by Ellie Rowe
Suddenly, one of the denizens of this shit hole is up in my space. A big dude who doesn’t need a shirt because every inch of his torso, arms and neck are tatted up. He grips my face, turning my head side to side, examining me like I was a horse or something.
Seemingly satisfied, he shouts to the crowd, “Hank Wilder shall bring us beaucoup bucks! We’re gonna get rich, boys!”
The place goes nuts. They throw shit in the air. Do improvised dances. I can only imagine what they think they’re going to do with the money that we – I – net them. Hopefully, buy a truckload of air fresheners. Tattooed Dude tries to get me to join him in a jig when –
BANG BANG!
I flinch and duck at the sound of the gunshots. Veronica actually stumbles back against me for protection. We look at each other. She pointedly steps away again.
The pirates have gone deathly quiet. No. Respectfully quiet, if you can believe that. They’ve turned their eyes to a guy standing on top of a trash heap, a smoking gun held high toward the sky.
No, hang on. Not a guy. It’s a girl. Maybe in her early twenties. She’s built like a Russian gymnast. Her head is shaved to fuzz, which has been dyed a pale blond. She sports a dirty vest over a crop top, badly stained cargo pants. Her boots would make a construction worker jealous. There’s something post-apocalyptic about her and in my head I immediately christen her ‘Mad Maxine’.
She terrifies me more than the other lot combined.
Without a word, she lowers her gun and points it at Green Scarf. For a moment, she’s still. Then she leaps off the trash pile and is gone.
Green Scarf looks both honored and terrified. Like he’s been summoned before God Himself. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“The Pirate King wants to see you.”
Pirate King. Haha. I chuckle at that. Then I see Green Scarf’s deadly serious look. “You mean an actual Pirate King?”
“Bring them!” Green Scarf orders.
Scar grabs hold of me and the Kid nudges Veronica. We head for the far side of the island. It’s anything but easy-going. We step over mounds of trash and stuff I assume these assholes consider ‘booty’.
Veronica’s eyes are on the ground as we make our haphazard way. Her face is blank. I want to touch her. To reassure her. She’s not stupid, though. She knows how deep the shit we’re in goes. Still, I have to say something.
“I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t look at me. “For what?”
“For getting you into this mess.”
She thinks about that for a moment. “I’m sorry, too.”
“For what?”
“Getting you into this mess. I sent out the SOS call that you responded to. Twice.”
“That’s true,” I say with a grin.
She finally looks at me. Gives me half-a-smile in return. I’ll take it.
“It’s too bad we’re gonna die here,” I tell her. “I’d sure have loved to read the article you’d write about our adventures.”
“Probably make good material to adapt into a blockbuster movie.”
Romance comes in all forms. The look in her eye is damn near as tender as any she’s ever given me. That’s something, I guess. I can die knowing maybe she liked me a little bit after all.
Our destination eventually becomes clear. A hut made mostly of sheets of scrap metal, old boat parts, driftwood and other assorted bits of junk. A half-dozen pirates armed with guns, knives and at least one machete lounge about.
Mad Maxine waits at the door. She puts up a hand, blocks Green Scarf from stepping through the grass curtain that passes for the door to the hut.
“But they’re my hostages!”
A small but deliberate shake of the head lets him know she doesn’t give a shit. Green Scarf looks desperately into the hut. But he steps aside. This Pirate King must be serious business. That’s not good for Veronica and me.
“Go. Inside.” Green Scarf nods to the hut.
Veronica and I exchange looks. I smile at Mad Maxine. “We’re fine out here, thanks.”
She steps so close to me our noses nearly touch. Her eyes travel the length of my body. I’ve never felt more exposed in my life.
“Hi,” I mutter because I feel like someone’s got to say something.
Then her fingers are up my fucking nostrils and she’s pulling on them like they were reins. I give a cry. Veronica shouts my name. But there’s nothing I can do. My eyes water as Mad Maxine drags me into the hut.
Once inside, she finally releases me, leaving my nose stinging like a bitch. I blink several times. I feel Veronica stumble in beside me. We stand shoulder to shoulder.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from the blinding sunlight outdoors to the deep darkness inside the hut. Before I can really see anything, I hear a voice. A strangely familiar voice.
“Hank Wilder, you son of a bitch! I didn’t believe them when they said it was you!”
My eyes finally attune to the dark. I look at the source of the voice. You gotta be shitting me.
“Bruce Richardson?”
Twenty-Nine
Veronica
What in fresh hell is this? Old home week? Why is it always back-slapping with this guy? I kid you not, Hank’s pulled up a garbage pile to shoot the shit with the Pirate King. The Pirate King who was apparently some actor Hank met on his first few film shoots?
My head is spinning, and it’s not just from the stench. The bundle of boys are all crowded around as Hank and the King as they yuck it up about old times. Apparently, this artiste-turned-marauder faked his own death to join the pirate’s life. Yo ho. Seems like a bit much if you ask me, or maybe I’m just not that inventive.
Either way all this comradery strikes me as way too convenient. How does an old pal of Hank wind up as head of Garbage Island? I know he said most of the people he deals with are trashy but this is too much.
What if Hank is secretly in trouble and he’s just faking his way out of it again, working the room? Or the garbage heap, as it were. Gah it’s always so hard to tell! Fucking actors.
It’s like Hank sent out a bat signal “calling all pirates” because they just.keep.coming. Scuttling over the sand like seabirds or popping up from a garbage heap to join the party. I can’t imagine these guys see a whole lot of interesting stuff, so maybe a (mostly) clean actor chit-chatting with their commander is too good to pass up.
A big roar of laughter from Hank snaps my head back to his direction. He’s got his arm around old Kingpin and is wiping a—is that a tear? —from his eye at the most hilarious story. I am not amused. I’m also noticing that the second most exciting thing on this island, after the wildly famous, terribly funny Hank wilder, is the woman.
I probably could have looked like a potato sack full of shit and they’d be leering, but I’m afraid I haven’t lost all my looks in my ‘old age’. There’s a particularly foul-smelling gentleman on my right breathing heavily as he stars at the hem of my khaki shorts and it’s taking every ounce of control not to knee him in the balls.
I take a step closer to Hank as if to politely remind the garbage pirate that I’m “with the band”. Garbage Pirate smiles at me creepily, or he would if he had any teeth. Oh no, there’s one, waaaay in the back. And I’m not one to judge, people come from all sorts of walks of life, and I’ve met my fair share travelling. But no one deserves to be leered at.
Least of all me, goddamnit. Now am-scray! I direct my attention pointedly back to the red carpet as Hank starts another story.
“I couldn’t believe this guy, he walks in, day one, day one of filming and he doesn’t know a single line to save his life!” the Pirate King slaps a hand on his knee and throws his head back to laugh.
“Christ I got my ass chewed like you wouldn’t believe!” Pirate King wheezes as Hank presses on.
“But, swear on my life, to his credit the bastard grabs a cute PA, walks away with her to his trailer and within an hour he’s memorized like he’s been saying the lines all his life!” The rest o
f the pirates chuckle and nudge each other at the mention of a cute something.
“She wasn’t a PA, she was catering!” Pirate King shrugs to the group. “And she was a big help with the lines, let me tell you.”
“Just the lines then you slick bastard?” Hank slaps him on the back like they just finished a touchdown, “I seem to recall you walked out of that trailer memorized, but she was mesmerized.” How I’ve managed not to vomit yet is a testament to my self-control.
The crowd goes wild. I said this was fresh hell, but this has been happening so much hell almost feels like home. I look around at the display in numbed disbelief. How would I even write this for my article? Who would believe me?
I watch on as our would-be captor, King of the Pirates, turns out to be a long-lost friendship from the movie star’s past. They reminisce on their early life atop a garbage pile and a makeshift card table, as an island full of murderous pirates eagerly listen on.
It would never sell. Hank doesn’t seem to mind the trash heap, so long as he gets to hold council like a big man. He’s just settled right into garbage city, hasn’t he? The white linen suit will have to go. They can cover him in moldy banana peels or something and he’d fit right in.
Another bout of laughter ripples through the crowd. If I have to listen to one more anecdote and drunken ‘remember that time when’, I’m going to spear myself against the mast of a ship. This is fucking ridiculous. Angry doesn’t begin to describe it. At this point I know Hank’s not pretending.
He really does know this guy and he’s genuinely getting off holding court before these smelly brigands on this stinking fucking trash heap. You may recall several of these men captured us and took us hostage. On more than one occasion! Yet here he sits.
If I’ve learned anything from my therapist, my nutritionist, Sheila and my attorney…it’s that I need to know my limits. Push them, yes. Be brave, be bold, get out of shit-hole situations, yes. But listening to this? Nope. I’ve heard just about all I can take.
I squeeze past Old Toothless and storm out of the ‘locker room’. Even if Hank is having the time of his life, I’m going to test the limits of this island. Plus, if he’s so comfortable here, maybe I can take off by myself. Lighten the load a bit? I stop in my tracks.
Boy have I gotten soft. I can’t even pretend in my head that I could ever leave Hank behind. That only pisses me off more. I charge ahead looking for anything that could come in handy.
Most of the trash inhabitants have run off to catch the show. It’s just me and some dingy looking seagulls picking our way through the junk. Why would they keep this crap here? Is it even organized, or do they just rob people and leave their shit here to rot?
That would be just perfect. Sailing about and leaving families (and travel writers) to die without supplies just to let it rot on this godforsaken place. I kick a can with all my might and it goes flying into the air. The seabirds scatter then descend upon it, thinking it might be nourishment.
God what I wouldn’t give for a goat cheese, apple and quinoa salad right now. My stomach growls and a fresh wave of garbage fills my nostrils. Gotta hand it to this place, it definitely kills your appetite.
Finally, I’m near the edge of the island and the salty smell of the ocean offers a respite from the perfume du rubbish. I breathe it in greedily. The surf is so loud I can’t even hear Hank’s ‘storyteller voice’ booming through the island anymore.
Christ I’ve got to get out of here. There are a few motorboats anchored to the beach, and while I’ve got the beach to myself, I might as well take advantage of it. I climb up into the cleanest looking one (that’s not saying much mind you, it just didn’t have anything actively decaying scraped on the side). It’s similar to Green Scarf’s, I could probably handle it.
My stomach flips with the first sign of hope and I make my way to the cockpit. Fuck. Keys. Where are the keys? I poke around for a bit before I realize the obvious. Of course they’re not gonna leave their keys unattended in their ship. They’re fucking pirates…
They probably know better than to trust their cohorts. Still, even a futile effort feels more active than sitting around. I climb out of the first boat and head to the next. Damn. Still no keys. Whatever meager crumb of hope I had is disintegrating as I climb into another boat.
Phew. This is the one with the actively rotting corpse of something scraped on the side. No keys here either. It’s just as well I couldn’t find them in this one, I’m not sure I could’ve made it. The gruesome display on the side reminds me of the time I watched a pack of female lions rip apart a zebra.
I’d like to tear into those fucking idiots back there if I had the chance. I make my way to the final motorboat and the final cockpit and, big surprise, there’s no keys. I hear a commotion on the beach and quickly climb out.
Nothing but the seabirds, screeching at each other. As my adrenaline calms down, I chide myself for being so daring. I took a risk poking around these things. Men get very territorial over inanimate objects with motors.
Maybe that’s why they name them all after women. I shield my eyes to get a look at whatever’s sprawled on the side of this boat, but there’s nothing but rust and flies. It’s still better than Let’s Do This.
Clearing a spot in the sand with my feet I sit down and try to numb myself from the encroaching despair. I’m stuck here, aren’t I? Stuck with the garbage and the flies and old toothless. Stuck with all these filthy, laughing, partying men. What am I going to do?
Thirty
Hank
Holding court with Bruce takes me back to a simpler time. Back when we were up-and-comers in Hollywood. Those were the days when I was surrounded by people whose company I enjoyed, not people whose company I was professionally obligated to keep. The days when we could still fuck up and not see pay the consequences of it in the morning papers. Before the social media fiascos and constant worldwide scrutiny.
Being on top in Hollywood is OK. But it’s the getting there that’s really the most fun.
Tonight is more like the rising times. I have more fun with Bruce and his pirates than I ever had on my yacht with all the Rene Morenos and Jeremy Woods and Yvonne D’Micas of the world.
Doc would enjoy this crowd, I think. I’ll have to suggest he retire here. Y’know, if I survive this mess.
Bruce never reveals his plans to me, try as I might to suss them out. Instead, he plies me repeatedly with bottles of some sort of alcohol. It’s a swill he and his pirate buddies clearly make here on trash island. I don’t want to know what’s in it. The first sip goes down like fire. The rest of the sips go down like rubbing alcohol being poured on internal organs burned by fire.
We have a grand ol’ time.
It takes probably longer than it should for me to realize that Veronica’s left the festivities. Soon after I notice her absence, I give up on getting anything out of Bruce. Decide to look for Veronica. When I turn to get up, I discover Mad Maxine sitting beside me. Sitting very close beside me. Giving me a look I know all too well. What I don’t know all too well: my complete lack of desire to indulge that look.
If you can believe it, my thoughts are all for Veronica.
I leave the hut and head into the twilight. I try to imagine all the different kinds of grief she’s going to give me. Like it’s my fault Bruce happens to be the Pirate King and he and I used to be friends. Like it’s my fault he wants to have a good time instead of, y’know, chop our heads off or something.
It takes me half-an-hour to find her, far from the revelry. She’s made herself a little fire behind a dune of trash. She stares into it like the dancing flames will tell her a secret. Her arms are wrapped around her legs, which are pulled in close to her body to ward off the chill of the falling night. Her chin rests on her knees. She’s a forlorn sight.
I plop down beside her. “All right, give it to me.”
“Give what to you?” she mumbles, her chin still on her knees and her eyes still on the flames.
“Tell
me what a vain, movie-star asshole I am, chumming it up with Bruce and the pirates, and all that.”
She doesn’t say anything. That worries me. I consider reaching out to touch her. She’s only a few inches away, but it seems like miles. I stay put.
“Is that all that you are, Hank?”
Maybe I’m more drunk than I thought, because I have no idea what the fuck she’s talking about. “Huh?” I say, stupidly.
“Are you just a vain, movie-star asshole chumming it up with everyone? Or is there anything else?”
You know how sometimes someone says something that kind of immediately sobers you up? Yeah. I sit up straighter. I struggle to figure out what to say.
Her eyes slide sideways, taking me in as I fail to respond to her. Then she looks back at the flames and offers, “Never mind. I think I’m just going crazy.”
“I don’t think that…”
“Trust me. I am. It’s this constant yo-yo of emotional states! One minute, we’re going to die. Next minute: nope, Hank’s chumming it up with the pirates. Oh, wait, we’re going to die again. Haha, no we’re not, Hank’s chumming it up with the fisherman. OK, we’re definitely going to die this time. Think again, because Hank’s best buds with the Pirate King.”
“Would you rather we had died?”
“I’d rather we weren’t in this mess to begin with!”
“Well, so do I. You think I’m enjoying this?”
“Aren’t you?”
I don’t respond. Because I don’t know how to explain it. I’ve never really tried.
Veronica looks around. Her nose crinkles as the wind shifts and we get a good whiff of the island’s signature scent. “Are our lives ever going back to normal?” she asks.
What is ‘normal’? I think to myself. Parties? Yachts? Sex with a rotating cast of stars-to-be? Maybe ‘normal’ would be a life with Veronica. My body warms at that idea. A certain part of me stirs. I let it know now’s not the time for that.