No way, José

Although you probably know, mostly because I never fail to seize the opportunity to mention it whenever it is (or isn’t) relevant, a few years ago I spent an entire winter in Turks & Caicos working on my tan, breaking the hearts of various island men, and writing the Next Great American Novel.

When I first began my extended stay, I really didn’t know anyone outside my parents’ friends which included an Englishman who owned a dive shop and a woman who owned my parents’ cleaning service who would take me to buy essential groceries and requisite beer. Everyone said, “Oh, you’ll make friends down there!” and I thought, “Come on, absolutely not. Where am I going to make these alleged friends?” But as it turned out, I did makes friends, many of them, in fact, and ironically, today, as I sit here writing this from my island home and my cute, green, island (flip!) cell phone alights with text messages, I can safely say I have far more friends here, on a rock in the middle of the ocean, than I do in Massachusetts, a state I’ve called home almost my entire life. 

In the beginning, when I didn’t have any friends, I didn’t mind being alone at all. I wrote every morning, read on the beach every afternoon, and watched the entire series of Friday Night Lights on DVD, crying at the end of every episode. But one day, after swimming laps, a guest at the resort where my family’s condo was asked me a question about the pool. In response, I found myself blabbering on and on about the weather and my dog and my undergraduate major, which was, suffice to say, far beyond the reaches of “Why, yes! The water temperature is lovely!” As the man nervously smiled and backed away slowly, I realized it was about time I go out and start talking to other human beings besides myself before something really bad happens and I end up like Jack Torrance.

I wasn’t sure where to start, but thought I’d hit up one of the only island bars by myself first and see how it went. This is something I would never do in Real Life, but somehow I managed to muster up a bit of courage and haul myself into a bar stool solo. The initial reaction to my lonesomeness was this: islanders and tourists alike were seemingly immediately overcome with pity, and feeling bad for the tan girl in the headband by herself at the bar, chatted me up, invited me out on their yachts, and bought me more Jaeger Bombs than any slightly-sane person should imbibe in one sitting. Overall? It was a roaring success. The looks of sheer sadness on people’s faces when they approached me, their Southern drawls slurring into their Presidentes, was the epitome of irony: Please! Feel bad for me! I’m stuck in paradise with no one to bother me and no job to go to for four entire months! Suckers.

I soon branched out to going to the casino alone, too. I discovered that the casino has a pick-up and delivery situation: they will come get you wherever you are, bring you to their fine establishment, then, after you’ve lost all your money on roulette, drop you back home, all for free! I decided to start using them as my personal chauffeur service, so not only did I score a reliable way around the island (since I didn’t have a car), I also made some money playing the slot machines like a hunchbacked old lady in Atlantic City. I befriended the waitresses, managers, and, of course, the casino van driver, José, who, because of the fact I was nice and courteous and, apparently, the only eligible female on the entire island, fell in love with me.

José would shuttle me around, happy as a gnome, asking me to marry him and doing what is perhaps the most spot on and amazing impersonation of Bruno Tonioli you can imagine, which made me collapse into hysterics every single time. I didn’t know much about José, but his incessant marriage proposals aside, he seemed normal and fun, and I never really thought twice about hopping in a car with him, a virtual stranger. He worked for the casino--of course I trusted him. Then again, isn’t that how all Natalee Holloway mysteries begin?

One night, after winning a whopping $93.00 on a slot machine (a lot, since I had been betting only five cents at a time) and enjoying many a free cocktail, I sauntered outside to have José take me home. Now, before I go any further, as we’ve previously established, I get absurdly sick on any and all moving vehicles: I practically have to take a Dramamine before I get on the stationary bike. This horrible affliction, however, becomes much more prominent if I’ve been drinking. I could be totally sober, able to walk straight lines on the side of the road without a hitch, but throw me in the passenger seat of a car after even a single beer, and you’d think I just outdrank a defensive lineman eight times over. I’m sure you can already see where this is going.

That night, when I jumped in the front seat with José, he asked if I minded accompanying him on a couple pick-ups. “Sure!” I said. I mean, why not endure a few more marriage proposals? I could always use the ego boost. 

A “couple” pick-ups, however, turned into over an hour of driving down unpaved, twisty and turning roads in the middle of no where on the island. Feral dogs growled in the dark, hermit crabs crossed the streets like ducklings, and after only five minutes, I had my head hanging out the window like a dalmatian trying to get a suntan. We were fairly far from my own home, and until all the appropriate guests had been picked up and dropped off, I was held hostage in the casino van, turning all sorts of shades of green, clutching my stomach in nauseous agony. José kept making jokes, doing his Bruno impressions, and laying the compliments on as thick as peanut butter, totally oblivious to the fact that I was ready to hurl out my innards in their entirety. By the time we pulled into the parking lot of my family’s condo, I was gulping down vomit and trying my very best not ruin the interior of the van. I scramble out of the car, incapable of saying good-bye (let alone “Of course I’ll marry you!”) to a now heart-broken José, and sprinted to my own bathroom where I hugged the toilet seat for the next twenty minutes. 

Gosh, even when someone does pay attention to me, I just can’t seem to keep it together. Or down. Whatever the case may be.