the clown

words by genghis

pictures by rhoda

once upon a time there was a clown in the circus. he travelled from town to town with the ringmaster, the fortune teller, the elephant, the vampire, the werewolf, the bareback dancer, the hoochie-coochie girls and all the other denizens of the circus but no one really knew him. perhaps a very long time ago things had been different but even uncle joe the cotton candy maker and billy freed the shooting gallery proprietor who had been with the circus since daniel and the lion had been the main attraction couldn't remember the rainy night the clown had first appeared on the scene. even though they thought it was about the time of the first murder. the first murder ... uncle joe took a big drag on his unlit and unlightable stogie and stared out of the tent into the darkness and the past ... "yeah kid, i remember the first murder ... like it was yesterday. i was just cleaning up after making up a batch ..." "you must have made a lot of candy in your time, uncle joe." "that i have." "ruined a lot of teeth and intestines and complexions through the years." "i'm trying to tell a story here." "some people would think you were no better than a serial killer." "i'm the bad guy? i thought you wanted to hear about the clown, figure out if he was the bad guy." "think of all the people scarred for life, sobbing in their pillows the night of the senior prom, all because of you." "what are you, some bureaucrat from the world health organization? where's your bow tie? i thought you were the kid!" "i am the kid, but i'm also a person who speaks his mind. if i have something to say, i say it." "kids used to have more respect." "oh go ahead and tell your story about the clown." the little guy came up the hill slowly. frankie saw him first. right away he thought he thought, this is clown material. you see him and you think, he's just a little fellow. he comes closer and you think, he's pretty big. he gets right up to you and he isn't big or little, fat or thin, young or old, ugly or good looking. a perfect clown. "can i help you?'" frankie asked. 'i'd like a job as a clown." "well this is a circus so you came to the right place. got any experience?" "the most." "are you ready to work? the last clown who ran off with the last hoochie kootchie dancer took his clown costume and material with him. you look like you are traveling pretty light there." "excuse me, but you referred to the artist who just departed as 'the last clown'. but he's not the last clown, because i'm here now, standing right before you." "i meant," frankie answered. "he was the last clown before you came along." "then you should have made yourself clearer. to me, last means last; like the last dinosaur, the last arctodus simus, the last cowboy, the last hobo, and so forth. the term 'last' to me, signifies the closing of the books, the end of an era, the passage of something which once was, but is now no more. not simply the passing of a torch, which happens every minute of every day. in fact, isn't reality simply the passing of endless torches?" "well, sir, that is a righteously rigorous definition of the word 'last', and i commend you for it, because, like all circus folks, i admire rigor in all its forms." "except rigor mortis," said the clown. "except rigor mortis, ha ha. good one," frankie told him. "but to return to our oirginal discussion, we won't get to the nearest town with the nearest woolworths or costco's until next week. so are you prepared to use your ingenuity and horse sense to rustle yourself up some clown paraphernalia, and make the next show?" "i am." "good. the next show will be the last -" frankie smiled - "until tomorrow." the clown turned to go. "one thing, sir." "yes." "do you still have hoochie kootchie dancers?" 'why of course, this is the circus, isn't it?' "i only ask because you referred to the young lady who just departed as the last hoochie kootchie dancer." "i apologize for my lack of rigor." "i am happy to hear that there are still hoochie kootchie dancers." frankie and the clown went their separate ways. frankie was quite pleased with the way events had transpired. "so it was frankie who hired the clown?" the kid interrupted. "oh no, mike hired him, frankie was just the first to see him. mike did all the hiring himself. mike ruled the circus like moses ruled the red sea or genghis khan ruled the steppes of central asia. you need a guy like that in the circus. a circus is not a democracy. " "if you say so." "anyway, that night the first murder happened." "who was it?" "i'm sorry but i just can't remember. it was either a man or a woman, a roustabout or a hoochie kootchie dancer." "it sounds like the hoochie kootchie dancers were an integral part of the scene." "well, it's nature's way. the circus is a part of nature." "do you have to say 'hootchie kootchie dancer' every time, can't you just say 'dancer'? "we did, among ourselves." "but ignorant outsiders had to have it spelled out for them every time." "you sure ask a lot of questions." "i like rigor. i should have been in the circus." uncle joe stared at the kid with his bleary eyes. "i'm starting to get awful suspicious of you, kid." "whatever." suddenly uncle joe sprang forward with an agility that belied his years and snatched the wide brimmed gray fedora off the kid's head. long black hair came tumbling down to the kid's shoulders. the kid was - a girl!!! uncle joe shook his head. "you sure had me fooled." "does this mean you won't tell me the story now?" "not at all. in fact it explains a lot." "meaning?' "it's just like a dame to ask a lot of questions." "well since i'm just a dame can i ask some basic questions about this whole scenario?' "the more basic the better." "as i understand it the murders started when the clown joined the circus and continued until he left about thirteen years later when they abruptly stopped." "that is correct." "and then he came back two years later and they started up again?" "that is also correct." "but nobody ever suspected him of anything." "i wouldn't go so far as that. but there was never any proof. in fact, there's no proof to this day. and here in the circus, young lady, we don't deal in suspicion and innuendo, we demand rigorous proof." "rigorous proof. this from an operation advertising acts that supposedly go back to the time of gilgamesh and nebuchadnezzar, and exhibits the true cross and the stake st stephen was tied to." "and the stake joan of arc was tied to, only slightly charred. and the sword of saladin." the kid laughed. "people sell us these things for a reasonable price and we believe what they tell us. we don't call them liars. that would be rude. we demand rigorous proof but we don't call people liars. we're civilized." "you don't see any contradiction there." "we don't see contradiction anywhere. we are citizens of the universe, traveling through all cultures and paradigms. we aren't simple minded white twenty-first century reductionist liberals." 'i do admit i'm a little surprised at the level of abstraction of the conversation. i was expecting something more along the lines of 'where's the chow?' and 'check out those hot gams' ". "you see, you're learning." 'let's get back to the clown.'

chapter 2: at the lake

Den of Vipers

 (Click here to read the first episode and here for the previous one.)

Only the sound studio and the large bath and dressing room here have four solid walls. Otherwise my octagonal house is open: Second-story sleeping lofts with decks and satellite reception; and a spacious first level with polished stone over a cement foundation.

The roof is pitched and palm-thatched. Rolled under the top railings are wax-treated canvas sheets that zip into place when a storm hits. To unlatch the covers, I have several long poles. Always before when a boa constrictor found its way into the bedroom, I used the poles to get it out.

This morning though, I lift the boa with my hands and drape it over my shoulders—something I’ve seen Pedro do but haven’t done before now, showing off for Emma.

 “Do you want to hold it?” No. “Just touch it then?” No.

She follows me downstairs, watches me slide on some sandals and march naked a hundred feet past the coconut trees where the truck is parked. I hang the boa from a mango tree. 

Later, after showering, dressing, and breakfast, I show her pictures of coral snakes. They’re quick and loaded with venom. “There’s all sizes and colors and the only way to spot them is by their black rings. Sometimes they’ve got a lot, sometimes just one or two that could be anywhere, near the head, in the middle, or at the tail.”

No pictures of pit vipers today—I don’t want to scare Emma too much. But if we’re gonna hike around, she needs to know what to avoid.

“So it’s like, always watch out?”

“Not really. I’ve never even seen these snakes. But Pedro has. They’ll leave you alone as long as you don’t grab or step on ’em by mistake.”

She’s wearing Chako sandals that belonged to Jean, my three week lover last year, and they’re way too big for her.

Since we flew down here on a whim, all Emma has are a few white shifts and a bikini. I’m taking her to meet Kitty, my one ex who’s remained my friend. Kitty runs the yoga place, six retreats a year. She’ll give Emma sarongs, yoga clothes, and cook books. Emma has no idea how to cook, but claims she’s always wanted to learn—good thing, because I know how to fix rice and beans but would rather not.

Earlier, I ordered climbing sandals and surf gear for Emma online and we argued about who should pay. She’s got a credit card from college when she worked as a waitress. Other than that she’s sung in our costume band. But to her, that’s not the point.

“Why should you pay for my stuff?” she asked. “Because you’re rich? Lots of people of people are rich.”

“Emma, I’m the one that wants you to have this stuff.  And, there’s rich and richer. I have so much money I have to pay an institution to keep track of it.”

“Oh, you mean, a bank?”

It’s not just a bank but I’ll give her that one. All this tropical sports equipment is expensive and she wouldn’t be here and wouldn’t need it if I hadn’t talked her into running away with me. But her attitude doesn’t surprise me. Emma’s all about independence, and—need not greed. 

“Sorry, darling. This account charges me automatically.”

Anyway, now we’re going to get her yoga clothes, which should make her happy. Instead of dollars, Kitty will ask her to take the teacher’s training for a few weeks and then teach the early morning class nobody else wants. She should consider any and all clothing part of the package. (I’ve done this before, remember.)

Approaching the yoga center, the first person we meet is Kitty’s boyfriend Sean, who looks like he’s Emma’s age but has lived here five years. He arrived with a freckled girlfriend who made jewelry. After two weeks at most, Sean sent her packing and moved in with Kitty who’s noticeably older than me. Although I don’t know by how much; she won’t say.

I recognize the camp Lothario, Logan Wolf, by his muscled arms hanging from a hammock. He gives all the pretty yoginis Thai massage for $100 bucks an hour. After which, he can choose one and then another, because he’s opened their blocked channels—and that has changed their world.

Kitty’s talking to the cook, Sebastian, in the food pantry. He’s got two assistants, bronzed surfers smoking mota by the refrigerator. I rest my hand on Emma’s shoulder and scan the place, blinking for some reason. I’m gazing out at everything from a new perspective: There are only five guys around at the moment but I know their type. To me they look like vipers coiled in a nest. Now and then a snake raises his head, unwinds, swinging back and forth and baring his fangs.

(Click here to read the next episode)

the kiss... (IV)

.

they had brought him to that damned room... so it was the end... yes... that was the end of the line... next morning he would be hanged on the gallows... there was no point in thinking about the reason why... the reason was a pen and some words... the reason was a heart beating for the blue sky... the reason was a mind that was foreign to lies... in those last hours the only image that kept coming to his mind was hers... all those sweet moments they were together...

he is writing at his desk... she comes and stands behind him... reading his notes aloud... wow!... and he loves the way she says wow!... this is great!... and he loves the way she says, this is great!... then she bends a bit and puts her hands on his shoulders... commenting on some points... and he loves the way she comments... he starts including them in his notes... then her arms are round his neck... and that's the best part... she bends even more... he can feel her breath... then he leaves the pen on the desk... and they kiss in a very strange position... his head leaning backward... her hands round his neck... his arms up... trying to engulf her... he loves it that way... he always loved it that way...

the guard opened the door of the cell... surprised to find him all up and ready to come with him... i'm ready! want to see her for the last time... the guard said nothing... the prisoner was not allowed to see anyone... even during these last minutes... he felt uneasy though... he felt there was someone else there... he always hated this... those last moments of these dying people... they were so heavy and oozy... but he could say nothing... any comments? don't want to add any comments, darling? the guard added to his pace... there was something powerful about this prisoner... he seemed so determined... no trace of fear... no regret... this frightened him... something was coming up in his throat... something hard and dark... the prisoner stepped up the stool without even waiting for anyone to tell him... how i love you standing by me... the dark thing in the guard's throat was bigger... his legs started trembling... he was ordered to fix the rope round the prisoner's neck... his hands were shaking... he took the noose from the guard so caringly... put it round his neck and tightened it deliberately... how i love your hands round my neck... the guard could hear his soft whisper... he wanted to rush out of that place... to run for eternity... to get lost... to forget that soft whisper... he was ordered to kick the stool out from under the prisoner's feet... he was standing there... not being able to stir a limb... to utter a word... his eyes were pinned on the prisoner's face... he was smiling... he was smiling so broadly... ahhhh... now comes the kiss... kiss me sweetheart... kiss me! the prisoner kicked out the stool himself... hanging in the air... with his head leaning backward... his arms up... trying to engulf an invisible being... this lasted just for a moment and then all hanged down... the guard bent... the dark thing was strangling him... he kneeled... his forehead gently kissing the granite floor... kiss me sweetheart... the prisoner's voice echoed nonstop... kiss me sweetheart... kiss me!

.

Dr. Seuss

(Click here to read the first episode and here for the previous one.)

We’re here and I’m dying to get up inside her. All day I’ve felt like, here or there; on a boat, beneath a coat; like Dr. Seuss—in the hall, against a wall; on the stairs, across a chair.

So I pull Emma toward the high deck, where we sleep. I’ll show her the house later; our bags can wait in the truck.

The place is immaculate, white muslin and legal cedar. I pay Pedro to maintain the house, including eco-friendly snake and scorpion removal. A local lady, Estella, cleans every other week, whether I’m here or not.

“Wait. Scott, I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

She takes mango, pineapple, and banana already sliced and waiting for us from the refrigerator. I grab Pedro’s special mix of  papaya,  yogurt, honey, and coconut milk. With a little coaxing, Emma agrees to sit on my lap while we eat. The fruit tastes incredible, so incredible it demands attention—savor it or choke.

She stretches, and saying she wants a shower, wanders off to the tiled bathroom. Of course I follow her and she slides the glass door open a little, water streaming over her from top to bottom. “You want to come in?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

We wash each other and I cover her mouth as she bends back her neck, about to meet the spray head on. I bend down to kiss her and she rises up, her legs around my hips. Soon then, she’s pulling the hair on top of my head, her breasts in my face. Oh the Places You’ll Go.


On the deck, the bed is very white and large, topped by a gauzy mosquito net, and before long: more sex, slower and gentler without the rush of water. We nap and wake to the view of the sea and the sound of the tide. The sun hangs on the horizon and this unearthly peace deepens with the dusk.

Some more wine? No, thank you, she says. She’s never known such contentment.

Sometime in the night, I wake up. I nudge Emma and she says, “Oh hi,” which isn’t what I expect to hear. For all my secret pledges to play fair, I realize, Emma is someone I must possess. She’s so casual that I seriously need to make her live and breathe for me. Like I said, I can’t resist competition, even if that makes me kind of mean.

Ocean breezes stream through the open-air sleeping deck. I kiss her a long time, elaborately, between her legs, and she moans and murmurs, “Oh, that’s so good.” She’ll pay me back in the morning.

Pay me back—that’s how she feels. Love’s another transaction, which is my problem, too, or close to it. I fall back asleep, wondering where she’s from, other than Chicago, other than another friend of Charlie’s.

In the morning, even before the howler monkeys start up, Emma’s screaming. She skitters to the edge of the bed and jumps out. Not as blasé as when we were in the puddle-jumper, she’s yelling my name, her voice full of panic.

“What?” Despite her alarm, I can barely open my eyes. She points to a boa constrictor, maybe six feet long, curled around the bedpost.

 “Okay,” I tell her, indicating she shouldn’t lean so far over the deck. “I can take care of this. Just watch me.”

(Click here to read the next episode)

on like this forever - chapter 2, part 2: kosalski

by bofa

sergeant kosalski was standing in a doorway. at eddie's surprise he laughed. "what's up, eddie?" kosalski was the most hated cop in town. everyone was afraid of him. no one could get the best of him. not too many tried. yet eddie kept a poker face. war had not yet been declared. and kosalski would deal. in fact, that was all he ever did. treachery was his road game. "i am a little surprised to see you here," eddie said. "never too early to talk to an old friend." kosalski replied. "great," replied eddie, kosalski nodded at the door behind him. "enter." nothing else for it, eddie decided. nothing good could come of this. "you remember kenny, don't you?" he asked kosalski. "how could i forget him?" as he spoke, kosalski opened the door. darkness was inside. before eddie's eyes could adjust, kosalski grabbed by the arm and pulled him inside. eddie stiffened momentarily. eventually his eyes adjusted. now he knew where he was. harry miller's place. in the old days harry miller had a haberdashery here. sure. but what was kosalski's game? "eddie, i am sure you are wondering why i brought you here today." "sure." "to be frank, i was kind of wondering that myself." "frankness was always your game." "right." "i remember this place - harry miller had his haberdashery here." "eddie, you amaze me. you must have hardly been born when harry miller had his haberdashery here." "no. i used to buy my hats here." dusting off a chair beside the window, kosalski sat down. "all right, let's get down to business." turning to face kosalski, eddie listened. "concerning kenny," kosalski began. "he has got to go." at this, eddie made no immediate response. "my thinking," kosalski continued, "is that consolidation is the wave of the future." perfect, thought eddie. eddie knew this was the moment he had waited for all his life. victory was in his grasp. everything he had ever done tended toward this moment. "no argument here," he answered kosalski. "to tell you the truth, i expected a little more resistance," said kosalski. "unless you and kenny aren't such pals as i thought". all right, eddie thought, he's trying to set me up here. 'let's get one thing straight, detective, kenny is no friend of mine." "let me ask you, eddie, do you have any friends?" "yeah, i got friends." "tell me about them" "hey, what is this?" "eddie, i can't do business with someone if i don't know about them." "you're the cop, you got sources of information." "how shall i say this?" at that moment, as kosalski was playing with eddie's head, kenny was talking to sam kennedy. "decisive action is required." "decisive action," the attorney repeated. "right, i hear you. but you can't be too careful" "i want you to file a wrongful death suit against eddie for johnny's murder. for good measure, throw in a pain and suffering suit for johnny's mom" taken aback, the lawyer was almost at a loss for words. "eddie doesn't have any money - at least he doesn't have any assets." "doesn't matter - we are sending a message. a message that we aren't a bunch of street punks. perhaps eddie and his pals will see that we have other weapons in our arsenal" "arsenal - that's a big word." "right - and i got big plans." turning to the window, kenny watched the raindrops sliding down.

"A Town Called Disdain", Episode Four: darts, pinball, and the mystery of Dick's fingernails

(Click here for our previous episode, or go here to read the beginning of this sprawling masterwork.)

The year is 1969: Woodstock, Charles Manson, the Moon landing, Vietnam...

A recently discharged young soldier named Harvey has just this day returned to his home town of Disdain, NM, and has gone directly to the local roadhouse, Burt’s Hideyway, where he meets up with some of the old gang, including an odd little boy named Cleb Parsons and Harvey's mother Doris, who waits on tables there. He also encounters the vastly unpleasant bully Bull Thorndyke, and winds up shooting him dead in self-defense with town Sheriff Dooley’s own pistol.

A mysterious couple named Dick and Daphne “ Smith” have also arrived at Burt’s, there to be greeted by the local rancher Big Jake Johnstone. Mr. Johnstone offers Harvey a job as local guide for Dick and Daphne, who will be staying at Johnstone’s ranch. Harvey accepts.

There has been a strange interlude concerning the local minor-league baseball team, the Browns, and their LSD-imbibing star pitcher, Lefty Schiessen, which seemingly has nothing at all to do with the plot, if there is a plot.

“Damn,” said Harvey softly as Dick landed yet another bullseye.

“Amazing,” said Dick. He went up to get the darts. Big Jake and Mrs. Smith still sat at the table. They had all had a great big steak dinner with plenty of champagne, and Big Jake was leaning way over the table toward Mrs. Smith and they appeared to be deep in conversation.

“Normally I’m absolutely terrible at this game,” said Dick.

“Well I find that hard to believe, sir,” said Harvey as he took out his old Cub Scout wallet again.

It was his last five. He took it out and handed it over.

“Thanks, Harve. Another game? Gotta give ya a chance to win some of this back, fella.”

“Naw, I don’t think so, sir. I think I’ll just go play me some pinball now.”

“Care to make it interesting?”

“Sir, that there was my last five-dollar bill.”

“Oh. Gee. I’d like to give you a chance to win some of it back. I really stink at pinball.”

“I don’t want no charity.”

“No, of course not.”

“I’ll play ya but not for money.”

“Sure. Okay.”

They headed through the bead curtain out into the barroom, which was all packed and hot and sweaty with locals and baseball players and guys from the air force base, everybody drunk and yelling, a ball game on the TV and the Sir Douglas Quintet on the juke, and the old wooden ceiling fans slowly churning up the smoke and mushing it back down again.

They got to the machine and nobody was on it. Dick insisted on using his dimes for the first two games, and he punched the ball out.

“Sir, can I ask you a personal question.”

Even though he stood right next to Dick he had to speak loudly to be heard.

“Fire away,” said Dick.

The ball bounced back and forth on the top of the board, back and forth, slower and slower. Dick’s hands barely touched the machine.

“Them scars on your fingers. How the fuck did you get them?”

“Oh, yeah. They are ugly, aren’t they?”

He looked at Harvey, then held out his hand and looked at the scars. The ball had paused at the edge of the slot at the top of the board.

“A little -- service wound.”

For some reason that ball was holding absolutely still. And it was like Harvey and Mr. Smith were in a little pocket of calm here in the midst of the chaos of the bar.

“Um, what branch of the service was you in, sir?”

“Navy.”

Dick turned his gaze back to the board and the ball began to move now, dropping down the slot in a straight line toward the hole at the bottom but just as it was about to slip through he dropped his right hand, hit the flipper button with his middle finger and knocked the ball straight up into a bonus hole. 3,000 points.

“So, um, how’d you, uh --”

The ball popped out of the bonus hole and Dick gave a nudge of his hip and it fell into a double bonus hole right above it and the numbers started racking up.

“Shit,” said Harvey.

The ball leapt out of the double bonus hole, Dick gave the machine the slightest push and the ball dropped back into the other bonus hole and really started clanging out points.

Dick took his hands off the machine and took a box of Craven A’s out of his shirt pocket and offered them to Harvey.

Harvey took one.

Dick smiled and cocked an eyebrow as he lighted Harvey up with his battered old Ronson. He lighted himself up and turned back to the machine just as the ball was heading for the chute. He touched the button and caught the ball on the end of the flipper and it sailed back up into the big money region where it started maniacally bouncing from pillar to post and racking up points like a motherfucker.

“But like how exactly did you get them scars, sir?”

“Oh. Well, what does it look like?”

“Well, it looks like some motherfucker pulled out your fingernails with a pair of needlenose pliers.”

Dick smiled.

“That’s exactly what happened.”

The ball fallen into some new special hole and the machine was ringing and buzzing and vibrating. Harvey said something.

“I’m sorry, Harve --”

“I said were they tryin’ to make you talk?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.”

The ball popped out and proceeded to bounce furiously back and forth between two thousand-point bars. Dick seemed to be getting a little bored. He looked around the bar, smoking pensively.

“Did you talk, sir?”

“Well, to be honest I was quite willing to answer the questions they were asking me even before they started to pull my nails out. But they didn’t like my answers, so...”

Doris walked by with a trayful of empty beer bottles and she smiled and shrugged her shoulders at Dick and Dick waved his cigarette.

“They thought you was lyin’,” said Harvey.

Once again Dick turned back to the game just as the ball bounced free.

“Well, let’s say they were entertaining that possibility. Then they threatened to cut my balls off.”

He banged the right-hand button hard with the heel of his hand and the ball soared up once again into the big-money zone.

“Then I talked. Talked a goddamn blue streak and told them all sorts of shit. Saved my balls anyway. Nothing like the threat of castration to get the creative juices flowing.”

The ball was fibrillating wildly once again in a bonus hole. There were now fourteen extra games on the board.

Dick smiled and clapped Harvey on his narrow shoulder.

“Hey, take over, Harve, I’ll go get us a couple of cold ones.”

Harvey stepped into the breach.

“Who was they?”

“Who?”

“That tortured you. The Red Chinese?”

“No. I’m pretty sure they were Americans actually.”

He went off into the crowd and Harvey turned back to the machine. The ball popped out of its hole and shot against a wall and down a little alleyway and right down the middle and into the death-hole before he could even wag a flipper.

He still had the fourteen free games and he hoped Dick would take his time getting the beers.

Cleb sat on the floor with his back against the wall sipping a Dr. Pepper and looking up at Harvey.

(Continued here.)

Pura Vida

(Click here to read the first episode and here to read the previous one.)

The little plane flies low over the rain forests and mountains. I point out volcanoes to Emma, although I’m guessing. Somewhere among the jagged peaks are volcanoes.

We’re in the last seat or I’d signal the pilot—no stunts. Over the water, he tilts the plane and I start forward but he winks in the mirror. Okay, no loops or barrel rolls. Meanwhile, we’re a few hundred feet above the bright blue waves, the wings angled so that Emma slams up against the van-size window, facing straight down at the beach and bay.  

“Berto, don’t scare her.” I wrap an arm around her, pulling her close. “We’re almost there.”

She giggles, her face giddy from an obvious adrenaline rush. I brush her wispy hair back and press my mouth against her ear. And as we land, she closes her eyes, rising in her seat.  

Pedro’s parked my truck behind the low fence bordering the airstrip. Afraid she’s tired, I ask, “Do you mind a little shopping, Emma? Ten minutes to stock up on wine and beer.”

Pedro says, “I stocked you up, Scottie. Beer, wine, tequila. Chicken, rice, onions. Lo que quiera. Your palace awaits.”

Less than a block from the airport, the main street turns to dirt. Emma leans back and sighs as we pass into trees, bushes, vines, and enormous orchids. While I maneuver the truck through real rain forest, Emma sticks her head out the window, listening to birds sing and call, and the monkeys rustling and chattering above.

We drop Pedro off at his silver trailer by the beach. His girlfriend Moira appears, wearing a big black bra and Pedro’s hiking shorts, low-slung beneath her sun-burned, pregnant belly. Standing on tiptoe, she kisses my cheek, hello. “Stay and have a drink.”

“Sorry, hon. Just here to say hi to Luisa or Luis in there.” I tap her tummy and introduce her to Emma. “Two minutes,” I point toward Pedro, who’s disappeared inside the trailer. Indoors, we settle up, even as I peer out at the women.

Moira’s asking Emma, “Wanna feel?”

“Whoa!” Emma whoops, really surprised. “Your baby’s whole foot smacked my hand. Strong little one.”

Leaving, I can’t resist tugging Moira’s dark, messy ponytail. “Couple a days and you guys should come for dinner.”

In the truck, I say, “Fifteen more minutes, Emma. My place’s just a mile north, straight up.”

“Moira told me Pedro’s delivering the baby. What if she needs a C-section? Or the baby needs oxygen?”

“There’s a yoga center up the beach. They’ve got a doula there.”

“But no surgeon or respirator. How do they get by?”

“Get by?”

“What do they do for money?”

“Ah.  Pedro takes care of my land. I pay him a lot, plus he makes a nice profit growing mota among the corn. Moira’s from Vancouver. She met him last year on vacation.”

“Pretty fast then, having a baby. So, what do you do, Scott? For money?”

Sometimes the answer’s well known, if not thoroughly researched, and if the woman’s curious down to the last nickel, a hint might pop up after the third night. Nobody else has ever left the country with me without some background information. But it’s been two weeks and Emma hasn’t even wondered till now. So, the truth: “When it comes to money, Emma, I’m loaded.”

I smile too soon, I guess because I’m embarrassed, which is weird—me feeling embarrassed about money. Staring straight ahead, I shift into fourth gear, waiting for some kind of reaction when Emma finally smiles back. “How loaded, Scott?”

“Stick with me, darling, and you can have anything you want, whenever you want it. That loaded.”

Hauling over the hilltop, I swing the truck around and park between the two coconut trees. Emma wanders into the red and yellow garden of heliconia and bird of paradise flowers, bordered by mango trees.

Before she gets any more involved with the landscape, I take her hand and lead her toward the bungalow. We’re almost close enough so she can see the outer rooms, open to the breeze.

(Click here for the next episode)