A Ferry Tale - The Coconut Chronicles: Two Guys, One Caribbean Dream House - page 2

I was watering the asparagus ferns in the window box running along the back wall of the
house when our next door neighbor swung open the chain-link gate separating our properties
and swaggered towards me, brandishing a bottle of Medalla beer and a cigarette.
“You take me, fairy.”
I was tempted to take offense, but I'd learned not to judge people in Vieques at face
value. You never knew. Besides, Jane, our property manager, had warned us that this guy
was a tad eccentric. Apparently his family had practically settled the island a couple of cen-
turies back and had owned our entire hill at one time. But in recent years they had been
forced to sell off the land, parcel by parcel, until all that was left was his scraggly little
quarter-acre with its constantly barking dog and rickety lean-to, crowned by a pigeon coop.
Instinctively I turned to Michael for guidance but he was nowhere in sight. A faint, tell-
tale whirring sound snaked around the side of the house. He was weed whacking again. This
had become his default activity. Some people bowl in their spare time, others play com-
puter games or watch TV; Michael whacks weeds. Not that I'm complaining. The grass in
Vieques—in fact, all things green, including our asparagus ferns—grows with photosynthet-
ic abandon.
I sketched a brief smile, anxious to convey neighborly bonhomie. The man smiled back,
patting his ample stomach which jutted out from beneath his too-tight shirt.
“Did you say fairy? ” I asked.
He eyed me for a brief moment, then took a swig of beer. The cigarette was doing a slow
burn towards his index finger, but he didn't seem to notice.
“Big boat.”
Ah. Ferry. Sighing under my breath, I peeled off my gardening gloves.
“ Uno momento ,” I said, smiling again.
The guy seemed harmless enough, but a quick conference with Michael was definitely
in order. He'd know what to do.
As a naturally quiet person who is constantly accused of sneaking up on people, I've
developed the habit of making all sorts of unnecessary noises to signal my approach. As
a result, I can usually be heard a mile off, scuffing my shoes on the floor, fake-coughing,
sneezing, rustling whatever papers I happen to be holding, anything to signify my approach.
But a weed whacker is a powerful noise adversary, and after running through my full
repertoire of faux sounds I finally resorted to laying a hand on Michael's shoulder. He gasped
audibly, then switched off the machine.
“Sorry,” I said.
I could still hear a faint whirring sound in my ears and could only imagine the cacophony
of screeches hurtling around inside his skull.
“That's okay,” he said with the studied patience of someone who has grown used to be-
ing interrupted in the middle of any number of critically important activities over the course
of a twelve-year relationship. “What's up?”