places.
I laughed. “Spinning a bit, is she?”
“Dude…” With that, he turned on his side and emptied what little remained in his stomach. It wasn’t much. I turned the shower on cold, dragged him into it, and sat him up while the water ran down his head and chest. He might have been sixteen, and judging from his demeanor, I didn’t take him for an invited attendee to the party. He looked to me to be someone who, at least initially, had worked the party.
While the water ran, I walked downstairs and scrounged up enough to make a pot of coffee. When ready, I carried a cup to the kid, who had now turned off the water and sat dripping in the shower. He accepted the mug with a thick-tongued
“
Gracias
.”
I handed him some swim shorts and a T-shirt that might have been Colin’s and then returned to the video. About fifteen minutes later, he stumbled out. The mug hand was both shaking and shading his eyes while the other felt and steadied his way along the wall. He began speaking in mumbled and nearly incoherent Spanish. Thirty seconds in, I held up a hand and spoke most of the Spanish I knew. “No hablo español.” He smiled, nodded, and began speaking slowly again in broken English. I managed to piece together that Miguel was an employee of the seafood caterer—or had been three days prior—and had accepted an invite when his shift ended to join the bartenders and work for tips. Sadly none of which were still in his pocket. But to his great pleasure, the alcohol had flowed, as had the tips, as had the girls dancing on the balcony. Following his tenure at the bar, he’d met a beautiful girl and they’d danced away the night—which he surmised was two nights ago—only to wake up in her arms on a lawn chair by the pool. They spent that day on the beach, partied into the night, and the last thing he remembered was pumping beer into the hot tub. As best he could recall, he’d been passed out in the closet for the better part of a day.
I clicked on the video and asked him to help narrate, which he did with animated delight. He told the stories of the girls and what they drank. Who liked rum. Martinis. Shots of tequila. He snapped his finger. “ Flor de Caña de bomb. E’body ly’ fruit of cane.” We watched as the crowd grew and beer foam began to spew across the pool. Early on the first evening, some guy with long, sun-bleached hair dragged a hose into the house and started filling in the living room. Late into the night, bikini-clad girls swung from the chandelier. Soon, they were blindfolded, soaked in oil, and wrestling on the upstairs mattress. Somewhere in the middle of the night, another guy—a walking spark plug, muscled, bald—began breaking the teak patio furniture into splinters, which he promptly threw into a pile and doused with gasoline. The crowd of about a hundred danced around the fire, and most passed out within its glow. The second day followed much like the first, except a couple more sun-bleached and tanned guys showed up. Muscled, powerful shoulders. Not much fat. Four in total.
I pointed them out. “You know them?”
“Sí.” He nodded as if it was a stupid question. “Surfers mostly, but—” He mimicked smoking a joint. “You need som’sing, I hook you up. Dey ha’ good produc.”
Whenever Zaul showed in the video, one of the other four weren’t far. I asked, “And him?”
He shrugged. “He new. Quiet. No smile much. But—” He rubbed the fingers together on his right hand. “He loaded.”
With the video, I was able to put together a pretty good idea of Zaul’s new circle of friends. Because Miguel also worked at the resort on weekends, he knew of most of the guys. Except Zaul. “No, he jes’ roll in. Big wad of cash. Pay for whole party. Tip me…” He dug his hands into his tux pants and shook his head. “Hundred dollars.”
When I asked him what had happened to everyone and their party, Miguel shrugged and pointed at the closet. His disappointment was
I laughed. “Spinning a bit, is she?”
“Dude…” With that, he turned on his side and emptied what little remained in his stomach. It wasn’t much. I turned the shower on cold, dragged him into it, and sat him up while the water ran down his head and chest. He might have been sixteen, and judging from his demeanor, I didn’t take him for an invited attendee to the party. He looked to me to be someone who, at least initially, had worked the party.
While the water ran, I walked downstairs and scrounged up enough to make a pot of coffee. When ready, I carried a cup to the kid, who had now turned off the water and sat dripping in the shower. He accepted the mug with a thick-tongued
“
Gracias
.”
I handed him some swim shorts and a T-shirt that might have been Colin’s and then returned to the video. About fifteen minutes later, he stumbled out. The mug hand was both shaking and shading his eyes while the other felt and steadied his way along the wall. He began speaking in mumbled and nearly incoherent Spanish. Thirty seconds in, I held up a hand and spoke most of the Spanish I knew. “No hablo español.” He smiled, nodded, and began speaking slowly again in broken English. I managed to piece together that Miguel was an employee of the seafood caterer—or had been three days prior—and had accepted an invite when his shift ended to join the bartenders and work for tips. Sadly none of which were still in his pocket. But to his great pleasure, the alcohol had flowed, as had the tips, as had the girls dancing on the balcony. Following his tenure at the bar, he’d met a beautiful girl and they’d danced away the night—which he surmised was two nights ago—only to wake up in her arms on a lawn chair by the pool. They spent that day on the beach, partied into the night, and the last thing he remembered was pumping beer into the hot tub. As best he could recall, he’d been passed out in the closet for the better part of a day.
I clicked on the video and asked him to help narrate, which he did with animated delight. He told the stories of the girls and what they drank. Who liked rum. Martinis. Shots of tequila. He snapped his finger. “ Flor de Caña de bomb. E’body ly’ fruit of cane.” We watched as the crowd grew and beer foam began to spew across the pool. Early on the first evening, some guy with long, sun-bleached hair dragged a hose into the house and started filling in the living room. Late into the night, bikini-clad girls swung from the chandelier. Soon, they were blindfolded, soaked in oil, and wrestling on the upstairs mattress. Somewhere in the middle of the night, another guy—a walking spark plug, muscled, bald—began breaking the teak patio furniture into splinters, which he promptly threw into a pile and doused with gasoline. The crowd of about a hundred danced around the fire, and most passed out within its glow. The second day followed much like the first, except a couple more sun-bleached and tanned guys showed up. Muscled, powerful shoulders. Not much fat. Four in total.
I pointed them out. “You know them?”
“Sí.” He nodded as if it was a stupid question. “Surfers mostly, but—” He mimicked smoking a joint. “You need som’sing, I hook you up. Dey ha’ good produc.”
Whenever Zaul showed in the video, one of the other four weren’t far. I asked, “And him?”
He shrugged. “He new. Quiet. No smile much. But—” He rubbed the fingers together on his right hand. “He loaded.”
With the video, I was able to put together a pretty good idea of Zaul’s new circle of friends. Because Miguel also worked at the resort on weekends, he knew of most of the guys. Except Zaul. “No, he jes’ roll in. Big wad of cash. Pay for whole party. Tip me…” He dug his hands into his tux pants and shook his head. “Hundred dollars.”
When I asked him what had happened to everyone and their party, Miguel shrugged and pointed at the closet. His disappointment was
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