St. John Thomas

Heather Locklear and I were in St. Thomas once, back in 1983 or thereabouts. We were between seasons of Hooker, and wanted to blow off some steam.

After visiting Blackbeard's castle one afternoon, I was hungry and decided it was time for my fix.

There was a tiny shack near our hotel that served the best damned spicy chicken roti I'd ever had in my life.

It was like cutting God open and chewing on his liver, and I had eaten at Edward's shack almost every day.

So we ordered two, and Heather slowly ground her ass against me while we watched him do his voodoo.

I refuse to wear linen pants to this day. It's silk for real men.

Edward offered us our plates, and when I reached in my tent pole knocked over a tub of knives, many of them plunging into Edward's legs.

He jumped back screaming, and splashed headfirst into the deep fryer.

Edward survived, but was disfigured, and his hands were unusable. He closed his shack.

I cried for a while - deep, shuddering sobs - knowing I could never come back to St. Thomas. Or perhaps it was the scotch bonnet peppers. I can't remember.

Anyhoo, chicken roti would never taste the same to me if it hadn't been blessed with Edward's grubby fingers.

I'm a teacher.
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