

He awoke hours before the alarm would begin its infernal ringing, as he always did. Without waking his wife he stole from the bedroom into the bathroom to relieve himself, peek in at his sleeping daughter, then return to bed beside his wife. This is when the thoughts would come. The doubts. The pain. Magic Island they called it. If only surviving here were as easy as a simple parlor trick. Not enough money to keep going. No chance of a work permit that would ensure landing decent-paying, regular jobs. Could maybe waste another day trying to find pathetic little writing jobs, but why bother when it simply won’t be enough to make a difference? In the purgatory-like state between waking and sleeping, ideas began to take shape. Nothing fully formed, but ideas that seemed to hold potential. The tourists who come here have a hard time figuring out the bus system. There are no maps showing the path of the various routes. Schedules are available online but not everyone is hooked in at all times. Perhaps a small pocket guide with maps of the bus routes and schedules. There are so many little inns, the pousadas, that try to accommodate the swelling population of the island in summer. If each one bought a ten-pack of guides, that might generate quite a lot of money. But the printing would have to be financed somehow. Local restaurants could buy ads that would provide the funds for the printing. Hand out two copies of the guide to each and every pousada, then they send an email when they realize how much their guests need it and buy more. This could work. This could really work. Then there’s that travel website that’s like a cross between Facebook and other travel sites. They have an ambassador’s program to sign up local places for pages on the site. Each one generates a $100 commission. A few of those each week would really solve some problems. But the people around here just don’t like actually paying for things. How can they be convinced?

When is that damned alarm going to ring? It could be any second now. More likely several hours from now. Not knowing is terrible. Finding out can be even worse. Better to keep hoping more sleep will come. Then eventually the alarm will sound. He will arise out of bed and do that which he does every single day of his life. Put the dingy kettle on the tiny gas range to heat water for his coffee and tea for his girls. Get out one of the old saucepans to boil water for oatmeal. Why do they call it flakes (flocos)? They are like flakes, really. The people are the flakes. Why is everything here so crappy and expensive? Get out the frying pan to make an over-easy egg for the child. She loves that. Sliced bananna or apple on the woman’s oatmeal, and honey. Brown sugar on the child’s. Plenty of cinnamon on both. It’s a pretty decent breakfast, really. He never eats breakfast.  


