A Trip to Block Island(Barry) “Hear the good News?” Randy Crawford asked. Randy taught sophomore English at the regional high school where Terrence had recently been promoted to head of the music department.

“What news?”

“Daphne Cooper’s engaged. Wedding’s set for early December.”

Initially at a loss for words, Terrence scowled then muttered, “Sounds like a whirlwind romance.”

“She went off on a week-long, singles cruise to the Caribbean over the summer break and met a Jewish orthodontist with a medical practice in downtown Manhattan.”

“Manhattan? Then she’ll be moving away.”

“Already tendered her resignation,” Randy confirmed. “No need to work when your spouse earns that sort of cash.” “Didn’t the two of you date?”

“Very briefly.” Terrence’s features cycled through a series of unflattering emotions. “A Jewish orthodontist,” he repeated.

“Elliot Slotnick… It’s such a blessing!”

“More like a curse for the well-to-do Mr. Slotnick,” Terrence mused but kept the harsh judgment to himself.

* * * * *

“Don’t you think it strange we’re the only people of color on this ferry?” Daphne observed in hushed tones.

Terrence scanned the deck of the tour ship. “I hadn’t really noticed,” he replied. They would be departing for Block Island from Point Judith in Narragansett once the last few motorcycles, trucks and cars were brought aboard and stowed away below decks. The trip would take less than an hour.

Their forearms lay next to one another, hers eggshell white with a dappling of coffee-colored freckles. With the alabaster skin tones and decidedly Caucasian features, the woman could have been a card-carrying member of the Daughters of the American Revolution. Terrence, with his blend of dark walnut interspersed with chocolaty espresso could boast no such luxury.

Daphne Cooper’s father was a prominent attorney from a staunchly Irish Catholic family, while the Afro-American mother was an ophthalmologist with her own private practice. As fate would have it, the statuesquely beautiful daughter inherited ninety-nine percent of her father’s gene pool. Still, Daphne tenaciously clung to her mother’s racial persona.

Because Daphne’s parents were filthy rich and adored their daughter to no end, they indulged her every whim. When the young woman completed college and eventually found work, her father paid the security deposit and first month’s rent on her new apartment. “I’m giving you this Bank of America credit card.” He handed her a thin sheet of plastic. “If the car breaks down or you encounter unexpected expenses, put everything on charge and I’ll pick up the tab.”

Her first year teaching, Daphne was responsible for rent and utilities but little else. Hers was a gilded, unencumbered existence. Given the fact that the woman seldom experienced a scintilla of hardship, her sympathy for the underclass, poor unfortunates, culturally disenfranchised, denigrated ne’er-do-wells and assorted riffraff was ludicrous.

“Why aren’t there more people of color on the boat?” she repeated doggedly.

“I dunno.” “Everyone’s pleasant and the weather is fantastic,” Terrence observed, “so let’s enjoy the trip.”

“I’m just pointing out the disparity.” Daphne insisted on having the last word as a fog horn erupted in a throaty bass tone and the ship crawled out of the harbor into open water.

Earlier in the morning on the ride through Providence, Daphne shared her rather stilted views on critical race theory as well as reparations for slavery. When she spoke about blacks, Daphne frequently began, “My people blah, blah, blah…” When she included Terrence in the mix, it was, “Our people blah, blah, blah…” But who exactly were these amorphous, undifferentiated black folk? Did they include petty criminals, wife beaters, assorted hooligans and riffraff?
Our people. Daphne never bothered to clarify whether economically disenfranchised people of color were more deserving than the rich. Daphne Cooper regularly shopped at the ultra-chic Chestnut Hill Mall in Newton, where an alligator skin belt could run upwards of a hundred-and-sixty bucks – a small fortune to hold your pants up. Did such a lavish lifestyle exclude you from compensation?
Terrence was becoming increasingly aggravated with Daphne’s obsessive fixation on racial inequity. It reminded him of an uncle on his father’s side of the family, who flushed the toilet a minimum of five times before vacating the bathroom. It made no difference if the man was ridding himself of a piece of Kleenex or three days worth of junk food.


* * * * *

They were standing outside Aldo’s, the premier, gourmet bakery on Block Island. “Let’s check out the pastries,” Daphne insisted. Once inside they found display cases filled with éclairs, cheese Danish, Italian tiramisu, cannoli and panettone.

“Can I help you?” A clerk behind the counter was waiting to take their order.

“We haven’t eaten yet,” Daphne replied, “but we’ll be back for dessert and take-home in an hour or so.” With a congenial smile the clerk drifted away.

“I’m gonna sample a little of everything,” she joked as they exited into the bright sunshine.

“You’ll put us both in the emergency room or poor house.”

On a nearby street a short distance from the pastry shop they visited Saint Andrew’s Church, a quaint, no-frills wooden structure built using traditional post-and-beam construction. Many of the unadorned homes on the far side of the gravelly street boasted historical plaques dating back to the eighteen hundreds.

Tucked away on a side street they discovered a jewelry store. While Daphne ogled an array of rings and bracelets, Terrence ducked into a vintage music store, where in the rear of the building he discovered a collection of jazz CD’s dating back to the 1960’s. “Cape Verdean Blues,” Terrence mused, reverently running his fingers over the plastic cover of the Horace Silver album. He treasured a vinyl, long-play version of the album that his father had given him, but the record was four decades old and badly scratched from long usage.

Terrence purchased the CD and stepped back out into the sunshine just as Daphne emerged from the boutique, a small bag dangling from her wrist. “What did you buy?”

“Oh, nothing much,” she responded dismissively.

“Let me see.”

She teased a glittery pendent on a gold chain, dangling it briefly in the air before stuffing it back in the bag. “Let’s eat!”

* * * * *

For lunch they settled on Ballard’s, the largest restaurant overlooking the sea. Terrence chose the pan seared salmon while Daphne settled on fire grilled lobster with a glass of Chablis.

Reaching across the table, Terrence laid his hand on Daphne’s wrist. Once I’m settled in the new position, I intend to make major changes.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“For starters, putting together a brass quintet with trombone, tuba, French horn and a couple of trumpets. They’ll play the classical repertoire along with Dixieland and contemporary jazz.”

Daphne, who was peering about the room distractedly as Terrence spoke, seemed only mildly interested. “A jazz theory course,” he added, tapping the Horace Silver, Cape Verdean Blue CD, which was lying next to his place setting, “where students can improvise using more sophisticated harmonies over standard chords is another possibility.” “It’s the sort of thing that wasn’t readily available when I was their age.” Glancing uncertainly at Daphne, he realized that she hadn’t heard much of anything he was saying. “Is something wrong?”

“You do see what’s going on here, don’t you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The waitress who just took our order…” She left the sentence open ended.

“The woman had a delightful French accent and was pleasant as hell.” Terrence noticed that the wait staff consisted mostly of young woman in their late teens and early twenties. They were all energetic and in bright spirits. “No one looks downtrodden or economically oppressed.”

“That’s just the point,” Daphne’s dropped her voice. “She’s probably here on a temporary work visa.”

Everything had been going relatively smoothly since the disconcerting episode on the boat and now this. “What difference does that make?” Terrence was beginning to lose his temper.

“The restaurant pays starvation wages for the privilege of waiting table through the tourist season then packs the foreigners off to their country of origin when no longer needed.”

His anger boiling over in blind rage, Terrence bolted upright tipping his chair end over end. Several startled customers glanced up from their meals. “Let me hunt down our bi-lingual, indentured servant and discover what’s really going on.” Leaving the table he rushed off in search of the woman who had taken their order.

The waitress was nowhere to be found.

Terrence stepped into an adjoining room and eventually spotted her at the far end of the room leaning against the bar. “I noticed your accent when you took our order,” he said. “Are you visiting from another country?”

“Port-au-Prince… Haiti. Got my H2B in January.”

“And what is an H2B?”

“Short-term work visas.”

“How do you like America?”

“Are you crazy?” she gushed. “It’s wonnnnderful!”

Back at the table Terrence reported, “Nothing to worry about. The underprivileged, oppressed Haitian is totally unaware of the atrocious abuse she’s suffering.”

* * * * *

They were originally planning to stay through the late afternoon and take the last ferry home, but Daphne, who insisted she would never go out with Terrence ever again after the disgraceful scene in the restaurant, demanded they leave immediately. She did however stop by Aldo’s to purchase a lavish assortment of pastries.

“How much money did you just spend on pastry?” he asked. They were seated on the ferry halfway to the mainland.

“None of your goddamn business.”

“Your fire grilled lobster and two glasses of Chablis set me back seventy bucks.”

“You begrudge me a nice meal?”

“You’re a pampered, overindulged twit so don’t gaslight me about social inequity, reparations or critical race theory.”

Daphne began to cry. “Go away, you sadistic beast.”

“I’ll do just that,” Terrence said. “I’m going to the stern of the boat. When we reach Point Judith, I’ll drive you home and you can forget you ever laid eyes on me.”

An elderly man with filmy green eyes and tufts of hair sprouting like ungainly weed patches from both nostrils noticed the twosome arguing. He crossed unsteadily from the far side of the deck.

“Was that man bothering you?” The fellow, who gripped a three-pronged cane with both arthritic hands, looked to be a hundred and ten years old.

“No, I’m fine,” Daphne assured him as Terrence finally disappeared from sight.

“In the future, stay away from those rascally black folk,” the rickety old man counseled. “They ain’t nothin’ like us.”




Epilogue

Satire is a genre of the literary fiction in which vices, follies, abuses, and shortcomings are held up to ridicule, often with the intent of exposing or shaming the perceived flaws of individuals or society itself into improvement. The French writer, Voltaire, wrote Candide, where he skewered the Catholic Church for their rigid control of the citizenry. In the Hunchback of Notre Dame Victor Hugo attacked the French legal system and government plutocracy for moral and ethical lapses.

A Trip to Block Island is creative fiction expressing my own satirical view (i.e. some might argue misguided bias) regarding a pernicious trend that tears the fabric of our American society to bits and pieces. My intent is to offer an alternative perspective, to open a channel of meaningful dialogue through the medium of creative literature.

Daphne Cooper is a fictional character and yet there are a hundred thousand, real-life women just like the pampered protagonist gaslighting the planet with their jaundiced beliefs. If you don’t agree, then I encourage you to pick up a pen and write your own fictional version of A Trip to Block Island.

Barry Rachin

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