Free Middle Men by Jim Gavin Page A

the end of a cul-de-sac. I knocked.
    A black man with a shaved head answered the door. He was holding an orange cat.
    â€œDoes Karen live here?”
    â€œShe’s in the cottage out back,” he said. In the room behind him a boy and girl were sitting on the floor, drawing pictures and watching TV. He stepped onto the front steps and shut the door behind him. He shook my hand.
    â€œYou must be Brian.”
    I nodded.
    â€œI’m Peter, Karen’s landlord. She’s not here.”
    â€œWhere is she?”
    â€œMost of her students fuck off back to England for the holidays. She’s house-sitting this week for one of the families. This is Sam, her cat.”
    He held up Sam so I could give him a little scratch under the chin. Peter didn’t know where Karen was house-sitting. I asked if there was any chance he could give me a ride back to Hamilton. His wife had the car, he said, but his friend Kano might be able to help. I followed him into the house. As he picked up the phone, his kids looked at me briefly, with total indifference, and returned to their drawing.
    â€œKaren’s boy’s come around,” he told Kano. “He needs a ride.” Peter nodded a couple times and hung up. “Go wait at the end of the street. He’ll be right there.”
    â€œShould I pay him?”
    â€œI don’t know. That’s up to you.”
    â€œGreat. Thanks.”
    The rain stopped. The clouds were breaking up and I could see some stars. When Kano pulled up he told me I couldn’t wear shorts on the back of his Vespa.
    â€œYou might burn your leg on the motor.”
    â€œI don’t have any money.”
    â€œIt’s all right. You’re Karen’s friend.”
    Karen had added me to her litany of woe, and I wondered if there was anyone on the island who didn’t know her sob story.
    â€œI’m not her friend,” I said.
    I changed into jeans right there on the street. Kano was tall and had to hunch his back to fit on the scooter. He took a shortcut along a stretch of old railroad tracks, his motor cracking the night air as we raced along a corridor of towering stone walls. I would remember my night ride with Kano, whoever he was, as the best part of my trip.
    When we got back to Hamilton I asked him to drop me off at the hotel on Front Street. It was the only place I could think to go.
    â€œI thought you didn’t have any money,” he said.
    â€œI’m not actually staying here.”
    I felt guilty, so I ended up giving him ten bucks. Kano revved up and disappeared around a corner.
    My plan was to wait until morning and then go back to the school. I spent a few hours in the lobby, trying to sleep in a big leather chair. At some point a concierge came by and asked if I was a guest of the hotel.
    â€œYes,” I said.
    â€œWhat’s your name, sir?” he asked.
    â€œNigel Dickslap.”
    As a security guard escorted me from the lobby, I saw the banker sitting alone at the hotel bar.
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    For the last ten years, when I dream about Bermuda, I dream about this part of the trip, walking aimlessly around Hamilton, trying to avoid the constabulary. I never see Karen. Instead, I just wander around the island, looking for her in the rain, meeting people who say they’ve seen her. For some reason, in the dreams, I never trust these people.
    At one point that night I lay down on a stone bench in a park. I remember waking up cold, but happy to see light coming through the trees. Suddenly I was looking forward to being back in Los Angeles, telling my roommates about my night sleeping outside like a bum in fucking Bermuda! Karen was already becoming an afterthought.
    I did end up seeing her, but she had already disappeared.
    I splurged on an egg sandwich and waited outside the school until it finally opened at nine o’clock. The secretary told me that Karen wasn’t working today. I asked if she knew the