Sanibel Scribbles (13 page)

The couple stared, and Denver stared right back at them, before starting the cart again. Vicki could see the faded red brick lighthouse tower growing larger before them. To her surprise, it wasn’t as large as it looked. It was simply built on a hill.

“What can I say at this point? It’s the middle of the island,” he said, tossing his hands into the air, which meant they were no longer steering the cart. “At this point we must distinguish between dreams and obsessions.”

As the golf cart left the island’s midpoint, Vicki noticed Denver was hardly holding onto the wheel, as if the cart made its own way on the path, naturally arriving at each destination.

“How many paths are on the island?” asked Vicki.

“Just one, and you’re on it. Of course, you can venture off the path at any time,” he said. “You like music?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I play the guitar. I sing too. Write my own lyrics. I’ll sing for ya later, but not now because we’ve gotta venture off the path for a minute.”

Vicki bounced up and down, biting her tongue and holding onto the side of the golf cart as if she were on a roller coaster ride. “Keep your arms and hands in the car at all times,” shouted Denver with the kind of authority in his voice that a lifeguard uses to stop a swimmer from passing the buoy. “I repeat, keep loose limbs inside the cart.”

Within two minutes they had arrived at a bungalow on stilts. It looked like a tree house that neighborhood kids had teamed together to build, with only a little help from their parents. “This is our next stop. It’s not a required stop, just a choice that’s off the beaten path,” said Denver as he parked the golf cart under the stilted structure. “It’s an option, and you’ve chosen it. Welcome.”

“What is it?”

“The staff house. We call him Old Mr. Two-Face. His east side faces the trees and gets a little sunrise peeking through the branches. His west side faces the Gulf of Mexico and gets the sunset. We don’t know which side is happier.”

“Well, the sunset and the water side must be happier,” she said as they walked around to the west side, with its faded green paint falling off like skin after an exfoliation treatment and just a few tiny, round windows that looked like sunglasses. “Then again, it’s a mess. Too much time in the afternoon sun. It needs a serious paint job.”

They walked around to the east side. “Maybe this side is the happy side,” stated Denver. They could barely see the paint through the massive tree branches that were slapping it in the face. For a moment, when the breeze pushed one particular branch out of the way, they could see a deep green paint job that still looked fresh, without any sun damage. The windows were oval, and larger than those on the other side, but could hardly be seen, like eyes covered by out-of-control hair.

“This side certainly has the younger-looking skin and the bigger eyes, but it’s so dark back here. My guess is that the other side is happier.” Then it struck her. Were they really judging which side of the bungalow, a nonliving object, was happier?

They walked around to the side of the building, and Denver carried her suitcase up the steps.

“Meet Mr. Screened Front Door,” he said, stopping at the top of the flight of stairs. “There’s an island squirrel that loves to sneak in from time to time, so we don’t lock Mr. S.F.D. You just gotta give him a light push, like this. He don’t like to be kicked too hard now.”

He kicked the door open with his foot and stepped on a walnut, cracking its shell. “We keep that bowl of nuts there on the floor at all times for Mr. Squirrel,” he added.

Glancing at the filthy, sandy floors, Vicki looked around for a female to convince her she wasn’t living in a staff house full of men.
“Mr
. Two-face,
Mr
. Front Door, and Mr. Squirrel. Are there any women objects here?” she asked.

“Oh no, we don’t objectify women here. Is that one of those female lib test questions?”

“Well, I was hoping to see something female.”

“Will this do? I wasn’t sure if I was going to introduce you or not, but, this here is the public bathroom. We call her Miss Juanita. Don’t worry. You’re gonna have one in your bedroom.” Denver slammed the toilet seat shut with his foot.

“Sounds like you’ve given this tour many times.” Vicki coughed, allergic to something and perhaps everything.

“Every few months, people, they’re coming and going.” With a laid back slouch, Denver slowly made his way down the long hallway like a piece of wood floating down a river, and each time he came to a door he’d stop as if getting stuck for a brief moment on a branch at the side of the riverbed.

“This is my room,” he said, then continued on. “And this is Ray, the bartender’s room. He spends most of his time at the other staff house,” he said, and continued again. “Way on the end is Howard the potato peeler’s room, and up those stairs is the attic. It’s bigger than our rooms and spooky, because it has a window on both the east and west. Some say it’s Mr. Two-Faces’ two personalities combined into one big monster. It’s vacant right now, but we’ll fill it soon.”

“Why is this place coed?” It disturbed her. She didn’t want to live in a staff house with the same men she’d be working with, men she didn’t know.

“Yeah, there’s, um, I’d say, um, let me count, and let me use my fingers to count. Three, four, okay, there’s about six of us living in this staff house, and the rest live in the other one. We call that one Two- Faced Junior. Mainly the cooks are over in Two-Faced Junior.” He tossed his cigarette on the tile floor and stomped it.

“I think it’s dead,” said Vicki.

“Gotta be sure with all this trash on the floor. Can’t let a single spark go.”

“So, where’s my room?”

“Hark! Your room is down the hall. I’m guessing you’re ready to drop your anchor about now.” Denver slipped on a torn magazine page lying on the floor, but his reflexes were surprisingly agile, and he continued floating onward. She had to bend down to make it through the splintered wooden door, painted the color of an old dock. Inside, the walls were painted the color of a swamp coated with light moss or mold.

“This is your boat slip,” said Denver.

“What are you talking about? This is my room? There’s no furniture!”

She ran over to the one and only tiny round window and glanced out. “Thank God!” she declared. “I’m on the side facing the water and the sunset.”

“The newcomer always starts with just a mattress. The next time someone quits and leaves the island, we hold a sort of auction based on good old seniority. You’ll get to grab one piece of furniture just as soon as someone else leaves the island.”

“Oh. There are no sheets on the mattress.” Vicki pointed to the mattress on the floor, then looked down at her sandals. She could barely see her plum-colored toenail polish hidden under the sand. “And they don’t supply us with towels? I should have asked more questions during the interview.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got an extra sheet and pillowcase you can use. I’ll bring it to ya later. It ain’t any problem at all!” Denver flipped the mattress over to hide yellow-and-brown stains. “You don’t want to sleep on that side. The springs are popping out.”

“Oh, dear Lord.” She knew that if she said such a thing, she owed God the respect of saying a prayer.
Oh dear Lord, I should have declined this job. I would be happier had I not taken this opportunity. I want to trust in You. Did You put me here, or did I put me here? That is what I struggle with most. How do I know if You are leading me or if I’m making wrong decisions completely on my own? Well, regardless, I’m begging You for help
.

“Please don’t leave me,” she whined.

“I don’t have to leave ya. I can stay a bit longer,” said Denver, plopping himself down on her mattress. “Ya like your room?”

She held her breath a moment because, when she inhaled, her heart ripped. She could only blame herself for not asking more questions when she was interviewed, and for lying to Ruth about the tour she never took.

“Denver, you never showed me the staff house the day I was interviewed.”

“You never asked,” he replied.

“So, do we get to vote people off this island?”

“Hey,” he said. “You don’t have to like me, but ya better like Mr. Two-Face. He knows when someone doesn’t like him.”

“Mr. Two-Face is a bungalow! It’s not a person!”

“I’m warning you. Be nice to him,” he whispered.

“I don’t know what kind of medication you’re taking, but this is an inanimate object that we’re in. I don’t know why we are talking about him, it, whatever, in the first place, as if it was alive.”

“You better say something nice about him, or he might scare ya. You’ve gotta see the good in things, even when it’s hard to see, or your fears will really scare ya.”

“My, isn’t that profound!” she declared.

“Well? Can’t you give a compliment?”

“I like his long legs. I’ve never lived in a house on stilts before. We don’t have stilted homes where I come from. Although a lock on my door would be nice,” she said, examining her exfoliated bedroom door.

“Trust me, now.”

“Trust you? I don’t know you.”

“You’ll be safe. We’re all courteous here. And don’t mind the floors.
Without pavement on the island, they can’t stay clean. No one’s to blame for it. Are you the clean type?”

“You could say that.” She wasn’t going to tell him that as a kid she’d dust the head of every doll and vacuum her own carpet once a week. “I’m an extreme neat-freak. In fact, I had this horrible habit for a while.”

“Sure, I understand. Alcohol? Drugs?”

“No, nothing like that!” Dressed in a pastel-colored floral print sundress, she stared around the room as she spoke. “We’re talking about cleaning, aren’t we? I used to spray my light bulbs with Windex until they’d explode. That’s before I learned to turn them off and let them cool before spraying them.”

“Yeah, reminds me of rehab. This might take some getting used to. But hey, I better get my bones back to the kitchen. You just make yourself at home here. Oh, been meaning to ask, are you from England or something? What’s that sweet sound to your voice?”

“Oh, it’s probably my Dutch accent. I’m from Holland. Thanks for the ride and showing me around. You’ve been accommodating!”

She inwardly scolded herself for always acting overly courteous to strangers, like a Dutch dancer welcoming tourists to the Tulip Time Festival.

“Whoa! You’ve come a long, long ways,” said Denver. “Welcome to America. I hope Mr. Two-Face shares his wisdom with you.”

“I don’t mean the Holland in Europe. I’m from this country. Holland, Michigan. Have you ever heard of Michigan? It’s a state in this country.”

“I’ll bet my brother was there. I’ve got a brother who has gone every place you could imagine. We don’t have much in common. I don’t like his life, and he disagrees with mine.”

She found herself ignoring the scrawny man standing before her. She could care less about his lifestyle, or his brother’s, and only wanted to think about all that she had left behind. She forced herself to yawn, which always meant stolen incoming oxygen. She opened her suitcases, paused, and decided to leave her clothes where they were. Ruth expected her in the restaurant for training.

Ruth lived on the island, but not in the staff house. Instead, the owners provided her with her own tiny cottage, somewhere on the island off the beaten path. She handled everything from scheduling the wait staff to conducting employee meetings to controlling inventory. Above the Jimmy Buffet music, she matter-of-factly explained everything—from the potato salad or coleslaw choice, to telling customers, “Yes, the shrimp deluxe is served hot and in the shells, so you’ll need to peel them.”

Vicki periodically glanced out at the Gulf of Mexico, topped with bobbing boats, then returned to taking notes with the intensity of a reporter gathering something newsworthy.

“You’re a type-A like I was once. I can see it in you, but hey, you don’t need to write all this down.” Ruth looked her straight in the eyes.

“Shorthand. Learned it in college,” replied Vicki. “So you
were
a Type-A. And you’re not anymore?”

“Nope. Gave it up. Bad for the heart.”

“Ruth, if you don’t mind my asking, what made you come out to this island? I’m curious.”

“Well, first, tell me why
you
decided to come here.”

“Money. I needed a job.”

Ruth laughed. “Of course you did, but there are more convenient jobs than this. Let’s dig a bit deeper now. Why are you standing on a remote, primitive mangrove in the middle of nowhere when you could be waiting tables at one of a zillion places back in civilization?”

“I have no idea. I’m surprised by it myself. Maybe because this place is so gorgeous that I couldn’t turn down the offer.” In reality, Ben was the gorgeous object she had trouble turning down, and escaping to an island only made it easier.

“Wrong answer, definitely wrong answer. When is the last time you stopped what you were doing and allowed yourself to truly breathe?”

“I breathe daily. I just don’t stop what I’m doing to breathe.”

Ruth laughed. “We need to stop and breathe. Sure, it sounds odd because breathing is natural but, really, we need to breathe deeper than we are accustomed to.”

“Who has time to actually stop and breathe, Ruth?”

“No one. We have to make time. Listen, if you’re interested, I practice yoga every night at midnight on the deck of the old houseboat down by the dock—the dock located on the back of the island, the one no one uses. Just follow the trail back there, and you can’t miss it. I invite anyone who feels like joining me. Sometimes it’s just me. Other times I have up to five people showing up.”

“Thanks, but I’m not a yoga person. I think it would completely bore me.”

“Are you a perfectionist as well as a Type-A?”

“Yes, I guess I am.”

“Well, that’s quite arrogant of you to admit.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“First, you are far from perfect and never will be. Second, you are measuring your perfection based on what the world claims to be perfect, and that is a shallow measuring device. Give me an example of your so-called perfectionist efforts.”