Sudhir now realized he could no longer keep Duncan out of the limelight. He needed to be listed as a primary suspect if only for himself. Duncan should be fully investigated to the smallest detail that Sudhir could imagine. He would have to follow him, stalk him, and find out the seedy underpinnings that no one person should ever know of any other individual.
Ask yourself this as you sit at dinner with your group of college friends, sharing wine, and reminiscing on stories of who was with whom and the formal dance that you all attended at the junior prom. If you knew the thoughts of everyone at the table, knew what they were thinking about you and about the person sitting to your right and to your left, knew what they were truly thinking of what you looked like and what you said, would you still be friends?
Sudhir thought about a time long ago. He was in high school as a senior, and he was in the backseat of a car as three of his good friends who happened to all be girls were in the front. Somehow the topic of rape was brought up, and all three girls admitted to being in a situation where they had said no, only to be forced to do things they had no intention of doing and fought not to. All three girls admitted to this, and they were only in high school.
What does it mean when you can’t make it out of high school without a boy whom you know and trust, with whom you play baseball and football, sit next to in algebra turning into this person that can force himself on a girl without remorse? Then, he shows up the next day with his homework done and sits next to that same girl as they talk about the Civil War or the last historic world battles.
These are the good kids. These are the kids who are going to college and will be our future leaders in society – the guy doing your taxes, the one who invests your money or the one who sells you the house that you live in. We concentrate so much on the Middle East or on the slums of Los Angeles, and who is to say that down the road in the high school classroom our kids are any better than the scourge of society that we lift our nose to. The only factual statement you could make is that some are more transparent in their feelings and beliefs while most of us hide who we really are.
Sudhir felt himself getting light-headed, and the room seemed like it was spinning as everyone moved in slow motion. He felt the sluggish mire of being in quicksand as it holds your limbs and you go limp, trying not to sink into the oxygen-sucking pit of blackness. He raised himself up slowly and heard somebody ask him if he were okay. His face was turning paler than the white paper on his desk that held the news that pushed him into his imploding despair.
He shuffled down the hall, braced himself with his hand on the wall, and aimed for the bathroom and the closest stall to the door. He heaved the second the lid was pulled up as the door rang shut behind him, slapping against the latch, again and again, as he had failed to lock it closed. With every gasp, his backside banged against the door causing a loud crack as it rang back and forth.
The cold water from the white-stained porcelain sink was refreshing as he splashed his face. He dumped the water on the top of his head, letting it cascade down his forehead, dripping from his chin and nose. He felt the color slowly creeping back to his body as the flow of blood resumed. He made it back to his desk, pulled out his keys from the drawer ,and headed for his car. He heard somebody asking him something about where he was going or what was wrong, but felt his mouth slur as he mumbled an incoherent response.
He drove to the closest bar and spent the next several hours, drinking into a drunken stupor of scotch-induced numbness. He slowly forgot what it was that instigated his demise down the road of inebriation. He knew he was getting louder and louder with each passing hour, and it was only his familiarity with the nighttime crowd that kept him out of trouble. Eventually, Nathan the local bartender of the night, cut him off and called him a cab, insisting that he not get behind the wheel. A regular crowd in a bar routinely resembles a dysfunctional family of sorts. They do take care of each other to the best of their limited abilities.
The cab dropped him off in front of his house, and the driver seemed to take money out of his wallet, handing him back the worn brown leather container. Sudhir seemed to manage to put it back in his pocket. He, then, stumbled up his concrete drive as the cab pulled away, tripping over the familiar crack that raised up a couple of inches and hitting his head as it impacted against the hard surface.
That is where he lay for the evening. He was passed out in the 55 degree California weather. His kids lay tucked warmly in bed, having dreams of innocence and happiness that they felt might still be within their reach. They did not yet have to face the morbid reality of life as an adult where you come to understand that this is it. There is nothing more, and disappointment is the only truly God-given right that you are guaranteed to obtain.
Another Trip to the Dominican Republic
My second visit to the Dominican Republic was anticipated with trepidation. I couldn’t help but wonder if my lofty memories from a few short months ago would hold up for a second round. It is like eating a moist piece of white cake with creamy whipped frosting that is smoothed to perfection. The bites melt in your mouth as you eat forkful after forkful, chewing slowly to savor every morsel. At the end of the first piece, you wait a few minutes and decide against your better judgment to dive in again and take another. How can anything that good not be consumed until there is nothing left but crumbs?
Unfortunately, as we all know, the second piece always leaves you feeling slightly cloyed. The excess sugar forms a small army in your stomach that declares war on anything else within reach. Before long, you understand what “too much of a good thing” means. Still, I was looking forward to the trip. After my modest exercise regime, I was in decent shape for the beach and well into writing my memoirs. I felt that this would be a great venue for loosening my artistic ability and hoped that I could focus some energy on my ever-growing self-portrayal on the page. I only hoped that it would not be too much of a good thing and force me over the edge.
The biggest change would be that my friend Jean was no longer around. He had lost his ability to make any money on the island and had been forced to return to Canada in search of a job. He hoped to return at some point in the future. He set me up with his island wife, who met me at the airport and would drive me to my hotel on the beach. She offered to help me navigate the now more familiar terrain.
Upon arrival, Jean’s wife had a sign and met me with her 20-year-old girlfriend, her son Junior whom I had met, and her cousin who was the designated driver. We stopped at the local grocery store on the way into Caberete where I purchased some beer and loaded up on candy and snack foods for my new entourage. We then headed to my hotel where my new tour guide promptly charged me $55 for the cab ride. This was after I handed her a $50 bottle of perfume and eight shirts for Junior that Jean had requested as gifts for his family the last time he and I had spoken.
I enjoy giving gifts, and I liked the fact that I could freely give something to somebody that they in no way would ever be able to afford themselves. Going to Dominican Republic again puts me in my place. No matter how bad off financially I am or will ever be, I will still have more money than most anyone on the island. I am careful to say more money, as I realize money in no way buys happiness. The people of this island live in paradise and have no money. Most people in the States have money, but dream of living in paradise. It is a paradox of nature that we always want what we don’t have. Still, it is one thing to have money and another to manipulate or take advantage of somebody with money in the hopes of ascertaining more than a fair share for services rendered.
On my honeymoon with my wife of the past tense, we arrived in Spain. We left the airport, got into a cab, and were given a verbal tour of the countryside on our way to Seville. He was a wonderful historian of facts and fiction and eloquently passed the time pointing out sites and explaining their origin, as well as present significance. He did all this as he manually manipulated the meter, charging us a grand total of $120 for the ride to the hotel.
As we g
ot out of the cab, I had my wife enter the hotel and ask what a normal cab fare was from the airport to the front entrance. They told her it should be no more than $20 to $25 door-to-door. Upon hearing, this I handed the driver $30, which seemed more than adequate and entered into a heated verbal debate on what it meant to be honest in society and not take advantage of tourists. We ended our duel of words quite angrily. He cursed me in his native tongue as I flipped him off and headed inside. This wasn’t a great start to the trip, but in retrospect it was the low point. The rest of the vacation turned out to be wonderful.
I felt taken advantage of by my friend’s wife; and although I paid her the total requested fee, I stated that I would not need her services the rest of my stay. I promptly told Jean via text that I was disappointed in her and did not like my generosity being abused. He apologized; but since they were only married in title, he had no control over her and who she was. It was very sad for me since I had planned on getting to know them. In the end, they lost much more than they gained. I could have been very generous over the course of several days.
After checking into my room, which had a balcony sitting right on the sandy beaches no more than 100 yards from the edge of the ocean, I ventured over to Elvis’. His place was only a five-minute walk from my hotel room door; and upon arrival, I said hello to my old friends. Elvis remembered me instantly. The girls were acquaintances of mine from the previous trip and remembered me, as well. It was like walking into Cheers, and, yes, it is nice when everyone knows your name.
I like the aspect of extended families: older generations influencing younger generations on a day-to-day basis. I think in the materialistic society of the United States that it is our one biggest loss. As young adults get jobs and venture out on their own, they quickly gain the ability to pay their own way through life and sadly relegate their once-protectors to an afterthought. They make a phone call on every other Sunday, while they look for excuses to get off the phone as quickly as they can in order to concentrate on their important afternoon events.
In the Dominican Republic, as in most Third World countries, the extended family acts more like a unit. Kids have babies at young ages, and the parents (now grandparents) take them on as their own. Children having babies when they are teens is not ideal, but it does force the broader family group to unite and act as one. Elvis had a very large extended family. Most worked in the bar/restaurant seven days a week, and they all chipped in keeping the business running smoothly.
As I do in most cases, I blended in quickly, and it wasn’t long before I was being invited to dinner and greeted like a distant uncle who was visiting. All of this occurred without my knowing even a tiny fraction of Spanish. If I only had the drive and mental ability to learn Spanish, I think I would have moved beyond the distant uncle stage and taken the next step to being a brother. Who knows if they share the same feelings, but I like to think they did. We shared many experiences in a few short days.
My fondest memory is of our playing softball on a Sunday afternoon. I had been working out; and although not in perfect shape, I can say I was gaining definition in my shoulders, arms, and chest. My stomach had started to flatten, as well. I was now down to an average weight, approximately 175 pounds; and with my height, that is close to ideal. I say all of this knowing that I still was 41 and was just a few short days from turning 42. Even the most arduous athletic group can’t compete with those 20 years younger.
A couple of nights before, Elvis, the coach of a local softball team, had asked if I were interested in going with him and his team for their weekly league game on Sunday. Since I love experiencing anything local, I happily accepted. Around 11 a.m. Sunday morning, I ventured over to his bar, happily anticipating what the day might bring. Nothing happened in haste on this little island, and it took a couple of hours for everyone to get organized. It was around 1 p.m. when we finally jumped on the back of several motor scooters and headed off to the field.
Elvis had loaned me an old pair of baseball pants, and I was allowed to borrow his son’s retired sneakers since he and I wore about the same size shoe. We zipped off down the road and about 20 minutes later arrived at the field. I use the term “field” loosely since it was more of an unused dump than a true baseball field. It had ankle-high weeds that were intermittently splotched with brown dirt patches where the only access was a dirt and gravel road about a mile off the main highway.
It seemed as if somebody had taken a monster truck, and, in the middle of a muddy rain, had zigzagged, doing donuts, digging up ruts and trenches wherever possible. Home plate consisted of a white rag that was held down with a couple of bricks. Right field was partially blocked by a seven-foot concrete wall that jutted out about 10 feet into the official playing area. It was always a guess as to whether the ball were caught or dropped, until you saw the right fielder jog around the wall with a smile or rush to throw somebody out.
Left field remained open, but held a 20 feet x 20 feet mound of dirt about two feet above the remainder of the normal playing level. It was like running through a minefield as you tried to shag down fly balls. The practice session consisted of a round robin with each player taking a turn at each position. Once an out was made everyone rotated to the next spot and so on. Both teams interjected members sporadically in the mix, as it was a free for all, so everyone could get ready for the real thing.
The average age of the players would have been in the upper 20’s to very early 30’s. I was probably the oldest person within shouting distance of a couple miles. Additionally, as I began my indoctrination into Dominican sports, I would have to guess that most of these guys had been playing baseball since they were all old enough to throw a ball or pick up a bat. I, on the other hand, had played two seasons of old-man softball where drinking was the primary goal a few years back and had never played as a kid.
Starting out with this big disadvantage might have frightened some, but to me it was just part of the adventure. I held my own as I went from position to position, not embarrassing myself too badly until I hit the pitcher’s mound, and it all unraveled quickly. I have the arm of a 5-year-old girl who tries to throw a bowling ball overhand. I just can’t throw a ball to save my life. After about 15 attempts to get the ball over the plate and several rounds of belly-rolling laughter, the coach for the opposing team yelled something at me in Spanish (which I didn’t understand) and took the ball away from me.
He, then, supplanted me on the mound and pointed me toward the bat so I could take a turn at hitting. The spectacle I created was most likely the mealtime conversation of many dinners that evening. I dribbled a ball to third base on my one swing, ran as fast as I could to first, and was thrown out. I spent the rest of the day on the bench, watching as the true game began, and I was no longer needed as a clownish distraction.
I met several guys that day and would remember most of them as we all frequented the same bars. It was nice feeling part of a group. A couple of my fellow bench warmers went on a rum run (after I volunteered to pay), and we then shared a glass that got passed around for shots throughout the afternoon. Now that was my kind of participation. I immediately felt at home with the warmth of alcohol in my bloodstream.
The one glaring difference from that day and when I played my two years of beer ball in California was the community participation and how different I was from the crowd. As we sat there that afternoon, you began to see people drift by or some stopped and used concrete wall and random bricks as to watch a game. At the peak of the day, nearly 50 people watched baseball players not anywhere near good enough to make the majors, but who could crush most any middle-aged softball team that I had ever seen in the States.
It is rumored that the minor leagues are populated by nearly 50 percent Dominican Republic personnel. They live, breathe, and die baseball; and it showed in how smoothly they played. It was an amazing afternoon. I felt blessed to have participated. It was sad at the end when, after losing two games, our team got eliminated, and we headed back to the bar fo
r my evening ritual of drinking and, well, drinking.
Dinner was fresh fish that one of the players had speared off the coast in the ocean earlier that morning. He apparently did this quite often and promised to take me the next time I went down to this little island paradise. I wish I had known this earlier. What a great experience that would have been! The evening went as most, and we got very drunk. We headed down to the beach bars around 10 p.m. and drank more as we harassed the local ladies and tourist girls equally.
The only night that was significantly different was New Year’s Eve. I hope that for as long as my aging body can handle the torturous after-effects of alcohol that I am able to spend every New Year’s Eve in the Dominican Republic. If it equals or exceeds the wonderful experience that I had that evening, I will count myself blessed. It started out like most nights at Elvis’ bar, and it was precluded by an afternoon of sleeping on the beach and napping on the balcony in my room. I had been smart enough to realize I needed to conserve my energy for the all night events that were to ensue.
As a present, I had bought Elvis a 1/5 of Black Label. He, as well, had purchased a 1/5, so we worked on bottle No. 1, starting at around 6 p.m. that evening. In retrospect, that was a little early to begin, but alas, it is hard to hold off the anticipated events of a night filled with debauchery and alcohol. Elvis and I plowed through bottle No. 1 and, while doing so, enjoyed the company of his stunningly beautiful bartender and her mammoth boyfriend.
Luckily, the fourth member of our group that evening would be the bartender’s friend who lived in the mountains and had ventured down for the all-night party that awakened the island on an annual basis. She was about 5’3” and couldn’t have weighed more than 100 pounds. She had chocolate skin and her hair was course and straight. She sauntered around the bar in a tight, form-fitting, thigh-length dress. Other than a slight overbite, she was an above average specimen that could rival most 20 year olds from the United States with her natural beauty.
Duncan's Diary Page 24