“Jesus, Charlie, that's nasty,” she said.
“Thanks. I know it's a disaster. I've tried everything to get it off.”
“Sorry. Hmm. Oh, I know! Did you try lemon juice? Or how about nail polish remover? I've heard that works.”
“Really? I'm desperate. I'll try anything.”
“I think we have lemons up in the room,” Macie said.
“Why would we have lemons in the room? I know they have complimentary ice, but lemons?”
“No, Syd got them.”
“Didn't she think they could make the lemonade at the pool bar?”
“She was convinced that she needed to bring a little of the Cooking Club on-the-go to Puerto Rico, and actually smuggled the ingredients for Sage's guacamole on the plane.”
“But you can't bring fresh produce between countries!”
“Tell that to Syd. She's probably infected the Rico with some random lemon bug disease.”
“And isn't guacamole usually associated with Mexico?”
“Syd's not too up on her geography, I don't think. Earlier on the plane, when the pilot said to look out north to see some godforsaken river, she looked up at the plane's ceiling. Come on, let's go upstairs.”
We ran up to the room and began to prep for our emergency spray tan removal campaign. I cut the lemons while Macie squeezed the juice into one of the hotel glasses. After the last lemon was polished off, we began the delicate process. First we started off with a tiny test patch around my ankle. At first I didn't notice any difference, but Macie persisted and then all of a sudden the spot began to disappear.
“It's working!” I screamed with relief.
“See, I told you it would work,” she said. We both grabbed washcloths and got down to business.
“I can't seem to get these crotch spots to disappear,” I moaned after a half hour had passed. “If I keep scrubbing my inner thighs are going to be raw and it will look like I had a bad waxing job.”
“Forget your crotch. Maybe some real sun will cover those last spots. We'll hit that hotel gift shop and snag a new sarong. Problem solved!”
I finally smiled. I loved this girl! No spots, a bit of shopping, and tons of sun. My vacation had begun!
“Remember, ladies, we shouldn't gorge on this poolside food. We're in swimsuits!” directed Sage. I put down the menu and raised my flag.
“Sorry, Sage,” I said. “I have to eat in this sun. I am sweating off the pounds as it is. You know, it's important to stay hydrated and keep your blood sugar up in this heat.” Syd nodded in agreement as she reached for my oil-slicked menu.
“Well, since we're in the tropics, I'd recommend that we take advantage of all the exotic fruits they have to offer,” Sage suggested as she slid off her chair and headed over to the pool to join in the morning aerobics class already in progress.
“Do you think we gross her out?” wondered Macie.
“Nope, we just speak to her inner devil,” Tara responded. As if she had heard us, we heard Sage give a few retaliatory “whoops” and “yeehaws” in chorus with the aerobics instructor. The water in the pool churned like the ocean during a hurricane.
“Fruit, huh? Do banana daiquiris count?” Macie asked without batting an eye.
“What about apple martinis?” suggested Syd.
“I'll stick with rum punch. It's full of tropical fruit!” I offered.
“Their strawberry freeze has real strawberry seeds in it. They were stuck in my teeth earlier,” volunteered Tara. “Good thing I have a tricky tongue!”
“Do Cosmos have any fruit in them?” asked Wade, ever the true New Yorker. We all laughed as a blue-and-yellow clad waitress approached.
“I'll take a fruit plate and some French fries please,” I told her. I figured the good and the bad would cancel each other out. I scanned the pool looking for hot natives. To our right was an older couple. She was knitting while he did the New York Times crossword puzzle. Every once in a while, she'd stop, reapply some of that blue zinc oxide that we all had to wear as kids to her nose, then pick up her knitting again. Knit-purl, knit-purl. Across the pool, however, was a group of boys descending from the restaurant steps. Excitedly, I poked Tara and she immediately went a-wandering.
She came back scowling. “A) I think they are about sixteen. B) They are way too giddy about a pool volleyball game. C) Two of them are wearing cut-off jean shorts. We have got to get you some glasses, Charlie.”
“This tropical sun must have blinded me,” I shrugged. “Just wait until we hit that nightclub.”
That night, after we had changed rooms twice (first room change due to an errant, incriminating-looking, small, black hair found beneath the sheets of the bed; second room change due to the “luxury view” of another hotel's back wall out of our windows), we headed down to Caliente, the nightclub. As we walked up, the club's wooden doors were almost bouncing off their hinges. I swear, they still looked like the entrance to a funeral parlor but now the frosted window panels on the sides were pulsating bright neon colors. Now I was thinking Disney. The bellhop was right about its popularity though. The line to get in wound itself all the way back to the slot machines in the casino.
“Not waiting!” announced Macie.
“Come on, Mace! I curled my hair!” protested Syd. She had tried to use some of her company's hair extensions. Tried. Enough said. We were squabbling in front of the doors of Caliente when our bellhop from the morning approached us.
“Buenos noches. I told you, yes?” He gestured at the club.
“Yeah, but who wants to stand in this line? The party's in there,” Tara said, pointing toward the doors, as if he didn't know.
“Oh, for hotel guests, you no wait! Come. You have la llave, your key.” It was as if we were true American princesses. The hulky bouncers smiled, stamped our hands, and opened the doors. We were almost blown away by the bass from the music that boomed out the inside.
“Gracias!” Wade tried to shout above the music. Inside, the lights swirled, the music pumped, and people danced. Everyone was moving some part of their bodies. A man in the hall was nodding his head, two girls by the edge of the dance floor were swiveling their hips, the boys behind them were cranking their necks back and forth following the girls' rhythm, and the people on the dance floor were letting it all loose—their whole bodies convulsing in time with the music.
“I love this Latin flavor! So sexy … Viva Caliente!” screamed Tara.
“You love any ethnicity as long as it's of the male species!” Macie shouted back. Tara began to move. It started with her head tilting, then her shoulders began to sway, then her hips stirred. She grabbed Sage's hand and headed toward the dance floor. Macie, Wade, Sydney, and I grabbed a drink and took our positions at the crowded bar.
“It reminds me of a really loud ice-skating rink!” screamed Macie.
“Yeah, and we're the shy girls on the side of the rink who will only watch everyone else skate!” I shouted back.
“They never did that at my rink!” shouted Wade pointing to a woman stripping on the stage. “It's like Cancun on steroids!”
“Ouch!” Syd moaned as a couple making out stumbled into her. “That's it. It's too crazy here. I'm going!”
“No, wait …” I began, but stopped when I realized that Syd wasn't talking about going back to the room. Rather she was joining the other hedonistic dancers.
Syd considered herself a self-trained dancer. Last year, she had bought a tape off the television. For two easy installments of $12.95, she had purchased Britney Spears' choreographer's latest dance moves: a step-by-step instructional video to make one move like the pros. The girl was a bonafide “As Seen On TV” junkie. In the months we'd been living with her, she had also bought the following:
hand sewer (for her multiple Girl Scout projects)
food dehydrator (for those city camping trips)
micro shaver (just the image of nose hair falling on the commercial … 'nuf said)
spray hair in a can (not sure
who that was for)
edible hair wax (hmmm)
laser pointer light (for all of her important hair sales meetings)
shrinkwrappers for food and clothes (never seen a cucumber wrapped so tightly)
rotisserie oven (chicken was Syd's dish for our next Cooking Club meeting)
jar opener (not a bad purchase)
Twisty Turner for creative ponytails (Syd rivaled sixteen- year-olds)
Bedazzler to rhinestone her wardrobe (Flashdance anyone?)
meatball maker for perfect two-inch meatballs (We had forty-two such meatballs crowding our freezer)
To give her credit, she had mastered one of the more difficult routines on the dance video. Feeling more and more confident, she had started to add her own creative dance steps as well. The end result looked something like John Travolta dancing to an Eminem song. Fingers in the air, toes pointed to the side.
Tara and Sage were now up on a little stage dancing with each other and garnering quite a bit of attention. Both had a rhythm unknown to most white girls. They were indulging every man's fantasy and giving a little girl-on-girl action. Trying to be sly, two guys had grooved their way toward them and, using the old sandwich move, were gyrating behind Sage and Tara's backs. Tara, with her male radar, shimmied her butt back a bit and reached behind her, drawing her new partner closer. He was tall and dark and carried an air of mystery given the fact that he wore black sunglasses in this dimly lit cavern.
After a couple hours of Nelly, 50 Cent, and Usher, we gathered the troops, along with their various dance partners. It took us about fifteen minutes alone to find Syd. Somehow we had overlooked her on the stage. She was off to the side by herself humping a skinny pole with her gyrating hips as if it were Elvis's leg. Tara's original dance partner with the sunglasses had somehow been ditched (surprise, surprise) for a hunkier version. But Mr. Shades had now decided that I was second best.
“You no dance?” he asked me. “Como se llama? What's your name?”
“Oh, I'm Roxi,” I said. “With an i.” Gotta maintain some anonymity. I figured that I could have an alter ego here in the Rico. “I dance. But I need a little Britney or J. Lo,” I feebly explained.
“Rrroxi,” he purred. Oh that Spanish rolling r! “I love J. Lo!” he enthused. Hmm, on second thought …
In the casino, the two of us somehow lost the rest of the gang as we discussed how J. Lo had built a formidable empire in such a short time and at such a young age.
“Come. Let's go to the pool,” he said grabbing my hand.
“Oh, no. I don't want to swim,” I began to protest.
“No swim,” he continued, obviously unwilling to take no as an answer. “I get us some food.” This man knew magic words.
Outside was pure perfection. Talk about a tropical paradise. Here I was, a slightly sunburned Charlie Brown, cuddling on a lounge chair with a lusty Latino, with the moon out, shooting stars falling above our heads, palm fronds whispering, and waves crashing in tandem on the beach. To complete the picture, we had a bowl of plantain chips and guacamole between our legs. My mystery man informed me in broken English that he had some connections at the hotel. He was feeding me a chip when a bit of guacamole tumbled off onto my shoulder.
“Oh, how elegant,” I mumbled, smiling, with food in my mouth. He didn't seem to mind though. He dipped his head and with his tongue, licked the morsel off my shoulder. And he didn't stop there. He wound his tongue up the side of my neck causing me to giggle. (Note to self: Gotta control the ticklishness.) I held my breath as he found his way to my mouth and captured it with authority. I began a mental list in order to rationalize what I knew was about to happen:
I'm on an island.
It's all part of the vacation package.
He's cute … I think.
He cares about me—he fed me!
I've never had sand in my pants.
What happens in the Rico, stays in the Rico.
I'm sure he has more than just dance moves.
He can croon sweet Spanish nothings in my ear.
Tara would do it!
Rrroxi with an i would do it!
My mental check list quickly ended at number ten due to the fact that I couldn't concentrate any longer. Sunglass-clad Don Juan's tongue had gone from nibbling on my ear down to my navel. Good-bye chips and guacamole. Hello Latin lover. At that moment, I decided to let myself go and settled on rationalization 6: What happens in the Rico, stays in the Rico. Enough said!
The next morning by the pool, I kept squirming in my bikini bottoms.
“Nice sunglasses,” Macie remarked about my newly acquired shades.
“You've learned the truth about sand, huh?” laughed Tara.
Following our great romp on the lounge chair (great cushions), my new friend and I had ended up on the sand the night before. It was like From Here to Eternity, or a poorer version of it. The tide had made its way in and I had lost one of Syd's sandals. She hadn't thought to ask for them back yet, and I was still basking in my post–hook-up glow, so I wasn't going to tell her. But Tara was right. I had ended up with sand in crevices where sand should never go. Even after a shower this morning, I was still digging sand out of my ears. Plus, as if I hadn't had enough skin irritation already, the sand had rubbed my butt raw! Like an old-fashioned diaper rash, my bottom was pink and not too happy in my wet bikini bottom.
“This … is … going … to … drive … me … crazy!” I forced between my gritting teeth.
“We need to get you a drink,” suggested Sage, raising her white flag.
“Help me, daiquiri gods!” I shouted. “Do we think a daiquiri will freeze my itching ass?”
“Might as well try,” suggested Macie, always rational and positive. She was going to be a great mom.
“Charlie, what do you want?” Sage asked as the waiter approached.
“I need your coldest, largest strawberry daiquiri with an extra shot or two …” I began.
“Rrroxi, how are you this morning?” I lifted the sunglasses off of my eyes.
“Wha …?” I squinted up at the man in the blue and yellow shirt.
“Did you sleep okay?” At this point, the other five girls flipped over onto their backs simultaneously, suddenly wide awake.
“Did I …?” I started.
“It's Hector,” he began to explain, sounding a bit dejected, “from last night.”
“Oh, Hector. Didn't recognize you without your sunglasses,” I said pointing to my eyes as if he didn't understand.
“Those are for night,” he said as if it were obvious.
“Yeah, um, I'm fine, thanks,” I stumbled.
“So R-r-roxi wants a daiquiri, yes?” Now that rolling r sounded like a stutter.
“Yes. Yes, uhm, por favor.”
“Be right back,” he said way too cheerfully.
“That is the man of mystery?” laughed Sage.
“They shouldn't be allowed out during the day,” I bemoaned, ready to cry. Really! I thought I'd had a man of mystery, sunglasses and all, and that we'd had a passionate night on the beach, but now some island god thought it was funny to send him back to me in the broad daylight to highlight his pox-marked skin and gel-laden hair, and to show me that he is a waiter—not some son of a rich Puerto Rican mogul like I had envisioned. “And of course he is not wearing sunglasses when he is supposed to wear sunglasses!”
“You said he was attentive, though. And here he is bringing you a drink right now!” Wade said, nodding toward Hector, who was headed back our way.
“But now I feel like a dirty old man on the Hollywood streets too late at night,” I wailed, “because I have to pay for this service. And I have to leave a goddamn fifteen percent hotel-mandated tip!”
The next afternoon, the stewardess closed the plane door and proceeded to give the obligatory safety instructions over the PA system. Sad but relieved to go home after a weekend of debauchery, I nestled back into my spacious first-class seat and took a giant sip of my free glass of ch
ampagne. What a way to end a sensational trip! Although the rest of the divas were back in coach, Macie and I were in the front of the plane enjoying the good life. We did feel a tad bit guilty for taking the upgrade, but my parents had given me some of those frequent flier upgrade coupons before the trip. And as all young New Yorkers know, one has to take advantage of coupons! To be fair, we'd drawn straws to see who would join me upfront and Macie was the lucky winner. But I promised the other girls that we would bring them each a glass of yummy champagne during the flight. We all know how good it is to have friends in high places, especially if the friend is named Dom Perignon at 35,000 feet.
Somewhere in between devouring the fresh corn-crusted salmon and licking the hot fudge brownie plate, I decided to visit the girls. Macie was raving about the thought put into the overall presentation of the brownies, so I had to go show them. On top of the five or so glasses of bubbly I had managed to suck back, I somehow convinced the flight crew to give me four extra desserts as well. And after hearing where the goodies were going, they even gave me a fancy platter to deliver them with.
Way in the back of the plane I could barely see the girls' heads. They were all clustered together right next to the bathrooms. Poor things! Fortunately, I had something that would cheer them up. Two steps away from presenting them with their first-class treats, I glanced down to find every single one of them sound asleep. Syd's head was planted face down on her pull-out tray. Tara was snoring, her hands tightly clutching her InStyle to her chest, her sunglasses perched on her nose blocking out the cabin lights. Sage, who had an entire row to her tiny self, was sprawled out. But her foot was doing that twitching thing that dogs do when they are dreaming deeply. And although Wade was off in dreamland too, she appeared wide awake. Her eyes were half-open and her body was perched perfectly erect in her chair, poised as always. They didn't look too comfortable, but their poor bodies deserved the rest. Over the course of seventy-two hours, all of us had put ourselves through some serious mental and physical tests. After a weekend of crazy dancing, endless drinking, swimming, laughing, and chitchat we were all exhausted. And we had some good stories to boot. I left the desserts on an empty seat next to Syd and headed back to first class.
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