 | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  |
| Dive Bar BVI by Orlando Peraza Garcia |
It was mid-afternoon of a radiant day and we’d just made the climb and
descent from White Bay to Great Harbour. We’d had painkillers at the
Soggy Dollar and we ended up slipping and sliding and falling all the way
over, M.A. laughing that wonderful, sincere, slightly demented laugh of
hers. It was a happy time when everything seemed simple.
We stopped for lunch at a little joint on Great Harbour called Happy Laury’s.
There was a kid behind the counter who was running everything at that
hour. His name was Joel and he made the sandwiches and opened the
beers and he spoke with the nasal tonality and “dude” vernacular of the
happily and perpetually stoned young American lad. His curly blonde hair
was hidden beneath a Massimo baseball cap, and his eyes were a brilliant,
watery gray with small beam-like pupils floating in the middle. There was
stubble on his chin, but the rest of his face was that of a young boy.
We ordered sandwiches and beer and were talking with Joel when, I can’t
recall how, the conversation turned to music. I said I’d played bongos
regularly for a while with an old bluesman in St. Louis named James
Crutchfield, who used to call me his “tum-tum man.” Joel’s eyes sparkled
even more brilliantly when I mentioned this.
“You play bongos?”
He suddenly bent down and produced a set of bongos from behind the bar.
“There you go, dude!”
Soca music was playing in Happy Laury’s speakers and I played along with
it, trying to break up the monotony of the soca beat with my drumming.
“Excellent!” Joel said, moving to the beat and tapping on the bar.
The two older Virgin Islanders sitting outside on Happy Laury’s porch
looked back smiling and clapped along. It was my best-ever response as a
“tum-tum man.”
M.A. asked Joel where he was from and how old he was and how longed he’
d been on the island. He said: California, twenty-one, and two years. So,
how do you like living here? I asked. Joel said, “You know, it’s like
anywhere. You meet nice people, and you meet jerks.” He paused and
looked out at the sea, which was busy sending sparkling light signals back
to the sun in a most lovely way, shimmering blues and greens everywhere.
“But, you know,” Joel finally said. “There is a certain natural beauty to the
place.”
descent from White Bay to Great Harbour. We’d had painkillers at the
Soggy Dollar and we ended up slipping and sliding and falling all the way
over, M.A. laughing that wonderful, sincere, slightly demented laugh of
hers. It was a happy time when everything seemed simple.
We stopped for lunch at a little joint on Great Harbour called Happy Laury’s.
There was a kid behind the counter who was running everything at that
hour. His name was Joel and he made the sandwiches and opened the
beers and he spoke with the nasal tonality and “dude” vernacular of the
happily and perpetually stoned young American lad. His curly blonde hair
was hidden beneath a Massimo baseball cap, and his eyes were a brilliant,
watery gray with small beam-like pupils floating in the middle. There was
stubble on his chin, but the rest of his face was that of a young boy.
We ordered sandwiches and beer and were talking with Joel when, I can’t
recall how, the conversation turned to music. I said I’d played bongos
regularly for a while with an old bluesman in St. Louis named James
Crutchfield, who used to call me his “tum-tum man.” Joel’s eyes sparkled
even more brilliantly when I mentioned this.
“You play bongos?”
He suddenly bent down and produced a set of bongos from behind the bar.
“There you go, dude!”
Soca music was playing in Happy Laury’s speakers and I played along with
it, trying to break up the monotony of the soca beat with my drumming.
“Excellent!” Joel said, moving to the beat and tapping on the bar.
The two older Virgin Islanders sitting outside on Happy Laury’s porch
looked back smiling and clapped along. It was my best-ever response as a
“tum-tum man.”
M.A. asked Joel where he was from and how old he was and how longed he’
d been on the island. He said: California, twenty-one, and two years. So,
how do you like living here? I asked. Joel said, “You know, it’s like
anywhere. You meet nice people, and you meet jerks.” He paused and
looked out at the sea, which was busy sending sparkling light signals back
to the sun in a most lovely way, shimmering blues and greens everywhere.
“But, you know,” Joel finally said. “There is a certain natural beauty to the
place.”
BAR