on the airplane, my husband befriends a guy from NJ with two sullen teenage boys. later, at the ferry, we meet them again, only this time the wife is there. she arrived a day early and has bought copious amounts of groceries now piled in a plastic wheelbarrow. she advises us to get a golf cart the instant we arrive on Hope Town.
and later, at the restaurant, at the Inn with no wifi and no food service except for drinks, the family shows up. i’ve had 2 stiff drinks and the teens are stoned. they’re grinding, grinding, grinding. i flash a peace sign at the boys mom. she was helpful with the golf cart. hypothetically. there are no golf carts available for rent on Hope Town, none. it’s Easter.
the island is overrun with wealthy americans who have descended on the island for family time. and family time includes amphetamines. one of the teenage boys is having a bad trip and steps outside the restaurant, onto the patio. when he returns he smoothes his bangs over his eyes repeatedly. so stoned, he runs into a pillar. i laugh and laugh and laugh.
the dining room is packed. it’s hot. we are waiting. the kitchen has stopped. no food, no food, no food. i spy a man in the kitchen scraping dishes; he’s scrupulously cleaning his station.
the wind blows and the full moon casts a rough shadow on the Atlantic.
a man smokes a cigar in the bar adjacent, and it’s too much. then the innkeeper, Thomas, introduces himself. he’s got a sore on his foot and it’s been dressed professionally; there are betadine shadows on gauze. it looks like diabetes.
we are all waiting. for what? all there is is this moment.