Ode to a Fish Sandwich (3 page)

But it was all so artificial, so insincere.

A facade of forced happiness.

Just like his fiancé.

“There has to be something else to do on this island,” the doctor thought, standing from the bench with a resolute tug on the brim of his hat.

“I’ve got to get out of this resort.”

A SHORT WALK up the main driveway took Dr. Jones to the resort’s front entrance, an intimidating frontage of steel slats and rods.

The gates looked much taller on foot than they had from his seat in the back of the canvas-covered bus. And, of course, they’d been swung open to allow the vehicle’s easy passage.

Electric fencing extended from either side of the entrance. The barrier appeared to encircle the resort’s entire perimeter.

Bright yellow placards affixed to the fence warned of electrocution should anyone attempt to scale its height. According to the black and white images depicted in the graphic, the deterring shock was equally effective against man, monkey, and iguana.

The doctor stared at the sign, pondering the effectiveness of its message. He doubted the giant lizards could comprehend the dire warning. The monkeys he was willing to give the benefit of the doubt.

He knew the resort’s security measures were meant to keep out unwanted intruders, but given the property’s isolated location, the high voltage fence seemed an unnecessary precaution.

As he stared up at the barricade, he couldn’t help but feel like a prisoner, a kinship he suspected he shared with the animals trapped within the resort’s confines.

~

GRIMLY, DR. JONES TURNED his attention to the guard station, a rectangular-shaped tower mounted on the left-hand side of the gates. From an open window high above the entrance, two uniformed men in matching khaki shirts and shorts looked down at him with concern.

Waving his umbrella in what he hoped would be interpreted as a friendly gesture, he called up to the security guards.

“Excuse me. Can you open the gates, please? I’d like to go out.”

Given the shocked expression on the men’s faces, this appeared to be an unusual request. They conferred in hushed tones before responding.

“Where are you going?” the taller one asked.

The dermatologist twirled the umbrella on his shoulder as he considered the question. It seemed rather intrusive. His stay at the resort was, after all, voluntary. Despite feeling somewhat rankled, he decided to adopt a conciliatory stance.

“I don’t know yet. I thought I’d explore the island a bit. Do you have a map?”

The guard shook his head disapprovingly. “You really shouldn’t go out by yourself.” The gates remained firmly closed.

The doctor tapped his toe against the asphalt, perplexed.

“Why? What’s out there?”

The second guard spoke up, a cajoling attempt to placate the wayward guest.

“I assure you, sir. Everything you need, you can find inside the resort. It’s much safer that way.”

The doctor tugged on the loose chinstrap dangling from the brim of his hat.

“Hmm,” he replied, clearly unconvinced.

Thinking of the many unwitting iguanas that had likely run afoul of the resort’s electric fence, an unusually bold mood swept over the typically prudent dermatologist.

He summoned his most authoritative physician’s voice and directed it at the guard station.

“All the same, I think I’ll take a walk down the road there.” He swung the umbrella forward and pointed its tip at the entrance. “Please, open the gates.”

The uniformed men huddled for yet another conference. Finally, the taller guard, presumably the senior officer, bent over the window ledge to make once last entreaty.

“Sir, I ask you to please reconsider. Once you leave the resort grounds, we can’t be responsible for your safety.”

The doctor reflected on this ominous disclosure. An inner voice squeaked inside his head, urging caution, but he quickly stamped it out.

“I’ll chance it.”

With a reluctant shrug, the senior guard pushed a button on the control console. There was a creaking of gears as the gates swung outward.

Giving the two men a polite nod, Dr. Jones proceeded through the opening.

~

THE GUARDS WATCHED the doctor disappear down the dirt road. Then the senior officer reached for the receiver to a shortwave radio mounted next to the console and summoned the reception desk.

“This is the front gate.”

He paused for a moment, thumping his thumb against the window ledge.

“I thought you should know. One of the guests just walked off the resort grounds. Said he wanted to explore the island on foot. We tried to dissuade him, but he wouldn’t listen to reason.”

An anxious reply squawked out of the receiver.

“It was the man that nearly drowned yesterday,” the guard answered. After another worried communication, he pursed his lips and sent his confirmation.

“Yeah, yeah. White Wally.

~

HOLDING THE UMBRELLA over his head, Dr. Jones marched proudly down the gutted road, dodging potholes as he rounded the first curve. An inner pride swelled in his chest, and there was a jaunt to his sandaled step. He had persevered against the guards’ pressure to retreat, asserting himself in an unfamiliar fashion.

It was empowering, he thought, giving the umbrella a flourishing spin.

But as he gazed at the surrounding jungle, the road’s empty dirt path, and the overgrown sugarcane crowding in on either side, he began to second-guess his impulsive act.

“How far was it to the shoreline?” he murmured, trying to maintain his initial bravado as he estimated the distance to the end of the abandoned cane field.

A light breeze rustled through the un-harvested stalks, creating the sense of movement.

It was only the wind, he told himself. Or was it?

Standing on his tiptoes, the doctor scanned the top of the field. He could discern nothing ominous or non-plant-like in the swaying reeds—but then again, he thought nervously, a pursuer could easily hide in the thick greenery below.

He crouched to the ground and peered through the stalks, searching for approaching feet.

This effort also failed to provide assurance. The bright sunlight shining down on the road transitioned into jet-black darkness on the ground inside the thicket.

“It’s just my imagination,” he said shakily, but his earlier reserves of courage were quickly being depleted.

What had the security guards been so worried about
, he wondered apprehensively.
What was so dangerous about this road?
He tightened his grip on the umbrella handle.
And why did I ignore their warnings?
 

The doctor continued on, pausing at regular intervals to look over his shoulder. With every dusty footfall, the cane field crept in closer, and the crackling and popping of branches sounded more and more human in nature. He could have sworn someone was watching his every move.

Finally, in the distance, he spied the sea’s flat blue horizon. It was a welcoming sight to the now trembling dermatologist.

The open view was accompanied by a stronger airflow, a channeling gust that sent a rippling wave through the cane—and carried with it the semblance of a raspy whisper.

He could bear it no longer.

He took off at a high-speed sprint, his canvas hat flopping around his neck, tethered only by its chinstrap, the umbrella swinging wildly in the air.

~

IT WASN’T UNTIL Dr. Jones reached the shore—where the wide expanse of the sea swallowed all sound but that of its lapping waves—that he finally slowed his pace.

Panting, he looked back at the narrow passage through the cane field. It was nothing but a harmless stretch of road, an innocent dirt path circling beneath the cone of the volcano.

Pivoting, he turned to gaze at the beach, a ribbon of creamy white sand strewn with burnt red boulders. Above, he took in a sky soaked in indigo and dotted with a few lazy clouds.

It was a tropical postcard. He had been foolish to let the wind play tricks with his mind.

While he was just as exposed and vulnerable as before, the picturesque scenery made him feel far less endangered. He was soon ambling along at a leisurely pace, gradually making his way around the island’s southern circumference.

But the same spirit who had tracked him from the resort’s front gates and through the gauntlet of sugarcane continued to monitor his progress into town.

WINNIE STOOD IN the diner’s kitchen, readying her cooking station for the day’s lunch service. She never knew how many eaters might show up for any given meal, but she liked to be prepared.

A few hours earlier, Burt had dropped off a nice catch from the morning’s fishing. She had just finished carving it into a number of thick filets. A half-dozen seasoned pieces were queued up for the lunch crowd.

After cleaning her butcher knife, she carried a plate of unusable cuttings to a group of feral cats waiting outside.

The hungry felines pounced on the meal, devouring it instantly. By the time Winnie returned for the empty plate, the four-footed fish eaters were either sprawled in the shade beneath the back porch or lazing in the cool morning sand.

As the day wore on, the cats would disappear into the cane field across the road, hunting the rodents that burrowed in its dense underbrush, but the felines never strayed far from the diner. There would be a second feeding after the supper service to clear out any uncooked filets that weren’t worth holding overnight in the kitchen’s tiny frig.

The cats all had slim, slender bodies, but their physique was a reflection of the humid island heat, not a lack of nutrition.

Returning to the kitchen, Winnie began sharpening her knife, nodding with approval as one of the scavengers hopped onto the outer ledge of her serving counter and began cleaning its paws with a rough pink tongue.  

Theirs was a mutually beneficial arrangement that went beyond garbage disposal.

The constant feline presence was the only effective means the chef had found to keep the rodents out of her cupboards.

~

AS WINNIE BEGAN dicing pickled peppers for the day’s relish, the counter cat peeked curiously into the kitchen.

“Stick to the fish,” the chef advised, shooing it away. “You eat this, and you’ll be sick for a week.”

It was then that she noticed an odd figure turtle-ing along the main road leading into town. She cupped her hand over her eyes, squinting in the distance, but all she could see was a pair of dark pants legs, a man’s lower torso, and a large black umbrella.

She continued to watch out her counter window as the doctor slowly drew nearer. More details came into focus: chalky cheeks shaded by a floppy canvas hat, blistered feet swollen in a pair of dusty sandals, and the obvious signs of heat exhaustion.

“What—did he walk all the way here from the resort?” Winnie sputtered as she recognized the man she’d seen arriving on the ferry the previous day, the same one the lifeguard had complained about during last night’s dinner service.

“White Wally,” she said, strumming her fingers on the counter’s outer ledge. “You
are
a strange one.”

~

DR. JONES SHUFFLED TO a panting stop at the first sign of civilization he’d encountered since leaving the resort.

The walk along the shoreline, while visually pleasant, had turned into a far more arduous excursion than he had originally anticipated. For every step of the last two miles, he had been certain that the town where the ferry docked would be right around the next corner—and so he had continued long past the point where it would have been feasible to turn around.

The journey had left him with several blisters on his feet, a dangerously elevated body temperature, and a powerful thirst. He hadn’t thought to bring bottled water with him when he left the resort.

“Hello,” he croaked as he leaned wearily through the diner’s front window. “Do you have anything to drink?”

Winnie reached into a cooler filled with ice, pulled out a plastic bottle, and plunked it on the counter.

Propping his umbrella against the outside wall, the doctor unscrewed the bottle’s lid and began guzzling the cool liquid.

“Thanks so much,” he said after several gulps. He reached for his wallet and thumbed through the bills for a dollar, eying the prices listed on the menu board mounted on the opposite inner wall.

“Maybe I should get something to eat,” he said as his gaze slid across the kitchen to the grill, mini-frig, and microwave. Plank shelving nailed into the walls held a number of sealed plastic containers, while a rotary fan swung back and forth, keeping the flies at bay. It was a basic setup, but the cooking area appeared to be in neat and clean condition.

“What’s good?” he asked hungrily.

Winnie stared at the dermatologist, sizing him up. It was hard to find the man hidden behind the floppy hat, baggy pants, and long-sleeve shirt. She frowned at his ghostly white complexion and then replied curtly.

“The fish sandwich.”

The doctor scratched his chin, dubiously twitching his mouth. After the strenuous walk, he was hoping for something a little more substantial.

“What else you got? I see a hamburger listed there on your menu board.”

Winnie issued a dismissive grunt. “That’s out of stock. Try the fish sandwich.”

“Hmm, what about the, uh, chicken…”

“Fish sandwich,” she cut in. “Trust me. Go with the fish sandwich.”

“A fish sandwich, it is,” he replied, affably conceding defeat. He didn’t have the energy to argue.

“Have a seat, and I’ll bring it out shortly,” she instructed, nodding toward the beach.

The doctor wandered across the sand, still guzzling from the plastic bottle. He perused each of the table options, eventually deciding on the one farthest from the kitchen, closest to the water. After glancing up at the thin fronds of the nearest palm tree, he began fetching small boulders from the beach to anchor his umbrella onto the tabletop.

Winnie monitored these activities from the diner’s kitchen as she fired up the grill and selected a filet. By the time the bun was toasted and the meat sufficiently seared, the doctor had settled into what would become his regular spot. Sitting in the umbrella’s shade, he turned to stare out at the sea.