Since returning from Negril I’ve been busy working on a short story (35 pages, 11K words). It’s called ‘Night Nurse’ – An Afternoon in Negril. It’s a work of fiction with a decidedly romantic twist – I thought I’d try something different. I think it’s a pretty good story, it has lots of Negril in it of course, but unlike my other writings, Night Nurse takes place ‘off the beach’. I wrote this with the ladies in mind, but I think guys will like it too.
Before someone taps me on it, yes – I did say I was going to take a break from the board. But I can’t. I admit that I’m totally addicted to it. Negril.com is part of Negril to me. So there you go. I’m back – never really left.
My name is Roland and I’m a Negriloholic . . .
What follows is the first chapter of the story. I’ll warn you right up front that I’m not going to post the remainder of it. If you want to read the other eight chapters you’ll have to go the link below and cough up $1.99 of your hard earned cash for the eBook. Night Nurse will not be available in print. Sorry for the ‘. . .’ at the beginning of each paragraph, but I can’t figure out how to insert tabs
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/297357
You’ve been forewarned. Below, for your reading enjoyment (hopefully), I offer the first chapter of ‘Night Nurse’.
Night Nurse - An Afternoon in Negril
A Short Story by Roland Reimer
Night Nurse is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents and organizations depicted within the story are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Night Nurse – Chapter One – The Pickup - Part One
. . . I steered my scooter to the side of the road and switched the engine off. I was deep in the west end of Negril. I’d ridden from Orange Hill, via a circuitous route, and arrived at a point that was just west of the Westender Inn. To both sides of me were open fields; across the road were a villa, some trees, the cliffs, and beyond that, the Caribbean Sea.
. . . I looked around. Bougainvillea bushes in full bloom draped the stone walls that bordered both sides of the road with glorious cascades of fuchsia and purple blossoms. It was a clear and cool morning. Above, high in the deep blue sky, a raptor glided effortlessly on currents of wind coming in from the ocean.
. . . It was my last full day before heading back north. I’d been in Negril for three and a half months. Earlier, I’d decided to get out of the apartment that I’d rented and spend the day cruising around to all my favorite spots; hence the early ride out to Orange Hill, a picturesque little village nestled in the verdant back-country hills.
. . . I guess you could call the ride my farewell tour. My steed was a rented bike, a black Honda equipped with a 125cc motor. I’d had the bike for my entire stay and it had served me well.
. . . I sat astride the bike and removed my helmet. Wearing a helmet in Negril was a bit of an oddity. Virtually none of the locals wear helmets when riding their motor bikes, and most people who rent bikes, visitors to the island, don’t wear them either. But I do. Back home in Canada I ride my mountain bike on some gnarly off-road trails. Over the years I’ve had many ‘unscheduled dismounts’ and on one particular occasion I went over my front handlebars and crashed the side of my head into a nasty chunk of granite. After that event I’d sat up and seen little birdies circling my head for a couple of minutes. I’m sure my helmet saved me from a serious brain injury that day. So I feel naked without one.
. . . The helmet I was using came with the rental. It was painted bright yellow and had ‘TOUGH’ written across the front in bold black letters. I thought it was funny-ironic, ‘TOUGH’. Yeah. A Honda scooter with a mighty 125cc motor. I was definitely ‘Sons of Anarchy’ material.
. . . I sat for a moment enjoying the peacefulness of the pastoral setting around me. There was no other traffic on the road. Except for the ticking of the scooter’s engine and exhaust, all was serenely quiet.
. . . I looked up the road that I’d just arrived on. It pointed north. It was paved and, by Jamaican standards, in decent shape. There was higher ground up there. On the way down I’d passed an intersection that had looked promising, but I wasn’t sure where I’d end up if I ventured that way. Probably come out on the road to Savannah-la-Mar somewhere, I figured. I looked the other way, back along the bougainvillea decorated route that I knew would take me into the West End of Negril.
. . . Hmmmm, what to do, what to do.
. . . My stomach grumbled, I’d only had a banana and a couple of pieces of coconut for breakfast before setting out. Then I remembered the Out of Town Bakery. The bakery sat at a fork in the road and was no more than a five minute drive from where I was. That made my mind up; I would go back to the bakery and get something to eat, then I’d take that fork in the road and see where it took me. I put my helmet on, started the engine and steered the bike between the bougainvilleas.
. . . I’d been zipping along for a few minutes, enjoying the scenery while dodging the occasional pothole, when I saw a young woman walking along the side of the road headed in the direction that I was travelling.
. . . Hearing the bike approach she turned and raised a hand. I slowed down, “Can you give me a ride?” she called out.
. . . I hesitated. Should I pick her up? She was young, slim, and attractive. My first fleeting impression was that she might be a hooker; there are many in Negril and I was often solicited when on the beach. So I passed on by.
. . . Having done so I thought, no, she wasn’t a hooker. I couldn’t see a hooker getting up early in the morning, and even if she did, why would she be walking along a virtually deserted road? Maybe she was just a West End resident. Maybe she’d asked for a ride because there weren’t many route taxis that came out this far. I didn’t recall seeing a single one since I’d departed Orange Hill.
. . . I was about to turn around to go and pick her up, (not for entirely altruistic motives) when the bakery came into view just ahead. My stomach rumbled in eager anticipation. I sped up over the remaining distance and pulled to a stop in front of the building.
. . . I hauled the bike up onto its stand and got off. At the edge of the pavement were a couple of local guys sitting at a patio table under the shade of an almond tree. They were smoking herb. One of them pointed at my scooter. “Nice bike,” he said. I was surprised – it was just a run-of-the-mill tourist rental bike.
. . . I shrugged, “It’s not mine, it’s a rental,” I said.
. . . “How much you pay?” the fellow asked.
. . . “Eight hundred,” I replied. “For three and a half months.”
. . . He considered this for a moment, then smiled. “You got a good deal, mon,” he said. “We have one for forty dollars a day.” He pointed to a scooter up on its stand directly across the street. I nodded and went into the open door of the bakery.
