Bright Sequins and Big Palm Trees

A vacation. A real vacation. One without parents or a boyfriend who’d soon become an ex. Maia had been trying to contain her excitement all week, but it was finally here.

The plane bounced onto the tarmac and taxied toward the small building she assumed was the airport. From above, she had seen glimpses of brilliant blue waters through the open shade of the man across the aisle. If she’d been able to choose her own seat, she’d have picked a window spot for sure, but she was just happy to win the office drawing for a tropical getaway. On the ground, she saw bits of what looked like an industrial center with the sun turned up too bright.

She settled back into her seat and shut her eyes imagining a luxurious room overlooking a pool, maybe one surrounded by palm trees, a tiki bar with fruity drinks, and the sounds of steel drums playing from some hidden speaker to round out the vibe.

“You been to Key West before?”

She opened her eyes and took in the man next to her who had snored with the window shade slammed shut since they’d left Boston. He had unzipped his coat to reveal a tacky tropical shirt and a gold chain tangled in chest hair spilling over the last button he’d chosen to use.

“No, never.”

“You’ll love it.” He smiled. “Or hate it.” He wiggled out of his coat. “Always one or the other.”

She wasn’t sure what to make of that, but if it wasn’t snowing sideways, she was pretty sure she’d like it just fine.

When the doors finally opened and she made her way to the end of the line of passengers, she saw they’d been dumped out onto the tarmac near the building and were retrieving oversized things like paddleboards, guitars, and strollers from a cart before heading in. Sweat instantly pooled under her collar and tricked down her spine. She squinted into the glare and wondered how people lived in a place that felt and looked so much like the surface of the sun.

Her seatmate passed her and made a beeline for the building. She saw him veer off for the Last Resort Bar while looking for the baggage claim.  The other passengers crowded around the conveyer system and sloshed drinks as they recounted past trips and detailed all the debauchery they planned to get into this time. Slowly, they all found their bags and scattered leaving her plenty of room to stand and watch the remaining stray bags rotate unclaimed. Hers did not appear to be one of them.

An hour later, she gave up hope and went to file a report with the airline.

Another hour passed before she finally shuffled back out of the building into the heat and glare, holding her coat, purse, and scarf and wondering what she could find to wear with the twenty-dollar voucher the airline had given her. A taxi stopped and as she reached for the door, a man in a palm-printed shirt ran up and grabbed the handle.

“Oh, sorry. I just called this one. You want to share?”

She noticed it was the same guy she’d sat next to on the plane only he’d changed into shorts. The gray backpack slung over his shoulder looked out of place now that he’d removed the last of his winter work clothes. “Yes, please.”

“Packing light?”

“Airline lost my luggage.”

“Oh shit. Sorry about that.”

They slid into the backseat and he shoved his bag between their feet. “Where you heading?”

“Art del Sol,” She’d liked the name of the place and envisioned it as a colorful retreat with happy paintings and a sunny courtyard.

“Oh yeah, Arty’s place. You’ll love it. Or hate it.” He exchanged pleasantries with the driver before settling back and turning to her. “Drugs?”

“What? No.”

He shrugged. “Just asking. Lottsa times when bags go missing, it’s cause they have drugs in them. If it’s just the airport employees stealing the stash, the bags usually show up later. If its’ the feds…” He whistled. “Best hope it’s not the feds.”

“I didn’t have any drugs.” She made a quick mental inventory of the bag. “Vitamins.”

“Ah, keeping your drugs on you. Wise move.”

“I’m not sure Tylenol counts.”

He winked at her. “I understand. Keep it close. I could totally be a narc.”

She wasn’t sure what to do with that, so she turned to watch their progress across the island. She’d kind of expected the whole thing to be more tropical, but it mostly just looked like a low, very bright suburb of strip malls along the highway. The palm trees, often sad and scruffy at the entrance to parking lots, was the primary sign that she’d entered a tropical destination rather than just fast-forwarded herself to summer.

They crossed a small bridge and the number of hotel chains increased dramatically. She wanted to peer out through the windshield to see when and where Art de Sol might be, but that required leaning a bit closer to the man dressed like a used car salesman in a July 4th ad. He was lounged back sipping a cocktail from a plastic cup.

“Want some, Doll?”

She glanced back and realized he must have caught her eyeing him. “No, thank you.” She could not imagine why he’d think to offer a stranger some of whatever the hell he was drinking, but she definitely did not want any.

“Suit yourself. You ever stay at Art’s before?”

“Art’s?”

He looked confused a second and nodded. “Art del Sol. Owned by a dude named Arty. He’s a trip. You’re gonna love it there. Or hate it.”

“You always say that.”

He shrugged and turned back to the other window. “You’ll see.”

The taxi turned just passed a small grocery store and headed down a shaded street with colorful gingerbread houses on both sides, several obviously old and recently renovated into bed and breakfasts with cute names and adorable wooden signs. She silently said a prayer that Art’s would be just like one of them.

The driver turned again onto a street full of people, most in t-shirts, short, and flip-flops that all looked fresh-from-the-rack new. Several faces and bald heads were burned a deep red that looked painful even to someone who’d only been sunburned twice on vacation as a child.

“Gotta wear plenty of sunscreen you don’t want to look like that,” Hawaiian Shirt muttered. “Man, that dude is not going to have a good night.”

She looked across him at a man in a tank top, his shoulders so red and sweaty they glistened like cherry-red paint. She shuddered.

As the bars started to thin out and turn into shops and galleries, the taxi turned again a few more times until they passed a couple of low-slung apartment complexes painted in shades of dull brown and a faded green that might have once aspired to be “sage.” The taxi stopped.

Hawaiian Shirt passed some money up to the driver. “Thanks, man. You gonna be around later?”

“You know it.”

The expression she caught in the rearview mirror was transactional and she knew they had something each other wanted. She guessed drugs.

She got out and looked from the apartments to the flaking yellow paint on the house across the street. Just below the eaves of the house was a small sign reading: Art del Soul. Her heart sank.

She heard the door slam behind her and turned as the taxi pulled away to leave Hawaiian Shirt standing at the curb. “It’s better inside. You’ll love it.”

“Or hate it.”

“Exactly. You’ll see.”

She walked up the steps and tried to ignore the creaking and texture in the old floorboards. She tried not to think about the way the screen door tipped sideways when she opened it. The registration desk in the living room of the old house turned out to be a bar complete with three rows of liquor bottles.

An elderly man in an evening gown and tennis shoes walked out from the back of the house with a stack of books. “Oh, the last room’s here. Thank god. I was just about to throw up my hands and just give up.” He? They? She wanted to ask but she was just as confused as to why he was planning to give up at three in the afternoon. “Got these for the laundry library. You read any of them?”

She glanced at the stack. “A few.”

He leaned in and whispered. “Any good?”

She wasn’t sure what to say. “Sure?”

“Good enough. Listen, I’m going to go get your key and all your paperwork squared away, you can go ahead and get yourself a drink if you’d like. I know Mike here’s already had a few.” He winked and disappeared into the back of the house.

Mike the Hawaiian Shirt dropped his backpack on the bar and went to work making himself a cocktail. “Want one?”

“No thank you.” What she wanted was to cry and she hoped she could keep it in until she got to her room.

“Oh, here we are. You guys are going to love your room. It’s the best one, if I do say so myself.” He held out a pair of keys on little plastic flamingo fobs and a piece of paper for each of them.

She looked at hers. Congratulations, Winner!

“You just want to go out on the patio there,” he gestured at a pair of French doors mostly hidden behind yellow drapes. “Follow the path to the far end of the pool and it’s the room with the big window. Can’t miss it.”

Mike gave a cheers nod with his drink and headed out. She wasn’t sure what else to do so she turned to follow him, unsure how the directions he gave led to both their rooms.

“Stop back in later for the show. Starts at 8, darling. Gives me just enough time to get my wig on straight.” He laughed like it was an inside joke and left with the stack of books.

From the patio, she felt her breath catch. What started as a gray wooden porch turned into a brightly-colored courtyard surrounded by walls of green bushes covered in beautiful flowers. Happy faces had been painted on the walls in cartoon styles and abstract sculptures poked out of the landscape.

She noticed Mike on the other side of a tree covered in tropical flowers and followed him past a pool and a fountain next to small flock of chickens pecking at a patch of dirt covered in feed.

When she caught up to Mike outside the last door, he tilted his head toward the chickens. “You either love ‘em or—”

“You hate them. Got it. So, this is your room?”

“This is our room.”

She heard a record scratch in her head. “Wait. What?”

“I thought Albany told you that was the thing.”

“Boston and no. Told me what thing?”

“That’s how they keep running this contest. Albany must already be here if you’re Boston.” He flung open to door to a woman in a swimsuit holding a pair of heels.

“Bethany!”

“Mike!”

“You two know each other?”

“Bethany won two years back. We had a blast.”

She felt like she’d wandered into the Twilight Zone. “I still don’t understand.”

Bethany put the shoes down. “Every year, they hold this stupid contest and send all the winners here. No one really complains about the accommodations because we’re all afraid they’d stop holding the contest and it’s a free trip to Key West.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“It takes some getting used to, for sure. They’ve been doing it since the company was all men, but hey, there’s two of us and one of him this year.”

Mike tossed his bag on a bed. “I’m guessing you two are sharing.”

“Works for me,” Bethany said

She wasn’t so sure about that. “Maybe I’ll just stay out by the pool.”

“Gets a little buggy at night, but you’re welcome to try.”

She was leaning toward hating it.

Mike went to the bathroom and shut the door.

She looked at Bethany. “How’s he win so often?”

“He’s the only one left in the Cleveland office.”

“And they still do a sales contest there?”  

Bethany shrugged and turned to her suitcase. “You wearing that tonight?”

“The airline lost my luggage.”

“Damn. I’d say you could borrow mine, but I don’t think we’re the same size.”

Considering that Bethany was one of those older women who somehow seemed to stay a layer of skin stretched over a skeleton as she aged, she was quite sure her chest and hips weren’t fitting into anything Bethany owned.

She sat on the edge of the bed with Mike’s backpack and wished he’d hurry up in the bathroom, so she had a place to cry. Her first adult vacation had turned into a sitcom misunderstanding. Figured.

Three hours later, the cabaret music from the lobby-slash-living room wove its way through the windowpanes with the heat and humidity. She couldn’t believe she’d been foolish enough to have hopes for this trip. Here she was in what was billed as paradise surrounded by other people’s belongings. The other people, of course, were off having fun on a tropical island while she laid there in her chemise and panties since the airline still hadn’t found her clothes.

She got up and tried to draw the drapes a little tighter in an effort to keep the lights and music out. A knock startled her, and she jumped into the table that would have been perfect for breakfast with a romantic partner.

When she opened it, she saw the taxi driver and at first had hopes of her luggage until he held up a brown paper grocery bag with Publix on the side. “For Mike.”

She plucked it from his hand and grimaced. Last thing she needed was a sack of god-knows-what for Mike. She tossed it on the head of the bed after the driver left and went back to sulking in the heat. The A/C rattled and spurted but made little progress.

Half an hour later, Mike flung the door open, singing an off-key rendition of the song coming from the other end of the property.  “Great! It’s here!”

She moved to the table so he had room to spread out whatever he’d ordered.

He handed it to her. “Hope some of it fits. You’re missing all the fun.”

She gave him a look that questioned both his statement and his sanity.

“I could see you standing around at the baggage claim when I went to the bathroom. I called my buddy and had his sister dig up some stuff from the thrift store at her church.”

She opened the bag and saw neatly-folded clothes.

“If you find something for a night out in there, the show in the lobby is about to hit its final act and then I was planning to head out on Duval. You gotta do Duval. Even if you’re usually a bookworm type, it’s the sort of story you can tell to your grandkids or whatever.”

She wasn’t sure what to say.

“Hurry up. I don’t want to lose my buzz. I only drink like this once a year and plan to enjoy it.”

She rummaged in the bag until she found a sundress that looked the right size. They hit the lobby in time to catch Art’s finale as Mistress Van Gosh. With her flaming-red wig and perfect eyeliner, she commanded the room as she belted out a song from Rent.

Renee felt herself singing along under her breath.

“That’s the spirit. Speaking of, want a spirit?”

She shook her head. “I want to remember this.”

“Fair enough.”