Island Salt

     Then he became a fisherman. Ha. Fisher of what? Women and partying. But now, at last, retribution. He had finally done something for Kit, for the family, and he had actually pulled it off! More Led Zeppelin. Turn up the sound. It boomed with the thump, thump, thump of the bass through his amps.

     Just a little further, as he drove into the bush, that part of the island forgotten by tourist, rum runner, and doper alike. There was nothing in the great expanse but dust and heat. And more heat. And tonight, Troy on his way to the Mya-tuk, perhaps the only real love of his life, his sailboat, purchased through the sweat of his indecision and willingness to use a strong back rather than a sound mind.

     Blackness was before him and behind him. Solitude. Another tug at the beer, and he tossed the bottle out of the window far into the bight with its brothers. If he were out there, he could imagine it chink, chinking into the countless other bottles lazily thrown by Bahamians into the bush. Now, he laughed to himself, he was intellectualizing too much. Just get to the boat and put out for Ft. Lauderdale tonight before he could be blamed for the destruction of the new hotel site.

     He reached over to the passenger floorboard. He knew he had another beer. Taking his eyes from the road for a second, groping the floor mat, he felt the now sweating bottle, his last. That’s okay. He was nearly to the end of his destination.

     He straightened back up in the driver’s seat. Flicking the bottle cap out the window,

Troy turned up the CD, blasting it throughout the rag top, gravel playing a background chorus to his favorite, “…and she’s buying a stairway to heaven…”

     In his rear view mirror, he thought he saw a light. Impossible. No one would be out here at two a.m. He took another turn, the jeep squealing around the curve. Almost there, just another few kilometers. Glancing again at the side mirror, he realized, sure enough, a truck, a big truck, was gaining on him fast. Real fast.

     “Shit, what’s this?” he muttered. He picked up speed, eighty-five, nearly ninety and that was pushing the old Wrangler. That was all she had in her.

     Behind him, he could hear the roar of the truck’s Hemi engine, a V-eight, gunned to the max. Whoever was driving knew the gravel road as well as he did. The monster truck started to close in.

     Troy couldn’t believe this was happening. It had been such a sweet plan. Save the family, sail to the States and take a long vacation. No more a loser. No more unfinished business. He saw the truck in his rear view mirror. It was a big, fancy job, jacked up nice and high, a flashy four- by-four. Now, as it was nearly on his bumper, he could see the reflection of the highly polished chrome of its fenders as dust clouds enveloped the two vehicles, wrapping them together intimately in some type of passionate, Latin tango.

     Troy floored the jeep, but she had given her all. He felt the first bump, a tap, on the rear, a warning. He was being played with, a big cat after a very small mouse. Now he knew what this was about. He had one hope left. An old lumber road was coming up on his right, just maybe, if he could make that turn, he could escape this monster.

     Bump. Bump again. This time it was harder and almost sent Troy’s jeep into the bush. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. It wasn’t looking good. There, up ahead, he saw the cut where the gravel path should be. The headlights on high beam were blinding him now, four additional driving lights mounted on the roof all but made it look like a movie set. Ha, he thought, what a strange group of stuntmen! His rearview mirror reflected nothing but white light painful to his night vision. With the pedal still all the way to the floor and no room for correction, he made the sharp right hand turn. The jeep went flying, gravel and dust blinding Troy.