A Hawaiian Shirt in Mexico Read online



  A Hawaiian Shirt in Mexico

  Copyright 2015 Keith Oakden-Rayner

  Table of Contents

  A Hawaiian Shirt in Mexico

  About Keith Oakden-Rayner

  Other short stories by Keith Oakden-Rayner

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  A Hawaiian Shirt in Mexico

  For the first time in months, George was truly beginning to relax. The sun was low over the shimmering Caribbean Sea, warm sand cradled his feet, and Long Island Iced Tea filled the glass in front of him on the bamboo bar. Life was good. No, it was better than good, it was great. Sipping the chilled cocktail, George congratulated himself on his recent move. Leaving Australia had been the best decision he’d made in years. As he looked out to sea, reflecting on his new life, a voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “Bela, jes?” a man said, close behind him.

  George swiveled on his stool. A thin elderly man with grey stringy hair stared back at him through distant, pale eyes. The man was no taller than George’s shoulder. His head sat at an odd, cricked angle. It was cruel, but the man resembled a hungry old gull.

  “I’m sorry,” George replied, shaking his head. “I don’t speak Spanish.”

  The man tilted his neck further. “E’la suno falas.”

  George pointed to his ear. “Only English.” He smiled politely.

  “E’la suno falas,” the man repeated, louder.

  George looked around. Everyone at the beach bar was busy in conversation. Across the bamboo countertop, the bartender was hunched over a cocktail shaker. The old man kept staring, with his head tilting further by the second. A twang of anxiety gripped George’s chest. The man’s neck was bent to ninety degrees. Blinking, George remembered his phrase book.

  “One second,” he said, bending down to his bag. “Here it is.”

  When he straightened, the man was an inch from his face, boring into him with his icy eyes. George leaned back and opened the book with a nervous smile.

  “Um,” he said, finding the phrase he needed. “Mi no… hablas Espanol.”

  He looked up. The man was slumped on a stool further down the bar. He seemed to have forgotten all about George and his awkward fumbling with the phrasebook. His grey eyes were staring at the bartender’s hands while they sliced limes. Relieved, George put down the book and gazed out over the ocean. The scenery was exactly like the poster he had seen in the travel agent’s window. He smiled. Walking through their door felt like a lifetime ago. Really, it had only been two days. And now, with the sun on his face, he could not believe that it had been a hard decision.

  A tall, pudgy man in a cowboy hat strolled behind George and leaned on the bar, spinning a beer coaster between his fingers. Whistling, he glanced sideways as he waited to be served. “Heck of a shirt you got there, son,” he said, in a thick American drawl.

  George looked down at his brand new Hawaiian shirt. “Thanks,” he said.

  The man nodded toward the beach. ‘Not bad, is it?'

  George smiled. “It’s amazing. I just arrived this morning.”

  “You don't say,” the man said, smiling. “Your arms are white as paper, boy. Where are you from?”

  “Australia,” George said.

  The man nodded. “There are a lot of you Euro-peens down here.” He paused. “Take a look out there. It makes a man proud, don’t it? Damn proud! If this ain't heaven, well, I can't imagine it. They live a hundred years down here. Why would you die? Heck, and miss out on this? I’ll take a beer and a coke, Pedro.”

  George blinked as the man tapped the coaster and kept talking.

  “Yessir, it’s quite a place. And cheap, too. I came down in '82 and never went back north. It’s been the longest week of my life.” He laughed, rattling his lungs. “You said it, heaven on earth. And the girls! Hoowee, the girls! Gon’ get me enough kids for a football team, take 'em back to Texas and bring home the bowl. Yessir! Buck Grandy's the name.”

  George grasped Buck’s hand and held on as it pumped wildly. “George,” he said, trying not to wince.

  “Well, George, they say you can judge a man by his shake, but I’ll let you off this time,” Buck said. “Welcome, anyways. You'll have a hell of a time down here. They got everythin' a man needs. Well, almost everything.”

  Buck pulled a glass tube from his pocket, uncorked it and tipped thick red goo into his glass. He stirred it with the tube. Glancing sideways, he saw George's expression and laughed. “Don't worry, boy,” he said. “I’m above board. You’re lookin’ at me like you seen me on a Wanted poster.” He sipped his drink and waved the tube. “It’s cherry coke syrup, George. I’ve got twenty years’ worth back in my room.” He took a gulp and licked his lips. “Best drink on earth.”

  George nodded politely.

  “It should be,” Buck said. “I invented it.”

  “Really?” George asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “I swear on the bible. Yep, it came to me on the john one mornin’, like all of my good ideas. I knew this one was somethin’ else, a real keeper. Well, I spent three years of Saturdays tuning the recipe in my garage. And when I had it, well, I drove right over to Coke headquarters. That’s a twelve hour drive, George, but I did it in ten. I pulled into their lot and lit a cigar on my brake pads, feelin’ cool as an ice cube.” Buck nodded proudly. “Then I breezed on in.”

  “Wow,” George said.

  “I took the elevator as high as it’d go, found the biggest meeting room in the buildin’ and walked right in. ‘Boys,’ I said, ‘it's your lucky day.’ You should ‘a seen their faces, George. They were grinning like sideshow clowns. Go on, treat y'self.”

  George took the glass and sipped it. “It’s nice,” he said.

  “More'n nice, George, it's perfect. It was then and it is now. Those big wigs knew it, just like I did. I was back on my porch by sundown with a fat cheque burning a hole in my size fourteen boot.”

  “Wow,” George said, sipping his cocktail. “Congratulations.”

  “I was twenty feet tall and ten feet wide the day it came out. You couldn't look around without seein’ someone drinkin’ the stuff.” His eyes narrowed. “But then their marketin' types had to—”

  “Buck Grandy!” a voice called.

  Both men spun around as a tall, thin man with slick hair and a turquoise cravat weaved through the crowd.

  “Well, I’ll be!” Buck said. “Tommy boy! Hoo-wee! It’s June already!”

  The men embraced before Buck turned to George. “Tommy,” he said, “George here's a hell of a guy. He just flew in today. You can’t pick it, can you? No, we got to talkin’ and I’ve been givin’ him the lie of the land.'

  Tommy smiled and extended a delicate hand. “Thomas Ellemore,” he said. “A pleasure.”

  George smiled. “Hi,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “How was Zacatecas, Tommy?” Buck asked, slapping the thin man’s back.

  “It was as lovely as ever, Buck. I was very productive.”

  “Tommy's an inventor too, George. He invented himself the curly shoelace back in London, England. Didn't ya, Tommy?”

  Thomas smiled and stared at the sunset through the silhouetted palm trees. “Yes, I did, Buck,” he said. “Yes, I did.”

  Buck smiled. “Hell of a brain in there, George. And he's workin' on somethin' new. A big one. Top secret, o’ course. I’ve tried everything to get him talkin’ ‘bout it, but I’d have more luck getting blood from a stone. Say, what's your line of work, George?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Vet ne estas lingvo,” a voice interrupted.

  All three looked over. It was the stringy old man. He was staring at them from his seat along
the bar. Buck sighed.

  “Pay no mind to Hans, George,” he said. “He's as sour as a green lemon. The poor feller invented the Esperanto language and came down here when it went belly up. Turns out everyone was happy speakin' American.”

  “Vi vidos,” Hans muttered, before turning and staring at the wall of bottles behind the bar, shaking his head.

  “He's bitter as Charlie down there with his Betamax tapes,” Buck said, glancing down the bar.

  An even older man than Hans was hunched over a tall cocktail, and seemed to be weeping.

  Buck turned to Tommy. “So, how's Juanita, boy? Still growin' them chillies?”

  Thomas smiled. “They’re burning through bottles as we speak, Buck.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Buck chuckled. “Make sure you bring some on Saturday, ya hear? Enough to kill an elephant should do it.” He turned to George. “Tommy’s chillies are hotter than the devil’s sunbed, George, and we always run a barbecue the first weekend Tommy’s back, don’t we?”

  Thomas nodded. “Always.”

  ‘Say, George,” Buck said, “what are you doing on Saturday?”

  George’s face became serious. “Well, I’m sorry Buck, but I’ve got—”

  “Come on, boy,” Buck said, slapping the bar. “You don’t want to feast with the top two inventors this side of the fence?”

  George started to reply but found himself interrupted by yelling. He spun around to see Hans on the bar, kicking at the bartender while screaming in Esperanto.

  “Preni tion, vi diablo!” he yelled, kicking wildly.

  The bartender fell to the sand, clutching his cheek. On the bamboo countertop, Hans raised a lighter to the dry palm fronds that formed the roof of the bar. A woman screamed while the crowd watched, paralysed. George saw a blur in the corner of his eye. Buck sailed through the air and tackled Hans to the ground. They writhed in the sand, tangled together, while Hans yelled nonsensically.

  “Quick, Tommy,” Buck shouted. “Get the Policia. He’s havin’ one of his conniptions!”

  “Right,” Thomas said, before dashing up the beach.

  “Calm down, Hans,” Buck said, pressing his knee into the old man’s back.

  Finally conquered, Hans stopped writhing with a long sigh and slumped under Buck’s weight. Only Hans’s thumb kept moving, flicking the cigarette lighter and trying to set the sand on fire, obscured from Buck’s view. A swarm of beachgoers had joined the bar’s customers to watch the spectacle. Shaken, George picked up his bag, slipped through the crowd and hurried along the beach. That was enough excitement for one night. And anyway, it was getting late. There were many machines to set up in the bungalow before his research partner, Jenny Zhao, arrived from China in the morning.

  A new colour wasn’t going to invent itself.

  About Keith Oakden-Rayner

  Keith Oakden-Rayner is an emerging writer who lives in Melbourne, Australia. His work has appeared in Spook Magazine, The Seattle Star, Non-Precious, Cookbook North/South, and online.

  Other short stories by Keith Oakden-Rayner

  Connect with Keith Oakden-Rayner

  Email correspondence to [email protected]