Richard DuBois - Last Resort

As my eyes adjust to the absence of light, I discern the shapes of the bungalows that line the beach. Tiny spots of light hover near the restaurant. Cigarette lighters. The people in the restaurant huddle around the small flames. I hear other guests emerging from their bungalow, stumbling in the darkness, and calling out in dismay over the power outage.

We ascend the restaurant steps to find Jonas Dunlap returning from the kitchen with a bundle of tiki torches and a large flashlight. “This should shed some light on the situation,” he lights the torches and passes them amongst his staff to disperse around the restaurant. He tries to use the flashlight but it does not turn on.

“That is odd,” Jonas empties and reinserts the batteries to no avail. “These batteries were not that old. Ah, well, now I know the meaning of the phrase when it rains, it pours .”

Jonas whispers instructions to the head of his wait staff, and then speaks to all those gathered in the restaurant. “I apologize for the inconvenience and assure you our back-up generator will be on momentarily. During this short wait for the electricity to return, I recommend you take advantage of our gracious staff and expert bartenders. If anyone wishes to return to their bungalow one of the staff will guide you, however I recommend remaining here until the lights come back on.”

“What the hell just happened?” Conner approaches the group with Alexandra and some other guests in tow. He wears the same dress shirt he wore earlier in the day, open to the waist, a white towel draped over his shoulders and his hair wet and slicked back. “I was in the middle of taking a shower and then it went black.”

“I am afraid we have temporarily lost power,” Jonas explains in a soothing tone designed to keep everyone calm.

“You’ve got bigger problems than that,” Conner asserts, his voice a little too loud. “There’s no water pressure.”

Jonas arches a questioning brow.

“Yeah, there’s no running water,” Conner says. “I couldn’t even finish my shower.”

“He still has the conditioner in his hair,” Alexandra volunteers to Conner’s annoyance.

One of the bartenders tests the faucet behind the bar. With a loud gurgle, water spurts out, but immediately dwindles to a trickle. With evident consternation, Jonas tents his fingers and touches them to his lips.

“I don’t see how this could be,” he muses aloud to no one in particular. “Unless the water plant also lost power, in which case the outage would be island wide.”

“I hope no one needs to use the loo,” one of the British guests gripes. Other guests mutter unhappily.

“Any water plant would have a back-up generator,” Bill advises. “The water pressure should be back soon. Call into town—to your sheriff, or whoever your authorities are. Let them know we’ve lost power.”

“Hmmm, yes,” Jonas agrees, his brows still wrinkled with concern. “In the meantime, let me check on our own generator. Please, everyone, order something from the bar while we make this inconvenience as brief as possible.”

The calypso band switches to acoustic guitars and steel drums to play again. A few stalwart couples make light of the disruption to their otherwise lovely evening and resume dancing.

Following his instructions, the staff encourages the throng of guests to take a seat at one of the tables so they can take our drink orders. Pamela and Bill beckon me to join them at their table. I begin to walk over to them and realize Gwen is not moving.

“You coming?” I ask.

“Go ahead,” she advises without looking at me, her tone flat and emotionless.

I leave her and sit with Pamela and Bill. A waiter comes for my drink order. The disorder from the power outage mirrors the confusion in my heart. It seems that nothing in this world works as it should—from the machines we build to the relationships we have to each other.

“A double shot of rum,” I say to the waiter.

Pamela guffaws and slaps my knee. “That’s the spirit. When life hands you an impossible situation, getting plastered is an excellent option.”

She only refers to the lack of electricity, but her advice is especially apt for me considering the shambles of my personal life. Bill and Pamela discuss the power outage; I am not paying attention. Gwen stands at the bar, making small talk with other guests, not looking my way. I am sorely tempted to head back to my room pleading some excuse—a headache, upset stomach, anything just to be alone again. Coming to this resort was a mistake. My marriage is over. It is obvious now. These past few months I deluded myself into thinking it could have any other outcome.

Emotions churn within me like a cyclone. Anger, sadness, doubt. I am even angry with myself. Gwen offers herself to me, willing to endure whatever she can to bring us back together, and I am the one unwilling or unable to get over what happened. No! I shake my head as though to cast out this unwanted thought. I was not the one who cheated. I should not feel guilty just because I am unable to forgive her infidelity. Besides, Gwen is not the woman I believed her to be, therefore our marriage was a fraud. Gwen might be comfortable continuing to live a lie; I am not.

And yet, if that is true, why don’t I just get up and leave? Why do I keep glancing at Gwen hoping to catch her eye—hoping she will leave the people gathered at the bar and come sit with me?

Amidst my turmoil, one thing is clear: It is going to be a long couple of days until I am home again. The thought of feigning happiness to the other couples for several days and then returning to my loveless bungalow with Gwen is unbearable to me.

The waiter returns with our drinks. Pamela clinks her martini glass to mine and jests, “No electricity. No running water. Tiki torches to ward off the darkness. However, I have an ice-cold martini that embodies the perfect balance of gin to vermouth. At least I’m roughing it in style.”

Across the room, I spot Jonas Dunlap conferring with Owen, the man who picked us up from the airport. At this distance, it is impossible to hear what they are saying to each other, but from Jonas’s grim expression and sharp hand gestures coupled with Owen’s bewildered expression, it is safe to assume the news is not good.

At a nearby table, a woman remarks that her cell phone is dead.

“But I just charged it,” she complains.

“Hey, mine is dead, too,” responds another.

A murmur ripples through the crowd as other guests check their phones. I stand up. Something is seriously wrong.

“Bill, check your watch,” I say.

“Why, this can’t be right,” he says. “It’s at least an hour off. It seems to have stopped. Is your watch working?”

“Mine is working, but it’s a wind-up,” I reply.

The guests mill about in confused, anxious groups, like children who lost their parents in the mall. I cross to the edge of the restaurant where the wooden deck ends and the beach begins. I lean against the rope that acts as a guardrail, squint and peer across the bay.

Bill is at my side. “What is it?”

“Look,” I point into the darkness.

“What am I looking for?”

“That’s just it. There should be a red flashing light on that island across the bay. That light has its own generator; it does not rely on a power supply from the mainland. The light isn’t flashing. It is gone.”

“So it is,” Bill exclaims. “What does this mean?”

I am about to venture a guess, but a commotion near the bar stops me.

“What is going on, Jonas?” A frustrated guest demands. Everyone moves to the bar to listen. “You said the back-up generator would be on by now. What did the authorities in town say?”

Jonas pauses. “Actually, our phone lines are also down. We have been unable to call them.”