly at me.

“He’s just going to ask me if our plane just arrived from Puerto Rico,” I thought to myself.

It was becoming clear that the man approaching us was, in fact, looking right at me in the way you do when you’re trying to make eye contact and seek acknowledgement. He was not carrying a little handwritten sign with our last name on it. He was not wearing a resort-styled uniform or badge. There was no adorable island shuttle anywhere, just three old and rusty cars. The knot in my neck and shoulders squeezed tighter as I awaited the unnerving question he bore.

“Kay-gon?”

Note: I feel compelled to insert a cosmic addendum at this point in the story. Ever since my Oklahoma University stint during the heyday of the Hippie era, circa early 70’s, I have maintained my conviction that there is a “higher” order in the universe. Among numerous revelations about life, nature and social justice it was widely accepted that “what goes around, comes around.” It was hard to avoid such conclusions after ingesting heavy doses of Kahil Gibran, Timothy Leary, J.R.R. Tolkien and Kurt Vonnegut read to the background of Led Zeppelin, Hendrix and the Moody Blues; all best experienced with Day-Glo painted fishnet hung from the dorm room ceiling, black light and incense. And adding to this higher order of things, unlike a contemporary and future figure of presidential note, I admit that I did inhale. Given my history, it was a sure thing that what I was experiencing at that Tortola moment on the hot sidewalk, wrinkled and damp, was cosmic payback from a childhood event. I was ten-years-old when I had set the backyard storage shed on fire in Dallas. I had been playing Cowboys and Indians. I was the Indians circling a hapless wagon train of ants, and with my magic lighter fluid and matches, was enjoying their “popping” as they met their blazing doom. Arriving home from school later that day I was greeted by a scene of two hook-and-ladder teams and one really pissed-off mother. Sustaining only a brutal scolding I had dodged a bullet, narrowly avoiding the distinction of becoming Texas’ first ten-year-old Jewish kid murdered by his own mother. Delayed justice was about to be served.

“Yes,” long pause and grimace before confirming, “We are the Kagans.”

“Lawng Beh Bich Rezot.” Our newfound escort beamed and stood taller with a prideful expression reserved for international dignitaries. Standing only a few feet in front of us he suddenly extended both arms; Valerie and I instinctively took a step back, unsure as to whether he wanted to shake our hands…or possibly embrace us in some sort of full body, intimate ceremonial group hug. Instead, he moved past us and somehow collected all our luggage while head-gesturing us to move behind him towards the road. And behold, there to our surprise was our love buggy to paradise: a grey, dented 1970’s Toyota Corolla hatchback.

We stood watching in awe as our very own Man of Tortola managed to cram our luggage into the rear of the car, only then to be stunned when he wrapped and knotted a fraying rope to (almost) close the hatchback. He motioned us to get in, which we immediately obeyed, fearing personally inflicted assistance. Once inside, he donned a broad smile of accomplishment and walked to the driver side door, easing his lanky shape into the seat. He closed the door and, while staring forward, turned the key to start the engine and said in a cordial, island way, “Ahh, Lawng Beh Bich Rezot.”

Justice had finally been served.


For emphasis - (b)