The Rubber Sandal Resort

It had been a dismal six months. Just dreary. The separation from Kathy was barely a month fresh, the kids called constantly to ask when I’d be coming home, my job had gotten the best of me; here I sat, a forty-five-year-old shell of what I used to be. Forty-five. I just can’t bring myself to believe that I was on the back nine of my life. Forty-five! My hair is thinner and my waist thicker but I still had life in me yet! Was I really going to let Kathy and the kids and my accounting job be all I experienced on this grim and gloomy planet? No! I had to live, live, live! If I was going to have a midlife crisis, I was going to have as big a one as I could. There has to be more than the unlidded coffin I found myself in. And I wasn’t just referring to the ten-by-ten studio apartment I’d started renting: a shit box apartment in a shit hole complex a few miles from the house. While I didn’t mind being far from Kathy, I didn’t want to stray too far from the kids in case of emergencies. I did still love those kids. Hard not to.

    It was in this tiny shit box apartment, nestled among other divorcees and midlife singles that I realized what I needed: a vacation. I hadn’t been outside of this town since our honeymoon, and that was fifteen years ago. I needed to prove to myself I wasn’t dead, and wanted to taste the sweet fruits of what life still had to offer, so a tropical vacation was what I decided I needed.

    Luckily for me, I just happened to be scrolling through Instagram at that moment (as I’m wont to mindlessly do), and came upon an ad for “The Rubber Sandal Resort.” It was situated right on the beach on a tiny island in the Bahamas. In the photo, palm trees gently swayed in the breeze beyond the giant windows in the sun-soaked lobby; the sand a glittery mix of pink and gold, the ocean a tantalizing turquoise calling my name like a siren. Since the separation, I’d become a one income household…well, half an income household, since I was still contributing to the joint account Kathy and I opened years ago. So, it would have to be a bargain getaway.

    As if the internet could read my thoughts (and well, can’t it?) I saw on the resort’s website, their “Singles Bargain Vacation.” The website read:

    “Looking to getaway on the cheap? Bringing just yourself? No need to break the bank to enjoy paradise, choose our Singles Bargain Vacation and enjoy a slice of paradise with a side of adventure!”

    It was fate. Before I’d finished reading the whole block of text my credit card information was input, and my vacation booked.

    Oh, how I wish, now, I’d finished reading the whole page…

***

The resort had their own airline - well, not so much an airline as a fleet of sardine cans they’d hot glued an engine and some wings to. We had to wait four hours for the right wind to come along and sweep us up.

I wish I could describe the flight down to the island, but that wound is still too fresh. Let’s suffice to say that when we did finally land (and finished our six-lap taxi of the tiny island airport), I exited the plane with two bruised knees, covered in orange juice and vodka (for the which I paid $17), with a blood lust for the woman whose conversation (concerning the benefits of prune juice in her diet), drowned out all other noise, except for the baby a few rows up.

    But, through it all, I thought “Adventure! Living! At least this isn’t my shit box apartment in Hackensack! I’m on my way to paradise!” So naïve and optimistic...

    There were beautiful shuttle buses waiting at the airport to escort guests to their respective resorts...And then there was the shuttle bus for The Rubber Sandal. It was covered in rust and rode on four flat tires. I exited the shuttle bus with two bruised hamstrings, a bump on the crown of my head, and a feeling I’d need to get a Tetanus shot when I returned to New Jersey.

    At last, the matchbox on flat tires arrived at the resort. The edifice was a gleaming stucco façade with glorious grand windows peering out from the lobby onto the manicured grounds…too manicured, I thought, correctly. I’d later learn that the front courtyard of the resort was as plastic as a Kardashian’s face. All AstroTurf and faux flora and fauna, so as to have no need to hire grounds keeping staff.

    A very friendly gentleman named Fabrice greeted me at check-in. “Ah, I see you have been enjoying your vacation already!” he joked, alluding to the strong smell of stale vodka I carried in with me. I laughed politely, took my key and headed off to my room. A long soak in the tub and a nap would be what I needed.

    My room was on the third floor; I’d opted for a beach view room. This was, after all, my chance to find romance and adventure, so why not have some scenery? I opened the door to room 311 and nearly choked. It bore only a passing resemblance to the photos I’d seen online. It was hardly any bigger than my studio apartment in Hackensack, and yet was thrice as stained and strained as my apartment. The tacky puce wallpaper was screaming at the orangutan orange carpeting as it slowing puckered and peeled from the corners of the walls. There were two twin sized beds with bedding that looked like it had been run over by the shuttle bus. The curtains were a dingy grey that made them look like characters in an antidepressant ad. Deep down, I was terrified to, but, ultimately I decided to check out the state of the bathroom.

    The door opened inward and banged against the toilet seat. The bathtub, which was quietly leaking a small stream from the faucet, looked spacious. A nicety, I thought, until I turned the light on to see what was waiting for me in the bathtub. There in the tub was the largest crab I had ever seen in my life. It was splashing around in the small stream from the faucet. So large was the crab, I thought it would surely tell me to “buzz off” when I yelped. Instead, it looked at me (I swear! I swear it made eye contact!) then immediately shrugged (if crabs can shrug), and went back to basking in the leaky stream.

    I backed out of the bathroom slowly, without turning on my unexpected guest. I picked up the room phone and instantly dropped it. Well, not instantly. The phone was sticky, so it took a moment to plummet from my horrified grasp. I used a towel to pick up the receiver and a pen to dial the front desk.

    “Front desk, how may I help you today?” answered Fabrice.

    “This is Pete in room 311 ”

    “Ah, Mister Pete, what can we help you with, boss?”

   “There’s, um, there's a giant crab in my bathtub.”

   “Oh, yes, that can happen. Sometimes Chef Mathilda will store the crabs in empty rooms. We will send someone up to handle it shortly. On that note, the special tonight in the dining room is Chef’s crab cakes, would you like us to put an order in for you now?”

    “No thank you. I’m allergic to shellfish,” I lied. My appetite for seafood had suddenly vanished.

    “If there’s anything else we can do for you, sir, please let us know!” and with a click, Fabrice hung up.

    Well, a soak was out of the question. Perhaps a nap would be better. I lowered myself onto one of the twin beds, stretched a bit, lay down and rolled over. To my horror, on the pillow next to me was long blond strand of hair. My hair is short and brunette...I switched to the other twin bed, turned the pillows over and forced myself to nap.

    An hour later, I awoke to the sound of sloppy, noisome masticating. Someone was chewing away at something that sounded very juicy, very close by. I nearly fell over off the bed when I sat up and saw a large, shiny, strange man chomping away at a bucket of crabs' legs on the twin bed next to mine. The only thing louder than his chewing was the floral shirt he wore. Both he and the obnoxious floral shirt were covered in crab meat and drool.

    Before I could scream or shout or put my feet on the ground, the stranger looked at me and said through a mouthful of crab: "Oh hey! You must be my roomie Pete! How ya doing? I’m Jerry.” Jerry stuck out his hand, which sprayed the carpet, bedding and my face with wet crab debris. Seeing the mess, Jerry slovenly wiped his shovel sized hands on his combination bib/shirt, then stuck out his hand with the same force.

    “Who…are you?” I said, with great restraint not to use any of the expletives I wanted to.

    “Just told ya, I’m Jerry. I’m your roommate.”

    “Roommate? I’m here on my own. I paid for a single room.”

    “Nah, you paid for a ‘singles room’” said Jerry, returning to his bucket of crabs’ legs. “The singles room rate only gets you half a room. That’s why it’s such a bargain.” Jerry slurped the crab meat loudly. Licking his fingers, he moaned in ecstasy, “You try the crab legs yet?”

    Remembering my former intruder in the bathtub I said I hadn’t, but I’d met them before they met the fryer. Jerry chuckled.

    “Oh yeah, Chef Mathilda likes to be humane about the thing so when she can, she likes to keep them out of the tank. You ever been to The Rubber Sandal before?”

    “No, this is my first time.” I replied.

    “Oh! You’re gonna love it here! I come down here two or three times a year, thinking about making the place my permanent home.” Jerry went on…and on…and on…It seemed the only taste he liked better than crab meat was the taste of his own voice, which, I learnt, he was a downright glutton for.

    Halfway through what I’m sure was a truly inspiring monologue about his one six-inch-long chest hair, I politely excused myself to find a manager to murder for this misunderstanding. I thought I would start with Fabrice. 

    “Ah, Mister Pete, this is why you should always read the fine print, boss. If you see right here,” Fabrice turned his monitor around to read from the website: “‘Singles Room promotions do not guarantee a single occupancy room. Some guests may be required to share their room with other promotion purchasers. No refund or exchange.’ See, chief?”

My blood boiled, but, I suppose, I had no one to blame but myself. I asked Fabrice if it was possible to upgrade to a single occupancy room.

    “Of course, boss! We can get you a room all to yourself!” A ray of hope. “That’s $2,500 for the upgrade.” My heart bounced off the linoleum floor and shattered. I tried to haggle. Things got desperate, but Fabrice was reticent that there was nothing to be done outside of my parting with $2,500.

Four days in paradise with a perfect stranger…I guess that could be adventurous?

If Kathy was here, she'd know how to get us out of this, I thought. If Kathy was here, I wouldn't have a stranger in my room...