Edward took a drink while looking around, wishing another customer would walk up and take a seat at the bar. He put the cup down. “Sooo, California, huh? How long you live here?”
“Been here twenty years, ok? Shit, want me to write a book or somthin, man?” Joe reached down and picked up an unlabeled bottle of clear liquid. He took a swig from this and put it back out of view behind the counter.
Edward could smell the rum coming off his breath.
“So, what brought you to the Virgin Islands?”
“A boat, that’s what brought me.” Joe the bartender spent five seconds laughing, and then half a minute coughing.
“I mean why. Why did you come?”
“Those pashist American police want me. They want me por sellin dope. They want me por growin dope. And then they want me por smoking dope.”
“I thought they made dope legal in California—”
“What!” Joe glared at Edward with eyes bulged out and his teeth gritted, his tongue pressed up to the hole.
“Ah, nothing.” Edward shook his head. He turned his cup in a circle, examining its contents for impurities. He didn’t find anything peculiar and it tasted refreshingly sweet, so he took a long drink.
“I tell you, I was nothing compared to these drug runners out here. They’ll shoot you por lookin at ‘em. Sheeeeet. I never shoot no man.” Joe’s eyes darted from left to right before he reached down to his hidden bottle. “They always headin for Puerto Rico. Huh, one time I go down to Venezuela and try to live there, but I could only live there for a week. They don’t got no good shit down there. And too many guns. Everyone all pullin pistols out when you walkin ‘round. So, I come right back up. I find a guy with a boat and I was like, ‘you going north? Good enough!’ I didn’t care where. Going north? Good enough, you know? Hop, hop, hop. One island to the next…” Joe stared at something over Edward’s shoulder. When Edward glanced back, Joe quickly took a swig from his secret bottle before rehiding it.
“So, this is it por me. I ain’t dealin. My old lady won’t let me. I stay away from the runners. I’m completely legit now – I mean except for the visa, taxes, biz license and stuff.” Joe held out his tattooed arms wide and shrugged.
“Drug runners?” Edward couldn’t believe he was talking to the man, encouraging him to continue. He took another drink and turned on the stool to look out at the anchored sailboats.
“Them just tourists. No drug runner dum nup to use sailboat. Don’t you worry bout them. They cool. I talk to ‘em all the time. I call ‘em seagulls cuz they fly in, sit out there on the sand all day and then fly away.” Joe pulled his arms in and flapped his hands a few times like the wings of a bird.
The buzz of a motor grew in the air. Edward quickly turned back toward the water. He watched as the little blue boat appeared from around the pier, speeding toward the sailboats, jumping over waves, his mystery woman sitting inside. He could make out her loose white shirt shaking in the wind. About fifty yards from the first sailboat, she slowed the boat and stood, still holding onto the wheel. Looking over the windscreen, wearing a large pair of sunglasses and with her hair tied back, she approached the first sailboat at a careful speed. The larger boat was three times the length of her motorboat. A man and a woman were on its deck, working with some ropes and canvas. Mystery Girl came up beside them and started talking. The couple stopped their work. Mystery Girl walked to the back of her boat, reached into a bucket, and pulled out a monster-sized pink lobster by its tail. Edward squinted to see it and get a glimpse of the top of the girl’s long legs below short-shorts.
The man on the sailboat said something and pointed at the lobster. His wife or girlfriend went back to doing her work. After a short time, the man went down into the boat and returned with something in his hand – cash. He squatted down while Mystery Girl stretched to make the exchange. After that, she settled back into the driver’s seat, waved, and maneuvered slowly away. She cruised around the school of boats for another minute before speeding off around the northern cliffs.
“Hey.” Edward spun on the stool to face Joe. “I had to toss out most of my food because I got no power. Do you know where I can buy canned goods?”
“Up there in the village.” Joe pointed to the ceiling with his thumb. “Green house. Ms. Nancy’ll sell you cans.”
“And I sort of wanted fresh food too. I don’t have that much money.”
“She’ll sell you chickens. Sell you eggs too and Brazil beans—”
“Chickens? Like live?”
“Of course live! What’cha gonna do with dead chickens?”
“Well…”
“When I come here I used to pish. I pish every day. I catch the grouper. I catch the lobster, snapper, tuna, wahoo, jacks. I’d be fishin now, but my old woman don’t like it. She say, ‘Tourist money! Tourist money!’” Joe’s voice became a high-pitched screech. He placed his hands over his cheeks and tilted his head in his dainty act. It was painful to watch. “‘Why don’t you get some that tourist money? Get some that tourist money!’ She thinks it’s like gold you dig up or something. Only gold is that old Spanish gold, sure, but you got to look por it – that’s why I’m always looking down when I walk. See what’s in the sand. I keep my eyes open all the time, dude, for that. One man dig up one of them Spanish doubloons right over there under the pier. But that’s just luck. You don’t need money when you pish. If you pish you don’t need to work. That’s what I’m gonna tell my old lady,” he mumbled the last words. “I will tell her that. No woman tells me what to do.”
“Right. OK,” Edward said, considering walking away. It was clear that Joe didn’t need anyone to talk to. “But I don’t have a boat to fish.”
Joe looked at Edward with wide, wild eyes and pressed his tongue against the gummy space between teeth.
“Dude, stop talkin to me. You wearin me out. You needa go to school and learn sense.” He waved a hand to dismiss Edward. “I’m gonna take a piss.”
Joe walked out from behind the bar. He was barefoot and walked with a short, pigeon-footed gait. Edward quietly laughed.
“But, Joe, what if you get a customer?”
“Then get ‘em a drink, stupid!” Joe said, throwing up his hands, already a few yards down the beach. He soon disappeared behind the cliff.
Edward had to wait for his own chuckling to settle before taking another drink. Joe the bartender was completely bonkers. The perfect barstool companion.
~~11~~
If a madman like Joe could survive, how hard could it be? Joe, a high school dropout on the run from the law, had survived twenty years on the islands, while Edward, with his advanced degree, might not survive a month. The insult of comparing himself with the bartender inspired him. When the hot-iron sun of midday was waning, he walked around to the back washroom shed. He unlatched the door, yanked it open, and stepped through a galaxy of dust to study the items within. The spear gun was the first thing he picked up, holding it in different positions, testing its weight in both hands.
First it was a machine gun, then a sniper rifle. “Brapapapapa!... You talkin to me? I’m the only one here… Bond, James Bond… He got the point…”
After twenty minutes of play, he gave it a more careful examination. He planted the back of the gun into his stomach and haltingly pulled back the elastic band to a notch above the trigger. It locked taut with a click. He carefully inserted the spear through a loop at the tip, sliding it into place on the shaft gently so as not to set the thing off. Then he aimed the gun through the doorway, and lightly touched the trigger. Slowly he applied pressure until… SHWAAACK! He jumped, surprised by the trigger’s light touch. In a flash, the band sprang ahead, and the spear jolted off the shaft, flew out the door, over the patio, and implanted itself into the trunk of the nearby palm tree.