Spooning (30 page)

Wade assumed the shotgun position in the front of the cab so that she could work on her Spanish with the driver, while the rest of us sat in back and soaked up the scenery outside the windows. The sun was shining and the windows were open, allowing the warm air to blow against our smiling faces. Syd was hanging out the window like a dog in heat, Puerto Rican heat that is. As we sped along the busy highway, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I could feel the tension in my body begin to melt—along with my now-soaked shoulders inside my sweatshirt.

“
Buenos dias. Me llamo Wade
.” Good God, Wade had
assumed the persona of a tour guide. She held the PA microphone in the front of the cab like a pro.

“You know, the one and only J. Lo's family is from the Rico,” Sydney called out as she reached up and grabbed the mike from Wade.

“It's fate. We can all forget our dimpled asses and flaunt our delicious booties at the pool.”

“My looovveee don't cost aaaa thinggg …” we all sang in perfect unison as the cab sped down the highway.

About fifteen minutes later, as we drove up the windy entrance to our hotel, we all decided that our first order of business was to get our bathing suits on and hit the beach immediately. An adorable bellhop first escorted us to our junior suite, then gave us a tour of the compound. As we passed by two big funeral parlor–type wooden doors, he told us that the nightclub that lurked behind them was one of the best in the San Juan. Then he led us outside along the seashell-strewn path and pointed to towers of beach chairs. As we stood gaping at the ocean-filled horizon, still clad in our NYC apparel, he demonstrated the genius of the beach chairs' design. Each was rigged with a little white flag on the back of the headrest.

“All you have to do is raise this flag,” he began, flicking up the flag with one finger to show us how, “and a waitress, they're the ones you see in the blue and yellow shirts, will come to take your order.” We all glanced at one another, at the ocean, at the beach chairs, and at our hands. Apparently we all had the same vision—a Venuslike waitress emerging from the sea to bring us endless rounds of drinks, all because she had been signaled by this white flag. I surrender, I surrender! Sheer brilliance! This hotel deserved another star just for this flag contraption thing. So far, so good.

Some of the girls immediately pranced off to soak their toes in the water while Macie, Sage, and I plopped down on our beach chairs to soak up the first of many rays.

“Charlie what a fantastic idea,” Sage said. “I can't believe we're here. This is unreal.”

“I know. This is exactly what the doctor ordered,” I sighed.

“Hey, get those pants off. Here, I brought SPF 30 sunscreen if you need any,” Sage said.

“Oh, no thanks,” I replied hugging my still wool-clad legs. Sage began to strip and lather her skinny little body. She then plugged in her iPod and lay back with her eyes closed.

“What's the matter with you, C?” Macie asked as soon as Sage couldn't hear. “You've been acting strange ever since we left JFK this morning.”

“You really, and I mean really, want to know, Mace?” I asked seriously.

“Totally! I mean, of course,” she said in a more somber tone. Her expression went from eager-beaver expecting some illicit sex tale, to concerned mother anticipating a heart- wrenching phone call.

“And you promise not to say anything to the rest of the girls?” I asked even more seriously.

“Promise,” she said with her right hand in the air.

“Okay, here you have it. I went spray tanning last night to get a jump start, and well, it didn't turn out quite like I thought it would.” And before she could reply, I rolled up my pant legs to reveal the disgusting evidence. My body was infested with tons of uneven orange blotches. They were all over my legs, my arms, and my stomach. And the area that had been hit the hardest was my crotch. Of all the places on my body, it had received an unusual cluster of dark splotches. No joke, I
looked like a leopard with an STD. As if I needed to give prospective guys any more ammo not to go down there. One look at my spotted crotch and they'd run for cover from this beast.

“Jesus, Charlie, that's nasty,” she said.

“Thanks. I know it's a disaster. I've tried everything to get it off.”

“Sorry. Hmm. Oh, I know! Did you try lemon juice? Or how about nail polish remover? I've heard that works.”

“Really? I'm desperate. I'll try anything.”

“I think we have lemons up in the room,” Macie said.

“Why would we have lemons in the room? I know they have complimentary ice, but lemons?”

“No, Syd got them.”

“Didn't she think they could make the lemonade at the pool bar?”

“She was convinced that she needed to bring a little of the Cooking Club on-the-go to Puerto Rico, and actually smuggled the ingredients for Sage's guacamole on the plane.”

“But you can't bring fresh produce between countries!”

“Tell that to Syd. She's probably infected the Rico with some random lemon bug disease.”

“And isn't guacamole usually associated with Mexico?”

“Syd's not too up on her geography, I don't think. Earlier on the plane, when the pilot said to look out north to see some godforsaken river, she looked up at the plane's ceiling. Come on, let's go upstairs.”

We ran up to the room and began to prep for our emergency spray tan removal campaign. I cut the lemons while Macie squeezed the juice into one of the hotel glasses. After
the last lemon was polished off, we began the delicate process. First we started off with a tiny test patch around my ankle. At first I didn't notice any difference, but Macie persisted and then all of a sudden the spot began to disappear.

“It's working!” I screamed with relief.

“See, I told you it would work,” she said. We both grabbed washcloths and got down to business.

“I can't seem to get these crotch spots to disappear,” I moaned after a half hour had passed. “If I keep scrubbing my inner thighs are going to be raw and it will look like I had a bad waxing job.”

“Forget your crotch. Maybe some real sun will cover those last spots. We'll hit that hotel gift shop and snag a new sarong. Problem solved!”

I finally smiled. I loved this girl! No spots, a bit of shopping, and tons of sun. My vacation had begun!

“
R
emember, ladies, we shouldn't gorge on this poolside food. We're in swimsuits!” directed Sage. I put down the menu and raised my flag.

“Sorry, Sage,” I said. “I have to eat in this sun. I am sweating off the pounds as it is. You know, it's important to stay hydrated and keep your blood sugar up in this heat.” Syd nodded in agreement as she reached for my oil-slicked menu.

“Well, since we're in the tropics, I'd recommend that we take advantage of all the exotic fruits they have to offer,” Sage suggested as she slid off her chair and headed over to the pool to join in the morning aerobics class already in progress.

“Do you think we gross her out?” wondered Macie.

“Nope, we just speak to her inner devil,” Tara responded. As if she had heard us, we heard Sage give a few retaliatory “whoops” and “yeehaws” in chorus with the aerobics instructor. The water in the pool churned like the ocean during a hurricane.

“Fruit, huh? Do banana daiquiris count?” Macie asked without batting an eye.

“What about apple martinis?” suggested Syd.

“I'll stick with rum punch. It's full of tropical fruit!” I offered.

“Their strawberry freeze has real strawberry seeds in it. They were stuck in my teeth earlier,” volunteered Tara. “Good thing I have a tricky tongue!”

“Do Cosmos have any fruit in them?” asked Wade, ever the true New Yorker. We all laughed as a blue-and-yellow clad waitress approached.

“I'll take a fruit plate and some French fries please,” I told her. I figured the good and the bad would cancel each other out. I scanned the pool looking for hot natives. To our right was an older couple. She was knitting while he did the New York Times crossword puzzle. Every once in a while, she'd stop, reapply some of that blue zinc oxide that we all had to wear as kids to her nose, then pick up her knitting again. Knit-purl, knit-purl. Across the pool, however, was a group of boys descending from the restaurant steps. Excitedly, I poked Tara and she immediately went a-wandering.

She came back scowling. “A) I think they are about sixteen. B) They are way too giddy about a pool volleyball game. C) Two of them are wearing cut-off jean shorts. We have got to get you some glasses, Charlie.”

“This tropical sun must have blinded me,” I shrugged. “Just wait until we hit that nightclub.”

T
hat night, after we had changed rooms twice (first room change due to an errant, incriminating-looking, small, black hair found beneath the sheets of the bed; second room change due to the “luxury view” of another hotel's back wall out of our windows), we headed down to Caliente, the nightclub. As we walked up, the club's wooden doors were almost bouncing off their hinges. I swear, they still looked like the entrance to a funeral parlor but now the frosted window panels on the sides were pulsating bright neon colors. Now I was thinking Disney. The bellhop was right about its popularity though. The line to get in wound itself all the way back to the slot machines in the casino.

“Not waiting!” announced Macie.

“Come on, Mace! I curled my hair!” protested Syd. She had tried to use some of her company's hair extensions. Tried. Enough said. We were squabbling in front of the doors of Caliente when our bellhop from the morning approached us.

“
Buenos noches
. I told you, yes?” He gestured at the club.

“Yeah, but who wants to stand in this line? The party's in there,” Tara said, pointing toward the doors, as if he didn't know.

“Oh, for hotel guests, you no wait! Come. You have la llave, your key.” It was as if we were true American princesses. The hulky bouncers smiled, stamped our hands, and opened the doors. We were almost blown away by the bass from the music that boomed out the inside.

“Gracias!” Wade tried to shout above the music. Inside, the lights swirled, the music pumped, and people danced. Everyone was moving some part of their bodies. A man in the hall
was nodding his head, two girls by the edge of the dance floor were swiveling their hips, the boys behind them were cranking their necks back and forth following the girls' rhythm, and the people on the dance floor were letting it all loose—their whole bodies convulsing in time with the music.

“I love this Latin flavor! So sexy …
Viva Caliente
!” screamed Tara.

“You love any ethnicity as long as it's of the male species!” Macie shouted back. Tara began to move. It started with her head tilting, then her shoulders began to sway, then her hips stirred. She grabbed Sage's hand and headed toward the dance floor. Macie, Wade, Sydney, and I grabbed a drink and took our positions at the crowded bar.

“It reminds me of a really loud ice-skating rink!” screamed Macie.

“Yeah, and we're the shy girls on the side of the rink who will only watch everyone else skate!” I shouted back.

“They never did
that
at my rink!” shouted Wade pointing to a woman stripping on the stage. “It's like Cancun on steroids!”

“Ouch!” Syd moaned as a couple making out stumbled into her. “That's it. It's too crazy here. I'm going!”

“No, wait …” I began, but stopped when I realized that Syd wasn't talking about going back to the room. Rather she was joining the other hedonistic dancers.

Syd considered herself a self-trained dancer. Last year, she had bought a tape off the television. For two easy installments of $12.95, she had purchased Britney Spears' choreographer's latest dance moves: a step-by-step instructional video to make one move like the pros. The girl was a bonafide “As Seen On TV” junkie. In the months we'd been living with her, she had also bought the following: