Richard DuBois - Last Resort

I use the bucket to relieve myself. If Gwen suddenly returns at that moment and catches me squatting over a bucket, I will likely die of embarrassment. Now what to do with the contents of the bucket? Will someone from the staff collect it? God, no—that would be too humiliating. I cannot—with any dignity—hand someone a bucket of my piss and shit. I have to dispose of it myself. Outside, I scamper to the side of my bungalow, looking around to make sure no one is watching, and I dig a hole in the sand into which I dump my waste and bury it. I tromp down to the sea and wash the bucket out with seawater. On the way back, I spot one of the refined grand dames doing the same thing with obvious revulsion. This is going to make for some crazy stories when I get back home.

Left to my own devices I would stay alone in the bungalow all day, but hunger forces me out. I throw clean clothes on. My face is oily, my hair unkempt. If only I could take a hot shower. Maybe I will go for a swim in the pool later to wash some of the sweat away.

Along the way to the restaurant, I pass other guests all looking ragged at the edges. The elegant ladies have lost their perfect composure. Their hair is frizzy and their faces have a pinched, sour expression. Two elderly white men are heading in my direction. One of them wears a blindingly garish Hawaiian shirt and has a sizable potbelly. His face is ruddy from the heat. He walks with the aid of his companion who wears a straw hat and seems to take the power outage in stride. From the tender way they lean on one another it is obvious they are a couple.

“Isn’t this something?” the thinner and spryer of the pair remarks to me as I pass by. “Our trip to paradise has turned into such an ordeal.”

“This is awful. Simply awful,” his red-faced companion adds. “Hey, we heard you in the restaurant last night. You seem to know what you’re talking about. Better than that manager anyway—”

“Jonas is doing the best he can,” his friend amends.

The plump man is not convinced and gives a dismissive shrug. “You said something last night about an explosion—about the power never coming back on…”

“Yes, an E.M.P. blast. It’s a likely explanation for how we lost power on our watches, cell phones, and flashlights. No other explanation makes sense.”

“I’m Nelson, by the way,” the slender man says. “And this is Curtis.”

I introduce myself.

“So, Phillip, let’s say for the sake of argument that you are correct—that we’ve had this electric, magnetic blast thing,” Curtis ponders. “How long should we expect to endure living like cave men?”

I scratch my chin. “Well, if I am correct then power won’t return until emergency generators are flown in from outside the island.”

“I am so glad we purchased vacation insurance,” Nelson chuckles. “We came here to celebrate our anniversary, you see.”

“Twenty five years,” Curtis says.

“This was a big expense for us. We’re not so well off as a lot of the people who come here,” Nelson whispers.

I laugh, and with the same conspiratorial tone reply, “Don’t worry. I’m in the same boat as you. We maxed out our credit cards to come here.”

“You’re wife is lovely, by the way,” Curtis says.

“Yes, it’s good to see young couples in love,” Nelson agrees.

My only reply is a wan smile.

Curtis sniffs the air. “Mmmm, something smells good.”

It certainly does. We reach the restaurant, filled almost to capacity. Jonas stands before the grill with a few of his chefs preparing a feast of mammoth proportions. I spy Don leaning heavily on his cane but still managing to balance a platter crammed with food.

Don asks, “Hey, kid, how you holding up?”

“The lack of electricity doesn’t seem to have affected your appetite,” I chide.

“Man’s gotta eat.”

Out on the deck the chefs grill food that is wholly inappropriate for breakfast, including lobsters and a whole pig. The guests help themselves to the buffet of food and stack their dirty dishes on several tables at the back of the room buzzing with flies. There are no waiters to serve us or collect the used dishes.

“You gotta help yourself, kid. They’re short staffed,” Don explains. “Most of the staff walked back into town last night; half of them did not come back.”

“Then this is as I suspected. There are no working cars on the island.”

“Seems so. If you’re looking for Gwen she arrived an hour ago,” he nods to a long table where Gwen sits next to Conner and Alexandra.

I pile some French toast and tropical fruit on a plate and find a seat at the end of the table. Gwen does not acknowledge me. She listens with rapt attention to Conner blathering on about the New York City blackout in the 1970’s and all the mayhem that ensued. Alexandra notices me sitting by myself and seems about to call me over, but she glances at Gwen, looks back at me and remains silent. The other people at the table, a mixture of Americans and Brits culled from the younger ranks of the resort guests, wash their food down with beer chilled in a cooler filled with rapidly melting ice. Compared to the other tables filled with dour faced, anxious, elderly guests, my table has the raucous energy of a gang of gamblers and scalawags on a hell bound train. Decorum is cast aside. They laugh louder and drink more than is appropriate.

I have the unenviable seat next to the young Brit who mocked me the night before. His laugh is like a braying mule. His name is Robby and I know this because he constantly refers to himself in the third person, saying such things, as “Robby won’t stand for that” or “They didn’t count on Robby coming to town.” Between Robby and Conner, I cannot tell who is more pleased with himself. Robby’s girlfriend is a pear shaped woman; plain faced with an amiable though vapid expression, like something I have seen on livestock.

Robby hands me a beer. “Drink up, mate. No tee-totaling here.”

“Shouldn’t we be conserving our supplies?” I ask.

Conner slams his bottle onto the table, barks out a laugh and leans forward. “My friend, this liquor is about the only thing making a bad situation bearable. Don’t be such a Nervous Nelly.”

Giggles all around the table.

“But you don’t even know when the power will be returning,” I press. “We’re consuming in one day what could last us for weeks if properly rationed.”

“Good morning, Mr. Crane,” Jonas stand besides me. “Why are we cooking so much food at once, you ask? You have heard the phrase ‘waste not, want not’. Without refrigeration, we risk the food spoiling. Better to cook it all at once than lose it.”

“Yes, but the bottled drinks wouldn’t spoil,” I counter.

“No, but they’re getting warmer by the minute. Better cold in my gullet than warm in a bucket of melted ice,” Robby interjects to general agreement at the table.

My voice rises in frustration. “I know this island is small, but they’ve got to have some kind of police force. Hasn’t anyone come by to tell us what happened?”

“Mr. Crane, there is no need to upset yourself. We are expecting someone from the authorities to arrive shortly and provide answers to all your questions,” Jonas touches my shoulder, his words soothing but his eyes nervous. “In the meantime, we have everything under control. Granted, we are short staffed today and I must beg your patience, but the resort is still here to cater to you.”

Jonas leaves his hand on my shoulder. I sense that if I raise any other doubts he will throttle me. This situation is not under control. I realize what Jonas is doing. His mastery of the situation is tenuous. He plies the guests with food and liquor, stalling for time. I see at once that he hopes with all his might for the power to return soon and for order to return. The last thing he needs is me blurting out that our predicament may be much direr than we comprehend.