Charlie Wrigley wrote this mid-morning:
Recently, on the first vacation I’ve taken in years, I met Eddie. We were booked to stay at an all-inclusive resort in Jamaica, and wanted to just relax and enjoy ourselves. What we got was that and much more. We got Eddie.
These resorts have excursions that you can schedule. For instance, they had a bicycle trip through the Blue Mountains. I have a mountain bike that I received as a gift two years ago that now has two flat tires from inactivity (Also I think the bicycle seat has an STD, just my superstition and my valid excuse for not using it). But, pedaling up a fucking mountain on vacation in ninety degree heat and ninety-nine percent humidity? Yes please (Read: no fucking way). There was another excursion that involved riding horseback through the tropical forests and into the water. No thanks. Horseback riding looks like it hurts. Especially for me, because I have huge balls. Now, a farm girl sucking off a horse, fine, that makes perfect sense to me. Or seeing a rich actor doing super steeple jumps, I’m there… with popcorn and Vaseline, in case I get an unexpected but wanted erection.
Excursion. What a bullshit word. The word excursion is a euphemism for keeping boring minds occupied. Hey idiot, quit staring at your ingrown toenail and come with us on a rockclimbing excursion! Hell yeah! Word on the street is that the Nazi’s used the ‘train ride’ excursion tactic sixty years ago. That was the shittiest of all excursions to be sure.
We decided to do no excursions. Instead we just wanted to lounge by the pool and drink frozen concoctions with not nearly enough rum.
But the third day we decided to book a fishing trip, which is different from an excursion because I said so. We booked it and paid a sum of our dirty money (the wife runs numbers) that we could have used to buy an acre on waterfront property in Jamaica, or coastal Mississippi. We’d have a few beers, throw out a line and catch us one of them pretty tropical fish that people take underwater pictures of in the coral reef. Then bash them over the head with a putter and sauté their lifeless colorless filets with mango butter and some coarse salt.
The next morning we arrived at the dock first. The boat was large and apparently seaworthy. Arriving next was Eddie and his wife. Eddie was from New York. Christ, four hours with an obnoxious New Yorker. Eddie was in his mid to late forties, shaved head accompanied by the obligatory goatee. He had bad teeth, was short, and he was round in the middle. His accent was thicker than an LPGA golfer’s wrasslin arm. He began to tell me of all the fish he had cuwaht, and how he has never got seasick and all about the history of the Yankees storied franchise. In my mind I was giving him a wedgie with a hot curling iron dipped in tobasco sauce.
Predictably, the Jamaican “crew” arrived last. The boat was to leave at 8:30. They got there at nine. Y’mon, irie. The barefooted crew; captain & first-mate helped us on board. Once we were off, the first mate informed us that we would be trolling. Trolling is when the boat moves at a slow speed with lures in the water, there is no casting involved. The first mate informed us that we must keep moving or this here boat goin’ down. Very choppy. Ten to fifteen-foot waves where we goin’. Yikes. Have a nice ice cold Red Stripe beer.
The human chum line of vomit was started by my wife and soon was accompanied by Eddie for the next four hours. Poor bastards. I almost lost my stomach about six times; the exhaust fumes from the awesome vessel didn’t help as I tried to breathe some fresh air.
The combination of the blistering sun, engine exhaust fumes, jerk chicken, rum and fifteen foot waves is a recipe for puking, and also my recipe for my tuna casserole surprise excursion.
My wife’s puke was an adorable orange. Eddie’s was demon green. Eddie was hunched over the back of the boat with a towel over his head reminiscent of a Turkish danish. I just fixed my eyes on a particular rod (the first-mate’s) and waited for the line to start screaming.
Nothing. Not one bite. Fucking first mate handed us a color illustrated booklet at the beginning of the trip of all the fish we might catch. Marlin, Yellow-fin Tuna, Hammerhead shark.We’re going to catch a shark? You might, he said with a suspicious smile. Not one bite. I’m not sure when we docked, but it wasn’t soon enough.
Eddie was embarrassed and upset. His wife handled the whole thing the best. She got her sea legs pretty early. I bet she has a waterbed. She looked like the waterbed type. We shook hands with Eddie and wife, not knowing if we would see them again.
On the walk back to the pool after the boat, I was tempted to grab a koi out of the little fountain pool and bite it’s fucking head off.
Later, as we were at the bar, I ran into Eddie again. His skin wasn’t green anymore but his teeth still were. We sat with Eddie and wife in the bar and talked about our awful fishing trip.
They had tons of excursions planned. Tons. They planned to swim with the dolphins the next day. Those pitiable creatures, I thought. He explained how great it was. You get to pet the dahlphins and then get on deir backs an dey take you for a ride. Den you grab two at a time by da dorsils and da two of dem dahlphins take you for a ride splashin around in da woodir. It’s great, ya gadda try it. The thought of those captive mammals that once swam freely and roamed nomadically wherever they damn well pleased now reduced to taking a fat little guy from the Bronx on a thrill ride was hilarious: Eddie grabbing two dolphins at a time! Except for the dolphins; it must suck for them.
Eddie had performed in the talent show the night before, which I’m sorry I missed. I didn’t ask what his talent was because it was much more fun to imagine what his talent may have been. Reading? Pantomime? Juggling three cans of tomato paste while sitting Indian-style on a rusty spike while telling racist jokes? Unfortunately I found out what Eddie’s talent was, because at the resort that night, it was karaoke night.
After dinner we stopped over to see some drunken people making fools of themselves at karaoke, which is always the case. Not there. People were actually really good. Eddie was the icing on the cake. I asked him if he was nervous before he “went on,” as he put it, and he had a look on his face similar to a veteran news anchor before another broadcast. Dis ain’t my first rodeo, kid. Shit right. He belted out ‘Hotel California’ better than Don Henley himself. I was worried and nervous for Eddie that he would not reach the bar set earlier by the Jamaican girl singing a Bob Marley anthem, or the older Sinatra impersonator. As Eddie made us wait for the long intro of the song, eight bars he informed me, I thought I caught a glimpse of jitters in his sway. But it wasn’t so. He belted that song out with all his heart. And when he botched a line from the song, we in the audience appreciated him even more because we realized he was karaoke-ing naked, free from the guidelines of the teleprompter with his eyes closed! I gave him a standing ovation, and let him know that with his talent he should have placed much higher than fifth the night before at the talent show.
I didn’t see Eddie again after that night. Like the one great teacher you have in your lifetime, Eddie taught me a many things about life. I learned about truth, and happiness. We discussed the great thinkers of our time and our mutual influences. And also, he taught me how to properly and platonically mount a dolphin when riding. As I was boarding the plane to leave Jamaica, I took a look back, and for an instant, thought I saw Eddie. I did a double-take, but upon further scrutiny realized that it wasn’t Eddie, but rather a very large black Jamaican lady and I think she was pregnant, with twins. I turned to my wife and said, “It’s not him honey. Let’s go. Let’s go home.”
Filed under: Today in Boston, True Stories
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