“Whatcha spwot?”
“Whatchaspwot?” What do I support? Huh. Good question. Is this political? Or is this about bras? I’ll think about it later.
She’s been sauntering up and down this crowded white-sand beach, back and forth and back and forth, selling $25 cigars to honeymooning men and foreign bankers here on convention. Her voice is very close now. Not roving, but directional. It’s a shift in surround sound, no longer a soundtrack in the background, but a pointed attack.
“Wat spwotchu play, ma-MA?”
A bit louder now. “Ya play socca, I betcha.”
I squint open my eyes. Who’s she talking to? Behind my sunglasses the sky is still so bright, so very bright. She stands above me, blocking out the sun, a two-dimensional silhouette, her halo is radiant and features undefined. But I know what she looks like. We all know what she looks like. She’s been pacing all morning singing her “Tiii-yme ta Git Smooook-an’” jiggle. She’s older than my mother, maybe 70-75? And twists her hips and knees along the fine, white sand like a 17-year-old dancer who’s missing her poodle skirt. She should’ve had a poodle skirt. Did they even do the poodle skirt craze in the Bahamas? She’da been there, for sure. She’s smaller than a size 0, if that’s even possible, and wears a long-sleeved dark brown shirt that matches her neck, face and hands so precisely, so perfectly that from far away she looks topless. We’ve all had to look twice – to make sure? To catch a glimpse? Her pants are men’s oversized beige Dickies with a tight brown belt. This might be the smallest pair of Dickies on the whole planet, and they’re still too big. Her hair is barber shop short and dyed blonde, unusual in New Providence with hair salons on every corner and miles of jet black wigs in every curl, sweep and wave.
Oh, she’s talking to me! Ops. I lean up, sit up, slowly, lazily, heavily. It’s 11:30am and I’m on champagne #6 – if you count that really big wine glass as just one. Which at this time, I am. Continue reading →
