Welcome to St. Thomas

A friend from the mainland emailed me last week. He wanted to know what St. Thomas is like. Hell if I know. I spend my days renting cars to tourists. They disembark by the thousands every morning then scatter across the dock like startled ants. Most scurry into town where nine billion jewelry salesmen eagerly lie in wait. Others board monstrous Ford pickups with benches bolted to the bed called “safaris” that zip them around the island on overpriced tours. The smart ones simply head to the nearest bar. However, a few wander into my domain. There I outfit them with a jeep, point away from the sea and usually forget to remind them to drive on the left.

My boat still sits partying in the DR, so I rented an apartment two blocks from work. It’s straight up a steep mountain road with no sidewalk, shoulder or even a goat path. I call it “the walk of death” where a concrete culvert separates the asphalt from the cliff face. Thigh-level scrape marks on the hard stone attest to the lack of a decent driver’s education program here. I tightrope along it twice a day and flatten myself against the vertical rock whenever a speeding car passes, assuming I hear it. My ears started ringing four months ago and haven’t stopped since. It’s from the seasickness medication I used on the voyage down. It was listed as a side effect. It failed to mention it might be permanent.

When I make it home from work, I pop a beer. An hour later, I pass out on the couch. After an especially grueling trek, I pop two and pass out immediately. There my dreams are filled with images of cars: Psychedelic cars made of tin cans and bamboo, shimmering silvery cars that sprout wings and fly, dented old wizened cars that can talk. There’s no denying it. My salad days are over. Like the rest of you poor bastards, I have a job.

I answered my friend's question with a one line response. “It’s busy here. Traffic sucks.” A perpetual haze hangs over town due to the gridlock. The short drive to the airport, where I also work, includes inhaling exhaust fumes for thirty minutes. Double that time on the return leg.

Twilight came early on one of my first days on the job as I was headed back to my office. Dark clouds hung over the harbor. A light rain splattered my pebble-pocketed windshield. Inching up to a red light, I watched a tilted silhouette wearing an old pair of shorts and a stained tank top stagger halfway across the road. The brown neck of a bottle protruded from the twisted paper bag clutched in his right fist. The light turned green. He continued across. I waited. The safari on my left didn’t. The soft crunch that echoed through me won’t soon be forgotten. I pulled into the next bar and decided to wait out rush hour. Like the astute cruise ship passengers, I’m learning.