Month: June 2022 (page 1 of 1)

What a fucking fantasy. I thought the scabies had died out. Invariably, each night, what with the heat and humidity, it felt as if the scabies were crawling beneath my skin at once. It’s fucking scabies. With my eyelid and hands swollen, my cock like a cod roe and my shins raw and bleeding whose spots marked my bed sheet, I was unable to sleep through the night without drinking rum.

In my office, I showed my eyelids and hands to my colleagues to prove that the itch still had not gone away. I could feel their sympathy while they wondered why it would not have done. Of course, I washed my underwear and the bedding every day. When I was about to leave my office, I could see the staff spraying alcohol where I was. 

*

I arrived in Union Island in St Vincent in the early evening. At night I had walked down what looked like a main street. There were local males lingering about a few small grocery store. I had emerged at a small sidewalk cafe―the decor and music were exotic―with no customer standing alone. I took a seat, smelling salty winds from the sea. There were many art panels hanging on the walls, one of which said “LIFE IS BETTER AT THE BEACH.”

Here was a utopia surrounded by perfect blue. Tourism was inactive and the island quiet, which felt wonderfully refreshing. After solitary walking or running each morning, I striped down and jumped into the sea, where nobody come. Now this was comfort―I floated with my back to the sky, seeing tropical fish. The itchiness I had suffered was consigned to oblivion.

The wooden house I had rented for a week was large, inside was clean and the well-organized living room with the curtained window that looked out to the sea. The days stood hot, so I was in the house during the day, wishing I could stay here much longer. I had read manga about investment that was imperative to make my life easier, and concluded that money would work instead of me. Then I walked in the direction of the town. I became a regular at that cafe since I ate a tacos over special Caribbean drink. 

*

Autumn was so hot and the water was irresistible. My colleague, Aisha, sixty five, who had always tried her best for her clients, said that seawater was effective for my skin; I had believed this since I swam in Union Island. There were a few teenager playing on the beach in Laborie. After changing into my swim trunks, I soaked in the sea; scrubbing my face, scalp, especially my crotch, including pubic hair rather than washing. I did not know what that would be like. Then all at once I dared to swim, but at the same time, it was pitiful that this passed as a distraction.

I had long since ceased visiting clients and endured the itchiness with fortitude―ice and Permethrin seemed to help paralyze it. However, I have enough time to mull over my life. I did not really like my job. As a result of neglecting to study when I was young, I was a blue-collar worker. Never having admitted this, I was the least bit ashamed of what I did for a living. 

Winter was a little cool. The itchiness and rash had subsided. In the morning, I got up when I wanted to, because there was no work, and yet nothing had been schedule. In the kitchen, dozens of grapefruits I got from my colleague and a blender rested on the well-built shelve. I peeled one of them and put in blender.

After a leisurely breakfast, I checked the DBS news on Ipad sipping a strong bitter coffee. My favorite thing was to study English: I must have read the English text books in the daytime. When I was hungry I cooked dinner: crispy toast, fried eggs, and big local chicken. Though I was thrifty, but the meal delicious. Every single day. Every evening I went running and worked out at home, able to conquer myself.

At night, my spacious bedroom was dimly lit from above by just one or two lights. Unlike hot season, taking a shower offered catharsis. I had settled on the sofa―the fan blowing straight at me―drinking, listening to grunge rock such as Pearl Jam, whose sound reverberated within the bare concrete walls. I no longer wanted to go back to Japan.

It was spring when I detected the sign of the itch. As usual, it had proliferated rapidly. Why could not I heal completely? I was diagnosed with the itch, so naturally unable to work. I had made the best of it: cleaning my room, washing my underwear, using medicine and going to the sea. Of course, I do not have any pets as dogs and cats. What more can I do? It was hard not to think of it as the itch. If not, is it something like allergy? No, no. Because I had never one since I was a child because when I ate mangoes, as you might know, I felt happy. 

I had washed clothes by hand in the sink outside. That was so outdated. How dare that bitch. The landlord’s wife blamed me on breaking the washing machine, an old one with twin tub that took time and effort. As I scrounged them and wrung them out, it felt like the skin on my hands were torn. I lifted the bundle of laundry and put into a spin tub that worked properly. Unable to wait until that was done, I walked into the trees on the adjacent property, and there, hanging in bunches, were mangoes. I climbed up the tree to a big one.

I enjoyed the benefits from the lifestyle in a Caribbean country. Above all the secret that I could not speak of, I did not work hard all the time like the Japanese do; I had learned to slack off at clients’ houses―leaning back against the couch, chatting with the clients or enjoying tropical fruits that were abundant in this country.

May was hot. It had been eight months since I came to Saint Lucia. As I loitered about my house, I found a riot of mangoes in the dense cluster of trees on the property, where sheep was grazed. As I moved closer to them, I saw my neighbor’s dog barking at me. I gingerly climbed up a tree, picked  big green pinkish ones, and dropped between the rocks covered the weeds. My arms full of them, I went to my house. It took at least five days to ripen. I had done so occasionally, and as I choose a ripe one and ate, I felt giddy that I was doing something different from my regular meals.

*

Feeling my hands was itchy, I had woken up in the middle of the night. There were mosquitoes everywhere and I had had rashes on most of my body. One night, I could not bear that anymore, especially between my fingers, even my cock. It occurred to me that I had scabies because I had done that before. I rushed to the bathroom slipping off my clothes. While taking a shower, I had let out a scream of the itchiness of my skin. The more I scratched the rashes, the more I felt better, so that it got even worse.

In the morning, I headed to VFort Health Center. “I think scabies live in my skin,” I said, embarrassed a little. I stood still, naked, in front of the dermatologist, who examined my entire body. “That’s for sure,” she sat down at the stool and turned to the laptop. “Do you have Ivermectin(anthelmintic)?” I asked. “I know it’s a potent pill. In Japan, I had used it before. It worked much better than the ointment.” She seemed to look something up on the laptop. “Permethrin is enough for the rashes. They could be better soon. Every one had been healed. But, if you want it, go to St Jude Hospital. You may be able to get it.” I sighed, but smiled at her, covering my disappointment. “I will go from now.” “Okay. Next Tuesday. Come. I’m going to be here.”

St Jude Hospital was a sports stadium with olympic symbol. The interior was converted into a medical facility. It was a rainy afternoon and a dense humidity I could barely agree with induced the itchiness. I had shown the pharmacist the rushes between my fingers in an exaggeration. “You could get it at Victoria Hospital,” the pharmacist said. “Or America.” That upset me to guess there was no Ivermectin in this country. No matter what, I wanted to avoid going back to Japan, where Japanese never stop. I want to have time to breath and live in Eden like Saint Lucia.

As soon as I came back home. I put the doormat away and cleaned my house. Every morning I put my underwear and the bedding into hot water, washed, and had them dry under the sun. Applying Permethrin to my whole skin gave me temporary relief of itch and rash―to the extent that I slept through them somewhat. But after a couple of nights, I had found myself scratching my hands and felt anxious about the itch that was sure to return; craving to get Ivermectin I believed would obliterate the scabies. At least I have to keep getting Permethrin.

“Why isn’t the skin doctor coming? I’ve been waiting for her since early in this morning,” I said, wishing I could have set a time. “I didn’t know,” said a caregiver wearing the well-tailored yellow outfit. “I suppose she is at home and spend with her family. You should wait.” Her words did not astonished me, recalling my colleagues was always late and that they sometimes skipped work: eating lunch with her family, visiting her friends or shopping at Massy Stores. The only thing I did not comprehend was that grown men was at home during the day; drinking Piton beers on the terrace in a breeze. I was jealous, but how wonderful it would be to enjoy a happy carefree life.

It was past three. “Do you know when the skin doctor will come?” I asked another caregiver. “I’m not sure, Perhaps she is on vacation.” I did not know what to made of this. Next day, a physician prescribed me Permethrin.

The route from Vieux Fort to Castries―by bus of some sixteen minutes―was the steep winding road in the woods. I had seen the Japanese doctor via telemedicine and had my mother send me Ivermectin. It took two weeks to arrive. I loathed waste of any kind, and when receiving some parcels, I needed to go to Castries, the capital, and when the reckless driver jolted, I felt sick. But now I was going to become free of the itch that drove me mad all night, so I dreamed of Union Island in Saint Vincent―the waters is far crystal clearer than those of Saint Lucia. It thrilled me that I would make the most of my vacation.