(no subject)
I had to write a reaction story to a book I read called The Dew Breaker. Here is that story.
What my Dad said in Haiti
by Patrick Klacza
That week I had dined in world-class restaurants, played shuffleboard almost a hundred feet above the ocean, watched a seminar on buying heirloom timepieces at some of the Caribbean’s finest jewelers, and (almost) won a boatload of money playing bingo. During my week-long vacation onboard the Royal Caribbean (R.C.) Navigator of the Seas, all of this (and more!) was possible. The occasion for taking the cruise was my parents’ twentieth wedding anniversary, and on the night of that celebration the wait staff brought a customized cake to our table and we wolfed it down like animals. Of course, we could have ordered a cake just like it from room service but we ignored that fact.
I was feeling a little bummed out that it was our last day of vacation. I always feel like that on the last day, but just the day before I was feeling like I could jump off the top deck and be better off. The port-of-call that day was Labadee,® Haiti. I use the ® symbol because R.C. does. The other ports-of-call were completely anticlimactic, awkward, and mostly boring, and so I was hoping my family did not want to get off the boat that day. I preferred days-at-sea anyway- days where I could sit at the pool, read, gorge myself on all-you-cat-eat buffets, watch seminars about buying heirloom timepieces, and just take advantage of all the ship’s amenities. But no. I was walking down the gangway to disembark the ship and spend a day of fun-in-the-sun in Labadee.®
The first thing I noticed when I got onto land was a photographer, employed by R.C. to take my family’s picture, standing next to a pirate holding a massive iguana. On the count of three, instead of smiling, I made my fingers into a gun and put them in my mouth. Robert, grow up said my mom as my dad laughed.
The next thing I noticed were all these black people (presumably Haitians because the R.C.’s crew was mostly Eastern European, East Asian, and Canadian) selling bracelets and paintings-while-you-watch and wooden replicas of our very Navigator of the Seas. They stayed off the sidewalk that led to the entrance of Labadee,® and said stuff like miss, miss, look and cheaper than inside. One of the guys from our dinner table (you have to sit at a table with total strangers) was taking pictures of his wife bartering for some red and black maracas. Two dollars said the Haitian. That’s a bit steep she said (‘click’ went the camera). One dollar. She said I think I saw some maracas for fifty cents just down the street. Two-for-one he finally said, and that’s exactly what she paid him. ‘Click!’
After we filed into Labadee®’s entrance, I heard a four-piece band comprised of black men (Haitians?) playing ‘Margaritaville’ at a too-fast tempo. The strangers from dinner danced in front of the stage, and the black men smiled as they played. Look- they’re wearing Royal Caribbean polo shirts said my younger sister Cassie. Weird, I’ve never seen them on the ship said dad. You can buy them in the gift shop said mom.
While laying out some towels to sit on, an R.C. employee generously offered us chaise loungers for the low-low price of twenty dollars for the whole day. No way José said my dad, but I will take a Labadee® Daiquiri. You should have seen the thing this guy came back with- it was in a glass almost a foot tall with orange umbrellas giving it shade and shaved ice melting in the sun. Slurp, slurp. I lathered up with sunscreen (Midwesterners on Spring Break, a pathetic sight) and eyed an inflatable playground that was anchored about thirty feet offshore. I’m gonna go mess around on that I told my parents. Cassie tagged along.
At the top of an inflatable pyramid with the neon green slide on the side, I saw Jennifer- a girl I had been hitting on aggressively throughout the week. The night before in the disco (called ‘Club Fuel’) she told me I will do whatever you want. I knew what she meant- she was down to fuck (D.T.F.) but I got scared. I was only nineteen, and honestly, I had touched my first boob just earlier that year. So we made out and I told her I had to go to bed. She was looking very nice on the beach though, and I thought maybe I would hit it after all. Hey Robert said Cassie. Watch this. She jumped off the pyramid into the deep blue water below. She returned to the surface smiling, waving her arms, and then in a flash, she frantically looked around and screamed. She screamed so loudly that people on the beach got up from their whaled positions and squinted to see what was wrong. I hadn’t seen jellyfish in person before, except at the Shedd Aquarium, and then they looked so artificial, but Cassie was surrounded by maybe one hundred actual wild jellyfish, and they were stinging her. My instinct was to jump in and save her, but I froze for a moment and then thought better. Thank god R.C. hired lifeguards, and a tall Filipino guy in a red bathing suit (replete with the R.C. insignia) took Cassie in his arms and moved her to the beach. I swam after them when the jellyfish were swept away by waves.
She lay in the sand wincing and crying as my dad, mom, and several R.C. crew members stood over her. Treat this, very simple said the Filipino lifeguard, and he ran off for a moment to fetch vinegar. Apparently, vinegar sooths minor jellyfish stings, and he came back with an enormous jug of it (how often did this happen?). Just when he was about to put some on her leg, a higher-up on staff (white, probably from Greece) said Please sign this madam, before we treat her. I’ll handle this said my dad, and he snatched the contract from my mom’s hands. Mmm hmm. Yes. Fair enough. He looked at the Greek higher-up and said I’ll sign this, but only because my daughter is suffering (she was laughing now, actually- the pain was wearing off) and we expect some accommodations for our trouble. Oh yes, right said the Greek. I will arrange for a spa package for your daughter and wife. My dad nodded toward me. He was up to something. It’ll have to do, but just look at the poor girl. Cassie had built a small sandcastle at the Greek man’s feet. She’s had a traumatic experience. The Greek glanced at her. She looks perfectly fine to me; we haven’t even applied vinegar… My dad interrupted of course I could always tell your supervisor or write a letter to the Royal (he pronounced it ‘Royale!’) Caribbean Cruise Company about our trouble…the food hasn’t even been all that great… I noticed Jennifer was watching us. Spa package for the entire family then! said the Greek. Her ass was out of control. Deal. They shook hands and he gave him his cruise card (an onboard credit card/ room key/ identification card) so the Greek could set everything up with the spa. My mom insisted that she take Cassie back onboard but that we ought to explore the island and have a little fun.
My dad and I agreed that Labadee® was a bit lame, and we decided to follow mom’s advice and check out the rest of the island (I don’t think we knew how big it is). We left Labadee® the same way we came in, but when we veered from the R.C.-approved sidewalk, a representative from the company stopped us and said gentlemen, please go back inside- the ship doesn’t leave for at least three hours still. We told him that we wanted to take a cab into town, and he started to shake his head. No no no he said we strongly recommend that you stay on company-owned property. My dad asked if there was anything keeping us there. The rep. shook his head. Technically, I can’t keep you from going. But let me ensure you that you do not want to go into town. It’s dangerous there. It’s no place to take your son, no place for a vacation. That’s why we built this beautiful beach. He looked desperate. A Greek higher-up had taken an interest in our conversation and was obviously listening in. The rep. kept glancing at him and then looking back at us with wide, scared eyes. Out of my way said my dad, and that was that. We pushed past the rep. (who turned to find the Greek higher-up in his face), hailed a taxi, and ordered the driver to take us to a bar. But not before I told Jennifer (who was returning to the ship) to meet me in the disco tonight and I’ll guarantee it’ll stay in Haiti. She smiled, winked, and said not in a million years.
On the way into town, we passed a small school painted bright yellow and surrounded by hundreds of young students at recess. They wore uniforms, mostly ratty though, and kicked soccer balls and talked and held hands. How would you like to go to that school asked my dad, and I told him that I wouldn’t like to go there as-a-matter-of-fact. You should be thankful then. Next to the school was a Bob Marley billboard with the world ‘freedom’ on it. Bob, of course, was Jamaican- but that didn’t seem to matter on this vacation. He was everywhere and on everything. In Grand Cayman, I found little onyx weed-bowls with Marley’s image engraved in the handle (‘One Love’). In Cozumel, I found bootleg copies of Legend for more than they cost in the United States. Ooh said the lady from dinner I want this. Marley’s music moves me. Who doesn’t already own Legend? I bought (fake?) Cuban cigars instead.
After five minutes, the driver dropped us off in front of a run-down bar with a rusty Coke sign in front and a few locals hanging out. This is it? asked my dad, but I didn’t answer. The scenery said it all. Intermixed with the tall palm trees and lush plants were shacks, old cigarette dispensers, water basins, and piles of rubble. We considered turning back, but dad said let’s at least get a cold one and so we walked inside. Spare some money? Help us out?
The bar wasn’t as bad as I expected. There were some tables and barstools and an ancient pool table. A television in the corner was playing some show I hadn’t seen before, and besides some stragglers by the one window, we were the only patrons there. My dad did all the talking with the bartender (who had stained, ugly teeth and Nike shoes). Two beers was what he said, and there they were. Prestige. As a nineteen year old, I was perfectly capable of absolutely pounding beers. I might not have gotten much ass in high school, but at least I was drunk for most of it. I had never drunk Prestige though, and I remember it being pretty good. Hoppy is a word beer snobs throw around, and I don’t know what it means, but this beer was totally hoppy, and my dad and I drank more than we intended to…and we lost track of time. My cell phone rang. It was my mom. Where are you? The ship leaves in a half-hour! It’s too bad that it was because my dad and I were having a good conversation even though he seemed bothered by something. We talked about how fun our vacation was, how fun college would be, how he showed that Greek dude who’s boss, etc.
We gathered ourselves, paid the bill (fifteen bucks), and went outside. The cab was nowhere in sight, probably gone back to the ship, and so we started running in the direction we came. We ran past metal shanties, people washing their clothes in buckets, small farms for subsistence farming, long-abandoned tourist traps that failed, mules, etc. There were lots of cars but no taxis and most of the cars looked like they were from the sixties anyway- rusted hunks of junk that weighed way more than my Saturn. Pay attention to this said my dad, out of breath. Be thankful you don’t live here. Some Haitians stopped what they were doing and looked at us like we were crazy, but we kept running anyway, and the ship’s horn went off to signal that we had twenty minutes to get back. Think about it this way- you probably don’t like when we make you go to church and when you have to take out the garbage, but you could be poor. Poor! Dad I said I’m glad I don’t live here. He said sometimes it doesn’t seem like it. I said you’re paying for college, you bought me an Xbox, and there’s a roof over my head- what more can I ask for? Squalor everywhere. Chickens squawking and flying away. The ship getting close. Why didn’t you hang out with us the last couple nights? Too cool to hang out with your family? Haitians tried to stop us for money or to buy stuff, I don’t know. I met a girl, dad. Oh he said that explains it. How’s that going? The horn again- ten minutes. Not great actually. I think she hates me. He was lagging behind, sweating now, and slightly drunk, wobbling around- weaving to dodge the Haitians and chickens and tires and shit. He stopped. Dude (Why did he call me dude? Was it some sort of way to connect with my generation? With the way we talk? Kind of like when he came into my room and said ya know, that band Death Cab for Cutie rocks?) women are crazy. At least you got your family. We got your back. I smiled when he said that, and we ran across the beach in beautiful Labadee® just as the last remaining passengers were boarding.
As we stood in line on the gangway, the Haitians were making their last sales pitches and trying to compel us to buy puka shells, crappy key chains, and sarongs. Seeing that we weren’t interested in buying their wares, they left via a small opening in a nearby gate, and an R.C. higher-up closed and locked it behind them. I watched them walk away as the sun set. An R.C. photographer could have snapped a picture and made it a postcard. Probably already had. Son. I’m glad we made it back to the boat. Can you imagine being stuck here overnight? I laughed. When we were running back, I hate to admit it, but I was a little scared. For our lives. I shrugged. I’m serious! Who knows what those people are capable of? Obviously, they have no money- I mean, who knows? He watched the sunset as the R.C. crew sealed off the gangway and closed the hatch. We were back on the ship. I know it’s probably impossible, but when you grow up, don’t let your family turn into that. He pointed toward Labadee®. When you grow up, be a man is what my dad said in Haiti.
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What my Dad said in Haiti
by Patrick Klacza
That week I had dined in world-class restaurants, played shuffleboard almost a hundred feet above the ocean, watched a seminar on buying heirloom timepieces at some of the Caribbean’s finest jewelers, and (almost) won a boatload of money playing bingo. During my week-long vacation onboard the Royal Caribbean (R.C.) Navigator of the Seas, all of this (and more!) was possible. The occasion for taking the cruise was my parents’ twentieth wedding anniversary, and on the night of that celebration the wait staff brought a customized cake to our table and we wolfed it down like animals. Of course, we could have ordered a cake just like it from room service but we ignored that fact.
I was feeling a little bummed out that it was our last day of vacation. I always feel like that on the last day, but just the day before I was feeling like I could jump off the top deck and be better off. The port-of-call that day was Labadee,® Haiti. I use the ® symbol because R.C. does. The other ports-of-call were completely anticlimactic, awkward, and mostly boring, and so I was hoping my family did not want to get off the boat that day. I preferred days-at-sea anyway- days where I could sit at the pool, read, gorge myself on all-you-cat-eat buffets, watch seminars about buying heirloom timepieces, and just take advantage of all the ship’s amenities. But no. I was walking down the gangway to disembark the ship and spend a day of fun-in-the-sun in Labadee.®
The first thing I noticed when I got onto land was a photographer, employed by R.C. to take my family’s picture, standing next to a pirate holding a massive iguana. On the count of three, instead of smiling, I made my fingers into a gun and put them in my mouth. Robert, grow up said my mom as my dad laughed.
The next thing I noticed were all these black people (presumably Haitians because the R.C.’s crew was mostly Eastern European, East Asian, and Canadian) selling bracelets and paintings-while-you-watch and wooden replicas of our very Navigator of the Seas. They stayed off the sidewalk that led to the entrance of Labadee,® and said stuff like miss, miss, look and cheaper than inside. One of the guys from our dinner table (you have to sit at a table with total strangers) was taking pictures of his wife bartering for some red and black maracas. Two dollars said the Haitian. That’s a bit steep she said (‘click’ went the camera). One dollar. She said I think I saw some maracas for fifty cents just down the street. Two-for-one he finally said, and that’s exactly what she paid him. ‘Click!’
After we filed into Labadee®’s entrance, I heard a four-piece band comprised of black men (Haitians?) playing ‘Margaritaville’ at a too-fast tempo. The strangers from dinner danced in front of the stage, and the black men smiled as they played. Look- they’re wearing Royal Caribbean polo shirts said my younger sister Cassie. Weird, I’ve never seen them on the ship said dad. You can buy them in the gift shop said mom.
While laying out some towels to sit on, an R.C. employee generously offered us chaise loungers for the low-low price of twenty dollars for the whole day. No way José said my dad, but I will take a Labadee® Daiquiri. You should have seen the thing this guy came back with- it was in a glass almost a foot tall with orange umbrellas giving it shade and shaved ice melting in the sun. Slurp, slurp. I lathered up with sunscreen (Midwesterners on Spring Break, a pathetic sight) and eyed an inflatable playground that was anchored about thirty feet offshore. I’m gonna go mess around on that I told my parents. Cassie tagged along.
At the top of an inflatable pyramid with the neon green slide on the side, I saw Jennifer- a girl I had been hitting on aggressively throughout the week. The night before in the disco (called ‘Club Fuel’) she told me I will do whatever you want. I knew what she meant- she was down to fuck (D.T.F.) but I got scared. I was only nineteen, and honestly, I had touched my first boob just earlier that year. So we made out and I told her I had to go to bed. She was looking very nice on the beach though, and I thought maybe I would hit it after all. Hey Robert said Cassie. Watch this. She jumped off the pyramid into the deep blue water below. She returned to the surface smiling, waving her arms, and then in a flash, she frantically looked around and screamed. She screamed so loudly that people on the beach got up from their whaled positions and squinted to see what was wrong. I hadn’t seen jellyfish in person before, except at the Shedd Aquarium, and then they looked so artificial, but Cassie was surrounded by maybe one hundred actual wild jellyfish, and they were stinging her. My instinct was to jump in and save her, but I froze for a moment and then thought better. Thank god R.C. hired lifeguards, and a tall Filipino guy in a red bathing suit (replete with the R.C. insignia) took Cassie in his arms and moved her to the beach. I swam after them when the jellyfish were swept away by waves.
She lay in the sand wincing and crying as my dad, mom, and several R.C. crew members stood over her. Treat this, very simple said the Filipino lifeguard, and he ran off for a moment to fetch vinegar. Apparently, vinegar sooths minor jellyfish stings, and he came back with an enormous jug of it (how often did this happen?). Just when he was about to put some on her leg, a higher-up on staff (white, probably from Greece) said Please sign this madam, before we treat her. I’ll handle this said my dad, and he snatched the contract from my mom’s hands. Mmm hmm. Yes. Fair enough. He looked at the Greek higher-up and said I’ll sign this, but only because my daughter is suffering (she was laughing now, actually- the pain was wearing off) and we expect some accommodations for our trouble. Oh yes, right said the Greek. I will arrange for a spa package for your daughter and wife. My dad nodded toward me. He was up to something. It’ll have to do, but just look at the poor girl. Cassie had built a small sandcastle at the Greek man’s feet. She’s had a traumatic experience. The Greek glanced at her. She looks perfectly fine to me; we haven’t even applied vinegar… My dad interrupted of course I could always tell your supervisor or write a letter to the Royal (he pronounced it ‘Royale!’) Caribbean Cruise Company about our trouble…the food hasn’t even been all that great… I noticed Jennifer was watching us. Spa package for the entire family then! said the Greek. Her ass was out of control. Deal. They shook hands and he gave him his cruise card (an onboard credit card/ room key/ identification card) so the Greek could set everything up with the spa. My mom insisted that she take Cassie back onboard but that we ought to explore the island and have a little fun.
My dad and I agreed that Labadee® was a bit lame, and we decided to follow mom’s advice and check out the rest of the island (I don’t think we knew how big it is). We left Labadee® the same way we came in, but when we veered from the R.C.-approved sidewalk, a representative from the company stopped us and said gentlemen, please go back inside- the ship doesn’t leave for at least three hours still. We told him that we wanted to take a cab into town, and he started to shake his head. No no no he said we strongly recommend that you stay on company-owned property. My dad asked if there was anything keeping us there. The rep. shook his head. Technically, I can’t keep you from going. But let me ensure you that you do not want to go into town. It’s dangerous there. It’s no place to take your son, no place for a vacation. That’s why we built this beautiful beach. He looked desperate. A Greek higher-up had taken an interest in our conversation and was obviously listening in. The rep. kept glancing at him and then looking back at us with wide, scared eyes. Out of my way said my dad, and that was that. We pushed past the rep. (who turned to find the Greek higher-up in his face), hailed a taxi, and ordered the driver to take us to a bar. But not before I told Jennifer (who was returning to the ship) to meet me in the disco tonight and I’ll guarantee it’ll stay in Haiti. She smiled, winked, and said not in a million years.
On the way into town, we passed a small school painted bright yellow and surrounded by hundreds of young students at recess. They wore uniforms, mostly ratty though, and kicked soccer balls and talked and held hands. How would you like to go to that school asked my dad, and I told him that I wouldn’t like to go there as-a-matter-of-fact. You should be thankful then. Next to the school was a Bob Marley billboard with the world ‘freedom’ on it. Bob, of course, was Jamaican- but that didn’t seem to matter on this vacation. He was everywhere and on everything. In Grand Cayman, I found little onyx weed-bowls with Marley’s image engraved in the handle (‘One Love’). In Cozumel, I found bootleg copies of Legend for more than they cost in the United States. Ooh said the lady from dinner I want this. Marley’s music moves me. Who doesn’t already own Legend? I bought (fake?) Cuban cigars instead.
After five minutes, the driver dropped us off in front of a run-down bar with a rusty Coke sign in front and a few locals hanging out. This is it? asked my dad, but I didn’t answer. The scenery said it all. Intermixed with the tall palm trees and lush plants were shacks, old cigarette dispensers, water basins, and piles of rubble. We considered turning back, but dad said let’s at least get a cold one and so we walked inside. Spare some money? Help us out?
The bar wasn’t as bad as I expected. There were some tables and barstools and an ancient pool table. A television in the corner was playing some show I hadn’t seen before, and besides some stragglers by the one window, we were the only patrons there. My dad did all the talking with the bartender (who had stained, ugly teeth and Nike shoes). Two beers was what he said, and there they were. Prestige. As a nineteen year old, I was perfectly capable of absolutely pounding beers. I might not have gotten much ass in high school, but at least I was drunk for most of it. I had never drunk Prestige though, and I remember it being pretty good. Hoppy is a word beer snobs throw around, and I don’t know what it means, but this beer was totally hoppy, and my dad and I drank more than we intended to…and we lost track of time. My cell phone rang. It was my mom. Where are you? The ship leaves in a half-hour! It’s too bad that it was because my dad and I were having a good conversation even though he seemed bothered by something. We talked about how fun our vacation was, how fun college would be, how he showed that Greek dude who’s boss, etc.
We gathered ourselves, paid the bill (fifteen bucks), and went outside. The cab was nowhere in sight, probably gone back to the ship, and so we started running in the direction we came. We ran past metal shanties, people washing their clothes in buckets, small farms for subsistence farming, long-abandoned tourist traps that failed, mules, etc. There were lots of cars but no taxis and most of the cars looked like they were from the sixties anyway- rusted hunks of junk that weighed way more than my Saturn. Pay attention to this said my dad, out of breath. Be thankful you don’t live here. Some Haitians stopped what they were doing and looked at us like we were crazy, but we kept running anyway, and the ship’s horn went off to signal that we had twenty minutes to get back. Think about it this way- you probably don’t like when we make you go to church and when you have to take out the garbage, but you could be poor. Poor! Dad I said I’m glad I don’t live here. He said sometimes it doesn’t seem like it. I said you’re paying for college, you bought me an Xbox, and there’s a roof over my head- what more can I ask for? Squalor everywhere. Chickens squawking and flying away. The ship getting close. Why didn’t you hang out with us the last couple nights? Too cool to hang out with your family? Haitians tried to stop us for money or to buy stuff, I don’t know. I met a girl, dad. Oh he said that explains it. How’s that going? The horn again- ten minutes. Not great actually. I think she hates me. He was lagging behind, sweating now, and slightly drunk, wobbling around- weaving to dodge the Haitians and chickens and tires and shit. He stopped. Dude (Why did he call me dude? Was it some sort of way to connect with my generation? With the way we talk? Kind of like when he came into my room and said ya know, that band Death Cab for Cutie rocks?) women are crazy. At least you got your family. We got your back. I smiled when he said that, and we ran across the beach in beautiful Labadee® just as the last remaining passengers were boarding.
As we stood in line on the gangway, the Haitians were making their last sales pitches and trying to compel us to buy puka shells, crappy key chains, and sarongs. Seeing that we weren’t interested in buying their wares, they left via a small opening in a nearby gate, and an R.C. higher-up closed and locked it behind them. I watched them walk away as the sun set. An R.C. photographer could have snapped a picture and made it a postcard. Probably already had. Son. I’m glad we made it back to the boat. Can you imagine being stuck here overnight? I laughed. When we were running back, I hate to admit it, but I was a little scared. For our lives. I shrugged. I’m serious! Who knows what those people are capable of? Obviously, they have no money- I mean, who knows? He watched the sunset as the R.C. crew sealed off the gangway and closed the hatch. We were back on the ship. I know it’s probably impossible, but when you grow up, don’t let your family turn into that. He pointed toward Labadee®. When you grow up, be a man is what my dad said in Haiti.
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