Stone - Big Girls & Bad Boys (17 page)

“You’re crazy,” I told Rick, shaking my head and smiling broadly.

“I love those people,” he replied.

“You know them?” I asked.

“No, I just love their type. Most of the people from that place get it. They work hard and they party hard,” Rick told me.

“Aren’t they all swingers?” I asked.

“No, not all of them. Some are. Does that bother you?” Rick asked. I wasn’t sure. I knew that sort of thing wasn’t acceptable to most people but I’m not sure I cared. I found I had no opinion of them really. Not one I had formed myself anyway. Just the noise of society’s norms trying to decide for me.

“No, I guess not. I don’t care what they do,” I said. Rick chuckled.

“Yeah, life’s too short to worry about who’s fucking who, right?” he replied.

“I guess so,” I told him, a bit shocked by his frank language but definitely not offended.

“Hungry?” he asked me, changing the subject.

“As a matter of fact, I could eat,” I replied.

“Let’s go get some meat patties and Red Stripes,” Rick suggested.

“It’s a date,” I told him.

“I’ll buy but if you put on anything more than a sarong, deals off,” he said and touched me under the gentle waves inappropriately. It caused me to giggle. I thought it over. What the hell? I’d never see these people again and if they didn’t like me in a bikini, screw them.

“I won’t even wear that,” I said.

“Even better,” Rick replied.

“But I will put on some sunscreen,” I added. Rick and I waded out of the water, he was just in his cargo shorts and I wondered where his clothes were or if he even wore anything else. I found out after I reapplied some sunscreen with Rick’s eager help. We walked down the beach and found his shirt and flip-flops in the sand where he had left them.

Rick threw on his shirt and carried his flip-flops. We continued down the beach for a while. “Rick?” I began.

“Yeah?” He replied.

“I don’t mean to pry and I certainly don’t mean to insult you but...,” I asked but stopped myself. I reconsidered the question but Rick already knew.

“Why did I drop out when so many others don’t?” he asked as if reading my mind.

“Yeah,” I told him, glad I didn’t have to choose the words myself.

“I don’t know. I’ve wondered that myself. I can’t lie. Sometimes I feel guilty for doing it. Sometimes I feel like somehow I’m weak or something. Just passing thoughts, really. I’ve come to believe that I just cared too much. I took it all too seriously,” he told me.

“I didn’t mean to imply...,” I said without finishing my thought.

“No. Don’t worry about it. Maybe I am a big pussy. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for the kind of life most people lead. I don’t think that’s it though. I suspect my biggest failing wasn’t that I couldn’t take it. I was too good at pushing all those feelings down inside and bottling them up. All I know is I’m happy and alive here. Back there, in the rat race, most people aren’t nearly as bad off as I was but most people aren’t really happy either,” he explained.

I couldn’t argue with that. There was laughter, joking and light-hearted banter among my co-workers and friends, but was there happiness? I didn’t think so. Not real happiness. Instead, there was some kind of gritty resolve to live life the way everyone thought it should be lived. Grinding through a career and saving for a retirement that someday might never come was the gold standard. I didn’t see happiness but instead, reluctant acceptance. I saw submission.

But was Rick’s life the alternative. Maybe he was truly happy but he lived on the ragged edge. He was within sight of poverty. But then again, so were many of the Jamaican people. Yet, they went about their lives, always full of hope and ready to offer a smile. Maybe they just didn’t miss what they never had. Or maybe they never needed what they were missing in the first place. Maybe all that stuff, careers, mortgages, portfolios and so on, actually impeded happiness. It certainly seemed that way.

“You’re not weak or whatever. I don’t know if what you did is the answer for everyone but it was right for you,” I offered.

“And I don’t expect anyone else to adopt my lifestyle. This was an extreme reaction to an extreme situation. I get that. This isn’t for everyone,” he said.

“No, I’m not sure I could do it. I’m a bit of an urban animal. I enjoy having my every desire at my fingertips,” I told him.

“I have that here,” Rick told me. I thought about that and found I couldn’t deny his claim.

“I guess you do, don’t you,” I replied. His life was different, simpler, but no less rich.

“You want to know the difference?” he asked.

“Sure, enlighten me,” I challenged Rick.

“I’ve got what you have. I’ve got the little conveniences, the comforts, of everyday life. Maybe not as fancy but they are there. What I don’t have is an apartment that costs an arm and a leg, half of which I didn’t even use except to store more junk I didn’t use either. I don’t have a gym membership. Instead of staring at a wall while running on the treadmill, I swim in the ocean, I run on the beach, I work with my hands. My coffee tastes better, my food is fresher and my life is better, and it costs a whole lot less,” he said and then pointed up the beach toward another shack not far from the Beachside Grill.

I resisted that out of habit. He couldn’t be right. I’d been told for years that the way I lived was the only way to live, or at least one of the acceptable ways. But Rick made so much sense. Everything he told me had a simple logic to it that I couldn’t deny. I could only choose to ignore it or not. I was beginning to no longer ignore it. We walked up to the counter of the small shack. There wasn’t much there. A young Jamaican proprietor and a couple of big ice chests.

“Hey, mon! How you been, Rick?” the man greeted us.

“Good, Roy. Give us a half dozen patties and two cold Red Stripes,” Rick replied.

“No problem, mon. Who’s da sweet lady?” Roy asked.

“Sorry, this is Erin. She’s from the states. I’m introducing her to island time,” Rick replied.

“Nice to meet you, Erin,” Roy said in his deep Jamaican accent and offered me his hand. I shook it.

“You too,” I replied.

“Patties coming right up,” Roy told us as he bent and opened a big blue ice chest that had seen better days. In fact, both of the coolers were beat up but functional. Roy pulled a couple of Red Stripes out and opened them up before sliding them towards us. His shack was more a counter set back amongst the trees that lined the beach. Jamaica was covered with little places like this but I usually shied away from them in favor of the tourist traps.

Roy opened the other ice chest, the red one, and inside were dozens of foil wrapped patties. He pulled out six and placed them on a plain paper plate before he closed the lid again. “Roy’s sisters make the patties at their home and Roy totes them down here and sells them,” Rick explained. I took a patty, peeled back the foil and took a bite, finding the semi-circular golden crust filled with a savory mixture of beef, onions and spices surprisingly warm.

“Mmm, amazing!” I exclaimed with my mouth still full.

“Thank you, ma’am. Tell your friends,” Roy replied.

“Here you go,” Rick said as he pulled a wet bill out of his shorts and handed it to the young Jamaican man.

“Oh, thanks, mon. Let me get you...,” Roy began to say but Rick held up his hand.

“Keep it,” Rick told Roy.

“You are very generous, my friend. I will tell my sisters you enjoy their patties,” Roy said.

“You better,” I answered. Rick and I left Roy as he shoved the bill into his pants. We found a shady spot just up the beach to eat our lunch. “That was nice of you to give him such a big tip,” I told Rick.

“What goes around comes around. To be honest, you might think I’m poor but to many Jamaicans, I’m a wealthy American. I’ve got money in the bank. I’ve got that sail boat. Roy and many Jamaicans like him live hand to mouth. Roy’s sisters go to school but not until they’ve filled that ice chest with patties. Roy sells them to support his family. Their mom works at one of the resorts. They still struggle,” Rick told me.

“I didn’t know,” I said.

“Not all Jamaicans live in poverty but many do. They rely on tourists to buy their wares or indulge in their services. Look, some are scam artists looking to get something for nothing. Most, however, are working hard trying to make a better life for themselves. They have to work hard just to live,” Rick said.

That hit me like a ton of bricks. I was killing myself back in Chicago, working long hours, neglecting my health and happiness, not to put food on the table or a roof over my head but to make the exorbitant payment for the apartment that in Chicago was considered small but was twice the size of many of the homes I saw here. I had so much and these people had so little yet they worked as hard as I did. I didn’t feel guilty for being fortunate enough to be born in America. I worked for what I had and worked hard.

But I suddenly wondered why I was so willing to work so hard for stuff I didn’t even need. People in Jamaica, like Roy, did what they had to in order to survive. They had little choice. I chose to do what I did and the reason behind that eluded me. I nibbled at my patty as that sunk in. “Not hungry anymore?” Rick asked me.

“Huh? No, I was just thinking,” I said and pushed the thoughts aside and dug in. The patty was so delicious, savory and warm with a fluffy crust. I hate to admit it, but I ate three of them. They weren’t big, maybe as big as my open hand, but still. I washed them down with the cold beer.

“Gets to you, doesn’t it?” Rick asked.

“What’s that?” I wondered.

“This place, its people, the unhurried pace, the smiles,” he said. I guess it did. Roy was working his butt off for a pittance compared to what I worked my butt off for, but he seemed happy. Genuinely happy. Not like he bought a new pair of shoes just to toss them into the closet and never wear them happy, but just plain happy. Happy to be alive, happy to have work and purpose, happy to meet new people. Like Rick, I’m sure he had problems in his life, big ones compared to the minutiae people worried about back home.

“Yeah, it does,” I said. I couldn’t deny it. Jamaica, as imperfect as she was, had an appeal to her. Better than back home? No, not by a long shot. Less complicated, less frenzied, definitely. At least compared to Chicago and cities like her. I’m sure down in Florida or out in Arizona you could find a place like this, but not where I lived.

“I know a guy that fishes for lobsters. How about we go get a few and we boil them up back at my place along with some rice and peas. Then we can kick back, smoke a bowl or two, get a little tipsy and make love all night?” Rick asked. I giggled at the proposition.

“Am I supposed to say no to that?” I wondered.

“I was kind of hoping it was an offer too good to resist,” Rick answered.

“It was. Sounds like a great idea,” I said. Typical vacation. Talking about the next meal while still eating another. The rest of Rick’s offer wasn’t so typical but that’s what made it so appealing. We didn’t leave right away. In fact, Rick and I spent over an hour sitting there under the trees, watching the people go by and the placid waves roll in. We indulged in a few more beers before we finally got up to leave. I didn’t even know what time it was and I discovered I didn’t care.

We walked down the beach further and found the guy Rick spoke of. He was an older gentleman, thin and wiry with white hair cropped close to his head with a long beard, also white. He was missing a few teeth but his smile was infectious. I could barely understand a word he said. He spoke in the local Patwa dialect. Rick, however, understood enough. We left with two fat lobsters still crawling about in the bottom of a paper bag.