Someone Else's Ocean(4)

What was even more ironic was that I used to spend hours of my life on the phone with women just like her, answering endless questions and catering to their every whim much the same as I was at that moment, but for a much larger paycheck. Watching her ungreased wheels turn was entertaining, but I had a breathing bottle to get back to. “Well if that’s all, I’ll leave you to it.”

The announcement of my departure led to another set of questions. “Is it true we will be bathing with rainwater?”

“Yes, Mrs. Osborne, as I explained when you arrived, we do use the rainwater since there are no real alternate water sources. The rain is captured by the gutters and then drained into a filtration system underneath the house. It’s completely safe. I’ve checked your water level and it looks good for the length of your stay but feel free to give me a call if you need some delivered.” Studying the excess amount of skin around her eyes and the sagging lady flaps underneath her arms, I was sure she wasn’t worried about the pH of the water affecting her skin. Still, she was a beautiful older-looking woman. I had to give her credit, she put in a ton of effort when other women her age wouldn’t.

“You’ll deliver water?”

Please, God, I just want to go to my happy place.

“Absolutely.”

“Okay, well as long as we won’t run out.”

“Have a good night.”

I was halfway to the sliding door that led to my exit and the waiting bottle of wine when she spoke up behind me.

“Wait. Is it safe to drink, you know, or is it like Mexico?”





“Get the Osbornes settled?” I could hear the smile in Jasmine’s voice—she must have known when she took the reservation they would be a pain in the ass. I drove along the mountainside enjoying the breeze and glanced over the cliff to see a cruise ship had come in while I was at the Osbornes’.

“Shit.”

“What?” Jasmine asked through the speakers in the cabin of my Jeep.

“The cruise ship came in while I was dealing with shit, like literally. Now I’ll never get home.”

“What?” she asked absently.

“What to which part? I just picked up iguana crap. In fact, I was summoned to pick up iguana crap. Thanks, boss.”

Jasmine’s laugh belted out while I navigated through a thousand tourists. Shipwreckers walked around like new babies with their cell phones, arms up in selfie poses clicking away at the scenery while risking their lives in the rush of traffic.

“The ship never shows up this late. Damnit, I’m going to miss the sunset.” Routine was crucial to my well-being and the sunset was often a focal point of my day. For me, it was a finish line of sorts.

Parked in traffic, I surveyed the sparkling water next to me. It would never get old. Even when I got gray and ceased grooming, and had grown my own pair of lady flaps, I would enjoy the same view.

“All you do is complain, Koti.”

I shoved a fistful of French fries from my brown-bag dinner into my mouth. “Liar. I hardly ever give you grief. I’m the best employee you have.”

“You’re the only employee I have, so there is no comparison.”

Swallowing my food, I laid on the horn as a van veered slightly toward the median. In the rearview, I saw a lady whose attention seemed to be on anything but driving, her phone hanging out the window to get the perfect picture of the surrounding bay.

“Hey, lady, pay attention to the road!”

Jasmine ignored my shriek. “What are you doing tonight?”

I filled my mouth with more fries to keep from answering.

“Oh… let me guess. Nothing. Again,” she chided. “Come join me, I’m at the wine bar.”

“No,” I cut her off quickly. “No, no. No, lady, no. Last time we did ladies’ night, I ended up flashing my thong to a hundred people.”

And it was the best night I’d spent in St. Thomas, but I wasn’t about to tell her that. If there was one thing I’d learned, it was that you can’t repeat the same good time twice. And the only reason I partook in that night was because I was half-drunk before we got to the bar.

Jasmine’s infectious laughter was welcome amidst the chaos that surrounded me. “That was a great night. And if you would act a little more twenty-nine than eighty-nine we could have more of them. Besides, I only took one picture. One.”

“If that picture even exists.” She was forever threatening me with evidence she never produced. “I’m fine with being a homebody. You know I prefer it.” I laid on the horn again just as an old Cadillac cut off my progress. And seconds later, as if some cosmic force decided battling traffic on a ship day wasn’t enough, a chicken—lady flaps spread wide—appeared on the hood of my Jeep and came straight for me.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME!” I swung my arm out in a knee-jerk reaction. “Shoo!”

“What? What’s going on?” Jasmine asked, more amused than concerned as I took up the inch of space between me and the car in front and tapped on my brakes to try to get the bird off my hood. The stoic chicken didn’t budge.

“A rooster just jumped on my hood!”

“You are shooing a chicken?”

“Is there chicken-speak etiquette?” Apparently, there was, because the chicken came toward me like it knew I had a freshly plucked, chopped, deep-fried and wrapped relative in the brown sack next to me. “It’s attacking my windshield!”