Chapter 11
"Oh What A Night!"
AFTER TWO STRAIGHT DAYS OF LOAFING, NAPPING AND EXISTING ON VODKA, VICODIN AND JUNK FOOD, I DECIDED I WAS READY TO TAKE A STAB AT THE REAL WORLD. FRIDAY MORNING I SHOVED THE ARM CANES BACK UNDER THE BED AND RESUMED HOBBLING WITH MY CANE. I DID MY EXERCISES IN THE MORNING, AND THE MUSCLE BURN HAD ME BITING MY LIP 'TIL IT BLED. BUT I KNEW I COULDN'T QUIT.
*DO THE EXERCISES: WALK. DON'T DO THE EXERCISES: WALK WITH CRUTCHES.*
IT WAS THAT SIMPLE. I VOWED TO DO THE DAMNED EXERCISES UNTIL MY BUTT SAGGED AND MY BALLS SCRAPED THE FLOOR. IN A MANNER OF SPEAKING …
Around noon, still achy and sweating like a pig, I turned on the radio, searching for classical music to calm my nerves. I seldom listen to classical anymore because few stations opt to play it. The popular stuff rules. Today's music; synonymous with 'up-to-date'. Noisy, clangy 'tear-the-strings-off-the-guitar' songs. Strident voices, panicky and vibrating like they've been threaded with static electricity, seem to be the norm. Phrases repeated over and over a dozen times pass as lyrics, and I'm kind of tired of that.
Finally, I found a classical NPR station all the way up in Palm Beach … the land of rich old farts who play golf, do 'feelies' with every titty within reach, dine in fancy restaurants with saggy wives, and listen to symphonies when nothing more stimulating is imminent. I set the station on automatic and adjusted the volume. Mozart's "Magic Flute".
I showered in the hottest water I could stand, moaning happily at the marvelous things the heat did for my sore muscles, and then dried myself down and stood in front of the mirror staring at my Rin Tin Tin look. I dug out the clippers, the sharp little scissors and the shaving kit and got to work on the trimming.
Ten minutes later a different face emerged from behind the whiskers and I was a little amazed at the difference. The mustache was somewhere between a "Tom Selleck" and an "Alex Trebek"; noticeable and kinda grey, but not lavish. I pared my thin sideburns to extend downward and join with the beard, sculpted close to the skin, but still a little longer than the scruff had been.
Hmmm … there wasn't much of Gregory House left under there anymore. This new guy was much too 'crippled-greyhound' and too well groomed. Rin Tin Tin was gone. But the 'Kyle Calloway' persona was emerging, at least visually. What I had to do now was figure out a way to unite the Calloway with the House and bring out the best of both. A very large undertaking, I thought. I had to laugh at that, because even in my own head, it sounded like a bad joke.
I dug through one of my suitcases and found a clean pair of jeans … not yet bloodied … and got them out. A tee-shirt and a button-down would do. Tonight's excursion was informal. I hadn't worn my blue sport jacket since the night Hooley first brought me to the cabin, so I hung it on the back of one of the straight chairs to shed some of the wrinkles. In the dim light at the bar, I figured nobody would notice anyhow … or give a shit.
Another moment of scrutiny in front of the mirror told me I looked a little less like a beggar and more like an impaired athlete … a contradiction in terms if ever there was one. Well … you know … in case there were ladies to be wooed … and who might woo back …
My leg is still healing slowly, so I limited the bandage to one of the elastics. I want to make a good impression tonight, and to me that means doing what I can to minimize the limp and maximize the charm. Tall order. I've lived with being an angry cripple so long that it defines who I am. People stay clear of me because I've almost forgotten how to smile. Tonight I will endeavor to change that.
*I meander around inside my own head a lot. Solitary people are known to do that. I mourn the once-powerful physicality I no longer possess. I'm past the age where I can masquerade as 'macho', but maybe 'charming' will work if I can fake it long enough. I'm not sure if my efforts to present a pleasing facade will be accepted by anyone, or even put me into a place where I sense encouragement. I haven't had much practice, but tonight will be a good place to start …*
I sit here daydreaming, forming piano fingerings in the air in tune with the music, and thinking I need to go through my suitcases and place some stuff on closet shelves before they begin to mildew. There are some wire hangers in there and it wouldn't hurt to hang up some of the shirts. Maybe I will do that tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next day my leg doesn't hurt from the damn exercises …
A fleeting image of Wilson fritters through the murky mental undertow. I wonder how he's doing, and if he's still pissed off at me for breaking his damn arm. Wouldn't blame him if he is.
I sent the incomprehensible Nephrology article to the California Medical Journel today. Wondering about Wilson made me think of it …
Afternoon is turning to evening. In the bathroom I stare again into the mirror, studying the persona I'm working to create. The lines in my face all point downward, and I feel a desperate need to change it. Somehow I despair of ever getting it right, because as soon as I let my guard down, Gregory House growls his way through and cold cocks Kyle Calloway. I can't let him do that anymore. I can't!
I can't!
Hooley arrived just as the sun was setting. He too had cleaned up and doused himself with cologne that immediately gave me a sneezing fit. He laughed at me. "You overdo the theatrics, Mon. It is only Canoe. You, however, look almost like a gentleman. I am impressed, but wondering if you should use the cane. But that is your decision. Are you up for an evening of mad celebration?"
I snorted. "I can celebrate you under the table anytime, day or night, Buster," I declared indignantly.
I couldn't help but marvel at the change in him. I was so used to seeing him in the casual costume of the island that it surprised me when he showed up in long trousers, a dress shirt, dark dress shoes and no yarn hat with a bell on it. In fact, no hat at all. I tried to hide my surprise at the fact that, except for a ring of coal-black hair circling around the back of his head and crawling across his jaw, Hooley Puli was bald as a billiard ball.
I balanced on the cane and carefully levered myself into the dune buggy. Hooley watched in silent disapproval until I got settled, and then walked around to the driver's side and hefted himself in quickly. I hoped he would not babysit me tonight …
*Change of scenery, here we come!*
Amos's Tiki Bar was rocking with Beatles tunes that reverberated outward and caused ripples in the water by the shore. At least it seemed that way. It was a welcome change. There was dancing and loud conversation and glasses overflowing. And laughter. Especially the laughter. Hooley and I walked slowly across the cement patio, almost rubbing shoulders, and I resigned myself to the fact that I would be beneath his protective wing all night.
Bright colored lanterns were strung between the trees, and a small crowd of teenagers contorted to 'Hard Day's Night" as we threaded our way among them. Hooley picked our pathway with great caution and I knew the calm Jamaican was busy running interference for me. Up on the restaurant floor where the storm shutters were wide open and the bar was well stocked, I sensed a hush falling over the crowd. Amos paused to wave to Hooley and Hooley waved back. Bar patrons responded at once by pausing to wave also, checking to see what the point of interest might be.
There were breaths drawn in surprise from the drinking clientele as some of the older residents began to recognize their tricked-out island nurse in the company of the sullen drunk that had interrupted their gathering six or seven weeks before. I heard an undertone of comments, but the general din masked any understanding of the words.
Hooley steered my steps unobtrusively as he escorted me to the bar where there remained a single empty stool. He guided me onto it with both hands steadying my shoulders while I grumbled to myself at his solicitude. Actually I was happy to take the load off. Pain was beginning to nag at my thigh like a bumble bee, but I was damned if I'd let it show. Old habits die hard …
Beside me, one of the old guys I remembered from before, got up and surrendered his seat to Hooley. Hooley was generous with his thanks, and moved to sit down beside me. I showed my gratitude with a scowl, which he laughed off and acknowledged by nudging me in the shoulder.
"Cool down, Mon!" he said softly. "Cool. Let them see you smile. It will make the process of acceptance much easier. They want nothing more than to like you."
*Oops …*
I traded the sour look for something more upside-down, and got a toothy grin in response.
Immediately, two Mai Tais appeared on the bar in front of us. My forced smile turned to a real grin. Beside my hand stood a fancy glass that held what looked more like a flower arrangement than a real drink. A large pineapple ring rode the brim, and it was speared through with a long plastic nail, already holding a half slice of lime and a maraschino cherry. A tiny umbrella hung over the edge of the glass, and atop the liquid floated a lotus blossom … I think. To me the appearance was good enough. I stuck my finger in and removed the flower and the umbrella. I slid the pineapple and cherry off the nail and chomped them happily.
Amos stood in front of us with arms folded, watching for reactions. Hooley had already eaten the fruit and placed the lime peel and umbrella on the bar. He was taking his second slug of the rum mixture. Not to be outdone, I quickly followed suit, lifting the glass and practically inhaling half the drink at once.
*WOW!*
Back at the cabin I'd been imbibing vodka and was unprepared for the sweetness of the Mai Tai. When it hit my throat I almost choked myself to death. When I caught my breath and looked up, Amos still had his arms folded, but he was laughing so hard his eyes were watering. Beside me Hooley was laughing too. At the other end of the bar, the two old guys were grinning like hyenas and holding up their glasses in a toast. (They reminded me of the two old guys in the balcony on "The Muppet Show".)
I could feel my face reddening and the anger roiling up. Hooley's elbow dug into my ribcage with a cautionary warning that immediately burst the balloon and brought my body temperature back to manageable levels. I looked up sheepishly and realized I was not being patronized or being made fun of in any way other than normal man-type teasing. I raised my glass in a salute of awkward friendship and forced another smile from behind the new arrangement of facial hair. I let the smile build, trying to make it seem more natural.
Across the bar from us, Amos looked me square in the eye and winked and nodded. Had I just run some sort of gauntlet? I was sensing approval without challenge, and that felt good. As Amos moved away to wait on other customers, the two old guys down the bar held their glasses aloft again and said in unison: "Salute, Kyle Calloway!"
Hooley and I returned their gesture. This time the smiling thing got a little easier. Practice-practice-practice.
Down the length of bar I watched Amos and his staff of brightly clad young ones as they moved about making drinks and bantering with the customers. Amos wasn't what I would have called good looking. His features were mostly along the Asian line, but he was young, slender and neat about his person; not running to fat like many of the restaurateurs I had met. His black hair was straight and shoulder-length, cut on an angle and framing his face like a fur hat. His eyes were black also, and had an almost rascally twinkle about them. He was obviously popular with the people he served.
I'd been pretty much all over the world as a kid, but this place was different in a unique way I couldn't quite define. Maybe it was because here on Barbados there is such a mixture of nationalities that there are no racial barriers. The population gets along because they're located at the heart of the tourist business and have no other choice. Nobody has any axes to grind, and they live together amiably because they want to. In a person-to-person situation, everyone is just like every other beneath the skin.
I was good with that. I thought of John Lennon's "Imagine".
Absently I let my attention wander about the place as I sat there. Hooley was talking to the woman in the seat next to him, and I got the impression that she might be one of his clients. My leg began to remind me that a bar stool was not the best place for it to be, and I massaged it back into submission.
Amos had a few pretty young women working the tables and behind the bar; tending the grille and making drinks. My appreciative eyes followed two of them: a pretty Polynesian and an equally pretty blonde who reminded me a bit of Allison Cameron. Both of them glanced around from time to time, alert for drink orders from the tables. Both of them looked me in the eye in a teasing manner as they moved about their work. A few carnal thoughts drifted in and around my head every time it happened. It caused me to massage my leg a little harder each time. Damn!
Elsewhere in the large room it was crowded, but not packed. Conversation and laughter ebbed and flowed like the tide and combined in a pleasant manner as it blended with the music from the juke box in the corner. I watched the interactions with interest. Very seldom in my post-infarction life had I ever willingly joined in on a friendly gathering such as this. I wasn't sure if I had been missing something significant that I'd never embraced before … or if I was just confused at having recently rediscovered the art of human interaction and trying to figure out exactly what it was and what it meant to me personally.
As I scanned the room further, I suddenly frowned when my eyes settled on a Latino man of small stature, sitting at a table with three larger men of the same ethnicity. All were dressed similarly in the light-colored clothing of physical laborers often seen on this island. All three had variations of bronze, sun-darkened skin, black hair and uncut whiskers. They were deep in whispered conversation.
I straightened on my stool to watch them … unobtrusively. The smaller one would probably not recognize me even if he looked at me head-on. I turned my full attention quickly to that man. On his right cheek was the mark that a few weeks ago I had assumed was a smudge of dirt. This was the man I'd seen behind the cabin, concealed behind bushes and high grasses; stealing along slowly, stealthily, in an effort to avoid being seen as I staggered about out there, limping with clumsy effort on the arm canes, checking the arrangement of the jury rigged fuel and water tanks and the odd generator. Now I realized that the dark smudge on the man's face was not dirt, but a large mole, trying hard to be a carcinoma. Or worse.
From time to time all four men would avert their eyes and cast glances around the room, looking for who-knew what. I kept my line of sight intentionally above their heads, not risking eye contact and alarming them. As long as I did not get up to walk around, I decided I was pretty anonymous. After a time, they stopped paying attention to the rest of the room and continued their low-key conversation.
I waited for a lull in the dialogue between Hooley and the woman beside him. I took a sip from my second Mai Tai and poked him in the arm with my elbow.
He turned to look at me, half alarmed. "You okay, Mon?"
I sighed.
"I'm fine. Don't move your head. Just your eyes. Four men: table at four o'clock. Don't stare."
I felt the atmosphere change nominally as his body shifted. He picked up his drink and tilted his head back to drain it. Peripherally I saw his eyes scanning like searchlights. Then he stilled. Nodded once. He set his glass on the bar and turned to me. "I see them. Two of them are brothers I have seen before. They have a fishing boat. I don't know the other two."
"You know them?" I whispered. "Well, guess what … the one with the mole on his face is the dude I saw sneaking around the cabin the day you caught me checking out the fuel and water tanks."
"Ah … Kyle Calloway … this is most disturbing. Yes, I know the two men on the left. They have moved their fishing boat between the islands for years. I will talk to Amos and he will call Packy on the radio. We will check it out, perhaps call the authorities. Are you certain?"
I grinned. "Certain as I know my name aint Kyle Calloway!"
74
