JOSE R. RIVERA BELAVAL
“Welcome to Café la Spiaggia.” I say taking an old couple onto the balcony of the restaurant overlooking the beach. It’s an Italian name for a restaurant with a Caribbean Creole menu and fancy French decoration. The man, who has been blatantly checking me out since they got here, has the American flag stamped on his white t-shirt. Besides him a woman acting like she hasn’t noticed, is wearing an old blouse ripped at the seams of the arm, with capri pants, diamond earrings, and a leather Coach purse. I give them two menus and let them know the waiter will be with them in a moment. They don’t reply but the man’s eyes follow my skirt as I leave to go back to my boring post at the entrance of the restaurant.
I’ve been working at this hotel’s restaurant for a few weeks, and so far, the only customers are American or British tourists, so it’s given me plenty of chances to practice my English. This is a seasonal job I got recommended for by a friend from Guadeloupe. She used to do it every summer, till she moved to France and didn’t need the job anymore. The manager, an American named Bill, saw me on Zoom and said, “You’re hot enough to be a hostess, not just a waitress.”
I’m a bartender by trade, but since this was only for a few months, I decided the vacation time would be nice. I would get to stay in the hotel and eat in the restaurant for free, only spending money on the plane ticket and the ferry to get here from the main island. It’s a beautiful place, but there’s not much to do besides working and going to the beach; it reminded me of home the way alternate realities are shown in movies.
“Welcome to Café la Spiaggia.” I say to a woman who walks by me without a word, heading to the bar. Some tourists see us as decoration. The staff is mostly nice but the guys are insistent in their advances. Anthony the American chef is a bigshot who participated in one of those Top Chef programs on TV. He’s not bad looking but has the biggest ego I’ve ever come across. He and the sous-chef have casually invited me to their rooms more times than I can count. I’ve said no each time.
The Sous is a local guy they call ‘el caballo’, he’s 6′ 5’’, and has dark caramel skin just slightly lighter than me. He is extremely handsome, and he knows it, so that’s a problem. The waiters are mostly Americans running away from something, and Symon the bartender is the tallest man I’ve ever seen. He’s a blonde Ukrainian and a great listener, but my neck hurts when I try to look him in the eye. I’ve learned a few tricks from his repertoire, and I’ve taught him a few of mine. Most of the waitresses, and some of the clients, want to bang him, but so far, I’ve only seen him go back to his room alone.
“Jocelyn!” Bill shouts at me, he has a Hawaiian shirt open in the front and his beer belly flops as he walks towards me. “It’s dead, how about you take a five-hour break and then cover the karaoke tonight?” He wants me to take the karaoke shift because drunk college kids who look at me standing at the entrance in my mini skirt uniform, spend way more money than they should, dedicating songs to me.
“Okay, sure. I would rather go for a swim anyways.” It’s not like I had anything going on in my hotel room at night besides my books anyway. I’ve been reading a lot of poetry this summer. I used to write poetry in high school but haven’t done so in a long time. It’s weird how growing older can make dreams seem childish and the things we loved unattainable.
“You’re a doll, Jocelyn.” He gives me a smile stained with rum and weed. Bill is the type of manager who places his hand way too low on employees’ backs and hasn’t been slapped away as often as he should in his lifetime. The crypto-rich owners of the hotel haven’t even been on the island, as far as I know. This is just another investment for them, so Bill acts like he owns the place. He had been hired by the previous owners, some Brits who inherited the land and built from afar. So he does what he wants with schedules and hiring, and eats and drinks too much to notice people stealing from him.
I go to my room, change into my bathing suit and put a long shirt over it, then head down towards the beach. I take the back hall to avoid customers and to stop by the bar to sneak some rum into my thermos. “Hey, girl. Hope all’s good.” Amelie, another seasonal worker from a different island off the coast of Columbia smiles at me from the bar. We’ve become friends by practicing English together. She’s sipping on a Scotch on ice with a book in hand, rocking a red thong with a long white shirt hugging her dark curves. I catch a few old men sitting in the saloon gawking at her. Her nipple rings are like lighthouse beacons under her wet shirt. Nobody suspects she’s doing a Ph.D. in pre-colonial Caribbean civilizations. But as Amelie herself says, “It’s easier to get a work visa as an administrative assistant on an island the government barely remembers exists, than it is to get a study grant in my field.” She’s probably the smartest person in this hotel, but that’s not why I like her. It’s her attitude and sense of humour, sometimes she says exactly what I’m thinking, while I’m thinking it. Sometimes she feels like family, other times she’s like another me, or like a different type of soulmate.
“Hey, mon dou-dou, want to hit the beach?” I invite her on the spur of the moment, an odd thing for me to do.
“I just came from there.” Amelie sips, “but if it’s with you, then that’s something else altogether.” She smiles and winks. “If you can wait for me to finish this one.” She clinks her ice.
“For you, and only you.” I sit down and take the book she’s reading in my hands. Ayiti, by Roxane Gay.
“It’s a hard one.” Amelie drinks and I can see by her puffy eyes she’s been crying. I’m not a hundred percent sure it’s about the book.
“The two most beautiful women in the Island, sitting together.” The Sous comes towards us. “I must have done something right to be blessed with such an angelic sight.” He sits next to Amelie.
“Lucky you, women love clichés, Stallion.” I say reading the back cover of the book.
“Does that line ever work?” Amelie doesn’t look at him either.
“Ouch, what’s with the hostilities?” He laughs. “Just trying to be friendly.”
“And show us some islander’s hospitality.” I see Symon laughing behind the bar. He serves me some rum & lime in a plastic cup. Technically we should pay for our drinks, but since Bill thinks he can take advantage of us if we are drunk, no one ever charges us.
“Only if the time is right.” He smiles a gorgeous but practiced smile.
“The thing is, my little pony, say I do straddle you.” Amelie smiles shifting in her chair to be face to face, and takes a sip, while he salivates. “The problem is I won’t be done yet, not even close, and the whole island will know ‘you got one’.” We both laugh at her mocking ‘man’ voice, he doesn’t. “Then everyone will be high fiving you as the macho-king and talking shit about me as the hotel’s whore.” We both stop laughing. “They’ll start coming at me like Yankee missiles, even though they all want a piece of me, and you’ll be the man’s man.” She goes back to her drink. His mouth is open. He knows it’s true.
“Nah’, come on girl. I’m the quiet, sneaky type.” He tries again with his dimples.
“Well, I’m loud and uninterested.” She strikes him out again.
“Damn, alright, I know when to leave a female alone.” Defeated, he leaves, adding, “See you two later, if you feel less aggressive.”
“You know, he has a wife and daughter, yes?” Symon comes up to us with his strong accent.
“Yeah?” She laughs, “guess he really is the quiet sneaky type of asshole.”
“Let’s go before another one shows up,” I say when she finishes her drink.
“Yeah, discount-store Gordon Ramsey clocks out soon. Let’s scram before we hear about his glory days again.” We must have heard Anthony talk about his show at least five times in one week.
We walk down the sand towards the beach, a sprinkle of rain falling on us. She looks at the rain and I can see she’s upset. “So, tell me, why do you look like you need a cigarette?” I ask.
“My…mom.” I see her throat swallowing the pain. “A few nights ago. Erm, she went to sleep and didn’t wake up.”
I put my hand on her shoulder. Raindrops fall harder on my hand and the clouds above break open. “My dear friend, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” Her hand takes mine and she squeezes it lightly. I see her holding back her tears.
“I’ve told no one.” Her lips attempt a smile and fail. “It just feels strange talking about it with people that didn’t know her. People I’ll never see again.”
“I’ll see you again,” I promise her.
“That’s why I told you.” I hear a hint of pride in her voice.
“I… My husband. A drunk driver took him from me last year.” I see her eyes opening wide. “I guess you could say that’s kind of the reason why I’ve become a traveling seasonal worker.” It’s the first time I’ve admitted this.
“It seems we’ve both lost the love of our lives,” she says her tears mixing with the raindrops. “I’m sorry, I’m terrible at these things.”
We walk and I try to distract her from the pain of loss. “There are many things I’m not good at,” I tell her. “I don’t have to be. I’ve never been interested in competition in that way.” I see her smile this time. “These are things I do for fun. Joy. They are anchors that keep me tied to who I’ve become.”
“What are these things?” Her steps splash in the puddles of rainwater.
“Drawing, painting, gardening, and singing they are kind of life-vests for me. Those are the things I give myself permission to be selfish with, and they’ve taken me a long time to find.” I haven’t done any of these since I got here.
“I like that, giving myself permission to be selfish.”
“Then there are things I’m good at, like bartending, cooking, caring, giving advice. These are things I’ve worked hard to improve.” She smiles sadly at me as I take her hand.
“Anchors, huh? Go on.” Amelie stops walking to look at drops falling on a water pool formed by rocks. We are soaking wet but stay still. “God knows I feel like I’m floating aimlessly. Like, how did we even end up here?”
I think about how I came to be here. “Against my parent’s wishes, I became a bartender.” We both giggle. “I’ve dabbled in other areas of the food industry too. As the youngest of my sisters, I did my best to be a problem solver. I was my parents’ caretaker while they were still here.” I sigh and she tightens the hold on my hand. “Above all, I consider myself an observer. I try to see things others miss and say the words they need to hear.”
“What do you think I need to hear?” Her hand is sweating even though we are freezing.
“You are not alone.” I say and her lips start quivering.
“You are good.” I smile at this.
“If there’s one thing I understand, one thing I’m useful for, it’s speaking the language of grief.” I take her other hand. I see her lost in thoughts. Lost in the wordless abyss of inescapable shadows, a place that’s as natural to me as walking in the rain. Today we are walking in the rain together.
We see people seeking refuge from the rain. “Look at them.” She lets go of my hands. “Hiding behind thin excuses of roofs and distractions.” She looks at me like I was her life vest in the ocean, then she starts talking. “I don’t know why I’m here. Professionally, I’ve become an academic. My mom worked at a store, and she was happy. But no, I had to be bigger, an addition to the collective pool of knowledge.” She makes a robotic voice when she’s finishing her sentence, and we both laugh. “I write papers nobody reads, and I’ve tried to teach younger kids, but they don’t care about the information I’ve spent a third of my life obtaining,” she says with sincerity and tears. “Ever since I can remember, I’ve wanted, no, desired knowledge, I imagine the same way alcoholics need to drink.” We laugh again.
“I hear you.” I look at her beautiful eyes and see a volcano of pain.
“But it felt empty, you know? Attempting to acquire this — illumination for my own sake — felt so vain. So, I turned to teaching. A valid excuse, if I could pass on what I learned, it would be worth the ordeal, right?” I was going to say something, but I let her carry on and she starts walking. I follow her. “I convinced myself that things like social acceptability were important. A career in teaching is socially justifiable. This idea was my own thin roof, a flimsy shelter for stormy family weather. Yet, it’s taken me further and further away from my family.” We keep walking towards the water unconsciously even though the rain increases. As we get in the water, we both wince, it’s a freezing tropical paradise.
“We are all drops of water away from the ocean.” I say with my palm open in front of me. We go further in.
“Drops of water…” She repeats. “It’s a cold embrace. Kind of like pain, but with the burden of being a physical thing, I think.” She says and I put my hand beneath the water and raise it; we watch the drops fall off my hand and I think of shooting stars.
“Without water we cannot survive, and in the same way, without death, there is no sense to life,” she nods, a thousand miles away.
“Thanks, Jocelyn.” She smiles at me tenderly. “This really was just what I needed.” She stays with me in the water for a little bit more.
“Thank you.” I say but can’t really use words to describe why I say it. She nods.
“I think I’m going to lie down for a bit.” She kisses me goodbye gently on the cheek. I give her a tight hug before she walks away and I stare at the waves forming as she leaves.
After about ten minutes alone, I get out and walk around the sand aimlessly. Rain is still falling. Thunder growls overhead, as if the sky was moaning while it released the many tears that people swallow. As if the sky knew the pain my friend was carrying in her core and was unleashing the numb hell of sorrow for her. As I walked, I hugged those collective tears wishing my tenderness could erase the turmoil in her. I walked in the rain with the same strength I’ve cried myself to sleep with, with the same fury I’m certain has kept her up these nights.
In the rain, I remember the jokes, the chances, the drinks and beers that turned acquaintances into mates. I smile at the hours, days and years spent shaping friendships. But I knew, I knew all too well the wall that stopped all my relationships. So many potential connections fizzled out and dissipated because of this invisible wall that kept people at arm’s length. Away from my true self. It wasn’t age difference, my continuous traveling, opposing ideologies, or lack of common references, it was something far more primordial. It was death that kept people away from me, or more accurately, lack of death. It was love, death notwithstanding, that made a bridge for Amelie and me.
People who had not gone through this experience were fundamentally different and hid from the pain and the rain as well as they could. I see in Amelie, through the teardrops, the before and after in her soul. I see the tunnel into the expanding void of nothingness that sucks the air from our lungs and the colour from our eyes. I walk alone in the sands of paradise, feeling the heaviness of loss. And I smile at the fact that I’ve made a real friend, a loved one. I smile at the surprise of love blooming, bonded by grief in the temporal flames of a random seasonal job.
José R. Rivera Belaval from Puerto Rico is a poet, personal chef, occasional gardener, full-time teacher, and part-time creative writing professor. He has presented his scholarly work on the topics of Poetry, Identity and Resistance, in academic conferences in St. Croix, St. Martin, Colombia and Puerto Rico. His creative work has been published in Spanish and English in anthologies such as Un Nuevo Pulmón (2015), Evento Horizonte (2023), Hadouken (2023), and in literary magazines such as Temporales from New York University, Tonguas, and Trasunto from the University of Puerto Rico, Rio Piedras Campus, Sabanas, from the University of Puerto Rico, Mayaguez Campus, among other independent magazines. He sees writing and particularly poetry as a way of understanding life and creating community. In pursuit of this, he has founded free creative writing workshops, judged poetry competitions, invoked poetry slams, co-edited literary anthologies and served as mentor to students from middle-school to college. More importantly, he tries his best to help others whenever there’s a chance.
