I’m journaling in Roosevelt Park on my lunch break. It’s a gorgeous sunny day. Not too hot. Nice breeze. The kind of glorious January day that, not only makes all the inconveniences and absurdities of living in the Caribbean completely worth it, but also makes me feel closer to the divine. I thoroughly enjoy my time in the downtown park with its benches and palm trees and cobblestone paths. And I've even grown a bit fond of the fountain with the chipped paint that holds no water, but does display a collection of uninspired graffiti tags.
Unfortunately, it’s time to return to work. The afternoon tourist shift. Which always passes more slowly and with far less love and mirth than the morning local shift. I stand up and tilt my head back toward the sky to apply eye drops. The sun’s rays on my face feel delightful. While in this precarious position, I hear a voice on the path behind me.
“Ya need me put ‘em in fah you?”
I finish my task and don my shades before straightening up and turning around to see who talks to me.
“Nah, I good. Thanks though,” I say—blinking rapidly behind my sunglasses—to a dark-skinned man wearing a cap. I don’t recall seeing him before. I pick up my purse and start walking in the direction of the coffee shop.
“Wh’eh you goin?”
“Back to work.”
“Wh’eh you work?”
“R&J’s Island Latte’. On the waterfront. Next to Foot Locker.”
“Okay, okay. Yeah, I know dat place. Neva go deh but I know it. Know all de place on dis island.”
“Yeah? You from h’eh?”
“Nah. I bahn St. Kitts. But I live St. Thomas 25 years. I know dis place. It home.”
“Yeah. It’s home for me right now too.”
“I can walk you back?”
“Sure, if you want.” I shrug.
We pass the building that’s falling down. It sits between a well-kept law firm and a non-descript government agency. The sidewalk in front of the crumbling building is barricaded to keep pedestrians from getting hurt by falling debris. I walked by this dilapidated structure on the way from my car to work at least once a week for almost a year before I consciously noticed its miserable condition. I was in the government parking lot with Loida, and my eyes happened to settle on it from a couple city blocks away.
“Holy shit, Loida,” I said. “I never noticed how bad that building really is.”
“Oh, dat place been fallin’ down since I a kid. Usda be homeless people, crack-heads and shit, living in it but dey board it up now and da sidewalk block so people can’t hurt deyself.”
“I wonder why the owners have let it get so bad. It’s nice real estate”
“Me no know.”
The capped fellow and I’ve only been walking together for about 60 seconds, but he’s greeted all three people we’ve passed. And the person’s appearance apparently dictates his salutation. When we walk by a lady who looks Spanish (local nomenclature), he greets her with the appropriately flirtatious, “¿Hola, como esta, mi amor?”
Well, he’s certainly gregarious, I think.
“This island full ‘a colorful characters.” I say.
“Yeah, people all different color. White people. Black people. Brown people. Spanish people. Chinese people. All different kind ‘a people.”
“Yes, it’s very culturally diverse, which I love. But this place also just plain full ‘a characters, man.”
“You like characters?”
“Yeah, for some reason I seem to be drawn to crazies. Probably why I’m so attracted to St. Thomas.”
“You like to sleep wit black men?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“Cuz I like white gerls. I like all color gerl. White gerls. Black gerls. Yellow gerls. Red heads. All kind ‘a gerl.”
“I’m sure you do. I've got a man though. And contrary to popular practice here, I am monogamous.”
“That too bad, sweetie. I h’eh d’oh, if ya change ya mind.”
“You have a job?” I ask.
“I fix electrical ting.”
“You have an actual business? Like with a business license and a name and stuff like that?”
“Nah. I word ‘a mouth. Unda da table.”
“Ah, so you don pay taxes or wha?”
He laughs. “It work fah me, sweetie.”
We’re getting closer to the heart of downtown Charlotte Amalie—five blocks saturated with jewelry stores and teeming with tourists. It’s getting more difficult to walk two by two on the sidewalk. I’m starting my transition into tourist-dodge mode, realizing that I’m at risk of punching in late. I’m always at risk of punching in late. I walk ahead of my mate, although he remains just a couple paces behind me. I’m far more concerned with getting back to work than I am with continuing this conversation.
While I wait on the corner in front of Tanzenite International for the safari bus traffic to pass before crossing the street to the post office, I hear my friend behind me say what I’m pretty sure is, “Rosacea!” very loudly. That’s a weird thing to shout in public, I think. I turn around and see him standing in front of a Scandinavian-looking tourist. He’s standing very close to her, saying loudly in her face, “Rosacea!... Rosacea!” I take a closer look and, sure enough, her face does have the pink bumpy signs of the unfortunate skin disorder. She looks confused rather than offended.
Is he really saying this? I think. My god. Is this man crazy? Does he have Tourrette’s or something? Fuckin’ a, this island is full of strange people!
Then he grabs her hand and offers some pleasant mumbo jumbo about having a nice day in St. Thomas.
He catches up to me in front of the post office.
“Were you saying, ‘rosacea’ to that lady?” I ask him.
“Yeah.”
“Were you referring to her skin condition?”
“Yeah, dat what it call, right?”
“Right…but, dude, that’s really rude. I can’t believe you did that!”
He smiles.
“That’s like going up to someone and saying, ‘Big Pimple! Big Pimple!’ or ‘Lazy Eye! Lazy Eye!’”
He just keeps smiling and laughs.
“So you sure ya don wan have sex wit a black man?”
“I’m sure. I have a boyfriend who I’m very satisfied with, thank you.”
By this time we’re on Main Street, and it’s swarming with people wearing beach cover-ups and visors and tennis shoes. I notice him spot a couple of young attractive tourists, and he abruptly stops walking with me and greets the girls. Oop, I think, amused, he knows he’s not getting anywhere with me. And he’s done moved on.
I finish the walk back to work replaying the encounter in my head—taking stock to make sure I’m not dreaming or haven’t entered into a dimension where life is an offensive black comedy. But by the time I reach work, I’ve determined that this is, indeed, my real life.
