Wasted Years 1

I am transfixed by that one droplet of sea-water making its way down your arm. God, do you smell the fragrance of the ocean? Like a return to the basic stuff of life. Feeling primitive. Sun's going down and the sand is cooling off. Nature is backing away from the tropical heat of the day, but the warmth of your smile dispels the chill and your eyes smolder in the twilight.

My fishing boat bobs on the tide. Earlier, I had just smiled sadly when you asked me about her name. Maybe now you get it. Trim and clean she lies there "The Wasted Years"

"Put down your drink and come with me", you say, "there's more to life than the perfect Daiquiri".

Smiling you walk up the beach, the soft footing causing your perfect hips to sway in a way far more obvious than you would have liked. I watched in rapt appreciation, and tossed off the ambrosiac dregs of the Bacardi Daiquiri.

Turning to follow you, I cast a final glance at my cabin cruiser anchored off-shore. "The Wasted Years" I called her, but we both know the years have been far from wasted. Yes, we had both been committed to others and had loved only from afar, but the love we had shared had kept us both sane, or somewhat so. And, I thought, now here we are together, without any other between us. Oh but difficulties still remain, I remind myself. Soulmates through time, are we sentenced to never share our love – as lovers- in this lifetime? A cruel – but very possible fate.

But this was not a time for philosophical hypotheses. You were up ahead of me, your lovely form at one with the wild sub-tropical night. I felt unfamiliar stirrings deep inside, as I watched you swaying and shimmering in the failing light. Then- on a vagrant breeze, we both heard a snatch of deep throbbing rhythm and plaintive soaring wails – the unmistakable, irresistible soul of the islands, a steel drum band in the little bistro a few hundred yards away.

Suddenly the sultry woman disappeared and you became the eternal girl-child that is never far from your surface. I smiled and nodded and we turned toward the source of the music. Going through the door we found ourselves in a palm frond-bedecked room.

Larger than we had expected, the room had a low stage along the back wall and a rustic bar along one side. Lighting was by Tiki torches, and air conditioning was from the inside out, from the frozen drinks issuing from the bar. Tables were tree stumps of a size not grown on this island this century. Chairs were woven palm thatch on bamboo frames. Drinks were served by dark-skinned girls who would have turned every head in any room not also containing you.. And the band!

Well, this band was a collection of the most exuberant, talented, and gorgeous young men in all of South Florida. Every chest chiseled out of flawless mahogany and bare but for the beads, sharks teeth or flowered leis each one wore. Their white linen pants were skintight and ended at mid-calf. They wore no shoes, but each had an unusual shell anklet on his right leg.

The members of the band seemed to consider themselves guests as well as staff, as they were freely mixing with the clientele. As we entered, it seemed that every person, staff or guest, in the room greeted us. To another couple, it may have been disconcerting, but, with our gregariousness, it seemed quite natural. Indeed, it was as though these strangers knew us, and we were never allowed to feel strange or left out in any way.

A chestnut-skinned beauty led us to a table near the stage and left a basket of conch fritters and a bottle of Tabasco Sauce. As I looked at her admiringly, I felt your eyes appraising her also. Then our eyes met and we smiled, both finding pleasure in the girl's beauty. We had no time to discuss or think about the lovely hostess, because a booming voice filled the room like a clap of thunder.

"New friends! Hey everybody, we got new friends". She was bouncing toward us, a slightly overweight, but still handsome woman of indeterminate age, with long white hair flowing past her strong shoulders. Her smile was contagious and its brilliance illuminated the whole room. "New friends, come say hello to Mama!"

I rose to greet her, but she was sailing headlong to where you sat, smiling your dazzling welcome. You got to your feet just in time to be swept up into her arms and swirled around in an enthusiastic bear hug.

As you were being welcomed in this fashion, I took the moment to scrutinize our new acquaintance. Perhaps 50, I thought... or older... or younger, I had to admit. Dark skin, a Central American accent, beautiful bone structure, and, on the back of her neck, a startling tattoo of a monarch butterfly, in bright orange and shimmering silver. We would learn later that her name was Marcella; also that only "bill collectors and preachers" called her that. If you were her friend, she was "Mama". If you were not her friend, she was unavailable. We would learn that the tattoo on her left bicep, the backyard tat of a motorcycle was a tribute to a man who had presumed to consider himself the love of her life – a presumption like believing yourself to deserve all the rays of the sun. Perhaps he would still be around, had he not tattooed his own name, "Victor", beneath the motorcycle tattoo...and had he not occasionally taken the liberty of using the despised name, Marcella,. And now nothing remained of Victor in Mama's life – except the tattoo.

But, this knowledge came later, for we had already been designated as new friends, and deserving of all the perks that came with the title.

You would ask me later why she took to us as she did, but, had you been able to see your own beautiful smile as she approached us, you would understand. No power on heaven or earth could have failed to melt under that smile.

And. when she had thoroughly hugged and otherwise pummeled you, she made her imperial way to my side of the table. She stopped, gazed deeply into my eyes and said, "Oh, senor, do you not know the pain you invite upon yourself?" But, instantly, her smile returned and she answered her own question. "But of course you do, and it's worth every minute. You will both be Mama's special friends".

The rest of the evening was a blur of sensations. Some were visual- the gorgeous drummers, who were also accomplished singers of Panamanian and other Latin American songs, and dancers of amazing sensuality and grace, combined with the athleticism of world-class gymnasts.

The beautiful hostess/waitresses, who would also dance for us, and who were as arousing as they were innocent.

The colors of the banners and flowers and candles and...well, just the entire panoply of color and movement that mesmerized us, as we enjoyed a night like no other. Mama would not hear of us ordering from the menu. Imperiously, she vetoed my Bacardi Cocktail and your frozen strawberry and Passion Fruit Daiquiri. In their place, she decreed that we would have "Straitjackets". We exchanged a glance that said, "WTF?" as clearly as if we had spoken. Then I leaned toward you and said, "Of course, we need strait jackets. Why else would we be here, and even more, why would we think we should be together?"

Your hearty laugh reassured Mama and the drinks were on their way. She would not hear that we didn't want to eat. She chided us, that we had not finished the fritters, which, admittedly were the best I had ever eaten. As we enjoyed the crispy treats, with the chewy succulent conch meat, the bite of garlic and the sweetness of red onion, and washed it down with the tall, icy amber drinks, she chased everyone else away from our table and leaned in close. In conspiratorial tones she announced that there could only be one entree for such an important night, and she would see to it herself. She answered all our questions with her smiles and her gentle caresses, bestowed on us both, and then moved away toward the kitchen. You shook your head as she left us.

"What was all that?" I laughed, and admitted I really did not know.

"Somehow she felt that my love for you is hopeless, Her first reaction when she looked at me was overwhelming ...I don't want to say pity, because I can't admit that. Let's call it sympathy."

Of course, you started to protest, but I shushed you with a smile. "Drink up", I suggested.

Indicating the tall drink you asked, "What the hell is it?"

"Can't say for sure, but I've placed a couple of the obvious ingredients. That licorice taste is absinthe, the juices are Passion Fruit, mango and guava, along with the usual pineapple. Based on everything else around here, I have to guess there is rum."

Tinkling laughter greeted this, and out beautiful waitress said approvingly, "Good job, Mister. You came real close".

You took another sip and said, "I taste coconut, very faintly. Is there coconut rum?"

Her eyes lit up and her teeth shone in a most breathtaking-and oddly familiar- smile. "Just right, Miss. Everything Mister said, except the rum is coconut Bacardi." She smiled again and this time I saw it.

"Marissa, are you related to Mama?" I asked.

"Sure , Mister, she's my Mama", and swishing her lovely hips, she was gone, leaving two more of the tall concoctions. Perhaps Victor had left another trace of himself in Mama's life after all..

I suggested to you that we kind of take it easy on the drinks, causing you to snicker, because God knows you knew how to handle your alcohol.

"No", I cautioned. It's not about the alcohol, it's about the absinthe and the thujone. That's the ingredient that made absinthe the first and probably best date rape drug in history".

"But I thought they banned that stuff years ago".

"Yes, they did, in the US," I said, but this doesn't taste like the American stuff. Just be careful is all I'm saying."

Dinner came and, as I suspected, Mama had little regard for ordinary laws or limits. Nestled in the middle of the platters, surrounded by black beans and rice, fried plantains, and a delicate shrimp salad, was a sizzling steak, cut thin –no more than four ounces. And I suddenly knew that I was about to eat a turtle steak for the first time in half a century, since the taking of the ocean giants had become illegal.

Thirty minutes later, plates empty and stomachs full, we were finishing the last drops of our third round of drinks. I knew that I was feeling a bit otherworldly, and your eyes told me the absinthe was affecting you also. Memories and impressions of the next few hours are indistinct, to say the very least. I recall the lovely Marissa snuggling close to my chest, while sitting on my lap, and I recall some long suppressed feelings as she did.

I saw you dancing with one, then several of the gorgeous boy-men; noticing that a light sheen of perspiration caused you to shine in the torchlight as you danced. The dancing musicians had rubbed their bodies with oil, so that they also shone and their dark skin sparkled as they moved sinuously with you I also remember your clear alto, harmonizing with them on some Panamanian song they were teaching you.

I remember one thing most clearly though, and that was you smilingly easing Marissa out of her perch and kissing me gently, as you pulled on my arm, guiding me to my feet. I remember that dance, holding you so closely and kissing that perfect curve of your neck, and I will always remember the bittersweet taste of that dance, that embrace, those kisses.

We left the bistro together amidst hugs, kisses and raucous jokes from all the happy staff concerning the absinthe-fueled gymnastics they imagined lay in our immediate future.

I do not remember a lot about our brief walk back to the rented cabin, but I do remember lying with you in the enormous hammock and toying absently with your hair, as we both fell asleep under the incomparable Key West moon.