Читать книгу Does This Island Go To The Bottom? - Eric H. Pasley - Страница 9

Tutu is in the middle of the island and as I could see while driving into it, it was pretty much a ghetto. There is a K-Mart there. And where there is a K-Mart there is a ghetto. Also in Tutu is a small mall and as I was soon to find out, one of many Kentucky Fried Chickens. I knew the USVI’s were westernized, but come on, a K-Mart? What kind of paradise is host to a vile store of the likes? Give me a break.

Mike took a right onto a dirt road and crept his ugly car along a dirt road for

about twenty yards or so. Then we turned right, down a partial dirt and cracked

concrete driveway. Two viscious pit bulls began to bark on our left behind a rickety chainlink fence. Green foliage was growing wild on both sides of the driveway: Tentacles of some hellish beast from the deep, lashing out in all directions. And then I saw “It.” In the headlights before me stood an edifice of ungodly proportions. If it was alive it would be The Devil. Delapitated and evil, it was truly a shit hole.

The front door opened and I saw somebody stick their body out half way and wave. Jesus, I thought. That cat is trying to escape the jaws of death and he is waving for help. “That’s Dan,” Mike said. “He just got here about three days ago.”

“Oh, cool,” I said grabbing my dive gear from the back of the vehicle. The outside

of this place was just sheets of plywood stained from the weather and a rusted galvanized tin roof as its hat. The windows had what appeared to be chicken wire

over them. I lifted my bag over my shoulder and heard a car door shut and turned

to see Mike back out of the driveway. Sparks shoot out from under the belly of his

horrible car as he bottomed out on some of the concrete going up and out of the

driveway. That was the last I ever saw of Mike.

What a real shit heel. Oh well, I didn’t like his ugly car or his ugly face anyway.

“Come on in,” Dan said, opening the door wider for me.

I entered the ungodly place. “Man, this place is a dump,” I said. The inside was worse that the outside. The walls had old seventies wood paneling with holes punched out here and there. The carpet looked like a battle took place on it: Torn, shredded in some spots, stained with mud, vomit and blood. There was one bedroom with two single beds. A bed was in the main room along with one of those huge circular wicker chairs. On a makeshift shelving unit was a filthy two burner electric hot plate. The bathroom was in the back down three steps. It was a decent size shitter, nice and moldy with cockroaches scurrying around. I threw my dive bag on the floor.

“Yeah, it sure isn’t the sweetest place,” Dan said looking around the room.

“I kind of like it,” I said. “I really don’t mind shit holes.”

Dan looked at me and started to laugh. “Well, I’m glad you’re here because I’ve been here the past four nights alone and it gets a bit weird around here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I hear strange noises on the roof early in the morning.” Dan turned and looked at me. “You know how it is? You’re in a new place, far from home and soon you start spooking yourself out.” Dan was a cool dude from Canada. He had a buzz cut and wore horn rim glasses. If you saw him back in the States on a street corner, you’d swear he was a vice cop looking to make a bust. This was his first gig as a scuba instructor in the Caribbean just like me.

We had a few beers that night. We talked quite a bit about how we both got into diving and all the places we dove and all the places that we wanted to dive. Dan said Fiji and other parts of the South Pacific were on his list of dive destinations that he had to dive before he got old, spitting his false teeth out and shitting his diapers, then finally croaking. I started to tell tell my Canadian friend that one day I would make it to the Galapagos Islands when suddenly I saw a UFO fly past me. The thing made a horrifying flapping sound. It moved awkwardly through the air like a spastic butterfly. When the UFO stopped on the wall, I spat out my beer in vile disgust. “Jesus Christ, those fucking things can fly?” I felt bile creep up my throat and knew I was on the brink of a violent retching episode.

The next thing I see fly through the air was Dan’s flip flop. “I hate those bastards!” Dan screamed. The veins in his neck and temples were bulging. He gnashed his teeth like a wild dog. He had pure hatred on his face. Dan’s flip flop missed its target and the hellish beast took off from the wall, flying aimlessly around the room. It caught me completely off guard as it unexpectedly switch directions and came at me. I stood up, backed up and fell over my chair.

“I’m going to kill you!” Dan screamed. Man he was pissed.

At that point Dan started to scare me; foam started coming out of the corners of

his mouth. Dan’s other flip flop came off his foot and then down hard guiding the

thing underneath his flip-flop. A soggy crunch exploded, shooting an art work of cockroach blood and guts all over the sink counter top. A masterpiece. Jackson Pollock would behave been proud. ”Die you motherfucker,” Dan said, grinding his teeth. “Damn, that’s the ugliest cockroach I’ve ever seen. Terrifying.”

“Christ Dan, we’d better have another beer. I think I have just been traumatized,” I said getting back up to my feet.

“Another beer? Nonsense.” Dan said reaching toward a lopsided night stand by the bed. “This will do the trick. It works great for all near death experiences.”

“Dan, I love you. Canadian Club Whiskey. Pour me three fingers.”

“You got it,” Dan said, smiling. I’m pouring five fingers for myself.” We both downed the medicine. I felt my frayed nerves relax and the inside of my gut became comfortably warm.

“I think we had better get to sleep. We have a big day tomorrow and Marty gets here bright and early,” said Dan, finishing his drink. His face had turned back to normal color.

“I agree.” I downed the rest of my whiskey.

I was in and out of sleep the rest of the night. Even though I was from sunny California, the Virgin Islands heat took a bit getting use to. The air was thick and sticky. At times it was suffocating. With no air conditioning in that delapitated place in Tutu, I was a steamy, wet rag doll.

I had to get up to piss for the sixth time. I was afraid to turn on the light in the bathroom. There could be more of those giant bastard cockroaches waiting to ambush me. I looked at my dive watch and could make out 4:45 on the hands. Good. I had a little over an hour to lay back down. Maybe even fall asleep. I took the three concrete steps up from the bathroom, then I heard it. A loud crash on top of the galvanized roof. I jumped and almost let out scream like a pansy boy. Another crash, followed by trampling from one end of the roof to the other. The trade winds were blowing outside making the foliage rake the outside of the wall. It sounded like gruesome things were trying to get in, to get me. Dan was right, I started to spook myself.

Soon I heard a different sound up on the roof mixed in with the trampling. Scratching! Lots of scratching. And then pecking. What in the name of God is up there, and what does it want? My brain was on overload. All hell was going to come crashing down through the roof at any second. I saw Dan standing in the bedroom door way. “See, I told you.” He said. “It’s the Chupacabra.”

All of a sudden a demonic cry came from atop the roof that made both of us stiffen up. But wait, I knew that cry. “It’s not the Chupacabra Dan,” I said. “It’s a fucking goat. There are goats on top of the roof.”

“Goddamn, I was about to shit myself.” Dan started to laugh. “There must be chickens up there too.” Then we heard the crow of a rooster.