- Immediately to the right was a medium-brown wooden desktop attached and protruding from the wall, with an avocado-colored Formica surface and two front legs to brace it against the mottled avocado, beige and grey swirl pin-wheeling across the linoleum flooring; it featured gently raised warps mimicking the waves breaking outside on the beach;
- A sole wooden chair of a different shade of brown and avocado vinyl seat covering pushed beneath the “desk” protrusion;
- Set dramatically atop the desk was a single flyswatter leaning majestically against a large can of “Industrial Strength Insecticide” with a logo set in its center displaying the (large) silhouette of a mosquito in the middle of a large black circle, and a blood-red line cutting diagonally across its diameter and the monstrous insect;
- The double bed awaited, its puffs of synthetic foam pillows, (nearly) white sheets and blanket, and an avocado floral printed duvet folded and draped over the end of the bed beckoning us into its comforting arms;
- An open, sans-screen window above the bed, single ceiling fan wobbling sluggishly above us and lukewarm breeze heightened a dawning consciousness that there was no air conditioning;
- The room was…warm.
The matching chipped white enamel cabinets were perched above the avocado green- speckled countertops.
Placed neatly adjacent to the chipped white enamel sink were two bubble-textured clear plastic tumblers, and two place settings of Corelle; you know, the dishware that you can drop on the floor without breaking or having to pick it up, because their space-age material enables them to vault, unscathed, directly back into your hand.
Valerie quickly went for one of the tumblers and downed a glass of water from the sink. I knew the moment had arrived that I must step up and take charge of the situation.
“Valerie, we can do this. We can make this work.” Not allowing her time to respond I continued. “Besides, we won’t be in the room during the day, and by the time we come in to go to sleep we’ll shower and enjoy the cool ocean breeze. C’mon, we are right on the water, for God’s sake!”
I’m convinced that she was more beaten down, tired and hot at this point, than being ready to agree with anything I had just said.
“Sure we can,” she surrendered and took another gulp of water. “I’m going to get out of these clothes and take a shower. Why don’t you change and I’ll meet you on the beach.”
“That sounds like a good idea.” I acknowledged her suggestion and turned to leave the room.
“Brian.” There was tenderness in her voice. I turned to see her smiling at me as she completed her statement, “it is going to be fine. I know we will make the most of sharing this amazing place together. Thanks for making it all possible.”
__________________________________________________________________
Dream-crested waves bubbled across my legs as I stood ankle deep in the water in front of our unit. The harmony of softly breaking waves and breeze combing through palm leaves soothed my frayed nerves. I was remembering all of the images I had painted over the last four months; rediscovering stolen moments, imagining lazy mornings sipping coffee in bed and anticipating prolonged touches after another intoxicating day in paradise. All of these heavenly images were now replaced with a collection of terrifying projection; feverishly dodging, spraying and swatting at a variety of blood-thirsty flying insects, the complete absence of any form of body contact (there was a better-than-good chance I’d be staying alone), and heavily ingesting volumes of rum to facilitate sensory deprivation and impenetrable sleep. I would have lingered in this well deserved moment of self- castigation, had it not been for the quavering whimper of misery and death-like moan that welled up behind me like a dense cloud. It was repeating, rising in amplification and seemed to be emanating from the unit.
“Briiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnn…” Briiiiiiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan….”
When I arrived in the bathroom, breathless, I opened the blotchy Plexiglas door to the shower and encountered a scene as if taken from an Alfred Hitchcock film. Valerie was standing and covering herself in a self-protecting embrace, suds covering her head mixed with streams of water and makeup-infused tears cascading down her distraught face, and above her head a catawampus array of water projectiles escaping from the rusted-over spray hole openings.
Quickly surveying the stall and not finding the scorpion…or tarantula…or boa constrictor such as could cause such an horrific sound coming from a human being, Valerie emitted a final shrill, “Brian…look!”
She looked down and pointed to the mildew-seamed white tiles, and then I saw it; the source of her terror. I was aghast at the sight of it. There was a two-inch diameter opening in the center of the floor; at first glance just a normal drain. Upon closer investigation, the bright light reflecting off the falling water and glowing up through the opening revealed a hole that went all the way through the structure, out the bottom of the foundation and directly into the sand ten feet below.
I looked at the hole again. I looked up at Valerie. My head turned as I looked over at the toilet. And then, I erupted.
“THAT’S IT! I’VE HAD IT! WE’RE OUT OF HERE.”
I had arrived at the desk in the reception area likely even before Valerie was out of the shower, dressed and on her way to meet me as instructed before I stormed out the of the unit. Testosterone armies were mobilizing in every sector of my body, alert and ready to fight for justice. Someone was going to pay for these last nine hours of living hell, and unfortunately, sarong or not, whoever was at the desk was going to endure the full brunt of Tropical Storm Brian. Our former native hostess was the winner. Greeting me with that annoying, infernal island way grin she opened with,
“Hello again. May I assist you?”
I thought to myself, “No hesitation, baby, here it comes.” I delivered the assault with the deadly precision of 007’s Walther PPK. “Yes, you certainly may. I’m Mr. Kagan from San Francisco.” I leaned in, tightening my glance.” My wife and I just checked into Unit #3. There is no air conditioning. No screens. Warped flooring. Bug spray. Naugahyde vinyl seats. Make-believe dishware. And holes in the bathroom floor for…it doesn’t matter; here’s the deal. My wife has a serious allergic and asthmatic condition and, given the stifling air and particulate infusion in this unit, there is a good chance that upon reaching a certain body temperature she could go into convulsive seizures. This is NOT what I signed up for. Tell me, please, that you have another unit somewhere on this property with air conditioning, real furnishings and connected plumbing.”
Noticeably aghast and recoiling from my punishing salvo, she stammered out a pathetic response.
“Well…uh…Mr. Kagan I am so sorry. All of our European guests prefer units with no air conditioning.”
“We’re Americans, for God’s sake! And no wonder they lost the war. You must have another unit somewhere on this island with air conditioning and screens.”
Valerie had now joined me with one of the bubble-plastic tumblers filled with water, which she steadily emptied through the duration of the exchange.
After fumbling anxiously through her 3X5 note cards, the receptionist looked up and delivered the following as a gesture of surrender. “There does appear to be one unit at the other end of the property that has air conditioning…hmmm, let me see…but, unfortunately…” I cut her off before her lips could even form the next words, “Stop! We are removing unfortunately from the Tortola language. Only yes, we can, fortunately kinds of words are permitted from this point on."
“Well, I suppose we could make this work, although the room is more expensive than the American plan you paid for.”
“I don’t care how much it costs; we’ll take it.”
The room was absolutely marvelous; real terracotta tiled floors, real tropical print fabrics covering all the real furniture made of rattan, real cotton sheets covering the luscious king-sized bed, a real bathroom adorned with decorative tiles, glass-block walls and door-less opening onto the expansive deck with generous cushioned lounge chairs overlooking the real crystalline waters of the Caribbean, and best of all…real cool delightful priceless air conditioning. Ms. Sarong had walked with us over to these two-storied units to check out the room, and more importantly to avoid another onslaught.
There was no need for any further discussion.
“Yes. We’ll take it.”
Ms. Sarong and Valerie radiated with two wonderful island way smiles.
The return walk to the reception office to execute the specifics for the new room, was the most relaxed I had felt since we stepped on the first plane out of San Francisco. Valerie and I, now holding hands, were finally taking in all the surrounding glories of our private paradise for the next ten days. We even giggled, remembering some of the craziest moments, amazed that all these events could have possibly happened to us over the span of just nine hours.
“It’s truly amazing, dear,” I commented, then continuing, “and I am so glad it happened on the front end of our trip, and now it’s all behind.”
“Me too, Brian. And I wouldn’t have made it at all, had I not been drinking water since I got to the room.”
Ms. Sarong, who had been walking about five feet in front of us, stopped in her tracks. She turned around, with an expression of wide-eyed panic mixed with fright.
“Water? You drank the water in the room? No... no, you must never drink the tap water here in Tortola.”
THE END
EPILOGUE
Just in case you're wondering...Valerie miraculously did not have a negative reaction to the water she drank. The ten days that we spent in Tortola were absolutely as magical as I had hoped that it would be, and more wonderful than we could ever have imagined. And...I strongly offer the following suggestion to my brotherhood of men: DO NOT attempt this type of surprise planning alone and without adult supervision. Trust me on this.
For emphasis.
(b)
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