Boat Drinks
“Is this seat taken, Reagan Bishop?”
A figure hovers over me. I can’t see her face because the sun’s to her back, but I can easily discern her voice, especially because of her bizarre penchant for saying my first and last name together all the time. Who does that?
I crane my head around, as though to indicate the plethora of empty chairs on this side of the pool that she may not have noticed. Since we’re here in Hawaii, the majority of people at the resort prefer to catch rays rather than huddle on the side of the pool in shadows. But I pride myself on never once having had a sunburn, which is why my skin’s still the color of freshly poured cream. (Or, if Geri’s to be believed—which she is not—Elmer’s Glue.) Even when I was at the beach all the time with Boyd years ago, I was careful. With my umbrella and sun hats and towel fortresses, Boyd would laugh about how no one would ever guess I lived in Malibu.
I glance uneasily at the chair next to me. Ugh, why does she have to sit with me? It’s aggravating enough that I’m compelled to deal with her antics at work. Like the time she insisted we swish our tongues into a cup of water and scrub our eyes with the backwash because it was supposed to cure us of our allergies? Hello, conjunctivitis! Or how about the time she made us lie down and covered us with stones for a purpose I’ve yet to understand? Utter nonsense. I’m willing to put up with that foolishness at work, but here? On our fantastic thanks-for-a-second-great-season trip to Maui from our benevolent benefactor, Wendy Winsberg? Patently unfair.
Plus, I’m very busy waiting for a text. Sebastian’s been doing that I’ll-come-see-you-but-then-I’ll-ignore-you business again that’s been going on ever since he insisted we take our break last month.
He told me to text when I got here, and I did, and he’s yet to respond. So frustrating, and yet I figure if I provide him with ample time and space, he’ll realize I’m exactly what he needs, largely because he’s exactly what I need.
I love that Sebastian’s as focused on his career as I am. He won me over when he shared his ten-year plan. Sure, Boyd was fun back in the day, but he had no tangible goals (save for competing in the Billabong Pro) and his ten-year plan was basically to not be eaten by a shark. Boyd was like ice cream for dinner: delicious in the moment, but ultimately a poor lifestyle choice.
Without benefit of an official invitation, Deva settles in next to me. I pretend to be immersed in the awful book I grabbed in the airport bookstore. How do I inevitably wind up with memoirs penned by hacks? I hate when writers try to pass off their clear and present neuroses as humor. The author claims to be “bitter,” but anyone with credentials would assess her as “borderline.”
Camille said you stole a bag from a homeless guy.
Insufferable.
I could write circles around this moron.
I snap shut the book because even a conversation with Deva would be less painful than this dreck. I quickly calculate how long I might have to chat with her before I can feign sleepiness. Given the angle of the sun, fullness from brunch, and how late the luau ran last night, I estimate fifteen minutes.
Deva makes short work of slathering herself in sunscreen, due to the fact that her hands are the size of catchers’ mitts. I offer a tight smile and she grins back. Perhaps this won’t be so bad.
“Tell me everything about you, Reagan Bishop.”
Ugh.
“A lifetime is a lot of ground to traverse,” I reply lightly, glancing down at my phone. Why am I not hearing back from him? The trading desks have been closed for hours. What’s he busy doing?
She shakes a massive finger at me. “Ah, Reagan Bishop, as Creighton Abrams says, when eating an elephant, take one bite at a time.”
I try not to grit my teeth. “Yes, but the problem there is that I’m a pescatarian.” True story. I haven’t touched any live protein source other than fish in years, unlike Geri, who I’d wager hits the Golden Arches every single day. My body’s a temple and I’m not about to worship with a Big Mac. I believe you are what you eat, which makes Geri a basket of cheese curds and a mountain of buffalo wings. I’m a proponent of clean, organic eating, which means I have to be constantly vigilant. You should have seen me last week when a new barista at the indie coffee shop by the office tried to slip nonorganic white milk into my latte instead of almond. I had to ask her, “I’m sorry, are you trying to kill me?”
Deva laughs. “That was a metaphor, Reagan Bishop. No one’s asking you to dine on pachyderm. Although once while traveling in Mongolia with descendants of Kerait tribesmen, I ate boodog. Let me assure you, marmot does not taste like chicken. I’d say it’s more of a—”
In order to stop her from whatever comes next, I rattle off my bio. “Let’s see, born and raised in Chicago, attended Taylor Park Academy, then U of C, then Pepperdine, and I did my clinical internship at Northwestern Hospital. Had my own practice for a while, but now I work for Push.” Then I give her another polite smile and start to reach for my sunscreen, which is underneath my phone.
I’m tempted to ask her where one receives a new age education but suspect it’s from the University of I Don’t Care.
Deva stops me from grabbing my bottle of 100 SPF Neutrogena by laying a massive mitt on my arm. “You’ve told me what you do, Reagan Bishop. Now tell me who you are.”
Damn it, why couldn’t anyone in my social circle join me on this stupid vacation so I wouldn’t be subjected to this nonsense? Wendy sprang for two plane tickets per employee, plus meals, lodging, and spa treatments, but no one could make it. I tell you what, if someone were to offer me an all-expenses-paid trip to Maui, you can be very sure I’d rearrange my schedule accordingly. But no. I heard an endless chorus of, Aw, Reagan, it’s my busy season, from Rhonda, Bethany, and Caroline.
As for Sebastian, he said he didn’t want to give me the wrong idea about us if he came with me, which might have been easier to swallow were he not in my bed at the time.
Like I said, the business with Sebastian is confusing.
So now I’m forced to make banal chitchat with someone who sells dream catchers for a living. Yes, this is why I earned a doctorate.
I reply, “I feel like I just told you everything about me.”
Deva folds her legs underneath her and assumes a Buddha pose, her billowy caftan belying her slight figure. “Not even remotely.”
I stall for time by grabbing the foo-foo cocktail served in the pineapple rind sitting next to me. Wendy’s arranged for a different tropical libation to be sent out to each of us every hour on the hour. I finally took one so the perky pool waitress would stop incessantly bothering me.
I normally eschew alcohol as I don’t enjoy losing track of my faculties (unlike some people), but clearly these are extraordinary circumstances. I take the smallest of sips and the flavor is not wholly unpleasant.
But before I put any more of this concoction into my body, I’ll need the 411. I flag the server.
The college-aged girl in a powder blue polo and a white tennis skort trots over. According to her tag, she’s named Hope.
“Hi, I’m Hope. How may I be of service?”
“What’s in this?”
She peers at my pineapple. “Let’s see . . . there’s an orchid, cherry, and pineapple garnish—got it! This is our pool bartender’s take on a Hurricane. They’re only available when Troy’s on shift. Delicious, right?”
“That depends on what’s in it.”
“Sure, totally understand. Okay, first Troy uses 10 Cane Rum, which is an artisanal, gold-medal-winning varietal from Trinidad. The name’s derived from their harvesting cane in bundles of ten. What’s unique is this rum boasts notes of pear and vanilla, so it doesn’t have the heft and the mouthfeel of lesser rums. Because this 10 Cane is crafted from sugarcane and not molasses, it’s most similar to Brazil’s famous cachaça liquor. You may notice some commonality to that of a caipirinha?”
I shake my head.
“No? Alrighty. Then we blend in fresh lime juice, passion fruit juice, pineapple juice, a hand-macerated papaya puree, and house-made simple syrup.”
“Which means no high-fructose corn syrup?”
“Never!”
“All ingredients locally sourced and organic, I hope?”
“Of course!”
“Even the papaya?”
Hope smiles politely. “I assure you, ma’am, not only is the papaya local, but it came from certified, nematode-free rootstock. We pride ourselves on serving our guests nothing but the finest! In fact, even the cane sugar was grown right here on Maui.”
“And would you happen to know the farm’s policy on pesticide use?”
I appear to have stumped her.
“Do you mind if I check on that and get back to you?”
I hesitate, finally saying, “No . . . I’m sure it will do. Thank you, Hope.” As she skulks away, I quietly note how much I hate when the servers can’t answer a simple question about the items they serve. This is probably why she carries trays for a living.
I’m in the middle of a second, grudging sip when Deva asks, “Have you a lover, Reagan Bishop?” which propels an inadvertent spray of slushy rum and local juice out my nose.
I’m loath to answer her for a variety of reasons, ranging from this being a gross violation of the social norm to my being genuinely puzzled about my own status. See: Beeswax, None of Your. How do I explain the break we’re on, when I’m not sure I understand it myself? And why did he request the break in the first place? I respond, “At the moment, no.”
She tents her hands and rests her chin on her fingertips. “I could sense that your aura regarding love was out of balance.”
Drink.
“Have you read Pamala Oslie’s seminal work on auras? Specifically Life Colors and Love Colors?”
I take another sip. “I’m waiting for the movie.”
Deva’s face lights up and she claps together her great paws. “Oh, sweet Goddess, there’s a film? I’m so— Ah. Ha-ha! You got me, Reagan Bishop. Under that dour exterior, you’re actually quite funny.”
I immediately bristle; I’m not dour.
Am I dour?
No, I am not dour.
Maybe I’m not as lighthearted as, say, Geri, but few people are without the use of drugs, and everyone knows my stance on Big Pharma. I mean, anyone can pop a Dr. Feelgood, but true change is manifested only through an active commitment to cognitive therapy.
Was I dour when Boyd and I drove the entire length of the Pacific Coast Highway naked that night? I think not. Then again, fooling around with him when I should have been focused on my dissertation almost cost me my doctoral program.
I remember how my academic adviser screamed at me in her office about how I was throwing away what would be a brilliant career. So, much to my entire family’s chagrin, I broke up with Boyd because it was for the best. He didn’t understand why we couldn’t find a balance, maybe meet halfway. But what’s halfway between a doctor and a surfer/bartender?
Yet my point remains that I’m not dour.
To punctuate this point, I drink.
And then I drink some more. Because I’m not dour.
I decide to change my tactics and I start asking Deva some questions. “Is this your first time visiting Hawaii?”
“Goddess, no. I’m here whenever I can get away. I own a beach home up the coast.”
Huh. Even shacks in Maui start at a cool million. I’m suddenly intrigued. Perhaps I should revise my view on her. Here I thought she was just the weirdo who insisted on smudging the studio with burning sage before our broadcasts.
“You’re kidding,” I reply. “I was under the impression you sold kachinas and hand-carved bongs for a living. No offense, of course.” There’s no way she could afford a beach house on her salary. Despite the ample perks Wendy provides, we’re still on a cable network, so I actually earn less than when I was in private practice. But if we ever make it to network, that will all change. That’s what I’m banking on, anyway.
“I take no offense. I sell many things, Reagan Bishop. My business interests are varied,” Deva explains with some vagueness. “Also, in terms of P and L, you’d be surprised at the markup on tribal art. I carry artifacts from a Maori chief who’s such a savvy entrepreneur he could run Morgan Stanley.” She stops to reflect on her statement. “I mean, if he ever put on pants.”
“Noted.” I believe my requisite fifteen minutes are up. Ultimately, a weirdo with a beach house is still a weirdo. I begin to close my eyes and lean back in my lounger.
“Why are you out of harmony with your family?”
I sit straight up. “Excuse me?”
“I’m noticing discord in your second chakra.”
Of course you are.
Deva continues, “The Sanskrit translation for the second chakra is ‘the dwelling place for the self.’ The second chakra is most closely linked with sexuality and creativity. However, because this chakra also has six petals, that portion relates to the numerology of six, which pertains to nurturing and links back to family and community.”
“Like you do,” I quip.
She blithely continues, “My concern, Reagan Bishop, is I’m seeing signs your second chakra is weak, which can manifest itself in any number of problems, most likely in your sense of self-worth.”
Drink.
“I assure you my self-worth is not an issue,” I state. I mean, Taylor Park and U of C and Pepperdine? Accelerated career path? Lead psychologist on Push? Years of self-validation? “I’m fine, thank you. More than fine. I’m borderline magnificent.” And I will be fully so once Sebastian and I figure out how to navigate this minor blip in our relationship. Hello! Text me back now, please.
Until then, I shall enjoy another sip of this delicious tropical beverage. And I will say this: the cane sugar doesn’t possess a pesticide-y aftertaste.
Why would anyone question my self-worth, especially when doing the whole apples-to-organic-apples comparison with my family? What the hell has Mary Mac or Geri ever achieved, other than robbing me of a peaceful childhood?
“According to John E. Groberg, a weak second chakra can lead to your feeling like a martyr.”
At the moment, I’m feeling annoyed, not persecuted. “Deva, I’m telling you that all is well.” I take another pull on my pineapple. This concoction has to be full of vitamin C. Really, I’m consuming it for nutritional purposes. But Troy should consider blending in some wild blueberries for the antioxidants.
Deva studies my face before tracing the outline of my body with her eyes.
It’s disconcerting.
Finally she says, “Your second chakra indicates you’re easily offended and prone to being upset. Couple that with the six numerology and all signs point to disharmony in the family.”
Okay, now I’m angry and somewhat emboldened by the liquor. “Deva, that is enough. Why don’t you go back to whatever planet you’re from, or maybe your beach house, and stop peddling your new age nonsense in my direction. The fact is that I’m a mental health professional—I have a damned doctorate—so I suspect I have a better handle on what I perceive to be my issues than you do.”
Deva smiles beatifically. “I’m not from another planet, Reagan Bishop. I’m from La Grange, Illinois.”
I wave my pineapple at Hope. “I’m going to need another one of these.”
• • •
Three hours/multiple pineapples later, I wake in my lounge chair. I immediately check my phone. No texts. I remind myself to have a chat with the front desk because clearly there’s an issue with the wireless service here.
That’s when I notice the sun’s low in the sky and Deva’s gone, leaving nothing behind save for my bottle of Neutrogena sitting with a note penned on Ritz-Carlton, Kapalua’s stationery reading You might want to use me, Reagan Bishop. See you at dinner!
I glance down at my formerly milky epidermis, which is now not only fire-hydrant red, but also throbbing.
Fantastic. I guess I can cross “burn self to a crisp” off the old bucket list.
As I wend my way around the lushly landscaped pool and back to my room, flashes of our conversation come back to me and I’m mortified all over again. Perhaps I should be grateful that I’m already the color of a candy apple, thus no one can see me blush.
“I’m curious about your name, Reagan Bishop,” Deva prodded somewhere around third-pineapple o’clock. “Were your parents fans of the Gipper and his Star Wars defense system?”
I recall laughing into my cocktail, which, in retrospect, was less of a “frosty drink” and more of a “tasty truth serum.”
This? Right here?
Is why I never drink, at least since my days with Boyd. And look where that almost got me.
Yet something deep inside of me must have felt the need to unload, so I shared. “Not at all. My parents are lifelong Dems. Hard-core. In fact, my mother started working for the Daley administration when he was elected. They grew up on the same block, so he trusted her. She started off in the secretarial pool, but eventually she became Richard M. Daley’s personal assistant. She was his right hand. For a solid decade, my mother was unofficially the second most powerful person in the city of Chicago. You wanted to talk to ‘da mare’? You had to get through Maggie Bishop first. She retired when the new guy was elected, though, because she despises him almost as much as the Olympic selection committee. Profound loathing. Refuses to use Rahm’s real name and will only refer to him as Tiny Dancer.”
It’s common knowledge in Chicago that Mayor Emanuel is both short of stature and a classically trained danseur, hence Ma’s moniker. He’s also close friends with Wendy Winsberg, so I’ve met him a few times at her parties. He smells like pine trees and power.
Of course, since the family despises him, I automatically add him to the buddy list.
I continued, “I thought my mother was going to excommunicate me last week after our photo appeared in Chicago Nouveau magazine when we chatted briefly at a fund-raiser for the Joffrey Ballet. I’m guessing this is why you believe my chakras or colors or whatever are askew.”
Of course, it was Geri who ratted me out, as my mother would never touch that magazine because she believes it fosters the whole idea of a “new” Chicago. In her purview, the Chicago she loves ends at the border of the Bridgeport neighborhood where her family’s lived for three generations. We butt heads because they’re patently old-fashioned; Chicago’s no longer a Carl Sandburg poem. I’m sorry, Ma, but the new Chicago is more than just hog butcher for the world or stacker of wheat. (And who eats wheat anymore? Read Wheat Belly—it’ll transform your way of looking at grain.) Point? We’ve progressed past our roots as a sheltered midwestern burg where we all know one another—we’re now a metropolitan destination with world-class dining, lodging, and entertainment.
This is why we clash, my family and me.
Whereas I’m urbane and cosmopolitan, they’ll lose their minds if someone dare serve ketchup with their hot dogs.
Anyway, one of Geri’s clients must have been thumbing through the issue while under the dryer or something and she pointed out the photo to Geri, who couldn’t even wait for her shift to end to squeal on me.
It’s called a life, Geri. Perhaps you should get you one.
“Meaning there are indeed issues in the family, Reagan Bishop.”
“Wait, did I say the stuff about Geri out loud?”
Deva nodded.
Damn you, vile, delicious, vile pineapple!
That’s when I began to drink in earnest, and I’m not sure what flew out of my mouth next. Hopefully with a couple of gallons of Fiji water and a rigorous barefoot beach run in the morning, I can exercise/exorcise today’s mental and physical transgressions.
I make my way through the lobby, my besmirched skin glowing like a halogen bulb. I can actually feel waves of heat radiating off me. When I pass a family standing at the registration desk, I distinctly hear a mother tell her child, “I’m so glad we packed your sun shirt.” Argh.
I enter the elevator and press the button for the club floor. Although I’m not a producer or director, my room is up here with all the show’s brass. I have no issue with receiving most favored treatment. Consider this—participants can’t change without my expert guidance. A sassy haircut won’t fill a hole in the soul. Really? I’m the axis on which the whole operation spins, hence the ocean view.
As I retrieve my key card, I notice Patty, the show’s executive producer, leaving her suite next door. I adore Patty—in so many ways, she’s the parent I wish I had. Whereas Ma can be rigid and brusque, Patty’s a true earth mother, relaxed and accepting and brimming with understanding. She’s caring and compassionate and open, and no matter what stress the show brings, the whole Push crew is encouraged to seek solace and comfort in Patty’s tapestry-covered, pillow-strewn, candlelit office.
“Good afternoon, Patty.”
She’s so distracted that I have to greet her again before I catch her attention. Maybe I wasn’t the only one lured onto the rocks by the siren song of Troy’s pineapple drinks today.
She digs in her satchel while she speaks. “Reagan, my dear, how are you?”
I glance down at my lobster-red limbs and quote that old commercial. “I got a sunburn and I feel like a French fry.”
Patty glances up and then shoots me a withering look. “I don’t understand why you girls today aren’t more careful. Haven’t you learned the dangers of excessive tanning by now? Melanoma is the silent killer! How many more of your sisters must die from entirely preventable deaths?”
Whoa, what? But I don’t . . . I never . . .
Before I can even begin to verbalize a protest, Patty says, “I have to go—I’ll see you at the dinner tonight.”
I wince as I shift my bag, the straps digging into my inflamed skin. “No, I’ll probably just order room service and—”
“Wendy has an announcement and you will be there to hear it.”
And with that, she flounces off, her long skirt and Stevie Nicks sleeves flapping in the breeze behind her.
What was that about?