Ameera, Unveiled (22 page)
The bus driver shouted out local landmarks as we passed miles of tree-lined small towns. His Jamaican accent and slang occasionally made it difficult to understand him. I pretended to read and often checked my window for glimpses of the ocean. Sometimes the bus would hug the edge of the road—there was no guardrail. I decided the ride wasn’t important. I felt my eyes close as the bus lulled me into a half-sleep. My husband would’ve labeled it a “power nap.”
I called it “an escape.” But it was only a brief escape.
“There’s the Negril sign. Welcome to Jamaica . . . our new home for a week,” Sybil said.
The passengers cheered, and I took the cue to rejoin the adventure. Our driver hit his right blinker and, as he veered off the highway, the landscaping became more deliberate. Flowerbeds and tropical plants greeted us. He downshifted as he drove over a speed bump. Just ahead, before the entrance gate, was a large mosaic picture at the corner of the sidewalk. Colorful mosaic-tile words, bordered by hibiscus, spelled out Hedonism II. Palms framed the mosaic from above. Two men and a woman hung out on the corner.
As we passed the sign and trio, Kelly became enthusiastic, friendly, and Southern. “Hey, y’all,” she said, waving to them. “Woo-hoo!”
The girl woo-hooed back as she flashed us from the bottom up, lifting a tattered denim skirt. Still standing at her window, Kelly recoiled as if she’d been shot. And she had—only the bullet was fired from a stranger’s full-frontal hoo-hoo for a woo-hoo!
“Oh my god, y’all. Did you see that? Seriously?” Kelly turned from the front of the bus to look back at us several times. Everyone’s laughter at the flasher’s performance increased with the look on Kelly’s face—her blue eyes wide and her piehole still frozen in an O. I’d never considered her naïve, but her honest look of surprise was the perfect kickoff to our arrival at Hedonism.
The driver joined in our laughter. I suspected he was telling himself that the crazy white girls hadn’t even begun to experience the resort activities. He pulled up in front of the lobby entrance and opened the shuttle door. Bellhops flooded our space, offering hands as we climbed out.
“Welcome to Hedo,” a bellman said to me, with a show of beautiful, white teeth. His accent was milder and his English much better than the airport help. “Please enjoy your stay. We have a cold drink waiting for you.” He pointed to the open-air lobby.
“Thanks,” I said, stepping off the shuttle in my literally hot outfit. I couldn’t wait to get out of it and into tropical attire.
The lobby invited arrivals to mingle in a large red-couched area that ran perpendicular to the check-in desk. Another colorful mosaic hung over the counter.
The ceilings were high. The rafters were shaped from large chunks of blond hardwoods. I looked down a tiled walkway that was lined with pillars wrapped in rope lights and crested with metal palm fronds. I joined Jennifer at the couches. Looking at the red vinyl, I tried to suppress the thought of whether Prudes or Nudes had nested there before us. I opted to stand and grab a cold drink from a handsome man behind a serving tray.
“Kat, you okay?” Jennifer asked.
Was I wearing a look of panic . . . or neediness?
“Yeah, mon,” I said, in my best Jamaican patois. Super baby-step Jamaican . . . and I was sure overused and annoying to the locals. “Kelly’s reaction was priceless back there.”
“Something always happens when Kelly’s around, especially if you add beer. She loves everyone then,” Jennifer said as she sipped a cold drink. “What’re these? Rum?”
“It’d make sense. We’re in Jamaica,” I grinned.
Sybil walked up to us. “I’m going to the desk to check us in. Hang out here till I get the room assignments.” Off she went, like a hummingbird seeking another flower.
Kelly and Denise moved closer to us. “The humidity’s giving me serious frizz,” Denise remarked. Both Kelly and she spoke with Carolina twangs. Her blonde, unruly hair was held behind her ears by a festive scarf. Her facial features resembled Betty Davis’s, with large brown eyes and pursed lips. She reminded me of a gypsy—feminine but saucy.
Polly drifted back to the shuttle, looking at the bags that were being lined up. I spied a bulletin board with nightly party themes posted there:
Naughty—tonight. Pajama, Toga, Mardi Gras, Fetish, and Circus Nights.
I looked over the couch toward a folding table covered with a white tablecloth. Stretched in front of it was a banner that read:
Hedo welcomes:
The Velvet Rabbit Club
Dick and Jane Swingers Club
A Velvet Rabbit Club? A swingers club? Since my divorce, I’d heard about them. Both sounded like naughty children’s books. My mind shot ahead to our mission: To teach classes and give a one-hour show. I next thought about our mission statement: To encourage women’s self-esteem through the expression of belly dance. Sybil rejoined us. I decided to watch the girls’ expressions as they passed the table on our way to their rooms. I focused on receiving our marching instructions, trying to suppress my amusement.
“Round-robin,” Sybil said, as if we were back in our gym. But we aren’t in Charleston, Toto. “I’ve got everyone’s room assignments. When you get your room number, identify your bag and the bellman will mark it. I’ve got your keys. Check out your rooms and your luggage’ll arrive shortly. Don’t tip! Dinner buffet starts in about thirty minutes. Any questions?”
“What about our classes?” Polly asked. “What do we do in the morning?”
“I’m meeting with the entertainment manager about that,” Sybil said. “Just check out your rooms, grab a drink, and get us a table for dinner.”
We took our key and room number. “Room 527” was scratched in chalk on my navy-blue suitcase. Polly insisted on watching as her bag was placed on the cart. As we turned to find our room, I saw troupe mates standing at the bannered table. Jennifer’s laughter, Denise and Kelly’s twang, and Southern surprised reactions delighted me.
“What the hell?” Polly laughed when she saw the banner. “Can’t wait to meet our new clients!”
“Let’s find our room,” I said. “I’ll probably wait on my bag so I can change into something more tropical.”
Polly and I continued along the hall, looking at the dining room surrounding a stage and a large hardwood dance floor. The buffet opened on the left of the room. Kitchen doors revealed servers carrying chafing pans to the various food stations, which were decorated with colorful mosaics. Salad bar, meat station, pasta bar, and, of course, dessert bar. Recessed closer to the pool was a small bar. No walls blocked our view of the pools or the sea breeze.
“I’ll bet that’s where we’ll be dancing,” Polly said. “Nice-sized stage.”
As we looked at the stage, three guests entered the dining room. I couldn’t help staring. A woman in her late fifties was wearing a nurse costume and thigh highs. Her skirt was short enough to reveal a very small ruffled thong attempting to cover a cellulite rump. She chatted with a male guest in a doctor’s coat with a vibrator peeking from the pocket.
“We might be able to spot the swingers . . . at least at night,” I said, a little stunned.
Polly and I turned to look for Building 520. Once out of earshot, Polly’s laughter exploded.
“Welcome to Hedo, my friend,” I said.
The beach was to our right. The sidewalk led us left. The sunsets were supposed to be spectacular, but tonight the horizon was hazy and a bit overcast.
I had six days to find the best place to sit with my camera. The asphalt sidewalk was wide enough to accommodate a golf cart. Wooden signs at the fork pointed us left. From there, the sidewalk inclined gradually. We spotted a row of two-story buildings to the right topping the hill. Palm fronds rustled in the evening sea breeze. I smelled aromatic flowers climbing the wooden trellis arches. At the top of the incline we found number 527. We shared a sidewalk with number 529.
“Home sweet Hedo home,” Polly said. She swiped her card and we opened an exaggeratedly tall door to a small room with twin beds and a vanity. White-tiled floors led to an air conditioner at the end of the room. Louvers rattled as the tired fan tried to cool the room. The headboards and vanity reminded me of something on
The Dick Van Dyke Show
. The geometric headboards were painted with glossy gray paint. A large framed mirror hung over the vanity desk. A few drawers allowed it to serve as a dresser. I looked in the bathroom. It was very small with a slight sewage aroma. Polly paused at a window seat by the air conditioner to open the salmon-pink curtains.
“Looks like a Jacuzzi’s hiding in the middle of the palms,” she said. “Wonder how much chlorine’s in it.” Her nursing eye surfaced. “Hey, there’re drawers under the window seat.”
My back was tired from sitting erect for over twelve hours.
Ha, erect.
Words took on a whole new meaning here. I knew the week would trip over puns. The bedspreads were arrayed with floral patterns of blue, corals, and purples. I suppressed images of a CSI scanning it with a black light and fell back on one of them. As my spine thanked me, my eyes spotted a familiar reflection: me . . . on the ceiling.
“Polly, you might wanna check out your bed,” I said. The ceiling mirror bore the same geometric pattern and paint as the headboard.
Polly saw me looking up. The same laugh that started at the airport at the mention of the word “Hedonism” and later at “swinger” erupted. “Why would someone want a mirror over a twin bed? What would I possibly like to watch? Doing myself?”
She fell back on the bed and laughed harder when she saw her reflection.
As we rested our backs, rustling and activity outside our door told us our bags had arrived. I jumped up to look through the peephole. Four bags, including our costumes, rested safely on the porch. I heard the luggage cart rolling to rooms up the sidewalk.
“Get me out of these clothes,” I said, opening the door. I lifted and shoved the four bags inside. I’d unpack later. I slid the costumes off to the side of my bed that I’d extracted from my carry-on. I didn’t want Polly to trip on them.
Polly had soon stripped off her travel clothes and thrown on a sexy top. “I can’t let naughty nurse outdo me,” she said.
I wanted to refresh before I changed. I grabbed a toothbrush and makeup bag. I laid my makeup bag on the vanity. I thought, There’s no way two could use this bathroom mirror. Before I vacated the bathroom, I noticed a pack of matches—the little old-fashioned kind that strike on the rough side of the cardboard box. They were in an ashtray. I picked them up and read: “Swinger safety matches with a bright yellow flame on a wood matchstick illustration.”
“Polly, we’ve got swinger safety matches!” I exclaimed, holding them up. “Get this warning, ‘Keep Away From Children.’”
We laughed as I replaced them. They’d be in my suitcase to show Steve.
Five minutes later, we headed downhill toward the main dining room. We’d missed the sunset. Palms swayed as the sea breeze built. We could see the crystal-blue waters of the main pool shimmering and deck lights reflecting beyond the hedges. As we rounded the corner, we saw Denise, Kelly, and Jennifer being served in the bar. The dining room hummed with voices, and naughty patrons strolled through food stations. Schoolgirls, geeks, and the nurse we saw earlier chatted like old friends.
“Boy, this puts a new meaning on buffet,” Polly remarked about the scene. “I’m getting a martini.”
“I’ll get a draft beer,” I said as we moved toward the girls.
Kelly turned. “How’s your room?” She wore a white, flowing skirt, flip-flops, and a turquoise tank and held a draft beer. “Can you see the beach from it?”
“It’s okay. We’re way up the hill in the garden area,” Polly said. “Did you find mirrors in odd places?”
“How do you think we checked the back of our clothing? Kelly looked right at home,” Denise said, as Kelly elbowed her. “Melody’s got her own room. Sybil wanted to give her some privacy since her kids are so young. I think she’s grabbed something and taken it back to her room. She looked tired.”
“Jenn, want us to find you a guy to kick off your new single status?” Kelly asked.
“Not sure this is the place where I’d be looking to put a notch on my new marital-status belt.” Jennifer winked at us. “But you never know. Maybe Sybil gave me the other single room for a reason.” Sipping her margarita, Jennifer already looked so . . . Hedo. “Speaking of Sybil, she and Ruth saved a table over there for us to sit together.”
The bartender delivered a draft beer and a vodka martini with three olives. I felt bad about not tipping him, but we’d been warned to honor resort policy. Armed with a draft beer, the aromatics of the buffet called me to feed at the trough with the naughty swingers. As I passed the jerk chicken, I told myself to walk among them as though it was perfectly normal to eat showing off boobs and butts. I leaned toward Kelly. “Think we look like swingers or prudes?”
“I think they’ll know the difference,” Kelly said, watching a middle-aged man in a leopard loincloth walk by with his soft-serve ice cream.
“Ladies, welcome to Jamaica.” Sybil raised her glass and we followed her lead.
Kelly let out a “Woo-hoo!”
“Careful, Kelly,” Denise cautioned, laughing. “Remember what happened last time you did that? And there’re a lot of potential flashers in here.”
