A Story About the Virgin Islands

"Oh yeah, whatever you guys need to do!" says Joe. He's a laid-back long hair, grinning like the pirates in my imagination. Somehow I thought we'd have to talk him into this. He doesn't stay around for the action though, he gives us permission and gets out of the way. Talking to his customers in the other corner.
Joe's Beach Bar, Water Island, near St. Thomas, USVI, is hoping on Sunday night. Boats are pulled up on the sand, little boats, some kayaks, dinghys, boats I don't know the names of. Everyone is tan and weather beaten with wild hair. Jeans are cut off anf t shirts are old. Its like a bigger version of my parents old photo albums, when they were my age and I was five, sitting in lawn chairs drinking beer. The bar reminds me of a snowcone stand, painted light bright green like a taqueria, surrounded by sand and trailer park style lights.
John mumbles something about how it doesn't look the way you imagine a beach bar, but I like that. It's not a bar for tourists. I am designing a wild comic book world in my mind, with all the grit and cavalier-ness of this island. I am wearing a short blue button up dress that looks like a slutty Halloween flight attendant outfit. My bright pink bra is peeking out of it. The bartender clears away the tip jar. She is making me the best Pina Colada in the whole damn world, one-off style, in a blender. The island boys are eyeing me. They know something is up. John and Ryan look at each other. they look around. My drink is ready. Its way bigger than its plastic cup. It looks like a snowcone.

John finishes hooking the light to the battery pack. Its time. They're all watching to see what I will do.

"Rock and roll.." I announce to the crowd and shake off the dress. I hop up on to the bar, pink lingerie against green bar. John tests the light. I always pose, even for lighting tests. I'm laying on the bar like a pin up postcard, pretty drink in my hand. The light pops and flashes. I think in the imagination of the on lookers, we're shooting for Sports Illustrated. John shoots. Ryan shoots. Pop flash, buzz of the crowd. I'm zeroed in on the instructions they give, but the crowd is fueling me. Hold that pose. I tell Ryan to tape some. He does. I roll this way and the other, the way I imagine Gisele would.

Ryan orders two tequila shots. "This is the islands, we drink rum!" someone hazes him. "Oh we're being culturally insensitive!" I laugh. Ryan takes his shot. He tells me to wait. He like his tequila to hurt. No trimmings. He picks up the camera. I ick up the shot. Its hot. Shooting tequila in island heat is like a heat stroke. My chest burns. I am drinking that pina colada fast. I am using up every trick I have. I feel "alive, more alive, so alive." The light is dying.

"Get the Joe's Beach Bar in there!" says Joe as he walks by. Everyone is loving the excitement. So am I.

Then it ends, I'm off the bar, the dress is thrown on, the cameras hurriedly packed away. I am in the post storm calm now. I'm laid back, grinning and talking to the locals as the guys pack up the lights. But they rush me out like a drunk socialite from a club. I'm the hell out of Dodge before I know it, watching the party from the dark side of the beach, where I can see without being seen.