Calypso Blues

A lonely, depressed young man vacationing in Zanzibar contemplates suicide.

“Well, for starters, I think about killing myself twice a day.” I told my crackpot, sun-bleached therapist whose lofty wooden storefront sat far above the waters of Zanzibar; more specifically, it sat just outside the reaches of Zanzibar City (let it be known, though, that my therapist is not the type of woman to ward off potential customers; big signs with pictures of her face and which typically read “THERAPIST, BEST, HELPFUL” in both english as well Kiswahili and Arabic are plastered all over the city).  

“Hmmmmm.” She replied as she stared at me thoughtfully (or was it skeptically), her small rectangular glasses lowered, her eyes squinted.

“And, I don’t know, I’m just not happy. I don’t really know how else to describe it.” I said to her.

“Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm.” I shifted in my chair and looked out a small nearby window. “And why do you feel as though you aren’t happy? What exactly is it that puts you in this… this… depression, of sorts?” 

“I’m not sure. There’s not really any cause of it. You could say that maybe it’s problems with my girlfriend, or that the way that the world is today depresses me. I don’t really know. I just feel sad. A-and, this whole girlfriend thing, you know, just really hurts. Like, my sister’s having a baby kind of soon and she seems really sure of what she’s doing and when she’s going to do it and who she wants to be with, but over the last year and a half I feel like I’ve realized that I’ve never had that kind of direction in my life. Especially not now, anyways.” She inhaled sharply, her voice taking on the tone of someone who knew of a solution; no, not just any solution, the solution.

“You know, I’ve written a lot of books for people just like you, for people who go through the things that you do, Leo.” She rolled her chair over to the back wall of her store where she opened a glass case filled with all sorts of brightly colored, plastic-looking books, each one bearing a picture of her wrinkly, tanned face on the cover in some fashion. “And I think you should invest in one, I really do. I’ve got a variety here, all $29.99 and guaranteed to solve your problems.” She pointed at me sharply. “These books would transform you, Leo. So, what do you say?”

“I don’t want a book. I just want someone to help me.” She sighed very deeply.

“You know, people have it worse than you do.”

* * *

By the time I had gotten back to my parents’ beach house it was still early afternoon. I picked up the white corded house phone and tried to call my mom but nobody at the house answered. I decided to take a walk because I didn’t know what to do and so I wandered the beach first. There was a slight breeze which I often felt broke through the stabbing pain of the tropical heat and which ruffled my clothes, tugging on the edges of my button-down flower-patterned shirt and my white swim shorts as I walked passed a bunch of different people sunbathing, drenched in the sun’s rays and soaking them up as if they were starfish absorbing nutrients from the water; most of the people I walked by were white and American and this was also the case for the small community of beach houses that my family’s house resided among. It was a weird thing to me. I think that most people tend to stick to what’s comfortable, and I in no way have ever objected to the idea except for now, at this stage in my life. Which is also weird, because I’m not even objecting to it consciously, it’s just happened. I’ve been ripped from my comfort zone and put into a place that is metaphysical and alien and sad and which no one but me really understands.

When I finished my walk the sun was beginning to set and so I stood out on the beach, in front of the house, digging my toes in the sand and watching as the sun set. A multiplicity of colors burst before me, tropical shades of oranges and reds and yellows; for a time they stayed until slowly a vast darkness began to loom, ominous and sublime, its presence un-ignorable. It grew and grew until it finally turned into some sort of hulking beast, swallowing everything up. I could no longer see the clouds nor did the colors exist anymore, the only tribute to their memory being a deep bruised purple, barely visible at the edge of the sky. Farther down the beach I saw a few different couples holding each other in one way or another and gazing up at the sky, watching the sun being swept away until they were finally enveloped in total darkness. One of the couples spread out a beach towel and  laid down on it together, probably because they wanted to look for constellations. I had been here too long. 

I went back inside, climbing up the house’s front steps and entering through a sliding glass door which took me into the kitchen. I walked over to the telephone set and pressed a red button which told me I did not have any messages. I then picked up the white phone and dialed the number of the girl who I had been seeing back home. I twirled the telephone cord around my right index finger as it rang. No one picked up and I did not leave a message. Two weeks before I had arrived in Zanzibar her spring break had ended and she had left for college; she has not called me in four weeks. I sat the white handset down on the marbled kitchen countertop and I proceeded to retrieve a black handgun from a big drawer on the other side of the kitchen. I placed the gun on the countertop next to the phone before picking up the handset. I then once again dialed my parents’ number. It rang about four times before my mom finally picked up, the sharp edge of alcohol cutting through her voice as she talked. 

“Hello?”

“Hi mom, it’s me.”

“Oh goodness, Leo, what are doing, calling me like this? I’m in the middle of a cocktail party.” Muffled voices in the background crackled on the other end of the phone.

“I just wanted to talk-” she cut me off.

“How are you feeling?”

“Not too good, mom.” I heard the voices again and this time she said something to them, although I couldn’t hear what it was because she must have covered the handset with her palm.

“Well, did you see that therapist? She really is a great lady, you know. Your father and I, we’ve known her for many years.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen the therapist. I’ve seen her four times already.”

“Then what’s the problem? Didn’t she help you?”

“No, not really, that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about. She hasn’t helped me at all. She hardly says anything; all she does is recommend her stupid books to me.”

“Well Leo, honey, I’m sorry, I don’t really know how to help you.” I sighed.

“How’s dad?”

“Listen I’m going to have to let you go, okay?”

“Oh, ok. Love you mom.” The background noise on her end got louder and then she hung up; I stood there, leaning against the kitchen table with the handset to my ear for a good few minutes, listening to the sound of a dead line. I glanced at the gun for another few minutes after I put the phone down before finally going to bed.

* * *

I woke up naturally around 11 a.m. (there was no point in setting an alarm to wake up any earlier) and the first thing I did was check my answering machine, where I found no sign of any messages. I then decided to call my parents. 

“Hey, it’s Leo.”

“Leo? Who’s Leo? I’ve never known anyone in my life named Leo.” She feigned some sort of amnesia or forgetfulness and after a little moment of silence she laughed wholeheartedly, filling my ear with a rich, pleasure-filled sound. 

“I don’t feel good, mom. I think something’s wrong with me.”

“What? What are you talking about? Are you going to be sick? Because I don’t want you spilling your guts all over that hardwood floor and I can assure you that neither does your father.” I sighed.

“No, I just feel depressed. I’m not going to be sick.” She sighed. There was a long pause.

“I think you need some sun or something. Have you been getting enough sun?”

“I’ve gotten enough sun for a lifetime. I’m sick of the sun. I’m going to be shriveled up like a prune when I’m older. I need help, please, I just need- well, I just need something, I don’t know. I feel like I’m dying, and I’m not exactly sure this extended vacation is helping.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic.” She snapped at me. “You know, some people have it a lot worse than you.”

After that my mom hung up on me abruptly and once more I stared at the gun on the countertop for a long time; I even picked it up, felt its weight, inspected it. Soon I set it back down though and I wandered into my bedroom where I pulled another Hawaiian-patterned button-down shirt and a pair of swim shorts out of my suitcase. I changed into the outfit before proceeding to brush my teeth and wash my face. When I was done getting ready I stepped out onto the beach and spread out on a lawn chair that I had drug out by the water, trying to relax for a long time. The soft, almost white sands shifted at the edge of the dream-blue crystal-clear ocean. I noticed a few seagulls soaring far above me in the warm tropical air, calling out to each other playfully as they attempted to spot fish and other sources of food from both the water and the beach where a multiplicity of people lounged, some snacking and trying carefully to avoid the gaze of the seagulls. I closed my eyes and tried to take a nap in the sun and for about a half an hour I succeeded until I woke up, covered in sweat. I then hiked my way back up to the house where I made a sandwich.

Around one o’clock I took a walk into town, making my way through the beach road where all of the houses in my general neighborhood sat and finally threading my way through downtown Zanzibar City, where I entered a general store and bought a pack of cigarettes from a man whose English was accompanied by a thick Arabic accent. On the slow going return trip through my neighborhood road I spotted my friend (more like acquaintance) Marco riding his bike in the hot afternoon sun. 

“Hey, Leo man, how’s it going?” He smiled and stopped his bike to talk to me. He was wearing a collared striped polo shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. I pontificated for a few seconds before responding.

“Good, good. Life’s good. How about you?” I tried my best to return his smile.

“Nice to hear. Hey, you wanna come to a party tomorrow night? I haven’t seen you around much this year. Maya and Steph and a few others are gonna come.”

“I don’t know, man.”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun.” Marco tilted his head, raising his eyebrows as he tried to convince me.

“Okay, okay.” I said, accompanied by some sort of closed lipped half-smile.

“My house, tomorrow night, eight o’clock.” He then promptly rode off on his neon yellow trail bike farther down the road from where I had just returned. When I got back to the beach house I made a drink and sat out on the front porch for a long time, simmering in silence and despondency. After finishing my drink and the ice cube I was crunching on I opened up the pack of cigarettes I had boughten earlier and tried to smoke one in the warm early evening breeze. I lit it up with a match that I had found in a box in the kitchen and I took a few puffs off of it, inhaling the smoke. A few minutes later I sighed and put it out; the thrill was gone because I was not fifteen anymore. I threw the pack in the trash and went to bed. 

* * * 

I was cold when I woke up and so I put on a shirt. After checking my messages and finding nothing the day flew by in a daze, like some sort of dream. I bathed in the sun, soaking it up as if it would help me. It never did. When it finally got dark I reluctantly wandered over to Marco’s house, not bothering to change out of my usual beach garb. I was half an hour late.

Walking through the front door of his house was like walking into another world. People stood around everywhere, drinking and smoking. The room was hazy and red Christmas lights sparkled through the smokiness of the room, painting everything in some sort of phantasmagoric crimson. The sound of calypso music, tropical tunes meant for elevators filled my ears and followed me around everywhere I walked. Come to think of it, the music seemed to have been tracking me down relentlessly, ever since I had arrived in Zanzibar, no matter the setting or the hour. I wandered around for no longer than a few minutes until Marco finally found me, yelling my name.

“You made it!” He held a beer in both hands and as he began to talk he handed me one. I reluctantly accepted. “You gotta find Maya, she’s around here somewhere. Steph’s over there.” He pointed with his beer to the other side of the room. Someone caught Marco’s attention and he told me that he would be back in a second but he disappeared. I walked over to Steph, who was talking to some girl with brown hair. When Steph saw me her eyes lit up and she beckoned me over for a hug.

“Oh my god, Leo, I haven’t seen you in such a long time. This is so exciting, I can’t believe it- oh yeah, this is Kate.” She motioned to the girl next to her and the girl, Kate, smiled and said hello. I shook her hand. “So,” Steph began again, her raven black hair shining in the red party lights. “What have you been up to? What’s life like these days for the great Leonardo?”

“It’s been good. I’ve just, you know, been living. My sister’s having a baby, actually.” 

“Really? Jesus, she got knocked up quick.” 

“Yeah, well, I guess she really loves this guy she’s with. We’ll see.” I smiled reservedly  and took a sip. “But yeah, other than that, nothing crazy. How’s Marco, by the way? He seems, kind of…”

“Drugged out of his f*****g mind?”

“Well, yeah.” I responded.

“Yeah, no, he’s been on so much s**t lately I don’t even know where to start. Cocaine is his ‘drug of choice’ at the moment, and I’ve seen a lot of it floating around here tonight. Be careful or he’ll try to get you to do some.”

“Thanks, Steph, I’ll be careful.” I smiled at her. “I’ll see you around, okay? I’m going to try and find someone.” I said before wandering off further into the house to hunt down Maya, who as it turned out, was nowhere to be found. I floated through the party, eavesdropping on various conversations and watching people drink and smoke and exchange drugs. Eventually I ended up on the living room couch, drinking and keeping to myself. I stayed there for most of the night until two or three a.m. when Marco came running into the living room. He looked terrible; he was sweating profusely, dark circles shown under his bloodshot eyes.

“Hey man. You wanna come see something really cool?

“Uh, sure, I guess.” I told him and followed reluctantly. His house (or rather his parents’ house) was huge and it felt like we wandered through all of it (chandeliers, porcelain decorations, paintings of palm trees, ivory-accented staircases populating my vision) by the time we arrived at his destination which turned out to be a spare bedroom somewhere on the third floor. The door was shut and he smiled at me wickedly before opening it. I felt chills run down my spine. 

Inside the room three or four people around my age stood in silence around the bed. They stared at us as we came in. Marco pushed past a girl with colored highlights in her hair and approached the bed, where I saw a shape laying on the dark velvet sheets in between extravagant bedposts. It was a girl. Her eyes were closed and she did not move, she just laid there, looking like some porcelain doll. Marco looked at me and giggled. Someone asked if she was still breathing and a boy stepped forward, checked her pulse before declaring quietly that she was, but just barely. Before I knew it, Marco began to strip her clothes off, piece by piece until she was completely naked; she remained motionless and no one said anything save for a few drunken giggles from time to time. A girl to my right held a camera up and took a picture of her, the flash going off and piercing the soft light of the room which emanated from a small pineapple-shaped lamp on the nightstand by the bed. Someone nudged Marco and I watched as he climbed onto the bed, on top of her. He began to take his shirt off and soon he started kissing her, running his hands along her naked body. I started to feel very very sick and I wondered vaguely how I ended up here, or why I still was. I should have left this place a long time ago, I’ve been here too long.

I turned around, pushing past a couple of people and making my way towards the door where I exited and made a beeline for the front entrance of the house. The place was deserted, everyone had left. When my feet hit the pavement of the road a wild and uncontrolled panic struck me, hitting me in the head like a bullet. I started hyperventilating and soon I find myself running, running far away, away from that house and Marco and Zanzibar and all of those people who I did not belong with, who made me sick. I wanted to leave my sadness behind that night, I wanted to abandon it along with that house and that girl. I tried to outrun it harder than I have ever tried to do anything. I realized eventually, though, that it wouldn’t leave; that I couldn’t abandon it and that no matter how hard I tried it would stick with me like a plague and so I began to cry. As I ran the tears fell from my face, hot and sticky, filled with disappointment and sadness and a strange sense of penance. The soft, yellow streetlights led me home. 

* * *

When I arrived at the beach house the tears had stopped and left me feeling utterly exhausted. I walked down to the beach and sat by the water, trying to collect my thoughts and reel in my emotions. Before I knew it, I had fallen asleep.

* * *

The edges of a wave licked the bottoms of my feet and shortly after I arose. Once I made my way inside I checked my answering machine for nonexistent messages before calling my mom. 

“Hello?” She inquired.

“Hey mom.”

“Oh hi honey, how are things do-” She paused midway through her sentence to shout at someone on the other end. “Anyways,” She continued. “How’s the house?”

“Good… hey, uh, have you heard anything from Cecilia lately?”

“I-” Once again she was distracted. After about a minute she returned to our conversation. “What were we talking about again?”

“Cece.”

“Oh, that’s right. Well, I can’t say that I have.”

“I was just hoping that maybe she talked to you or something. I haven’t heard from her since she went back to college.”

“Really?” She shouted something at someone again and it came through muffled. When she returned her attention to me she spoke hurriedly. “I’m sure it’s nothing, she’s probably very busy. Listen, I have to go, okay? I’m trying to plan your sister’s gender reveal party and one of the decorators totally fucked up the dining room.”

“Okay mom. Talk to you later.” I then dialed Cece’s number, and after several rings it went straight to her answering machine. No luck yet again. I set the phone down and the gun mocked me.

Over the next week I visited various bars, dives, and clubs where day after day I encountered a monotonous circus of drunks and obsessive tourists; it was something other than laying out on the beach and frying, I supposed. Alcohol did nothing for me, and if I had not been bored, depressed, and worried about looking like I belonged I would not have been drinking it. My days flowed into my nights, over and over and over, the cycle never breaking, the vacation endless and cruel. I called my girlfriend every day for the next two weeks, yet I received no response. One evening a pretty girl with brown hair and hazel-colored eyes walked over to me while I was sitting out on the balcony of some restaurant that I didn’t care for drinking half-priced margaritas. She introduced herself to me but now I can’t remember her name. She wanted to come back home with me and I said yes. Once we had gotten inside she started to take her clothes off and pretty soon she pushed me down on the couch and climbed on top of me; she was very beautiful but I went soft and she left. I fell asleep.

* * *

The next day I called Cece, got no answer, left a message, and then headed out for a tiki bar by the beach called Robbie’s. I drank some sort of pineapple-flavored cocktail and then went for a walk through the city, wandering aimlessly. The streets were dirty and cluttered. After walking for a while I spotted a billboard that read “SUN AND MARGARITAS ARE THE KEYS TO HAPPINESS” in big bright lettering with a telephone number below it. When I arrived back home I called the number but got nothing but the indiscriminate buzzing of a dead line. After that I crashed on my bed, carried away to a different world with the help of a ceiling fan’s cool breeze. 

I woke up because my telephone was ringing and I nearly tripped and fell trying to get to it. When I picked up the phone I heard my mom crying on the other end, and she told me that my sister had a miscarriage. She said that I had to come home. As I listened to her weep I looked outside and noticed that it was twilight and that the air had been steadily cooling. My mom hung up halfway through her sobs. I dialed Cece’s number once more, my fingers operating by muscle memory now, exhausting a familiar pattern which had been worked over dozens and dozens of times. There was no answer. I set the phone down and picked up the gun. It felt heavy and cold as I cocked it, putting the tip between my lips. Hard steel touched the roof of my mouth and I shivered. I closed my eyes. 

Author's Note

Any type of constructive criticism is 100% welcome, I would really love as much feedback as you guys can give me!:)