All Inclusive, page 2
“They’re happy together. And it never works out between the two of you,” Jennifer counselled.
I got the feeling that my friends blamed me for what happened, even though Gavin was equally responsible; they didn’t invite me to two subsequent parties, but did include him. I heard that he and Tamara repaired things, and two months later, I left for Mexico, hoping for a fresh start. I’d meet someone new, or focus on my career for a change. Or something. I hadn’t been home since. I wasn’t ready to face everyone, especially Gavin.
∆
I reread Anita’s words, looking for meaning between their straight lines. She was a fan of emoticons and her writing style was typically informal, but this message was concise and cold. Perhaps Nancy’s recent firing had got everyone at head office riled up. But Anita liked me, I knew that. I sat up tall, rolled the kinks out of my neck, and reassured myself that everything would be fine.
Azeez
∞
Nora’s place was a small room just around the corner from the coffee shop. Like my own, a few blocks away, it had space for a desk, a dresser, and a single bed. She fiddled with her boom box, popped in a Duran Duran cassette, and then flopped onto the bed. She beckoned me over from where I stood awkwardly by the door. I sat gingerly beside her and she took my hand. I wasn’t surprised by the gesture; she’ d slipped her arm through mine on the walk over.
She leaned in close and I could tell she wanted me to kiss her. How unshrinking and unafraid Canadian girls were! I pushed my face into hers, and didn’t breathe for a long time. I wrapped her in my arms and she let me hold her tightly.
We talked and kissed for hours. My fingers groped her soft waist, the downy peach-fuzz on her arms. When I gazed into her eyes I sensed a rare and special connection.
And then suddenly we were tearing away our clothes.
In my fantasies, it would have happened in cinematic slow motion. Unhurried, we’ d have progressed to that point over several romantic dates. And when the disrobing finally happened it would be an alluring striptease. Perhaps in reality things always move more quickly.
∞
I left soon after the sex, lying to her about needing to get work done. I never did tell her that I would be on an airplane the following afternoon, but rather, I remained vague about my departure, speaking about the future as though it were more expansive than it was. Perhaps I didn’t want to disappoint her.
I promised to call the next morning. Maybe we’ d go for an early lunch. She gave me her number and, foolishly, I forgot to offer mine.
Ameera
∆
After replying to Anita’s e-mail, I headed to the bar. Enrique’s long arms were all fluid motion as he served three customers at once. He glanced up, mid-pour, and puckered his lips into an air kiss. I held my breath until he released me from his gaze.
He’ d been a big flirt from the beginning. When we first met, he complimented me on a sundress I was wearing, and since then, when I dressed in civilian clothes, I imagined his lustful eyes leering back at me through the mirror. That colour is perfect for you against your brown skin, Ameera; you should show off your back more — have you been exercising?
I hummed along with Katy Perry’s “Firework,” which blasted from the bar’s sound system. Enrique tended to the next person in his line, a giggling brunette in her twenties, who was momentarily caught in a ray of his sunshine. I swivelled my stool so I didn’t have to look at her.
I recognized a pair of men from my bus standing next to me. The two near-strangers were exchanging drunken holiday tales while they slurped cans of Tecate.
“Back in the DR, I stayed at a mega resort like this one. It was so big, me and my buddies stole one of them golf carts? But then we ended up smashing it into the kiddie playground. Yeah,” he said, nodding, acknowledging his new friend’s look of admiration, “I had a blast.”
“I was jailed in Cuba!” the other man pronounced. He told a disjointed, barely believable story about driving without a licence and successfully bribing a police officer with Chiclets and a ten-dollar bill. “Ten dollars Canadian!” he boasted.
Playground Destroyer wobbled on his sandaled feet. His wife brought him a grilled-cheese-and-ham sandwich. He grabbed her left buttock, picked up a triangle, and shouted, “Ham and cheese! I read about these sandwiches on TripGuide! Ham and cheese! Now this is the money shot! The money shot!”
I guffawed loudly, but they didn’t notice.
“Not so loud, hon,” the wife shushed, tucking herself into his embrace.
Just then Enrique made it to my end of the bar. I passed him my travel mug, and he filled it from a jug from under the counter.
“It’s my new drink. The Atlantis Mantis. Try it. I want your opinion.” I was about to protest that I’d wanted a Cuba Libre, but the warmth of his hand on my shoulder pacified me.
“What’s in it?” I peered into the dark liquid.
“Vodka, rum, mint leaves, cranberry juice, and ginger ale. Be careful. It’s sweet but fuerte.”
“Ham and cheese! The money shot!” The two men cheered, lifting their drinks above their heads. Enrique’s eyes darted to them and then back to me, his eyebrows raised in weary superiority. I pursed my lips, nodded, and said goodbye just before he disappeared across the bar.
“Hey look! Tim Hortons!” Jailed-in-Cuba Guy regaled, referring to the logo on my travel mug.
“Yup,” I replied.
“Hey, you’re not from Canada, are you?” Playground Destroyer asked.
“Uh-huh. From Ontario. Hamilton. The Tim Hortons capital of the world.” I took a swig of Enrique’s sweet drink and swayed to “Single Ladies,” mentally morphing into one of Beyonce’s backup dancers.
“Cool. I’d never’ve guessed. You look Mexican,” Jailed-in-Cuba Guy said.
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
“So what are you?” Playground Destroyer asked.
What am I? I inhaled and remembered that although off-shift, I was still an Oceana employee. “Half South Asian. Half white. Where are you folks from?”
“Winnipeg,” The wife answered, raising her beer in a toast no one joined in on, “the friendliest city in Canada.”
∆
Back in my room, I flipped through the Chatelaine and O magazines that my mother had sent earlier that week. I wouldn’t have bought them myself — I preferred The New Yorker or Toronto Life — but English-language magazines were scarce in Huatulco and I appreciated her hand-me-downs. Curiously, the envelope contained both February and March issues. She usually sent them one at a time, mid-month, and I’d missed her package the previous month.
Chatelaine featured a jumble of Valentine’s Day crap. There was advice: “10 Ways to Spice Up Your Sex Life,” “Drive Him Wild in Bed,” and “5 Memorable Valentine’s Day Dates.” And of course there were quizzes: “What’s your Romance IQ?”
As I turned the pages, I paid close attention to where Mom may have lingered, mulling over which articles might have captured her attention. I noticed the mysteries of a partially ripped page, a recipe or coupon clipped. I liked to study the pop psychology quizzes she completed, always in pencil, and later erased. I’d squint at the faint lines and indentations that remained, analyzing her financial, relationship, or communication-style scores.
I skimmed her faded answers to “What’s Your Romance IQ?” Her score was thirty-two, a Timid Romantic. Not a shock; she hadn’t gone beyond a third date in years.
I completed the survey myself, pushing hard against the somnolence of the drink. I scored fifty-five, which made me a Ready for Anything Romantic.
Perhaps it was the Atlantis Mantis, but the online complainant’s judgment echoed: Sexually inappropriate.
I put down the magazine. Yes, I might have skated the line of appropriate. Sometimes I slept with Oceana tourists, which was technically not against the rules, but certainly would be frowned upon if word got to Anita. But I’d been discreet, and had learned to limit liaisons with guests to Thursdays, the night before their departures, in case anyone became too attached or uncomfortable. I avoided single male tourists, who had the tendency toward locker-room type bragging after the fact. Couples, on the other hand, were more reliable, their discretion guided by a respect for privacy or the taboo of their desires.
I knew my interests weren’t exactly the norm, but come on, they weren’t sexually inappropriate. I mean, there are plenty of weirder proclivities than an interest in threesomes. Still, I wondered who might have witnessed my dates with couples over the previous two and a half years. I’d have to try to be more careful.
I gulped back the rest of the Atlantis Mantis and switched off the light. A boozy heaviness took me over.
Azeez
∞
The evening sky was turning pink as I walked home from Nora’s. I found my two roommates drinking on our porch.
“Azeez, you’re moving out soon, eh?” Max flipped his blond dreadlocks off his face and a cloud of patchouli wafted my way.
“Yes. Tomorrow afternoon.” While I had mixed feelings about ending my sojourn in Canada, I was thoroughly ready to leave Max and Jonathan. Our house was a filthy, rundown mess. Over the five years I’d resided there, the place had deteriorated as tidier guys had moved on and only these two remained. There was always some kind of unidentifiable grime I’d have to clean off the tub before I could take a shower. I’d taken to wearing my outside shoes everywhere in the house except in my own bedroom.
“Have a drink with us.” Jonathan cleared a mouldy cardboard box off the folding chair next to him. Max passed me a beer.
They were smart fellows, PhD students entering their sixth year of studies and still a long way from completion. Canadian students were like that, never seeming to be in any hurry, not like us visa students with more limited budgets and under heavy expectation to finish. While my parents supervised me through weekly long-distance phone calls, inquiring about my health and research progress, these guys seemed rootless. Their families lived less than three hours away, but they made brief visits only once or twice a year. I pitied their frail familial connections.
Max and Jonathan toasted my dissertation, which I’d defended successfully two weeks earlier. Mummy had urged me to return home sooner, but I’d resisted. I’d wanted to prolong my independent Canadian life a touch longer. Soon, I’d be enveloped in the responsibilities and obligations of home. My job at the prestigious Indian Institute of Technology would begin two months hence. I’d be introduced to a number of prospective brides.
And so I booked my flight for June 22, telling Mummy that I needed time to pack and say goodbye to my Canadian friends. And anyway, I’d paid my rent to the end of June, I’d argued. Later she’ d blame herself for not pushing the point more, believed that her anxiety about my return date was some sort of prescience.
I drank a second beer and we discussed Jonathan’s research frustrations and Max’s gripes regarding his supervisor. I accepted a third beer and boasted about my new academic post. And then my tongue loosened and I told them about my afternoon with Nora.
“Man, your life is golden!” Jonathan exclaimed.
“Fuck yeah. A PhD, a job lined up, and today you got some pussy!” Max added.
I didn’t think it was nice for him to talk about Nora that way, but I grinned and burped. “It’s quite golden, no?”
Ameera
∆
My left eyebrow ached. Just the left one. I pinched it, the pain pooling red under my lids. I turned over and hid from the harsh light streaming through the window. No matter how I rigged the drapery panels, they refused to meet. My stomach gurgled a distress call and I lay still, vowing to never again drink a jumbo travel mug of Enrique’s new concoction.
A dream fragment shifted behind my eyelids, and I willed it forward. There was a faint voice beckoning me, calling my name. I think it was a man’s, but it was too hoarse to identify. It had stalked my nights for weeks and sometimes its residue of lonely dread lingered through the day. It was masochistic, maybe, but I closed my eyes tight to dwell within the dream’s reach.
When Blythe flushed the toilet in our shared bathroom, the dream’s vapours evaporated. I sprang awake; it was already 9:00 a.m. and I had to be ready for the new guest orientation in half an hour. Somehow, Blythe always managed to be in the shower when I needed it.
I hoisted myself out of bed and laid out my clothes. I sniffed yesterday’s skirt and decided I could wear it another day. I chose new underwear and a fresh blouse. I left the mandatory navy-blue and aquamarine striped tie looped over the dresser mirror, dusty now from disuse. None of us wore the regulation accessory except during semi-annual inspections, except for Oscar; he said it distinguished us from the gardeners and maintenance workers, who wore similar uniforms. Really though, I think he enjoyed his conspicuous formality because it made him appear as our superior.
Blythe belted out “Royals,” out of tune, from the shower. The water shut off and I waited for the lock on my side of the adjoining bathroom to click open, then the door to Blythe’s room to shut, the signal that it was safe to go in. To distract from my overfull bladder and complaining stomach, I switched on the TV and found an American weather station. The newscaster was almost pissing himself with excitement, reporting on a blizzard in New Jersey. I turned it off and willed Blythe to finish in the washroom.
Since learning about the promotion, I’d been envisioning my manager suite. It would come equipped with its own bathroom and sitting area. I’d mentally furnished it with local art and tchotchkes, clay pots, and rugs. But that morning, self doubt wormed its way into my daydreams. What if the complaint hinderd my promotion? Maybe I’d have to live in my drab quarters and field tourist foibles for another three years.
I shook away the depressing thoughts; as the self-help gurus in O magazine proclaimed in bold font, it wasn’t productive! I would remain positive!
I checked my phone to see if Anita had sent a reply to my e-mail, but the cinder-block walls of the old building jammed the wireless signal.
Amongst our crew, only Blythe and I took advantage of worker housing. Roberto used to live across the hall, but moved to Santa Maria, forty-five minutes away, after he got married. Oscar lived three blocks away from Roberto, with his wife and three kids. Manuela stayed with her family in nearby La Crucecita, but that made no sense to me; she was twenty-six and had to share a bedroom with two sisters. I once tried to convince her to move to Atlantis, but she lectured me about how Atlantis was a make-believe town and she preferred to live in a real town with real stores and real people.
Even though I appreciated the simplicity of living on the resort — it kind of reminded me of a university campus — I understood what Manuela meant. I often ventured into La Crucecita’s noisy streets on my days off for a dose of reality. I liked to watch people rush to work, do their banking, take their kids to the dentist. Each time, I’d wander into a grocery store and purchase a single mango, or a bag of Sabritas chips and bring them back to my rectangular room.
Minutes later, as I rinsed my hair in a lukewarm shower, “Royals” stalked my thoughts. I imagined the irksome tune hiding out in the faucet, escaping through the uneven spray, landing on my scalp, and colonizing my mind.
∆
At 9:45, I joined Manuela and Oscar at the ampitheatre entrance. Together, we created a chorus of “good morning” and “welcome” as we handed out orientation leaflets. The tourists reciprocated with their own replies of “good morning” and “thank you,” and the cheerful din brought back my headache. Blythe climbed onto the stage and adjusted a microphone stand.
“We’ve just been talking about Nancy at Waves,” Manuela stage-whispered once the hall had filled. “Do you know her?”
“Yeah.” My first year in Huatulco, I spent all my free time with foreign tour reps, including Nancy. We travelled in a pack, a dozen American, Canadian, and European women, nightclub-hopping and lying on the beach. We leaned on one another when homesick. We gossiped, had arguments, made up. It was like summer camp for grown-ups. Eventually, I grew bored with it and drifted from the group.
“It’s a disgrace on our profession. I’ve worked in the industry over twenty-five years and nothing like that has ever happened,” Oscar muttered.
“We don’t know the full story, guys.” I fumbled with my phone to check my e-mail. Still no reply from Anita.
“Good morning!” Blythe sang into the microphone. An electronic squeal ricocheted around the theatre, eliciting a collective startle response from the assembly.
Oscar hurried to the stage in a half-jog, his sciatica making his movements jerky. He adjusted the amplifier’s dials and I covered my ears while Oscar and Blythe performed sound checks.
“Sorry! Let’s try that again. Good morning!” Blythe yelled. This time, the audience droned a feeble reply.
“Okay, we’re going to tell you all about the resort and the excursions in just a moment. But before we do that, we’re going to play a little game!” The audience rustled its discomfort. I rubbed my temples, craving caffeine.
“All right, stand up if you are here in Huatulco for the first time!” Nearly everyone stood, except for a line of bored-looking people at the back.
“Stand if it is your first time travelling with Oceana! … Stand if you are from Toronto! … Edmonton! … Montreal! … Ottawa! … Buffalo! …” The flock, mostly persuadable, bobbed up and down as Blythe screamed out their hometowns.
