Island Songs

There is an island, in a calm blue sea, where the beaches are white and it's warm all year long. The trees of the inland jungles provide shade, sustenance, and shelter; the seas provide everything else. Walking the trails, the sandy routes, and the roads, it's hard not to taste citrus, fresh seafood, and rum. In the south of the island, sits a shack with a history.

The shack was built in the late 1970s by a local. It has a window, a stable door he found on the beach days before- and that inspired the construction project- a cistern on the tin roof, and a small wood stove. The man, called Coconut Bobby by most people, lived in the shack for eight years before he vanished one day. The story is that he was taken by the sea for being so glum all the time; but, in reality, he probably moved to Canada like he always said he would.

It had been a particularly hot week, and Coconut Bobby was doing a project for a local European transplant. It was landscaping in the heat and the sun, but Coconut got paid enough to have a pocket full of dollars and a hand full of rum. Coconut's job was clearing trees and underbrush, then laying sod that had been shipped in from other islands. After a long week in the hot, Coconut was in need of some relief.

Terry's Bongo Bungaloo was an ironically named shed- barely bigger than Coconut's- cum bar; and after a quick swim to wash off the day's sweat, Coconut made his way to the popular local spot. The night started off well, with some fresh fish local beers and liquers; and steadily got worse. As the booze flowed, the care free celebration of another week finished faded, and became, to Coconut, more and more a bunch of people trying desperately to forget that it was all still there, nothing different, to be done again the next week.

Coconut often helped Terry shutter up the Bungaloo at the end of the night, and that Friday was no different than most, in that respect. Terry, though, had noticed Coconut's dour mood and the steady downward trend in his friend's expression throughout the night. Once it was quiet, and the pressing demand of paying customers had mostly subsided, Terry asked Coconut what was wrong.

"It's the same old thing," lamented Coconut Bobby. "Every week, we work int he sun, sweat in the sand, and at the end we come here and act like that was the end. Then, come Monday, it all starts again. Tomorrow, Maria will knock on my stable door and ask if I want to go for a swim and lunch. We'll have a good time, until she has to leave for work. Then I won't see her again until Wednesday, when she comes by for a quick romp after work. Sunday, Mrs. Baker will pop by after church and ask why I wasn't there, I'll see some of the Rastas and they'll take their turn preaching at me, and if I need to goto the store I'll be prayed for by an old rich white woman who thinks my 'eternal soul is in peril'." He sighed, drank his beer, and dragged on his cigarette. "And Monday it all starts again." He shook his head, sad and weary.

Terry told Coconut it was that way every where, every when. "Different places, different faces, same ol' game. Always and forever." He asked why Coconut was thinking about that, now.

"The heat. Every day, sunny, warm, hot, a breif shower, or a few days of rain, warm into the night, cool while you sleep, then the same thing again and again. I can't even take the time to love Maria because it gets too sticky, it's always already too hot, and I'm exhausted from the heat by the time we're done with our little sprints, anyway." He shook his head, that same sad and weary gesture. "Too hot, man."

"Where would jah go?"

"Canada, man. They have seasons there. It snows. At least the weather would change." Coconut stood, and took in the island. The salt smell of breakers from the nearby beach, the taste of saltwater in the air, the fading odors of lemon and shellfish from Terry's last batch of shrimp. His belly was full, but not cumbersomely so, there was a warm, fuzzy, enjoyable glow about his experiences- obviously due to drink. It was paradise, he'd been told that by everyone all his life; and he was fed up with it.

The next day, Coconut wasn't there when Maria stopped by; nor was he there the day after when Mrs. Baker came calling. The shack sat empty for a month before a new soul filled its vacancy. That, however, is a story for a different time. Tonight, though, on the island in the calm sea, with music wafting lightly on the salted air, the lemon and seafood fragrance making the rum and the beer taste better, and each causing the other to flow more free, there is still a shack in the south; and in a better world, there's a happy Coconut Bobby freezing in the Canadian winter.