The Last Resort

You know, I think hammocks were invented by some diabolical trickster-god, one with a truly sadistic sense of humor. Every time I lie upon one the suspension rope breaks, or the anchor comes loose, and down I come, returning to the Earth which bore me with a sudden, sullen, but not to be understated thud. There's nothing like the feeling of being struck with a planet to convey divine contempt. This fact, however, has little or nothing to do with our story.

I, dear reader, am Horace. My last name wouldn't matter to you, and if it would matter to you it would probably serve me well to keep the name to myself. And so it goes. Either way, my first name should suffice: Horace. My avocation -- hobby, to those of you less cultured than I -- is traveling. You might even call traveling my vocation, since I travel so much that I tend to be unemployed on a relatively consistent basis. How can I afford to spend so much time traveling, you ask? The answer is simple (as are most of my female traveling companions) -- I write travel books, documentaries, and do research for travel agents. It is this continual mobility of my life which forms the basis of our current story.

It all began nearly a year ago. I had been back in town for several months, just long enough for my new landlord to start eviction proceedings against me for nonpayment of rent. Now, I know he didn't mean anything personal by it, since he began giving me presents of poultry soon thereafter. I do wish he had cleaned the chickens, first, or even killed them before nailing their feet to my door. But, one thing I've learned in my travels is that you never question how someone gives you a gift, especially if you owe that person a large sum of money. In spite of the importance such demonstrations of friendship have always had for me, however, I knew that I could not allow these feelings of warmth to hold me in the city against my destiny. I began to feel the call of the unknown once again, and I knew that it was time. So, off I went to an appointment with an editor from one of the larger publishers of travel material in New York.

"...that material you brought back for us from Southern New Febrile," the editor (whose business card I enclose herein) was saying over a premium bottle of Evian. There was a moment of silence as the waitress brought his scotch chaser to wash down the bottled water. I abstain from such drinks, myself, and had to settle for the scotch. Anyway, he continued as soon as the waitress -- whose outfit was nearly as skimpy as the personality of my last wife -- had left. His words made it clear from the beginning, with the receptivity that comes from mutual respect, that this meeting was merely a technicality, that I had but to say the word and the assignment would be mine. "Give me one good reason...," the editor began.

Well, I could see by the sourness of my friend's expression that explaining such intimate feelings was difficult for him, so I interrupted before his embarrassment could grow more acute. "No need to say any more. Really. You flatter me. Not that I don't appreciate it, but excellence is my motto." Well, he was quite moved by this, distracted to the point that he choked on his Evian and nearly drowned right there at the table. Once he had stopped choking, he was so breathless that his face was the color of a good apple, and it seemed to me that he needed something to focus on, to help take that glazed look out of his eyes. Well, there's nothing to clear the mind like business, so I slid a book contract across the table -- already filled in (I like to be prepared for anything) -- placed a pen in his hand, and said, "Sign this. It'll help." His face as he signed reminded me of my third wife when they'd take the electrodes off her head and take her back to her room, and it did my heart good to see the way his eyes cleared and became wide as I held the signed agreement in front of him. They're right, you know. Work really is the best therapy.

Well, his gratitude was beyond words, and I didn't want to tax his still-recovering system. It was obvious that the choking incident had hit my friend the editor more severely than one might have expected, because his face was beginning to remind me of a fish out of water, between the pouty movements of a mouth that just can't seem to make any noise and the paleness into which the red of his face quickly bleached. Besides, I had no time to waste, for I had a trip to plan and preparations to make. So, pocketing the contract and donning my coat, I said, "I'll send you a copy of this later. Oh, and you can be deciding where it is you'd like me to go, this time. Someplace warm, I hope." Well, he tried to rise and embrace me as I left, but his balance was obviously still affected, and in his eagerness he collapsed upon my chest, his hands wrapping for a moment around my throat (a sure sign that his eyes had also not yet cleared).

To make a long story short, I called my friend at his office a few days later, having given him time to receive the copy I had mailed him of our signed contract. "Hello," I said. "I trust you're feeling better, by now." Well, the groan/gurgle that sounded over the phone indicated that there had, indeed, been some damage to his vocal apparatus, so I decided not to tax the strained organs any more than necessary with small-talk. "Just calling to find out where you want me to go and where to pick up the tickets."

There was a moment of silence on the other end, undoubtedly while he consulted his secretary. "There's an island-group out in Meganesia we want you to scout out. You know, unspoiled resort type of stuff. We'll mail you the tickets."

Well, I said my good-byes soon after that, not wanting to push my friend's affliction, and wanting to let him return as soon as possible to the office party that appeared to be happening even as we spoke. I heard laughter in the background as he hung up.

I must say that I was somewhat disappointed by the bookings arranged by the editor's travel agent, but his office explained that the tickets were non-refundable and they were unable to change them: but, really, imagine the potential for an economy-class travel book that lay within a fourth-class berth on a tuna boat. Well, if you put it that way. And, I must admit that I'll never forget the pirates who sacked our ship just off the Gulf of Bengay. It was they who were so kind as to carry me to within sight of this island -- not this island, but another island that was this island then but not now -- and drop me off to swim ashore.

So, here I am on this island somewhere in Meganesia. The swim in, by the way, for those of you who are water-worshippers, was invigorating. The water in this region is just wonderful, and I couldn't resist body-surfing as I rode in. And the waves... But, to get back to our story. I walked up onto the beach, trying to get my bearings, and there I found a matched set of footprints leading to my right and extending as far as I could see.

After several hours of following the footsteps, I came upon a small palm and bamboo cabana nestled in the trees just off one of this region's characteristic blazing beaches. There, sitting on the palm-shaded veranda was a heavy-set man in his later years, sipping a mai-tai (complete with bamboo umbrella). "Hello," I cried as I walked up the beach. "Could I use your phone? I appear to be stranded. "

The man was so concerned that he jumped reflexively to his feet, obviously eager to help. Then he stopped, looked at me, and said with a thick New York accent, "I don' got no phone. Where'd you come from? Who sent ya?"

"Someone who pays for information, " I said, "and knows a pro when they see them. So far, this has been an extremely eventful trip."

The white-haired New Yorker stared at me for a moment before he growled, "Who was it? New York or Chicago?"

"New York," I answered, assuming that he must know the publishing industry pretty well. The stranger grew quiet, thinking about what I had said. Maybe he was from a rival publisher, I thought.

"You might's well come in," the stranger growled. "Ain't had a visitor in a long time, so you might as well come in for as long as it lasts." I figured he must be expecting company. Great, I thought, maybe they'll give me a ride.

The interior of the cabana was rustically but comfortably outfitted in rattan and hammock-like furnishings. A hardwood bar lined one wall, complete with swiveling barstools, and a microwave sat atop a long set of cabinets which faced the door. On the bar sat a pile of CD's, and some Italian opera floated softly down from speakers concealed among the rafters. However, true to my host's word there was no phone to be seen, nor a radio of any kind. It was becoming clear to me that I had stumbled upon a super-secret resort of the hyper-rich, something my editor would kill to find out about. I had to know more.

"For the record, how long have you been here?" I asked as I turned to the bar and uncorked a lead-crystal decanter of fine scotch.

"I lost track," my host answered. "Been here ever since the contract went out."

So that was it: condos. New York was going to love this. I could see the title already: "Come for a vacation, stay for the rest of your life." "Was it worth the price?" I asked.

"An offer I couldn't refuse," he chuckled.

Wow: "Irresistible paradise," said the titles in my head. "Listen, I'm sure New York would like to know how long this place has been here."

"I'm sure it would," he muttered while making himself another mai-tai. "But, I don't know. Not exactly the sort of information they spread around, here." So, I was right. "Now that you're here, how long you think it'll take?" inquired my host as he dug through the bar's cupboards for a fresh bamboo umbrella for his drink.

"Oh, just a few months, once I get back, " I answered, sure that the publishers would be certain to rush this story.

"Once you get back," he repeated in that voice straight out of New York, though I've never spent enough time there to really be sure what part of New York. Kind of thick, like oatmeal. Anyway. "It ain't already goin' down?"

"No, not at all." I was looking over his CD collection as I spoke. "This is an exclusive. Believe me, New York is going to want to get hold of you, once they hear about this, to verify what I'll be telling them."

"Once they hear..."

I don't remember anything after that, until waking up here -- that ride I ended up with. The water is still incredibly well-suited for water-worshippers, and the climate though wet is fantastic. This island is about one mile from end to end and about half a mile wide, and is far enough from the normal shipping lanes that privacy could easily be assured the adventurous traveler. About once a month a helicopter lands supplies at some point or other on the island, and with the tools they've left I've built not only a cabana but a modest, exclusive little 34-unit resort complex (still unfurnished, but I'm weaving as fast as I can). I built around a heavy-duty electrical source and fresh water supply that I found just off one of the beaches my first day exploring the island. This is a paradise just waiting to be discovered.

That's how I came to be here. Please, if anyone finds this bottle, get it to my publisher in New York (card enclosed). They'll be glad to get it, and they'll certainly reward you for delivering it.

By the way, I don't know who the guys in the helicopter are. I'm still trying to figure that one out. Maybe someone out there could help me. Have any of you folks ever heard of Jimmy Hoffa?