Subconscious shift - Pt. 1

Forgive me. I’ve been discourteously out of touch. I’ve tried to work through my writer’s block with little success. Perhaps because I still can’t figure this place out. Plus, feeling sorry for myself takes up most of my free time.

Until recently, my days were first-rate. I awoke with the sun, had coffee up on the bridge and spent the remainder of the morning reading, writing and staring at my feet. A light lunch was followed by answering emails from envious friends. I often spiced up the day with a late afternoon motorcycle ride through the rolling countryside or a cozy nap in the shade. At dusk, I would waltz back to the boat, cold beers in hand, and fill my evening listening to music while watching the stars. Getting high was often on the agenda and there was plenty of time for sex.

Now I wake before dawn with military precision. I don my uniform and join the masses headed to work. Sometimes I eat lunch; often not. I slog home at the end of the day, drink a beer and fade to black. Sex takes energy I no longer possess. Getting high is completely out of the question. And some people call this progress!

The transition from then to now was taxing. First was denial. I’d awaken in the middle of the night wondering where the hell I was. Then anger. I’d wake up knowing where I was, but wondering what the hell I was doing here. Now I know, I rent cars. Pure and simple.

“Don’t you just love living in St. Thomas?” I’m repeatedly asked by starry-eyed cruise ship passengers. My blank reply says it all.

I considered returning to the States. Expenses here are astronomical and wages are pitiful. Before I could decide, I happened to turn on the television. Something called “Lingerie Football” glared back at me. Women clad in spandex bras and panties were battling each other on a gridiron in Orlando, Florida while a beer-swilling crowd cheered them on. That was enough for me to decide to stay put.
Still, I count myself as one of the fortunate few. The life of leisure I enjoyed for over a year may be a dim memory now, but I've been to the mountaintop. My quest is as clear as the blue Bahamian waters; how to claw myself back up.


Pt. 2
I’m tempted to write about the car rental industry but have decided to heed the warning about biting the hand that feeds me, no matter how small the portion. That leaves motorists.
People drive here like they’re on fire. On an island with steep, narrow roads and blind curves, that’s not a terrific idea. Curbs are non-existent and the drop-offs severe. To compensate, everyone crowds the center line. If a pothole or an iguana appears, they freely cross it at will. The first to avoid, the latter to flatten. Pieces of side mirrors and iguana pancakes speckle the worn roadside.

All cars are smashed, bruised, dented, bumped, banged-up and buggered. No one bothers with repairs. They know better. The operators often appear to possess little regard for their own existence. A truck with four small children playing in its bed shot past me and three other vehicles yesterday before darting back in line inches from an oncoming car. "Dad" sat at the next traffic light bobbing to the bass beat of his sound system oblivious to the potential consequences of his motoring habits. One possible reason is that the driver’s exam here is true/false. (I am not making this up.) The driving part consists of backing up between 2 cones. If you don’t knock one over, you’re good to go.

Not everything is negative. People can be quite polite. When they’re not aiming for you, they’ll often stop to let you in. Horns are a form of communication. Two honks means hello/go ahead. One in return means thank you. Everyone knows everybody, so a chorus of beeps follows you around the island. This politeness extends to pedestrians. It’s not uncommon for folks to stop in the middle of a busy road to chat with a neighbor. When it happens on a curve, as it often does, it’s called an accident.

My own vehicle is a non-descript 1995 Toyota Corolla. A shotgun pattern of dents pocket both sides. The rear taillight is held together with duct tape, the result of a taxi driver texting his mother. If the police had been called, he would’ve been ticketed since using a phone while driving is illegal. Drinking an alcoholic beverage however, isn’t. No one’s figured out the obvious results of the latter, but progress proceeds slowly here. They also made it a crime to carry children under five in the back of a pickup truck. That was ignored by the guy I saw, likely because enforcement is sketchy. A co-worker was recently stopped in a traffic check. Her registration had expired. When the tow truck arrived to haul the car away, the operator was talking on his cell phone. When she pointed that out, the officer told her to mind her own business and wrote her another ticket for having a faulty seat belt.

I do my best to blend in. I follow the speed limit in spite of the cars gnawing on my rear bumper. I never drive at night, unless there’s a compelling reason like a bar with free food. I keep my eyes glued to the road and hug the left side, precipices be damned. My goal is to make it out of here alive. For off in the distance, I hear the sweet Siren's song of the mountaintop calling me back. I'd be a fool not to listen.