Pineapple Wine

Clare Fortescue

Bon Aire Motel in Fort Lauderdale had seen its heyday just after WWII. Forty years later the location was still good –three blocks off the beach- but the motel building was definitely out of place in a forest of High Rises.  In the off season you could pay by the month for a studio with a hot plate and its own bath.  Most of us, gathered around the pool that night, were off-season regulars.   We worked our day jobs and spent our nights around the pool drinking Pineapple Wine.  The conversation wasn't enough to keep the mind alive but that was just the point, summer nights, no worries, lay back and drop out.   Donald usually drank two bottles of wine.  It was no different that night.  The only difference was that Cathy wasn't there.   She was out on a hot date with some new guy.  No problem, of course, excerpt for the inconvenience.  Cathy's place was on the ground floor and we all used her bathroom.   So Donald had to climb the stairs to get to his bathroom.  Nobody even noticed him leaving but we sure took notice of his return. The lighted pool shimmered and beaconed.   He came out of his studio and with a great whoop leapt over the second floor balcony into the pool.  He missed.   The EMT's got there in minutes. By the time the pool lights were automatically turned off at 9 PM, Donald was in good hands at the hospital, and we were left in uncharacteristic silence sitting by the pool on a warm summer night under the stars in Ft. Lauderdale.