Jamaican Wedding Part I

Our plane touched down in Montego Bay Airport and I looked across the aisle at the Captain who was oblivious to the fact that aircraft was no longer in the air. He finished pouring a mini bottle of Jack Daniels into a plastic cup of Coke and then downed the concoction in one lighting fast shot. He smiled his crooked smile and drooled onto the collar of his linen shirt which was stained with bacon grease, cigarette ashes and something pink. He said something under his breath that to the casual observer probably sounded like, “There’s something in my ear” but in reality he had said, “I need to get a beer.” You see he was neck deep in a bender that had started at 7:30 AM at the airport in Philadelphia that morning and since then his only sustenance-- other than a plate full of dry bacon he’d inhaled at the airport bar--had been booze and nicotine.

I leaned across the aisle and whispered to him so he wouldn’t get jumpy and freak out like he’d done in Cancun several years earlier and landed us in jail for three days until I convinced officials he was a mental patient I’d been transporting for medical research. “Now, I want you to remain calm. What I’m going to tell you isn’t something that you don’t need to react to. The fact is that we’ve landed.”

The Captain looked out the window and tried to focus but it was obvious he couldn’t tell whether the cement outside his window was actually cloud cover or in fact part of the airport runway. He turned back to me, his eyes wild, his mouth agape, his bad eye drooping badly. I fished in my carry on for a few tranquilizers and handed them to him. He swallowed them and burped. The hair of the women in the seat in front of him blew to the side and a moment later she gagged. I thought she might puke but she did a nice job of collecting herself and all seemed to be well.

We’d come to Jamaica for the wedding of our good friend DB. There were two dozen others who had made the trip on United Airlines flight 720 to attend the joyous event, none of whom were aware of the depths to which the Captain and I could sink (other than DB) nor the exact constructs of our collective depravity. I knew no matter how hard we tried something would go awry. For starters the Captain was the best man in the wedding and his sole job was to keep track of the wedding rings. For safekeeping on the flight he had placed them in a plastic baggy with his stash of drugs and…well, you can figure out the rest.

* * *

The airport at Montego Bay was a shyster’s paradise, a third world carnival where all the games were rigged for those that stood behind the cut-out booths. In our first five minutes there I must have tipped twelve people for openning doors and directing us down stairs. The Captain and I found the place charming in a Las Vegas sort of way and downed several Red Stripe beers as we made our way to the Chance Travel counter.

We were met by a bald man in a ridiculously small white uniform that had been stained brown with sweat. He scooped my bag up and tossed it on his cart. “You go to Sunset Beach, mon?” he asked.

I nodded. “Uh, right, mon?”

I didn’t like other people handling my bags, hadn’t trusted them to the hands of another since all my luggage was stolen by a band of thieving thirteen year olds in the airport in Senegal, Africa. Try wearing one pair of underwear in 115 degree heat for two weeks. You seldom get invited back to someone’s hut for an after hours cup of palm wine. Of course the Captain only ever traveled with 2 pairs of underwear and this trip was no exception. He carried all his clothing in a carryon knapsack the size of circus midget’s change purse-- one pairs of clean underwear, a pair of khaki pants, a button down shirt, Speedos, toothbrush and tanning accelerator. Changing clothes wasn’t something he did often nor out of necessity, it was something he did when the layer he was wearing began to rot away from his flesh.

* * *

We arrived at the Sunset Beach Resort & Spa sometime around two o’clock and before I could even get out of my seat the Captain was up and off the bus and running towards the open air lobby. Of course I had to tip the driver the Captains share because he was already chasing after him when I stuffed a $10 into his hand and explained that the Captain was in no condition to tip.

“I see the Captain is scoping out the lobby bar,” DB said.

I turned and DB and his fiancée Summer were standing behind me waiting to get off the bus. “He has his priorities. None of which will make sense to the sane but just the same he knows what he wants and he knows where to find it.”

“Uh, right,” DB said.

In the lobby of the resort there were many chairs and tables and a bar that was filled with every liquor imaginable. The Captain surveyed the lobby of the resort, eyeing up the bar and the restrooms. He licked his finger and held it up in the air as if testing which way the wind was blowing.

“What the Hell are you doing?” I asked. “You need to check in.”

“Finding the optimal area to plant myself, it must be directly between the toilets and the bar so I don’t lose time when I go to do one or the other. He dropped his backpack and fell into a large flower print chair. “I’m home. I plan only to leave this chair for defecation, food and the wedding.”

“Where will you change?”

“I’ll put my Khakis on over this outfit.”

Claude, a large half German, half Irish and half English behemoth who was also in the wedding party laid a hand on my shoulder. “Isn’t he going to check in?”

“No, he’s going to drink and perhaps procure some smokeables…any time you need the Captain he’ll be sitting in that exact same spot. You can count on it.”

Someone turned on a sound system and out of the corner of my eye I could see DB doing the Mic Jagger chicken dance, a habit I’d tried to break him of many times. He was holding two bottles of Red Stripe and if I wasn’t mistaken there was a big fat joint resting between his lips.

“What a fucking idiot.”

I turned as did Claude and the Captain.

Sitting in a chair nearby was some laughable meat head in a tiny pair of glittering gold Euroshorts and a half net T-shirt. On the deltoid muscle of his right arm was a tattoo that said: Macho Man. He leaned forward, putting his hand on his chunky girlfriend’s thigh. “Look at that guy dance.”

Suddenly the Captain burst from the very chair he had vowed not to leave. “That idiot is my friend.”

Macho Man turned and looked at the Captain as if he were crazy because well, he was crazy. His plump girlfriend shifted her large rump on the couch and waves of cellulite jiggled in the tropical sunlight.

The Captain jumped on a coffee table and waved his beer bottle in the air like a saber. “That’s right…” His voice faded off and to all those present it appeared that the Captain had lost his train of thought or perhaps simply his mind but I knew better. I knew this was just the calm before the storm, that inside his head there was a terrible demon coming around the roller coaster bend, that without warning he might suddenly leap off the table like a rabid lemming and bite Mach Man’s calf muscle, leaving a nasty infection. It was time for me to intervene.

I picked the Captain up off the table and hustled him towards the elevator. He wouldn’t be happy about being moved out of his prime drinking seat but at least he wouldn’t be in a Jamaican jail in the morning.

“I’m going to kill you,” Macho Man yelled after us.

“Goddamn cocksucker,” I yelled back.

* * *

The next morning DB called to tell me that he had a wonderful view of the ocean from his room that was only marred by Macho Man on the beach doing pushups on his knuckles while his fat girlfriend sat on his back knitting what looked like another pair of tiny Euroshorts.

“The Europeans think knuckle pushups are some sort of anti-aging remedy. I think Winston Churhill used to do them while sipping gin from a Krazy Straw. You’d be best not to step in his path when he’s exerting himself in such a manner.”

“I consider myself warned,” DB said. “Are you guys ready to go on the booze cruise?”

“I can only speak for myself. The Captain hasn’t yet arisen and it might be some time before I can get him off the balcony. He insisted on sleeping out there in case there was a fire.”

“Just get him up and get him moving before he realizes what’s going on. He’ll be pissed if he becomes too conscious and finds we’ve moved him from his drinking chair in the lobby.”

“Right,” I said.

* * *

We took a bus to downtown Montego Bay for our catamaran excursion. The brochure promised us sailing, snorkeling, booze and a stop over at Margaritaville. I was new to snorkeling and having seen quite a few tabloid television shows in the last few years highlight shark attacks I thought it prudent that I pack a diving knife and spear gun. Of course these items in the hands of an untrained and drunken individual could be very dangerous and I was just such an individual.

As we boarded the catamaran I noticed a most disturbing site. Sitting on the bow of the boat like he owned it was none other than our new arch nemesis Macho Man. He was drinking from a giant 42 ounce energy drink and was still wearing the disturbing gold Euroshorts which prominently displayed his package. His girlfriend was sprawled out beneath him on the deck wearing a new neon thong. I quickly ducked down below to the lower deck where the bar was. The sight of them was killing my buzz.

The Captain and DB were already at the bar and so I walked over to join them.

“What do you mean I can’t have a drink until after we’re done snorkeling?” the Captain said.

The woman behind the bar smiled. “I’m sorry, mon, no drinking until you’re done snorkeling. Those are the rules.”

The Captain stalked off to the stern of the boat and threw himself down on a bench.

“Good start,” DB said.

“Right,” I said.

We cruised in the ocean for fifteen or twenty minutes until we came to a white buoy and then we came to a stop.

The director of the boat came to the bow and motioned Macho Man away. Macho Man grunted his disapproval and started towards the stern of the catamaran and then our eyes locked. There was instant hatred rose between us like a toxic fog. Yes, I feared for my life and whether this was merely paranoia brought on by the copious amounts of marijuana I’d smoked that morning or true animosity mattered little at that point for what really mattered was that I BELIEVED Macho Man was out to get me and I would do anything to protect myself.

The director of the boat took off his sunglasses and began to speak. “Each of you will take a pair of flippers, a mask and a snorkel. Please do not spit in the mask to defog it. We consider this disgusting. Ha ha. And do not venture far from the boat or we will leave you out here…just kidding. Have a good time and be careful.”

Macho Man and his woman were the first to scoop up flippers, snorkels and masks, knocking several children aside as they did so. I thought it a good idea that they get in the water first in case there were any hungry sharks lingering around the boat.

The Captain got his gear and as he was pitting on his second flipper he fell overboard. DB and I looked over the side of the boat and somehow the Captain came to the surface holding a bottle of Red Stripe.

“I don’t want to know where he was hiding that,” DB said.

When it came my turn to get into the water the attendant at the ladder looked curiously at the knapsack on my back.

“It will be hard to swim with that on your back, mon,” he said. “Leave it here. It will be safe on the boat.”

“Right, but it has to be done. This knapsack contains an external pace maker. It works through magnetic receptors planted in my chest. I can’t be more than ten feet away from this knapsack at any time or my heart will stop.”

I didn’t wait for a response but hopped into the water and began to swim out into the sea. The knapsack nearly pulled my down at first but once I was far enough away from the boat--where no one could see me--I took out my diving knife and strapped it to my ankle and hung the spear gun over my shoulder by its strap. No, shark was going to bite my leg off.

I have to say that at first I really enjoyed the snorkeling. The fish and other sea creatures were beautiful and in the tranquil water I found a calm that I hadn’t known in my life in the States unless I was drunk and high…well, yes I was drunk and high most of the time but you get my point. I thought if I could breathe under water that I might never go back again but this notion was short lived for moments later a hideous creature crossed my path. Yes, it was Macho Man and he was coming right at me in his horrifying gold Euroshorts.

I panicked and reach for my spear gun and when I did I accidentally pulled the trigger. It occurred to me at that moment that my life was now over that I had most likely just killed a man with a spear gun and would spend the rest of my days rotting in a Jamaican jail. I took the snorkel out of my mouth and began to sink. Suicide seemed like the only logic solution at this point. As I continued to sink I opened my eyes and as they focused I saw Macho Man above me. I looked for the spear in his stomach but it wasn’t there and for some strange reason he was completely naked except for his flippers.

I began to swim for the surface and as I did Macho Man began to swim after me. I swam as fast as I could towards the boat. I was sure he would catch me but as we neared the boat he stopped. Obviously he didn’t want to get up on the boat naked after swimming. His unit would have been shriveled up like the bacon the Captain at the previous morning in the airport in Philadelphia.

As I drew closer to the boat I discovered what had happened to Macho Man’s gold Euroshorts. They were pinned up against the side of the boat with the spear from my spear gun. Evidently the spear had ripped his shorts off.

As I began to climb the ladder I saw DB on deck drinking a Red Stripe and doing the Mic Jagger chicken dance to a Bob Marley song. We would have to come up with a plan to keep Macho Man from going to the authorities...