An American, expatriate named Jay owned Rocking J’s. He lived a life fueled by drugs. Soft-spoken by day, the vices of his lifestyle liquefied his spine and bolstered his courage. This gave him a different kind of freedom than the one I’d come looking for, but freedom all same.
I sat at the bonfire on the beach right behind the hostel the next night listening to the crash of waves, and the buzz of insects when the crack of two gunshots pierced the calm night air.
A moment later, a man came running out of the inky darkness of the beach. He grabbed a large machete. Recognition flashed—it was Jay.
“Enjoy the campfire,” he panted to me. Then he tuned back and smiled. “Oh and, ah … don’t worry.”
His eyes were wild and full, reflecting the bonfire as if it came from inside his soul. And his teeth showing white again his scraggly beard.
Then, he bolted into the blackness. Jay, running barefoot and shirtless, with the gleaming knife held above his head, and screaming like a maniac.
A moment later, the police arrived.
By morning someone filled in the story.
A thief had grabbed a backpack.
Jay chased him.
The thief fired twice.
Jay came back for a machete.
Then chased him again.
~
Lying in my tent, I could still hear his bare feet on the sand.
The machete as it caught the firelight.
His voice.