they'd
gotten too high to concentrate on leaving soon enough to arrive on
time. They caught their plane by a hair, arriving just as an
attendant was about to close the door to the ramp leading to the
aircraft that was taking them to St. Thomas. Desiree had never
heard of Presidential Air before, and prayed they weren't some
shiesty airline that skimped on safety. Out of breath and
disheveled, they flopped into the first seats they came to; the
plane was practically empty.
Ginger and Desiree got toasted when
the liquor cart came I around. They chugged miniature bottles of
Jack Daniel's and then sipped on Heinekens while Dez stared out at
the cotton-candy clouds that floated in the snow-cone-blue sky. At
least the airline didn't skimp on the liquor. The plane hit some
turbulence and shook like an earthquake, causing her stomach to
lurch. She grabbed the airsickness bag just in case. Ginger looked
at her and laughed.
"I don't see how you can't be scared
shitless," Desiree moaned, clutching her stomach.
"Girl, I came to America on a raft. It
takes more than this to scare me. Besides, I'm not afraid to die. I
wanna see what's on the other side anyway," Ginger slurred. "Break
on through to the other side! Break on through to the other side!"
She sang the Doors classic happily, shaking her hair wildly.
Desiree cracked up. Then the plane dipped and dropped a few hundred
feet. Ginger threw her arms up in the air like she was on a roller
coaster. Desiree threw up in the barf bag.
The plane made a brief stop in St.
Croix, landing on a teeny little strip of concrete surrounded on
all sides by the lapis-blue Atlantic. Frantic that they would miss
the runway and plunge into the ocean, Desiree began to
hyperventilate. She was in tears by the time the plane made its way
to the Charlotte Amalie airport on St. Thomas.
"I'm never flying again!" she grumbled
as they deplaned.
"You'll get used to it, shawty. Death
can come at any time, and you're safer in a plane than you are on
the street anyway. Besides, if you don't fly, how you gonna get
back?" Ginger teased.
"I'll float over on a
raft."
"Well, you better make sure you do it
from Cuba, because if you come from Haiti, they gonna try to send
your ass right back."
Red, the owner of the club
where they were working, met them at the
baggage claim.
"Damn, he's fine," Desiree mumbled
under her breath. She took one look at Red, a six-foot stunner with
dark, wavy hair and Asian eyes and felt self-conscious. Her hair
was a mess, she was sweaty, and she smelled like throw-up. This was
not a great way to start a vacation, even if it was a working
vacation.
"He's married with like ten kids by
fifteen different women, a total waste of time." Ginger rolled her
eyes and slipped on her Versace shades. Desiree thought that if Red
was half as fine as the dude she was supposed to meet, she was in
for a treat.
Red took them to the Windward Passage
Hotel and got them settled in. The hotel staff was far from
friendly or accommodating. They treated Red with a certain level of
detached respect but rolled their eyes and sucked their teeth at
Ginger and Desiree. Ginger later explained that the locals hated
the strip clubs. The women all thought that the dancers were out to
steal their husbands and boyfriends, and some of the men thought
American women were lazy or stupid or stuck-up, or at least fronted
like they did so as not to make waves with their women. She also
warned that they would have to be on their p's and q's, because the
women would try and cause them some static.
They took the night off and went to
dinner at the Greenhouse Café. A lot of tourists were there, all
inebriated, mostly white, dancing off-beat to the ska rhythms a
reggae band skanked out on a small stage. They could barely eat in
peace; every man in the joint was enthralled and captivated by
their beauty. All the food they could consume and all the liquor
they could drink were theirs for the taking, compliments of their
admirers.
gotten too high to concentrate on leaving soon enough to arrive on
time. They caught their plane by a hair, arriving just as an
attendant was about to close the door to the ramp leading to the
aircraft that was taking them to St. Thomas. Desiree had never
heard of Presidential Air before, and prayed they weren't some
shiesty airline that skimped on safety. Out of breath and
disheveled, they flopped into the first seats they came to; the
plane was practically empty.
Ginger and Desiree got toasted when
the liquor cart came I around. They chugged miniature bottles of
Jack Daniel's and then sipped on Heinekens while Dez stared out at
the cotton-candy clouds that floated in the snow-cone-blue sky. At
least the airline didn't skimp on the liquor. The plane hit some
turbulence and shook like an earthquake, causing her stomach to
lurch. She grabbed the airsickness bag just in case. Ginger looked
at her and laughed.
"I don't see how you can't be scared
shitless," Desiree moaned, clutching her stomach.
"Girl, I came to America on a raft. It
takes more than this to scare me. Besides, I'm not afraid to die. I
wanna see what's on the other side anyway," Ginger slurred. "Break
on through to the other side! Break on through to the other side!"
She sang the Doors classic happily, shaking her hair wildly.
Desiree cracked up. Then the plane dipped and dropped a few hundred
feet. Ginger threw her arms up in the air like she was on a roller
coaster. Desiree threw up in the barf bag.
The plane made a brief stop in St.
Croix, landing on a teeny little strip of concrete surrounded on
all sides by the lapis-blue Atlantic. Frantic that they would miss
the runway and plunge into the ocean, Desiree began to
hyperventilate. She was in tears by the time the plane made its way
to the Charlotte Amalie airport on St. Thomas.
"I'm never flying again!" she grumbled
as they deplaned.
"You'll get used to it, shawty. Death
can come at any time, and you're safer in a plane than you are on
the street anyway. Besides, if you don't fly, how you gonna get
back?" Ginger teased.
"I'll float over on a
raft."
"Well, you better make sure you do it
from Cuba, because if you come from Haiti, they gonna try to send
your ass right back."
Red, the owner of the club
where they were working, met them at the
baggage claim.
"Damn, he's fine," Desiree mumbled
under her breath. She took one look at Red, a six-foot stunner with
dark, wavy hair and Asian eyes and felt self-conscious. Her hair
was a mess, she was sweaty, and she smelled like throw-up. This was
not a great way to start a vacation, even if it was a working
vacation.
"He's married with like ten kids by
fifteen different women, a total waste of time." Ginger rolled her
eyes and slipped on her Versace shades. Desiree thought that if Red
was half as fine as the dude she was supposed to meet, she was in
for a treat.
Red took them to the Windward Passage
Hotel and got them settled in. The hotel staff was far from
friendly or accommodating. They treated Red with a certain level of
detached respect but rolled their eyes and sucked their teeth at
Ginger and Desiree. Ginger later explained that the locals hated
the strip clubs. The women all thought that the dancers were out to
steal their husbands and boyfriends, and some of the men thought
American women were lazy or stupid or stuck-up, or at least fronted
like they did so as not to make waves with their women. She also
warned that they would have to be on their p's and q's, because the
women would try and cause them some static.
They took the night off and went to
dinner at the Greenhouse Café. A lot of tourists were there, all
inebriated, mostly white, dancing off-beat to the ska rhythms a
reggae band skanked out on a small stage. They could barely eat in
peace; every man in the joint was enthralled and captivated by
their beauty. All the food they could consume and all the liquor
they could drink were theirs for the taking, compliments of their
admirers.
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