* * After 35 Sunsets * * A New Short Story ‘Night Nurse – An Afternoon in Negril’

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.

Night Nurse – Chapter One – The Pickup – Part Two

. . . A TV mounted on the back wall was blaring. I was the only customer in the shop. In addition to the freshly baked goods on display there was an array of other items. Apparently the Out of Town Bakery also served as a convenience stop.
. . . I perused the display case and asked the woman behind the counter for a veggie loaf. She put it in a bag and handed it to me – it was piping hot.
. . . “Wow! It’s hot!” I said.
. . . “Yah, mon.” She laughed and went back to watching the TV. An episode of ‘What Not to Wear” was airing.
. . . I pulled a chair up to the table in front of the counter and commenced to silence my noisy stomach. Halfway through the loaf, which was a tad dry, I got thirsty so I got up and asked the woman for a Cranberry Wata, my all-time favorite, non-alcoholic Jamaican libation.
. . . My immediate hunger now sated, inevitably, my mind drifted back to the young woman whom I’d seen walking on the road. I wondered if she’d been picked up. If not, she would soon be passing by the bakery. I finished the veggie loaf and was sipping on the Cranberry Wata when she walked into the shop.
. . . She cast a quick glance in my direction then walked up to the counter. There was a brief exchange with the clerk, and then she walked out of the bakery. I noted that she had purchased a single cigarette.
. . . Yes, my first impressions had been spot on. She was quite attractive. She was dressed stylishly in a long sleeve white, V-neck sweater. A pair of skinny blue jeans clung tightly to her backside; she had a nice tush. The jeans featured fashionable worn patches and had a couple of strategically placed rips across the thighs. She had a pair of clear flats on her feet and her hair was pleated into a single braid that was wrapped up on top of her head. She was of medium height, well-built, and looked to be thirty-ish.
. . . I watched her through the front window of the bakery. One of the guys who was hanging around outside was talking to her. I got the impression he was trying to pick her up. He gestured to the scooter parked across the street. They spoke in low tones. She shook her head.
. . . She sat at the shaded table and lit her cigarette.
. . . Presently, the two guys left, one on a bicycle, the other on the scooter.
. . . I downed the last of my drink and stepped outside. I picked up my helmet.
. . . I glanced over at the young lady sitting at the table. Nah, no way she was a hooker. Then I saw that her cheeks were wet. She wiped her eyes. She’d been crying. She noticed me watching her. I felt compelled to say something. “Hi,” I said, “How’re you doing?”
. . . “Not good,” she replied. I moved closer to her and lifted the edge of the large umbrella that she sat under so I could better see her. In spite of her wet eyes and damp cheeks, she was very pretty. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
. . . She turned her head slightly and looked directly at me. It was then that I noticed the scar that ran from just behind her left nostril to her ear. It was an old scar, long since healed and uniform. It formed a smooth line across her cheek. “My house was broken into and they took some of my t’ings,” she said.
. . . I put my helmet back down on the scooter’s seat and sat at the table with her. “When did it happen?” I asked.
. . . “Saturday night,” she replied.
. . . Today was Tuesday, so that was three days ago. “What’d they take?”
. . . She took a drag of her cigarette. “My laptop, a camera, my old cell phone and some money.” Going over this toll she appeared to be devastated. A fresh tear formed at the corner of her eye.
. . . Years back, my house had been broken into and robbed, so I empathized with her. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. My robbery loses had been covered by insurance but I doubted that she’d have had any coverage.
. . . “And I’ve been really upset since then. Yesterday was a bad day,” she added, wiping a tear away. I noted she was speaking to me patois free, carefully pronouncing all of her words.
. . . “Is your house nearby?” I asked. I was wondering why she’d been walking down the road.
. . . “No, it’s in Red Ground.”
. . . My apartment was also in Red Ground, and we were a long way from there. “Why are you way out here?” I asked. “Do you work here?”
. . . “No, I came to see a woman to find out who broke into my house.”
. . . I thought about this. I knew a little about Jamaican culture, so I asked her, “An Obeah woman?”
. . . She nodded.
. . . An Obeah woman practices the Jamaican form of shamanism, usually without the trances and extreme, creepy rituals.
. . . “Did she tell you who did it?” I asked.
. . . “She t’inks it was one of my ex-boyfriends.”
. . . “What do you think?”
. . . “Yah, mon. I t’ink it was my last ex.” Totally dejected, she looked down at her hands. My heart went out to her.
. . . “How did you get out here?” I asked.
. . . “Hitched a ride,” she said, looking up at me and waving her hand like she was signalling a passing car. “Like I tried to hitch a ride with you.”
. . . Ah, so she remembered me.
. . . “Why did you come out so early?”
. . . “So I wouldn’t have to wait for the lady. When I left her place there were already people waiting to see her.” She nodded, reinforcing the point.
. . . She sat silently smoking her cigarette. I watched her.
. . . She looked up at me and asked, “Are you going into town?”
. . . I’d planned to explore the other fork in the road, but was now more intrigued by this young woman. “Yeah,” I nodded.
. . . “Can you give me a lift?”
. . . “Sure,” I said. In fact, I’d been about to offer her a ride.
. . . She finished her smoke and stubbed it out on a rock. She stood up. She was petite, about five foot five. She was very slim, maybe 110 or so.
. . . I put my helmet on and started the bike. She got on behind me and we took off down One Love Drive, headed for town.
. . . I steered the scooter along the twisting road, wondering what I was getting myself into. My intentions had been to cruise the roads around Negril until the early afternoon, then go back to my apartment and pack up my suitcase. Then I’d planned to go down to the beach and take a goodbye dip in the ocean. The last couple of days I’d been Jonesing for some jerk chicken from the Best In The West, so that’s what I’d been planning for dinner. After that, I’d have a couple of beers somewhere and call it a night.
. . . I knew from past experience that happenings in Negril are often spontaneous. If anything, they can be relied upon to be unpredictable, so it came as no surprise that my plans were becoming fluid. But I was prepared to go with the flow.
. . . As we zoomed past The Rockhouse my passenger wrapped her arms around my chest, held on tight and put her head on my shoulder. Maybe that’s how they roll in Negril, I thought. Then it occurred to me that I didn’t even know her name.
. . . “Do you drink?” the voice at my shoulder asked. We were just passing Pee Wee’s.
. . . I turned my head and nodded, “Yeah. Are you thirsty?”
. . . “Yah, mon.”
. . . “Okay, let’s get a drink then.”
. . . I didn’t often get the opportunity to talk with a Jamaican who wasn’t trying to sell me something, who worked in the service industry, or from whom I’d purchased a service, so I looked forward to having a drink with my passenger.
. . . I turned my head and asked, “Is there any place that you’d prefer?”
. . . “No, wherever you want. Somewhere on the beach, maybe.”
. . . I decided that Yellowbird, not too far up the beach, would be a good spot.

Woo Hoo! Best news all day

Thanks K3!

Quote:

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Originally Posted by marley9808

Woo Hoo! Best news all day

Thanks K3!

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​Yah Mon! Sold to highest bidder....

so thats it.your going to leave me hanging.do i do that with my balloons to you?

Awesome!

Laying some pipe........ Nice finish.

Ok,signed up for stanza ,bought the book! Can't seem to get it to download on to my iPad,?any ideas? Got the app!

Yeah!! So glad you're still here! Now to download the book and wait....to read on the plane in 3 more weeks. Or maybe I'll start reading it this week.... :)

Oh boy! So glad you are still with us. I just finished Sunset Negril. Would love to discuss some of it with you.
And you know I will be buying this short story.
Thanks K3.