Stir It Up

That little trip to Sudbury had been fun, but it only served to whet my appetite for more.

Before long, Garry Martin was gone, and only Neil Petersen and Henri Guenette were left to me. I’d made no lasting friends at the Mine, and those guys I had begun to hang out with at Casey’s were sad, tired, boring young old men who were waiting for their turn to die. God help me, I realized that was becoming one of them. The difference between me and them is that I knew it, and I had every intention of ensuring that didn’t happen. I would not waste away in Timmins on a barstool. So, I began planning my next escape.

I asked Neil and Henri individually. They were only slightly acquainted, so it was an opportunity for them to become more so, in my view. Neil declined. No money. I couldn’t argue with that. Henri was all in this time. That was encouraging, but I wasn’t holding my breath, just yet. I’d heard that level of enthusiasm on the subject before.

The day came that we were to book the trip. We’d decided after some deliberation on Jamaica. I called Henri, asking if he wanted me to pick him up. He told me that he would drive. I waited with anticipation. This time, it was actually going to happen.

Henri pulled up, and I was out the door in a flash. I was excited and chatting endlessly. Henri was not.

He spoke up after a time, when we were on the outskirts of downtown. “I can’t go,” he said.

There it was, the expected hammer blow. “What?” I asked. “Why not?”

“Because I’m getting married,” he said.

Wow, I thought. Married. I wasn’t expecting that.

“Congratulations,” I said, trying to stir up some enthusiasm about his declaration, all the while wondering about the state of the trip I was until then stoked about. “When’s the lucky day?” I asked, not sure what else to say.

“In two and a half years,” he said.

Two and a half years? I was confused. I was bewildered. Then I felt a black rage rise up in me.

“Wow,” I said. I had just then come to the realization that I was not anyone else’s number one choice, that I would always come second. Were I to ever do something, I’d have to do it myself. I’d just come to the realization that I’d become a loner and would be one evermore.

“So, you see why I can’t go,” he said. “I’ve got to save up for the ceremony and the honeymoon.”
I was thinking about how I had waited four or five years to go on a trip with my friends, listening to them beg off, watching them leave town, and I made up my mind that if I were to wait on someone else to do anything with me, I’d die a bitter old man who’d never gone anywhere except to a bar and a barstool. I made up my mind that I’d never wait for anyone, or to rely on anyone else, ever again.

“Do you want to go for coffee?” he asked.

“Drop me at the travel agency,” I said.

“What?” he said.

I repeated what I said.

“You’re going to go without me?”

“Well I’m not going to go on your honeymoon with you, am I?” I said. Did all this play out the way I’ve said. Maybe. Probably. I have a vague memory of these phrases. It’s a largely emotional memory, and memory can be painted by anger and rage.

He dropped me off downtown. I walked in alone. I sat with the travel agent, and she asked if we should wait for my friend.

I told her I’d be going alone. She processed that, said, okay, and set about asking me where I’d like to go, what I expected out of the vacation. I said, anywhere singles go. I wanted to go somewhere where I’ll meet people, and that I wanted to party.

She booked me into Hedonism II. I had no clue about what sort of resort it was, I only knew what she told me. That it was an all-inclusive, adults only Superclub, that it was party oriented. She told me that as I’d be going by myself, I’d have to pay a single supplement, and she explained how much extra that would cost me. I paid my money, collected my tickets and vouchers and made my way to the airport when the day came.

I was nervous. I’d never been on a plane before. Oddly, I’d been in a helicopter, but never a plane. The flights went well, despite my experiencing turbulence for the first time, as well. Montego Bay drew closer, and I saw palm trees for the first time. I felt tropical heat for the first time. I was set upon by Red Caps for the first time. Everyone was eager to move my luggage two feet for 20 American dollars. I escaped with my wallet intact, found my shuttle bus, and was offered a cold Red Cap by the driver. “It’s free,” he said, after my telling him there was no way I was going to pay 20 American dollars for a beer.

Once the rest of our fellow Hedonistic passengers were herded in and collected, we were on our way. I shared a couple more beers and chatted with them on the way, never to have anything to do with them ever again once we arrived. I spied palm trees and poverty whisk past on our way to the highway, remembering how everyone had told me how beautiful Jamaica had been when they’d been there. They never mentioned the garbage shanties, the junkers, or the emaciated cows tied to trees, the overabundance of exhaust hanging in the air. Or the near death experience the Jamaican roads turned out to be.

We pulled into the resort, opulent in comparison with what I’d seen on the ride there. But there was wear at the corners, the tiles sun-bleached and scuffed. I wondered how many thousands of feet had shuffled up to the front desk before me since its last reno, how may bags had rubbed and rested up against the corners and pillars.

I signed in, showed my ID, my vouchers, my credit card, and was given a map that laid out the resort for me, a neat circle where my room was in relation to this and that. The staff bid me welcome, the maintenance staff went one further, whispering to me that should I like to party, they had the means, if I were so inclined. I expected that said means was likely to come to about 20 American dollars and might be a little Rastafarian in nature.

I found my room, opened the door with my key, and wrestled my bags inside. The room was dim and woody, the colours vividly ‘80s dark. The upholstery brown, orange and gold, as was the bed. A little musty from the humidity.

I stood by the door for a few seconds taking in the ambiance. There was a mirror above the bed, a mirror where a headboard ought to have been. A mirror lined the wall across from the bed, reflecting the other endlessly if you set yourself just so.

I dropped what bags I still carried. And laughed. I laughed so hard I bent double and crouched, my arms folded and resting on my knees.

I don’t think I’d ever seen anything so tacky in my life.

For the next two weeks, I was in pornland.