Pyromancers of the Caribbean 

Catch on fire and people will come for miles to see you burn

John Wesley, presumably writing about destination weddings

Charlotte Amalie is a rum town. Three centuries ago, the Danes named this harbor “Tavern Town”. Or, y’know, whatever that is in Danish. Tonight, the Danes are all but gone. Empires have withdrawn and new empires have expanded. Like Carnival Cruise Lines. The harbor is dominated with cruise ships. During the day, 90-minute pirates pass through; pillaging, plundering. Skull & cross-boned flags fly only as a tourism lark. Captain Kidd is not walking through those saloon doors anytime soon. Charlotte Amalie is redesigned as a machine for processing the human cattle train. When the tourists float out to sea, the machine goes dormant. But as the harbor life dims with the sun, rum remains immortal. For those with fire in their bellies, who know where to look, Charlotte Amalie – even at this hour – is still a rum town. 

I’ve had my fill. There’s rum in my veins and muddled-mint stuck in my teeth. An hour ago, I took a plunge into the pool at the old sugar plantation atop the hill. It was an improvised swim. When bridesmaids began sheering off their gowns to hop into the water, I was content with holding the life-saver on the pool deck. But contentment is fleeting. I plunged. My linen suit has been reduced to a chlorine-scented wet napkin. The swim, however, was sobering. A drunkard’s redemption, of sorts, was offered. Clear-headed, I now have a second chance on the night. Downhill at the harbor tavern, sitting swamp-assed on a barstool, I toss aside the cocktail menu and opt for something more subtle in a stubbie of Red Stripe. 

Claudette is beside me. She’s found a track suit in lieu of her discarded bridesmaid gown. The makeup has been washed from her face, all except the mascara and eyeliner. She looks like a pharaoh’s concubine in the candlelight and it is the lit candle’s wax which she burns me with. Yow. I scrape the hardening wax from my wrist. Why do you play with fire?, I ask the bridesmaid from D.C. Without the flames, she says, I cannot read your fortune. The nail of her index finger traces the lines of my palm. Even with the flames, she says as she looks around for greater illumination, in this light your love line looks like morse code. She continues to trace my hand. She says my life line seems to jump off a cliff. I wiggle in my seat; my bladder is distended with Jamaican lager. You are distracted, Claudette suggests. Yeah, I confess. You are thinking of Claudette, she says and looks intensely into my eyes, testing me, judging my reaction. I smile slyly and admit, yes. Yes, I am. Claudette drops my hand like a hot coal. Standing in a huff, she leaves me at the bar, accidentally tipping over the candle and her half-finished daiquiri. As I watch the bridesmaid walk away in her tracksuit, it occurs to me perhaps she isn’t Claudette after all. Maybe she is Helene, the other bridesmaid from D.C.

Well, shit.  

I shift priorities and head to the lavatory, which is just as dimly lit as the tavern. I kick the metallic piss trough to confirm it’s distance before aiming into the dark. Before I release, I hear the strike of a match immediately behind me. I turn to find the flame-lit face of Old Fitzhugh. Fucking shit, this dude is creepy. The weekend’s events could double as a dress rehearsal for his funeral. As Old Fitzhugh lights his cigarette, he quotes Tennessee Williams, we all live in a house on fire. Sure, I say, turning back towards the urinal. As full as my bladder is, the anxiety of Old Fitzhugh’s hovering specter constricts my plumbing. His smoke trickles up along my spine to the back of my head and through my wet hair. Old Fitzhugh completes the quote, we all live in a house on fire looking out the second floor window. Sounds about right…, I say and exhale all the tropical air from my lungs. Finally, I am able to relax enough to release. I am the firehose Tennessee Williams required. Which of those girls do you like?, Old Fitzhugh asks me. The bar is closing soon, he says with raspy, death-rattly, breath, but there is talk of post-post-party in their hotel room. Old Fitzhugh is fishing for an invitation. He has been riding the coattails of the much younger wedding guests all weekend. Ever since I met the old man over omelets at the bed & breakfast, the guy has been in my side pocket. I dunno, man, I say to Old Fitzhugh. I might just call it a night and get some rest before tomorrow’s flight home, I tell him. It’s a misdirect. I too want to see this night through.  

As I turn to exit the bathroom, leaving Old Fitzhugh to his cigarette, he grabs me by the elbow. His grip is strong for a wisp of a man. He is a scarecrow, down to the straw-colored toupee. He reminds me of an effeminate George Burns. The makeup concealing his liver spots is smudged. Diamond studs in either ear. Unbuttoned silk shirt reveals a gold chain hanging on his emaciated chest. Ruby ring on his skeletal finger. I make note to find Jesus back on the mainland and pray Old Fitzhugh does not represent my future self. He speaks to me now in the hushed voice of the conspirator. He says, I’m meeting with my friend from the embassy soon. Oh, I say with a pat of his shoulder, your night is just getting started. Vaya con Dios, old man. Old Fitzhugh says, you should come with me, but first, my friend, we need to find out where they are having the post-post-party. Dude, I say to Old Fitzhugh, I am not interested in your friend’s cocaine. Shh!, Old Fitzhugh hushes me, as if the Soviets in Havana have this restroom bugged. I shake my head and leave him alone in the bathroom. 

The tavern crowd has changed since my failed palm reading. Meandering through the late night bodies, looking for familiar landmarks, I find Humberto hustling the other bridesmaid from D.C. She must be Claudette. She’s saucy, this Claudette. While Helene is dark & mysterious, simmering at a low boil, Claudette is an open flame. And she is as inviting as she is hungry. Her eyes spy me and she yells over Humberto’s shoulder, Chicago! Yeah?, I say. Humberto gives me a nervous nod and presses his forearm closer to Claudette’s. T-Bill is looking for you, she says. Why?, I wonder. She and Humberto shrug.

Shit. I go to the bar and order another Red Stripe.

As with any wedding, there were a dozen or so courtesy invitations sent out to people who were not expected to RSVP “yes”. One such invitation arrived on the Northside of Chicago, addressed to me. My response in the positive startled the bride. Really?, she asked twice. You’re coming to St Thomas? Okay, great, the bride said. You aren’t the only one who doesn’t know anyone, she said, there are other randos. I learned from her that while the bridal party and their friends & family were staying at the resort on Frenchman’s Bay, the randos were to be exiled to a dilapidated bed & breakfast near the harbor. My fellow rogues were Old Fitzhugh and Humberto. Unlike Old Fitzhugh, Humberto possesses youth, his own hair and self-awareness. Like Old Fitzhugh, Humberto is a romantic. And like Old Fitzhugh, Humberto is wise enough to avoid the dipshitty T-Bill. 

T-Bill is an alpha-dog belonging to the bride’s extended social network. He does not appear to be the bride’s favorite person, but he holds enough rank to go unpunished for his handsy forced-intimacy with the bridesmaids or his commentary on the bride’s thong matching her garter belt. T-Bill, aka Todd Williamson, is a sub-category of Florida Man called “Jet-Ski Douche”. T-Bill is a reliable asshole, but unpredictable in how the assholery manifests itself. He is best kept at a distance. I do not know why T-Bill would want to seek me out. 

Old Fitzhugh finds me at the bar and orders another highball. He makes note of the changing bar dynamics and says, ahh, Humberto has swooped-in on the gazelle! No matter, nothing to get hung about. Old Fitzhugh says with his scratchy corpse-voice, I’ve always said, “never play dominos with a drunk Dominican”. The fuck?, I ask. Claudette, Old Fitzhugh says, she’s half-Dominican. That’s why she tastes like papaya. Heh-heh. I spent some time in Santo Domingo in the 80’s, he says to me. On the French side. When Baby Doc was overthrown in ’86, the rebel army went to the cemetery to open the tomb of Papa Doc Duvalier. And do you know what they found? Nothing! Papa Doc’s body had disappeared. The zombie dictator was still out there somewhere walking the streets of Port-au-Prince. That’s when I decided I need to get the heck out of Haiti!

Chicago!, T-Bill startles me as he claims the open bar space beside me. Old Fitzhugh fades away into the tavern’s candlelit dimness. T-Bill is athletic & stocky. He chews gum and wears a ball cap backwards as some sort of claim to eternal youth. He’s facial scars which are troubling, suggesting a history of violence, but I heard they’re the result of a firecracker blowing-up in his face when he was a kid. Chicago!, T-Bill says, I hear you got something to tell me. Who?, I ask. Who said who has what to tell who?, I ask. T-Bill suggests to me, you know something about Michelle? Michelle?, I repeat. Michelle the maid of honor. Michelle, T-Bill’s girlfriend. Shit. I have nothing to say to Todd Williamson about Michelle. Or, at least, nothing I want to say. I’m not lying when tell him, I know very little about Michelle. That’s not what I hear, T-Bill says. Yeah, well… Don’t know what to tell you, bud. 

T-Bill shakes his head, sips his BudLite and resumes his gum chewing, staring at me. 

An hour ago (the night’s a blur, everything seems like an hour ago), as the post-wedding marauders stormed downhill from the sugar plantation to the rum tavern, I saw T-Bill and Michelle arguing outside the bar. She was angry, he was dismissive, leaving her for tequila shots inside. The man left her for shots. Shots of shitty bottom-shelf tequila, not even quality agave spirit. Michelle departed for parts unknown. I don’t know anything more. 

But I can haphazard a guess…

Don’t know what to tell you, Todd, I say, speaking his god-given. I haven’t seen Michelle. But…, I say, pivoting in a new direction. Maybe you heard about the cocaine? T-Bill’s scarred eyebrows perk. What cocaine?

Yesterday, at the wedding-eve rehearsal party, the bride introduced Old Fitzhugh and me to her bridesmaids. When Old Fitzhugh heard Helene & Claudette were from D.C., he said, I once got a special tour of the Smithsonian where they showed me John Dillinger’s 23 inch penis. It was no big deal, Old Fitzhugh shrugged his faux-modesty, nothing to get hung about! Heh-heh. The D.C. bridesmaids gave Old Fitzhugh a feigned smile & nod and looked to me as if I was his minder. I shook my head. I don’t know this fucker. Old Fitzhugh pressed the bridesmaids further then, asking if they’ve ever had diplomat-pouch cocaine. They hadn’t, but both Claudette and Helene were intrigued. Their eyes widened and pupils dilated at the mentioning. What is the old man on about?, they wondered. I have a diplomat friend here in Charlotte Amalie. When he visits Colombia, he returns with a diplomat’s pouch full of cocaine. He doesn’t have to check it at customs because of diplomatic privilege. This isn’t Mexican-cut cocaine, this is the pure stuff. The sticky stuff. Best coke you’ll have north of Cartagena. Tell me more, Claudette said. Or Helene said. One or the either. It doesn’t matter, they were both intrigued. 

Wait, I interrupted Old Fitzhugh. We’re in the U.S. Virgin Islands. There is no territorial embassy here. Why would there be a diplomat in Charlotte Amalie? Old Fitzhugh scowled at my doubt, saying, there is a Filipino consulate here! My friend is a diplomat for the Philippines. The D.C. bridesmaids were being called away, cued to take their places, but before departing they asked Old Fitzhugh to keep them apprised of the geopolitical situation. Heh! He was quite pleased with himself at their departure. So you’re from Chicago?, he asked me as we stood there on the periphery of the rehearsal. And how do you know the bride? Old Fitzhugh asked, tell me, Vic, have you ever slept with her? The bride?, he clarified. I didn’t respond; Old Fitzhugh answers for himself. I have not slept with her. At least not that I remember. Heh-heh. Now, the groom is a different story!, Old Fitzhugh joked, coughing his phlegmatic hilarity into a saturated handkerchief as I pityingly patted him on the back. 

What cocaine?, T-Bill is like a dog who’s seen a squirrel. 

The only secrets I hold, I say to T-Bill from my barstool, is Old Fitzhugh has a local source for getting cocaine. Really?, T-Bill says. The old man?, he asks, the old man with the cheap wig? Yeah, I say, hiding my smile with a sip of Red Stripe. 

I am not telling T-Bill any more. Did I know anything about Michelle? Of course. Knowledge I shared with fellow rogues Old Fitzhugh and Humberto. How my knowledge was whispered back to T-Bill, I do not know, but one of my rando pals must have squealed. 

As T-Bill goes on a cocaine side-quest looking for Old Fitzhugh, Humberto joins me at the bar. Have you seen Helene?, he asks. I thought you were interested in Claudette, I say to Humberto. He shrugs, saying, she went looking for Michelle. Where do you think Michelle is?, Humberto asks with a wry grin. Where on the island is the bride’s maid of honor?, I wonder with Humberto. We can safely assume the groom has left his hotel room for the honeymoon suite which means that hotel room is only occupied by the best man. I wouldn’t be surprised to find Michelle there. Humberto, still smiling, says, yeah, that is what I was thinking. The maid of honor reuniting with the best man. A post-wedding debriefing, you might say. 

It’s a hypothetical based on empirical data.  

I came to the Virgin Islands early. I knew the wedding party would be here already, but being a relative stranger, I did not seek them out. I had my own agenda. I took a ferry from St Thomas to St Johns for a day of scuba diving. While on St Johns, I saw Michelle, recognizing her as the bride’s best friend. She was sharing a hammock with a dude I did not recognize. But why would I recognize him when I barely knew her? I did not interfere. Later, when I saw them together at a St Johns daiquiri bar, I reintroduced myself to Michelle as “Vic from Chicago”. I thought she would be pleased to see a familiar face. She was horrified. Her dude was startled. They made excuses and began evasive maneuvers. I saw them on the ferry back to St Thomas, but I kept my distance. I wouldn’t meet the mystery man, Michelle’s hammock buddy, until the rehearsal dinner when the groom introduced him as the best man. Also at the rehearsal dinner, Michelle nervously insisted on introducing me to her boyfriend, T-Bill, who she repeatedly told me was fresh off his flight from Tampa. There was a plea in her eye for secrecy. And her secret was safe with me. 

I told Old Fitzhugh and Humberto all about it after the rehearsal dinner.  

The tavern has announced last call. All that is left of Todd Williamson is his BudLite, which I find on my tab. T-Bill must have left looking for Old Fitzhugh and the Filipino diplomat. Humberto has also departed, likely in pursuit of either D.C. bridesmaid. Those bridesmaids are looking for the maid of honor who is likely holed-up with the best man. I’m still gazing at the candle flame when the barman puts it out.