How Stella Got Her Groove Back (6 page)

“Well, watch and see how scared I am when I’m on the beach or at dinner or on the dance floor, okay?”

“And who will you dance with?”

“Whoever asks me or whoever I ask. Maybe him,” I said, pointing at her husband.

“He doesn’t dance.”

“I’m going to try while we’re here, honey. I’ll dance with you as long as you don’t laugh at this stiff Virginian.”

I laugh. He laughs. We all laugh and then stare back out into the darkness, each of us wondering how much longer how much further and where oh where the hell is our hotel, because we can’t see the twinkle of anything that looks like a resort for miles ahead.

Luckily the driver has on some kind of fabulous reggae music. I can’t believe that even though it’s only eight o’clock and it’s pitch black outside and there are no streetlights, children are playing outside. There are also clusters of old men sitting around makeshift tables made of old boards and doors, playing cards and dominoes. We go around a bend and out of nowhere the van’s headlights shine on a group of teenagers just standing around like they’re getting ready to do something. Some of them are kissing under heavy trees or sitting on big rocks—there’s a head in a lap, a head on a shoulder, and when I see this I remember when and I hurry and turn that little air-conditioner vent so it hits me directly in the face.

The one thing I can’t help but notice is that everybody here is black.

Finally, after we’ve all passed out, the driver honks his horn and yells, “Welcome to the Castle Beach Negril!” I open my eyes and see that the hotel is even prettier than the photo in the brochure.

The white people get out of the van without tipping the driver because of course the ride is supposed to be part of our package but even so I think this is so tacky and downright inconsiderate and when I hand Donovan the driver a brand-new twenty-dollar American bill he nods over and over and says thank you and he gives me a look as if to thank me for showing him some respect. This is like a black thang: You take care of me, I’ll take care of you.

Our bags are whisked off and as we all walk toward the lobby I hear loud music coming from outside which is down a long marble ramp that leads somewhere I want to see, and am about to, when we are greeted by two young Jamaican women who offer us a cold wet cloth for our forehead and whatever tropical or regular drink we would like until they get us checked in. I order a virgin piña colada because I don’t like the taste of alcohol even when it’s camouflaged. Two drinks and I’m drunk anyway, so I stopped trying to get a liquid buzz years ago.

It’s now about nine-thirty and when I sit down in my chair I realize I’m beat. But after the young woman who is assigned to me whose name is Abby brings me my frothy white drink with a giant piece of pineapple on it and asks if I’d like to see the rest of the hotel I instantly get a new burst of energy. I follow her down that ramp and can’t really believe my eyes. It is like a modern tropical version of
Casablanca
: people are swarming around the dance floor while up on a stage a band is playing something with a funky get-up-and-dance beat and everybody is laughing and clapping and totally oblivious to anything except the music.

Hundreds of white tables with white chairs are mostly filled with suntanned white people dressed colorfully. And then there is the food. A buffet about a mile long is filled with every kind of seafood salad pasta dessert you name it and Abby says follow me and I follow her outside and all I’m thinking as I watch folks partying is that I’m going to like it here and as we approach the deck that leads directly to the beach we walk around the pool and here are more tables and I see smoke and smell barbecue and there are about a hundred people standing in line with plates and everybody looks happy and healthy and folks are feeding each other from fingers and forks and everybody has a drink it seems and they are all waiting for what apparently is prime rib chicken shrimp steak being grilled in front of them. I’m just taking this all in; it turns out to be Jamaica Night. I sip my drink all the way down the pathway that leads to my room and apparently my building which is only two floors is right next to the nude beach. I kind of chuckle when Abby tells me this and she asks if this’ll be a problem, and I say, as I’ve already learned how to say in the last hour: “No problem, mon.”

My room is pretty but not as spectacular as the rest of the hotel. I do have a lovely balcony with, no shit, big giant rocks and crashing waves right below like in the movies. There’s a ghetto blaster so thank God I brought my Seal and Mary J. Blige among others and I put Seal on immediately and take my clothes off and stand on the balcony and inhale some of this thick moist tropical ocean air and it’s real this is so real I made it I didn’t die yes I’m really here in Jamaica and I hang up all my clothes and then I take a shower and listen to Seal some more and I put on some pretty white shortie pj’s and I lie on my bed and listen to some more Seal and the rolling waves until my body loses me and my mind is clear and soothed and when I open my eyes it is daylight and Seal begins to seduce me all over again. I sit up and realize that yes I’m still here and I call room service and order some coffee and juice which will be here in only ten minutes’ time they say and I put on one of my cute peach jogging outfits and look at the clock and it is only 7:30
A
.
M
. which means it’s only 5:30
A
.
M
. at home. I should call Quincy but it’s too early plus I forgot I can’t call him and maybe I should wake up Angela—no, to hell with Angela—and I don’t want to bug Vanessa just yet. I now have my gear on and there is a knock on the door and I say thank you and offer a tip but the young black woman refuses to take it. I will find out later how to do this so they will accept it without losing their jobs.

I get my Walkman out and pop Seal inside it. Haven’t had enough of him yet. I feel bouncy like I could sort of just fly low but fly nevertheless. This was a smart move, Stella, real smart. I drink my juice in one swallow and am almost too wired to drink my entire cup of coffee, me, Ms. Latte herself.

When I step outside I am amazed at how hot it already is, it has to be in the high eighties, and the humidity is thick but nothing like Chicago, which is where I first went to college and then on to New York where we lived for an incredibly long time until Walter got transferred to a base near Oakland and we moved to Walnut Creek and then I got my job and we moved to this little town called Alamo and then we got divorced and he moved back to Colorado which is where he’s from.

I run down the stairs and when I look to the left I see a group of old fat naked white people lying on the chaises and what appears like a family of pink humpback whales on orange air mattresses and when I look a little closer I see at least forty taut breasts whose nipples all point toward the sun and they seem a little incongruous because they certainly don’t match the bodies they’re attached to. I chuckle and think that there’s no fucking way I’d take my clothes off in front of a bunch of old alcoholic-looking white men considering what they used to do to us during slavery and all, which is probably the reason why I’m no darker than I am, and I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing my bare brown body and particularly my cellulite and stretch marks, which only someone dear to me can experience up close.

It all looks different. Everything is green and lush, with giant banana trees lining the asphalt path like a jungle and flowers I’ve never seen or smelled before. Those fuchsia-colored ones—what are they called?—oh yeah, hibiscus, and I think people eat those don’t they and then clumps of yellow and orange and white and I’m thinking my landscaper could learn something but what I am really beginning to notice for real is that everybody I mean everybody that works here is black. I love this but then again I am already beginning to wonder how much they’re getting paid and if they’re being exploited like slave labor and making insulting wages because there are so many people working here the grounds are swarming with men in cotton jumpsuits with brooms rakes hedge cutters and I know what it’s like in say Mexican hotels and I’m hoping that is not the case here.

I pass the workout room, which is basically outside. There’s a serious high-energy funk-pumping aerobics class in progress which a black Mr. Universe-looking guy in a unitard is teaching and I think maybe I shouldn’t run today maybe this is where I should be, aerobically speaking. To the left are weights and Nautilus equipment and I’ll spend some time in there or Krystal will be able to tell when I get home and we do those stupid lunges and I have no pep in my step or I whine when I have to do pecks or lat pulldowns. I’ll be back, I say to myself, and continue down the path toward the gigantic dining room or whatever it’s called where I was last night.

These folks do get up early. There are a hundred or more people already lining up and sitting down eating. I have until tenish to eat so I sort of walk by and as I do folks are waving and I’m looking to see if these are the same white people that were on my van but these are different white people and I wave back because I basically like most white people as long as they don’t act like Nazis or come across like they’re superior or richer or classier or smarter and shit just because they’re white.

I walk out by the pool and notice a big wooden armoire filled with towels and I can really see the beach now. It looks even prettier than on my commercial. The sand is for sure white. And damn, the water is like really turquoise, and I walk down toward it, past the boat with all the snorkeling equipment, the big water tricycles with the gigantic wheels, some paddleboats and kayaks and canoes and little sailboats, and there are about five hundred clean white chaise longues all lined up in rows on the beach, some under little fat palm trees, and toward my right the beach stretches and winds for what looks like about two miles before it comes to a point and I guess continues around a cove or something. I would love to run straight into the water but I have my sneakers on.

I start out slowly so I can take everything in. Just as I get my rhythm I almost run smack dab into a cow, which scares the daylights out of me. My heart rate monitor begins to
beep beep beep
informing me that I’m over my target fat-burning zone and then it subsides. Sand crabs scurry into holes as I catapult right over them. In less than ten minutes I am sweating and I realize I forgot to turn my Walkman on but I don’t need it because the music is coming out of the ocean and through the air and I’m pushing myself until I realize I can’t run any further because a crowd of trees juts out into the water and it’s impossible to go around it. On the way back I pass two lovers who are hidden inside a cavern. They are in their bathing suits but still wrapped within each other’s arms and kissing so deeply they don’t even notice me. It isn’t until I pass that I realize how much I envy them. They are in love. And it occurs to me that it’s been a long time since I’ve been in love.

I feel my pace slowing down and then I begin to walk because I am wondering when was the last time I actually said “I love you” to a man and hell, when was the last time someone said it to me? It’s been a few years is all I know and although it doesn’t make me sad, it causes me to wonder what it might be like to feel it again because I really can’t remember right this minute.

By the time I get back to the beach at my hotel the water activities have started and the beach is much more populated. People are dragging boats or getting in boats and there is someone parasailing right over us. Jet Skiers are speeding by, causing turbulent waves which folks seem to love, diving into the plume in this otherwise calm bay, and then one of several Jamaican men says to me, “No snorkeling today for you, mon?”

“Not right now,” I say.

“Jogging were you?”

“Yep.”

“Keeps you in good shape?”

“I’m trying.”

“You looking good, girl.”

“Thank you,” I say and continue walking.

“Your husband’s a lucky man,” another says and I smile as I get a towel and dry my face and throw it around my neck and walk into the huge dining room which is now almost full. I find an empty table and set my Walkman and sunglasses on top and go over to the buffet to get myself some breakfast.

I don’t want to be greedy but boy it’s hard to know what to choose from since there’s so much of everything, and I decide on Belgian waffles and fresh sliced mango. I go back to my seat, smiling hellos at some of the folks from the van last night and a few other friendlies. As I begin to slice my waffles I suddenly smell the most intoxicating scent: a fresh clean citrusy but almost sweet aroma and I can’t tell which direction it’s coming from but out of the corner of my eye to my left I see a young black man sliding his chair under the next table. He is wearing a white baseball cap and some kind of T-shirt and boy are his arms long and hairy and a really deep gold and that’s all I can see but he looks like one of those rappers I’ve seen on MTV but I can’t put my finger on which one. I guess he feels me looking at him because he immediately turns to acknowledge me and smiles and nods his head at the same time and says, “Hello,” and that’s when I bend over and say, “Are you a rapper?”

He blushes and then a broad grin spreads over his handsome face as if I’ve given him a compliment he doesn’t deserve. “No,” he says in a soft Jamaican accent and he sort of leans in my direction and that’s when I notice that he is entirely too young to be so fine and sexy. His eyebrows are thick and his eyes look Asian and his cheekbones are chiseled and those beautiful thick lips he is using to say “What rapper?” are making it difficult—I can’t really take my eyes off how perfect they are—but I hear myself say, “I don’t know, you just look like one,” and it seems as if his eyes sort of close for a second or two and he hunches his shoulders as if to apologize and says, “I don’t rap.”

I turn back to the waffles. A young waiter comes to pour more coffee in my cup and I am adding two packages of sugar when I feel someone tap me on the shoulder. When I turn to face him I smell that scent again—now it’s more like an ocean breeze with a mist of ruby red grapefruit juice—and I realize it is coming from him. “Are you dining alone?” he asks.