Abandon My Sinking Ship

Chapter 1

Pearl

The bar area isn’t busy yet, only a few customers. I shift on the barstool once again as the waitress fails to correctly repeat my dinner order. She has attempted to reiterate it twice, and each time she forgets to include or exclude something. At this rate, I won’t get my meal until tomorrow. I look toward my beach bag on the barstool to my right, trying to hide the frustration on my face. I’m always concerned about someone messing with my food before I get it if I show disappointment or irritation with the waitstaff’s ability. I would really prefer that she stop trying to remember my order and simply write it on a piece of paper.

I’ve always been a picky eater, according to my parents. My dad never showed his frustration with my special orders as much as my mom did during our meals. But then, she did all the cooking. My brother ate everything that was placed in front of him. As the only girl and the apple of my dad’s eye, his comments of disappointment were few. My mom attempted to change my habits after a childhood eating fiasco that stretched to three days, until my grandmother intervened. My mom gave up on the need to change me and began cooking a bland meal for me along with the regular meal for the rest of the family each day.

Sometimes it’s easier to tell the waitress what I want on my burger than what I don’t want. Burgers have become a work of art. Every chef wants to put their spin on this dish with special sauces or overload it with unnecessary additions. How do you enjoy the burger when you can’t taste it? I turn my attention back to the waitress.

The guy sitting to my left is staring at me. I can sense his eyes burning through the side of my face. I wonder if I should just hold up the menu to block his gaze. Or maybe I just think he’s staring at me. I slowly turn my head to view him through my peripheral vision. Yep, he’s staring. The waitress gets it right this time. Thank goodness. I’ll see if she completely understood when my meal arrives.

I scan the other patrons. A few years ago, I began sitting at the bar instead of a table. It doesn’t make me feel as lonely because I’m joined by other single people. However, I’m sure some sit at the bar to be closer to the booze and the bartender. Just then, my frozen Bahama Mama is placed in front of me. I take a long exhilarating sip and smile to myself as the drink cools my body.

I turn toward my beach bag to look for my Kindle. My glasses are sitting on the bar. I smooth out my yellow sleeveless dress as I search. I locate my Kindle among the other items and return my towel to the top of the bag to cover everything.

The guy to my left clears his throat. “You’re a Michelin chef’s nightmare,” he states matter-of-factly without any hesitation.

Why does he feel obligated to speak to me? Maybe if I act like I didn’t hear him, he’ll get the hint that I don’t care because I didn’t solicit his opinion. I remove my Kindle from its protective sleeve.

“Do you always order your meals so—” he stops and waves his hands in the air—“bland?” he spits out.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly while counting to ten. This time, I just can’t hold my tongue. He is two seats from me, and I am sure he can find another woman to annoy this evening. I turn toward him. “Are you speaking to me?” I calmly ask without any emotion in my voice as I meet his eyes.

“Did you know that you’re a Michelin chef’s nightmare?” he says again.

“This is not a Michelin star restaurant.” I refuse to give him my attention. I place my glasses on my face and turn on my Kindle.

“Have you ever been to a Michelin star restaurant?” he continues, even though he knows I’m trying to ignore him.

This time the obnoxious guy takes a sip from his glass and repositions his knees toward me. I try not to look at his man gap. It’s as if men believe they need to spread their legs so far apart to let their balls and cock have a view. I am not inviting any socialization from this guy or his man gap. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a designer polo shirt; his ship medallion is on his wrist. I wonder how many drinks he’s had between the ship bar and this bar. I can smell the whiskey on his breath as he speaks.

“I wonder if the chef would ask you to leave.” The stranger gives a combination laugh and grunt. “I mean if we were at a Michelin star restaurant,” he clarifies.

I don’t need to deal with this. I don’t want to deal with this. Why is this guy annoying me? I’m trying to be nice. What can I say to get him to leave me alone? Yes, I sit at the bar because it makes me feel better than sitting at a table looking at the empty chairs while I eat. I can’t help the fact that I’m by myself. I wouldn’t be if . . . I had not planned to ever be alone, but my husband—now ex-husband—decided that married life was not what he wanted any longer. Correction, married life with me was not what he wanted. How does true love die? If it dies, was it really true love?

Twelve years I have been in limbo. Twelve years I have worried that I’ll never be what a guy wants long term. My breasts are not as perky as they were in my thirties and forties. My curves are just a little more plush.

Unfortunately, I’m going to need to use my tried-and-true statement. The words finally form. “I’m married, sir, and I promised my husband that I wouldn’t speak to strangers.” Then I flash the wedding band I wear on occasions like this to keep the fools away. “He’ll arrive soon.” I point to my beach bag. “I’m saving this seat for him.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for being disrespectful.” He repositions his body toward the bar, once again looking over his shoulder in the opposite direction. At least this whiskey-drinking, obnoxiously rude dude is polite and does not continue to make a pass at a married woman. I should have started with the married story from the beginning.

I always hate to go there with that excuse, but I didn’t know what else to do this time. I look at my beautiful diamond wedding band of fifteen years. I would never have thought I would have one this lovely and expensive. We’d eloped and had only plain silver bands for the first four years due to finances. We were in love, and I thought that nothing would ever shake that commitment. Not even when we found out that I could not carry a child to term. He later insisted that my educational pursuits were the reason I couldn’t have a baby. We stopped trying and life got busy, or maybe fate decided for us.

The rude guy is paying the bartender. I watch him through my peripheral vision; he’s not making eye contact with me. He moves toward a few thin blonde women on the other side of the bar area. He must be attempting to be charming because they giggle. I shift slightly in my seat to get a good look at them. He takes the hand of the taller blonde and heads to the dance floor that is located between the bar and the restaurant’s entrance.

The music is why I chose this bar to dine in tonight. I’ve been in Aruba for the past seven weeks. This was my pick for the year. Each year I select a place to enjoy ten weeks of sun, fun, and beach time. I house swap with someone who wants to visit South Orange, New Jersey. Close to New York City is how I market my home. Enjoy suburban life with a train ride into the Big Apple, local restaurants, and nearby attractions. This year I have a bungalow in Aruba that is walking distance from the beach and restaurants. I chose this place tonight because I wanted to mingle with a few Americans. When the cruise ships enter port, many of the bars will play R&B, smooth jazz, or the oldies to pull in the visitors. I’m being a tourist tonight. The annoying guy happens to be from one of the cruise ships that are docked this evening. I’m sure he probably acts the same way with the women on board as well.

A curl escapes my loose puff bun and falls on the back of my neck. The temperature has been perfect, and my hair is absorbing all the humidity. I pat my pocket to locate a colorful bobby pin to keep my curls from springing to life. It has a little yellow butterfly on it, which matches my beautiful sunshine yellow dress with a flared bottom. I also wore my comfortable strappy sandals that are great for dancing. I might get lucky and find someone who wants to dance. This is always good because I know the cruise ships are here for only one or two days, depending on their itinerary. This means if I meet a guy, the long-term commitment is limited. I sway to the R&B music while sipping my Bahama Mama.

I turn to look at the obnoxious guy dancing with the blonde, who is now rubbing her nonexistent butt against his crotch. I guess someone is going to get laid tonight. I’ll spend my night with Spicy. I hope I remembered to charge it. The obnoxious guy has some nice dance moves. Many white guys are stiff, which also means they’re clumsy in bed. The blonde might really get a treat from him as long as he’s not drunk before she gets lucky. I tap my foot to the music. I love dancing. My ex-husband didn’t, but on rare occasions he would slow dance with me.

My food finally arrives. It smells great without any extra sauces or gravies. Although I was given coleslaw in a cup that I didn’t want. At least it wasn’t placed on my plate to contaminate the rest of my food. I quickly remove the cup and set it about a foot to the right of my plate. Not that it will jump onto any of my food, but never say never. I am not one to waste, but some restaurants feel so obligated to give me sauces, gravies, coleslaw, or condiments, and I don’t eat those things. I used to tease my parents about torturing me as a toddler with these types of foods so that I refuse to consume any of those items now. There is a shockingly long list of things I do not eat. I believe that my taste buds did not develop. I also believe that cooks use sauces, gravies, and condiments to hide the actual food. To answer the annoying guy’s question, yes, I am a Michelin chef’s nightmare.

I remember my first time in Paris. All I wanted was to sit at a restaurant and stare at the Eiffel Tower with the other locals and tourists of Paris while having dinner, which is extremely late in the evening compared to the US. I wanted cheese on my entrée. Of course, I could not get a simple white cheese; it was a mixture of blue cheese and something else. I wanted to know the names of the cheeses, but my French is not the best. After two attempts the waiter returned with my entrée and loudly announced, “Non fromage pour toi!” I quickly understood that I had been forbidden to get cheese on my entrée. A few other mumblings occurred, but I would have needed someone to translate for me. I did not return to that restaurant for the rest of my stay in Paris. I ran into a few tourists from that same night who stated they had similar experiences at other restaurants. These have always been my eating habits, and I couldn’t change simply because I was in Paris.

The shift in music to a slow Barry White melody brings me back to my current location in Aruba with the food and drink in front of me. The couples on the dance floor move closer, and many more join them. I continue enjoying my dinner and my Bahama Mama. The stress from dealing with the annoying stranger has dissipated. The restaurant is getting crowded, and more people are gathering in the bar area. I move my beach bag and place it on the floor in front of my feet. It would be rude to have it take up a seat during a busy time.

The atmosphere is great this evening with the music selection. A few minutes later, a woman sits next to me and says hello. I greet her with a closed-lip smile and a nod, since my mouth is full. She peruses the menu that sits on the bar countertop. When my mouth is empty, she says, “How is your meal? It looks great.”

“It tastes as good as it looks.”

The bartender returns with her drink.

“I’ll take the same as her.” She motions to my plate. The bartender recites the sauces and sides that are also available. This woman welcomes it all.

I wish I could eat everything. I love a good meal presentation. I used to enjoy watching my ex-husband order and eat the most mouthwatering entrées. I just can’t do it.

“My name is Seleste,” my neighbor says as she extends her hand. “That’s Seleste with an S.”

I wipe my hands. “I’m Pearl. Pleased to meet you.”

“Are you on the cruise ship?” Seleste asks.

“No. I’m living on the island for a few more weeks.”

“I’m at the Marina Hotel near the beach closer to the Noord area. This is my first time anywhere.”

“Really?” I hear the surprise in my voice and hope I didn’t embarrass Seleste with my comment. She isn’t as old as I am, but she has a few years on her. I have more gray hair than black now, but I refuse to dye it. Seleste has a few grays, but her blunt cut is very becoming. Her smile matches her curves, which are bold and beautiful. And her medium-brown skin is a combination of sun and a gorgeous blessing from God. I’ve always been horrible at identifying people’s ethnic backgrounds, but I’m not ignorant like most misinformed white Americans who believe that Black and white are ethnicities.

“I always wanted to travel, but my husband thought it was a waste of money.”

“So he finally changed his mind, and you decided to take him on a trip?” I look across her in an effort to locate her husband. But there are two younger guys sitting next to her. Seleste follows my eyes.

“Oh no, not exactly. He died, and I decided to do something I always wanted to do.”

“My condolences,” I say sincerely.

“No, don’t be sad.” She pats my hand. “I found out he didn’t take me traveling because he took his girlfriend instead.”

“Oh.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Now I’m sure I have a stupid expression on my face. “You didn’t help him in the dying process, did you?” I quietly whisper.

Seleste chuckles. “I did not, but I should have.” She sips her drink. “I didn’t know anything until I got an STD.”

“Really! My goodness.”

“He got it from his girlfriend, mistress, or whatever they call them nowadays.”

“I’m sorry. Being cheated on is never a good feeling, but I’m glad you’ve decided to travel and see the world.”

Seleste raises her drink. I mirror her, and we clink glasses.