Page 35 of Total Dreamboat

Felix

I wake up naked, curled around Hope.

It feels good for the two seconds it takes my sleep-dulled mind to remember that I’m in a shitty motel room in a foreign country with a woman who will likely call the police if she realizes I’m touching her.

I inch away, fumble under the covers for my towel, which must have come off in the night, and wrap it around my waist.

Hope, to my deep relief, doesn’t stir.

I check my phone and have a text from my dad saying his private banker in London is going to wire money as soon as he has Hope’s information. I tiptoe over to the air conditioner, wriggle into my damp swim shorts from last night, and then open Hope’s purse to find her ID.

The picture on her driver’s license is laughably terrible. And when I see her name—Hope Gertrude Lanover—I’m reminded of our conversation about my posh name and background.

It worsens my mood.

Hope opens her eyes and clocks me taking a snap of it.

“Are you trying to steal my identity now?” she asks.

“Well, since I have no proof of mine, my father is wiring money to you. We can pick it up at nine.”

“You’re dressed. Are our clothes dry?”

“Damp,” I report. “But dry enough to wear until the shops open and I can get us something new.”

“You’re not leaving me here alone with no phone.”

“Well, then we can have a romantic date to buy novelty T-shirts.”

“I don’t need your sarcasm.”

I sigh. She’s right. Fighting isn’t helpful.

“I’m hungry,” I say in a nicer tone. “Do you want to find something for breakfast? Then we can procure more respectable attire and go to the embassies to apply for our documents.”

“Fine. Toss me my clothes.”

I hand her her dress and bikini from yesterday.

Hope wrinkles her nose at she takes them. “Gross. My dress smells like mildew and BO.”

It does, but I wasn’t going to mention it.

She wriggles around under the covers to put it on anyway.

Despite myself, I’m struck with sadness by this. We so recently reveled in each other’s naked bodies, and now it’s all we can do to have a civil conversation. It’s excruciating to be reminded, in retrospect, how deeply I cared for her.

We walk out into the steamy morning. There’s a cafe down the street, and I am unable to resist ordering a classic Bahamian dish called fire engine, which is effectively corned beef hash on grits smothered in hot sauce.

It burns my throat pleasantly in a way that distracts me from the pall of disappointment and frustration with Hope.

I suspect it will be the best part of my day.

There’s a tourist shop on the street that’s open by the time we finish breakfast. Hope grabs a long, white sleeveless dress, and I get shorts and a T-shirt that says “CONCH KING, Nassau, Bahamas.”

“Very tasteful,” Hope says, when I hand it to her to pay. “Your consulate will be so happy to claim you.”

“If they even believe who I am,” I say, giving voice to my nagging concern that I will have no way of proving my identity and be stuck on this island forever.

“Biometrics,” Hope says.

“Let’s hope the retina scanner is working.”

We pop into a small supermarket for deodorant and toothpaste, which is when something very bad happens.

My guts turn over with a sharp and sudden pang that can presage only one thing.

Sweat immediately beads on my forehead. I mentally calculate how far we are from the hotel.

Too far.

“Um, sorry,” I say. “I need the loo.”

“We’re five minutes from the hotel,” Hope says.

“Sorry,” I say, already dashing toward the cafe responsible for the situation in my bowels.

“Where are the toilets?” I ask the woman behind the counter.

She points to a door by the soda fountain.

I run there and attempt to pull it open, but it’s occupied. My stomach roils. I pound on the door. No one answers. I pound again.

Finally, a woman with a little boy comes out and gives me a dirty look.

I don’t have time to apologize. I lock the door and do my unpleasant business.

Twelve full minutes of unpleasant business.

I am not one to be embarrassed by the natural functions of my body. But under these circumstances, I want, just a bit, to die.

I wash my hands and splash water on my face, which has gone pale and clammy. I still don’t feel entirely right.

Hope is waiting at an empty table. She looks smug. Unkind, since I was so solicitous of her copious vomiting.

“Hi,” I say, not meeting her eyes. “Sorry. Let’s go.”

“Maybe next time don’t order something called fire engine ,” she suggests.

“Thanks. That’s so helpful.”

We return to our hotel room to change. I let her go first. She emerges looking fresh and pretty in her ten-dollar sundress. I hate that I notice this.

I duck into the toilet so I don’t have to look at her.

“All right,” I say, when I come out, teeth brushed and body deodorized, in my Conch King shirt. “Let’s go pick up the money.”

Luckily, the shop is only a few blocks away.

The clerk takes Hope’s information and comes back with a thick pile of cash. He then counts it out, hundred by hundred, until he reaches… ten thousand dollars.

I try not to grimace.

“Lucky lady,” the clerk comments to Hope as he puts the small fortune into an envelope with a grin. “Now don’t spend it all in one place.”

She thanks him and hands me the cash. “Does your father think you’ll have to bribe your way out of the country?” she asks.

“Here, take some,” I say, peeling off five hundred dollars.

She immediately hands four hundred back to me. “You only owe me one twenty. Half of the hotel plus your clothes and breakfast.”

“Just take it,” I say. “You might need cash in case we get separated.”

“That, Felix, is what ATMs are for.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

“You should probably stash your filthy lucre back at the hotel,” she says. “It’s too much to carry around.”

“We are not going back to that hotel. I’ll get us rooms at the Marriott.”

“I told you. It’s the only place I can afford. I reserved another night while you were changing.”

“Hope, we are absolutely not sharing that bed again. And I kind of like hot water.”

“Then you can go somewhere else.”

“And leave you without a phone?”

“I can buy one of those prepaid flip phones or something.”

“Not a good idea. I doubt they have international data. You need to be able to access the internet.”

“I’ll go to an internet cafe if I need to.”

“Do those even still exist?”

“I don’t know. Probably.”

I am trying to be a good person here, and her refusal of the most basic decency is increasing the considerable degree to which I am already pissed at her.

“We said we were in this together,” I say as patiently as I can. “You bailed me out last night. I’m not abandoning you.”

“I don’t need your chivalry,” she says. “And I’m certainly not going to be in your debt.”

And I’m not going to argue endlessly with someone who is clearly taking satisfaction in loathing me.

“Fine,” I say. “We’ll split up. Make yourself happy. But let’s at least get you a phone first.”

“Fine,” she says.

“And it would be nice if we could bury the hatchet until then.”

She gives me a smile so big and fake that it’s worse than a scowl.

I look up the nearest electronics store and we walk twenty minutes in the heat, defeating the point of the clean clothes.

She gets the cheapest, shittiest burner phone they have that still has international texting.

“Give me the number,” I say. “And take mine. Just in case.”

She at least doesn’t fight me on this. She also uses my phone to get the number for the colleague she spoke to last night.

Once we’ve exchanged information we stand awkwardly on the street.

“Well,” she says with a shrug. “Goodbye, I guess.”

“Uh, yeah. Good luck with the passport.”

“Mmmhmm. You too.”

I feel like I should hug her, or at least shake her hand or something, but this is a reflex borne out of manners, not something either of us will enjoy.

So I just nod at her and walk off in the direction of the High Commission.

It’s anticlimactic.

It makes me impossibly sad.

I commence an exhausting, repetitive, frustrating day navigating the labyrinthian process of securing emergency travel documents.

I will not recount the precise details of this, save to say it involved many forms, a succession of beige rooms, less than friendly consular employees, a less than flattering passport photo, and a new travel booking made on an airline app so buggy I was tempted to throw my phone at the wall.

I’m told my documents won’t be ready for pickup for forty-eight hours, as they are experiencing a backlog in processing applications.

This effectively means three more nights on this island.

Since by then the cruise will be almost over, I abandon the idea of meeting the ship at a port and book my flight directly to London.

I then look for a hotel on the beach. I might as well stay somewhere nice while I’m trapped here—this is supposed to be a holiday, after all.

I must be every bit the princeling Hope thinks I am, because I physically relax as the cab drives me into a lush resort complex, past a manicured lawn to a grand Colonial-style building with the glint of the ocean behind it.

I crave functioning AC, hot water, room service.

Which will be all the sweeter in blissful solitude, without the resentful digs of a bellicose travel companion.

At the check-in desk, a very helpful woman says they have a beautiful ocean-front suite available. “I just need your passport and a credit card,” she says.

“Oh…” I say. “I’ve actually had my ID stolen and won’t be getting new documents from the High Commission for forty-eight hours. But I can pay in cash.”

She frowns sympathetically. “I’m sorry, sir,” she says. “But I’m not able to check you in without an ID. And we require a credit card to take the deposit.”

I curse myself for not thinking this through. Of course they need this. It’s standard procedure at every hotel.

But I am not above begging.

“You can’t make an exception?” I ask. “I have the police report about my ID. And I’m happy to put down a large cash deposit for incidentals.”

She gives me a tight smile, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry, but it’s our policy.”

“Ma’am, I’m desperate.”

I can see that her sympathy is waning.

“I’m truly very sorry,” she says. “Perhaps you can find another hotel.”

“Right. Thank you.”

I trudge to a chair in the lobby and set about calling around to see if other places nearby can check me in with just cash.

I strike out.

Which leaves me only one option.

I dial Hope’s number.