Read by Lois Tucker - podcast here (first story)
On the edge of an island just off mainland Honduras, there is a shoulder-height tripod with a phone at the end. It is a selfie stick. A woman on the shore is posing.
She is wearing a thick-thonged bikini bottom the same bile-yellow as a chicken snake. Her top is two triangles and a string. As the woman reaches up to grab a plantain, she turns to her selfie stick and smiles.
The only other person on the beach is Anne. She, too, is slicked in tanning oil, but would never take pictures of herself in public. Neither she, nor the thick-thonged bikini woman will swim at this beach. Slimy water grass runs rampant near the shore.
It is the owner’s primary residence and there is a working air conditioning unit for each room. In the bathroom Anne is extremely aware of the framed photograph of a little boy sitting in the ocean. It sits directly across from the toilet. His tiny hands are folded in front of him, giving off an air of dignity.
The ocean isn’t nearly as calm on the other side of the island. Beaches on West Bay are saturated with five-story cruise ships and neon parasails. The resorts serve brightly colored cocktails funneled into a dozen shot glasses. The hotels have sunset windows with no trash or stray dogs. Everything is cheap for an American.
It’s an area Anne has seen, but never occupied. Anne can’t stand the tourists so when her mother suggested she “stay safe” in the English-speaking neighbourhoods, Anne only smiled. Her mother would not understand how a bungalow is more authentic than a resort.
Anne walks with her laptop from the village to the local beach every morning. This is a shore where she can work. For eight hours a day she will write for a content mill where the boss is as invisible as the wind. Each gig pays $5 for a 1000-word blog post.
Anne submits articles that are actually advertisements. “6 Ways To Tell If You Need a New Ventilation System” and “Where to Find The Best Plastic Surgeons in Miami” are common posts. She is an American writer.
This particular beach does have stray dogs, but they aren’t like the strays Anne has seen back home. Dogs in Roatan are friendly. Skinny with a yellow tint, they are bland like golden retrievers. Anne thinks they are beautiful in their simplicity, if not just a little dumb.
In her rental truck, she has already swerved several times to avoid dogs in the middle of the road. With nothing to do, they sit in the shade as if all the streets are theirs. They all think they own the place, Anne remembers thinking before she almost drove off the road.
Life is slow on the island. When she first arrived, Anne was shocked to find nobody minded waiting in the long lines at Eldon’s market. She noted the lack of road rage and the fat women in long cheerful dresses carrying groceries up the hill. It was almost like they had no responsibilities at all.
Anne’s morning assignment is about bicycles. What is the difference between a mountain bike and a dirt bike? There is no difference.
For ten minutes, Anne will frantically scour Google. The dirt bike, she writes, is rugged. It’s for men who like to see themselves as men. Men in the woods. Men on an adventure.
The mountain bike is more complex. It is for cyclists who like to push themselves even after a full week at the office. These riders are going somewhere. They’re following the trail.
Anne writes as fast as she can. $5 for 1000 words. 1000 words in 1 hour. She hopes for $40 per day.
In America she can examine a box of cereal and tell you it’s worth 50 minutes of her time. In Honduras, she can afford fresh pastries. Anne thinks she’s rich on an island that is poor. She feels a kinship deep in her heart.
The thick-thonged woman on the beach does not have a kinship with the locals. Anne thinks she is a West Bay girl. The only foreigners on this beach are middle-aged or older. Anne tries to guess where they are from. The ones who suck in their glutes are British. The others, European. Anne thinks the woman on the shoreline’s from Jersey. She is here for the profile shot.
Anne flips open her laptop and checks her Reddit group. It is a forum centered around content mills. The posts discuss formatting and tips for speed. There is also a place where people can provide small challenges to make the work less boring. These contests have no real prizes except for the admiration from other members. An on-going game between writers includes interspersing random words into each blog post. This way, when Anne reads her daily subscription blogs, she can spot other content mill writers by their “challenge word”.
One challenge consisted of using the word “deipnophobia” at least once in every post: it means a fear of eating in public. When Anne looked up a dental practice in Oregon, she spotted the word in an “embarrassing dinner-party” anecdote at the bottom of the site.
In front of Anne there is a long wooden dock that stretches past the slimy turtle grass. There is a gate halfway to the end where a combination lock bars outsiders from entering. A bright yellow canopy peaks out behind the fence and Anne can see a padded deck chair. She thinks there are probably more on that side, but still can’t reach the edge.
Less than a half mile walk from where Anne is sitting is the village that possesses the combination. Its bungalows are made from flimsy Rosewood lumber with screened-in porches to compensate. It is here where striped beach towels can be seen hanging from laundry lines. White undershirts and miniature shorts are privately clipped behind them. In the local village of bungalows even the airbnb’s are the same. Together, Anne thinks, they live in harmony. Every home is half wood and half fabric.
Anne’s temporary landlord left her the code, but the numbers do not seem to work. At first she thought her fingers were clumsy, but when there was no magic click after the sixth try she started guessing other combinations. She tried popular codes. 8.8.8.8.8. 1.1.1.1.1. 1.2.3.4.5.
There was nobody else on the dock, but every time she failed the combination she felt someone judging her from behind. She imagined hordes of children laughing behind a tree. There might have been dozens.
At night Anne hears their foreign shouts ricocheting off the water. Their laughter is interspersed with blinking flash lights in the jungle. She could look up what they’re saying in the Spanish-to-English dictionary, but she doesn’t. Unlike Americans, Anne notes, these children play outdoors.
Anne will not be like the childish adults from Silicon Valley. With their shared working spaces and meandering contractor hours, 20-somethings are lost in the hum of their computers. Anne has seen the multiple mismatched desks and knows shared offices are lonely. There is no free time in America, she thinks. There is no time for adults to truly play.
The daily content mill challenge word is “riposte”. The first definition Anne sees on Google defines the word as a clever reply or counterattack. She then looks up the demographic that buys dirt bikes.
The word “riposte” will fit somewhere inside her first paragraph. If you want the perfect riposte for oncoming road rage, dirt bikes can swerve through any street. The online forums say introductions leave the most space for creativity.
Anne will not check to see if this is the right use of the word. The content mill editor will not care. As long as she can write fast enough, this is the only thing that matters.
*
In the mid-afternoon, a high-pitched vibration cuts through the entire beach. It is piercing. The sound is like a machete: unnecessarily sharp.
Anne watches as the thick-thonged woman freezes in mid-pose. She has stopped looking at the camera even as it continues to click with each photograph. She, too, is covering both ears.
On an unpaved path that leads to the village, a large woman in an orange dress can be seen holding a bag in one arm and a screaming toddler in the other. She continues to walk toward the ocean. The toddlers in America would be given something. A piece of candy. A toy. Something to make them feel that pain can be avoided. Anne is proud to be near an authentic mother.
The thick-thonged woman turns back to her selfie stick. Her feet dig into the sand. Her eyes point to an unspecified place just beyond the camera.
Anne goes back to the dock. She picks up her laptop and carefully steps onto the wooden platform in a way that will make it shake the least. It does not feel sturdy. It feels ancient.
Anne thinks she has the right combination. It is probably the neighborhood zipcode. She thinks this has to be right because the code is so delightfully simple.
Anne circles the dial several times and waits patiently for the click. The lock is steady in place. She circles the dial again, but it is difficult to align each number. She tries one last time and pulls hard on the metal door handle. The lock remains closed.
From somewhere nearby there is the faint scent of lavender laundry detergent, but when she looks there is only orange. A thick, tan, arm reaches out of the color and goes straight for the combination lock. Anne notices the toddler.
“You have the combination!”
The toddler begins to cry again.
“Will you tell me the combination?” Anne asks. “The woman who rented me her airbnb wrote the number down incorrectly.”
The woman in orange stares blankly at the ocean while her toddler hides behind her legs. This woman has probably never seen an American, Anne thinks. Touched in a way she will never be able to articulate, Anne places her hand on the woman’s shoulder.
It’s okay, she wants to say. I don’t judge you for not understanding.
Anne hopes the gesture says it for her.
“The combination.” Anne gently taps the lock and smiles. It is a wide smile with kind eyes to convey she will be patient with her speech. The woman nods.
“I just need the numbers.” Anne’s voice is slow, but soft. She knows volume is pointless for articulating her words.
Together they stand on the uneven planks, apart from the shoreline tourist. Anne knows the woman will help her.
“I’m supposed to have the combination.” Anne explains. “The landlord just made a mistake.” Like the locals from the village, Anne is sure she belongs.
The woman nods again. She dials the lock in a circular motion so that Anne can see each digit. When she stops on the first number, Anne repeats it clearly.
“4.” she confirms and the woman dials again.
“8.” Anne continues.
“8 again.” Anne says this slowly so the woman can understand.
Before she twirls the last two numbers, the woman’s dress blocks Anne’s view. A sea of fluttering orange material separates them from each other. Anne can hear the lock click into place and the door swings all the way open. The final part of the combination is lost.
Anne begins to ask her to repeat the last digits, but is stopped halfway to the door.
“You can’t come in.” the woman says. The palm of her hand faces forward. “This place is not for you.”
Every word is in perfect English. For once, Anne has nothing to say.
(c) Rebecca Lee, 2022
Rebecca Lee currently lives in Charlottesville, Virginia. Her latest project is called “selfie” which refers to a series of medical poems published in medical journals around the world.
Lois Tucker has been involved in various offbeat, enjoyable performance projects over the years and is pleased to have added Liars’ League events to the mix. Creative bits & bobs are at (the in-need-of-an-update) www.loistucker.net, including all previous reads of consistently excellent Liars’ stories.
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