PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Fredriksted, St. Croix, 1994

Eric has flair. He’s a wealthy black man in the Caribbean, who made his self-made money into a fortune. He owns a couple of restaurants, a bed and breakfast, and real estate on the island. He had parties. I was invited as a consequence of meeting him through a mutual friend, then doing some remodeling work at his Frederiksted site. A bed and breakfast had an electrical fire just before opening. I heard he was able to repair it for about half the insurance payment, some of which was surely my fee. One of the perks was a cooler on the back porch filled with Heineken, Budweiser, and rum, among other things. I always scheduled my site visits at the end of the day, especially Fridays. This party was at his house, just south of town, one Friday night.

His house was such that you enter a large central space, all else arrayed around it. Walk out the veranda doors, across he patio, a few steps across the sand, you were at the shoreline. Immediately south was a rock outcropping, making the beach private. One bar was inside, we’ll call it the living room, another on the patio, and self serve in the kitchen. Spreads of food around, some hot, some not; music here, music there. Early was live guitar, hand drums and island song; later a couple zones of low music, different kinds. Standing in the right place, the surf and breeze were perfect counterpoint to the music, voices, and laughter. A couple guys were smoking a joint my first trip to the water, I joined them briefly. The girls were laughing and splashing in the ocean, a couple others were rinsing off in the shower by the pool. Eric was all over, talking, smiling, glinting gold in the dark. It was light in the front of the house, and dimly lit or dark everywhere else. The moon was the only light on the beach.

There was a lot of conversation, laughing, miscellaneous mingling, then settling or shifting from area to area and person to person. Maybe twenty people. Cocaine was in the bedroom, eventually trailing out to the main bar then the kitchen. The women were mostly wet from the ocean and shower, seven or eight of them until the prostitutes showed up, then it gets a little blurry. I recall the condoms in their hands, and more on top of the refrigerator. At one point, I walked into a bedroom looking for another bathroom; there was a guy I didn’t know, pants around his ankles, doing his thing from behind. She had her feet on the floor, her hands on the bed. When I walked in, she turned her head, and smiled a nice smile. He never missed a stroke, and I didn’t have to pee any more. Good news all around.

Sitting on the rocks with a beer, a friend came over and sat next to me. She and I always had sexual tension, next thing I know, we were making out and laughing about it. I liked the way she kissed. Subsequently, she was angry with me for not following up. She reminded me too much of my ex-wife.

I always mistook Eric for another guy. Then I thought they were brothers, both had broad smiles and a booming laugh, lots of gold and intelligent discussion. Malcolm was the other’s name, I found out later they were not related. Malcolm once told me; “you should respect that…” about “feeling high” after having enough to drink; I liked that. Eric had no such opinion. No one reminds me of those two.

The evening went on like that for awhile, then I walked home. I was invited to two more parties over the next year or so, maybe it was just me but they seemed subdued compared to the first one.