The Dark Side of the Moon

Chapter 1 I landed on Jojo island with a return ticket and ten bucks in my pocket, my only earthly possessions being the white cotton shirt and the beige flannel trousers I was wearing and the pair of canvas shoes I had on. It was almost dusk when I finally clambered out of that crappy tin can that smelled of puke and gas which they called Central Pacific Air, every muscle in my body stiff and sore after sitting still for more than a whole f*****g day. I could use some early slumber and I decided to stay in the airport lounge for the first night after doing some background check. I cleaned myself in the public washroom and slept like a log on a bench in a corner. I had to survive for one month on this island and for that I needed to practice some economy. My first proper day on Jojo island which followed was all in all a success. I knew I had to get to the central city of the West coast to kick things off. After walking for a couple of miles, I got a lift to what they called “downtown west” and then I had some breakfast at the nearest diner I saw and by noon I was able to find work at an auto repair shop. Not bad! In this part of the island there seemed to be too many job vacancies of all sorts. Perhaps most of the travelers had enough money to focus only on the vacation. And I was pretty good at fixing up cars, so I wasn’t in much of a dilemma about my choice of temporary vocation. When the evening set in, I started my quest for some cheap place to stay but a rather hot red head I met on the way relieved me of that burden and promised to find me a good place on the following day if I agreed to spend the night at her place. So much for the vacation spirit. I learned that she was Scottish, an architect student and she was an admirable companion indeed. By the dawn of the next day, I had already jumped to the conclusion that this summer was going to be one of a kind. Jojo islands is the name of the country which consists of a cluster of small islands located in the central pacific ocean. The Jojo island  is the largest island of those and also the most densely populated. While the rest of the small islands cater exclusively to the crazy rich tourists, Jojo island remains diverse with an interesting mixture of nationalities, races and various social classes. Even the poorest of the poor can plan a vacation in this place if they can afford air tickets. There is sun, long sandy beaches, tall waves and wildlife scattered evenly throughout, but as a result of some unknown phenomenon, those who are looking for cheap stuff such as the unemployed, students heavy on loans, working class families or even some middle class families who are either thrifty or don’t have enough money to throw around, tend to stick to the west part of the island. You can find places ranging from three-star hotels and villas to dingy-looking hostels in the west city. Also, there are cafes, spas and clubs that provide plenty of entertainment for a wide range of prices. To the far west, the buildings become little more compact, roads become a little less clean and people look a little more idle, mostly high as f**k, but as you head towards east, the lanes are neater and wider, boutiques and diners are more spacious and chic and roads get swarmed with decent looking tourists and upper middle class locals. The east coast, on the other hand is lined with luxurious villas and five star hotels and notably it seems to have more space for trees, flowers and nature. There are modern looking apartments, government offices and department buildings in the central city, completed with respectable looking restaurants and coffee shops. The weather on the island is purely tropical. There’s plenty of sunshine from morning to evening and at noon the heat becomes almost unbearable. But with the constant breeze blowing from the sea and the cool shade of the massive evergreen trees you could easily have a midday nap, which is if you can afford it. With the sunset, which is always as glorious as the sun rise, the air becomes cool, the nights are cooler and at dawn it gets nearly cold. The locals are either white, mostly Americans or Hispanics, they speak English and seem to be in a never ending state of vacation. They trust people on what they tell you, they don’t worry about papers when it comes to the recruitment of temporary employment and they accept you in any way you present yourself. All in all it is a perfect place for a wanted criminal or an escaped prisoner to start a new life. Or for a drifter with no background story like me to start a new life. The tourists are again mostly coming from United States and the rest form a pretty good diversity. So I told my mechanic pals that I was from Texas; I wished I could be from Minnesota, that would have been more fun but my skin tone is naturally darker and, on top of that I already had a tan. I hung out and had a great time with two fellow Americans from Boston and Louisiana, one Mexican, one Romanian guy, who accepted me from the start and never had a doubt. In secret I laughed at my American accent, not only was it lousy, blokes seemed to have developed a sort of a fondness for my fake cowboy appeal. We worked all day except on weekends, there was a shift for weekends; by the end of the day we got drunk at the nearest pub or we drank beer on the beach, sometimes two or three of us slipped away in the afternoon for some surfing or swimming and on weekends we strolled about every nook and corner of the west coast. On my lucky days I got laid with some pretty tourist girl. During the first week I stayed at a hostel in the far west. It was rather a shady place, cheapest by all means and less crowded, perhaps due to that creepy shadiness and of course the whole place was infested by meth heads, cocaine addicts and other drug users and a few broke guys like myself who didn’t give a s**t. But most ironically, one morning after I had finished my business in the bathroom  (which was shared) and it would not flush away, I had enough of it. That day I felt embarrassed about my s**t for the first time in my life, literally and figuratively, and I also overcame it (didn’t have much of a choice, there was a queue) and figured that the place was full of s**t. That day I moved to a motel where I could have my own toilet. The motel was three miles to the east from the hostel, which was an upgrade according to Jojo standards. It was still old, musty and not so clean. It was not entirely deserted or run by a psychopath killer but it felt lonelier there at night than in the hostel. So from the following night onwards I started actively seeking for girls and ended up pulling off almost a perfect Barney week but man can you believe it, after fifth night I realized I needed the rest. Imagine it! I was twenty five f*****g years old and was feeling weary! And then I realized it was not fair, it was never once for one night, girls on vacation are insatiable and I was overworking and underpaid. Then the beer started tasting like piss, the other cheap spirits, horse piss and after two bar fights and a lively real gang fight on the beach at the end of two weeks I had enough with the west coast.  I had bought myself a couple more clothes, some swim wear and beach wear, sandals and a second hand phone with my earnings, but with what had been spent on food, booze and girls (yes, girls did cost a bit alright, when you couldn’t shake off that gentleman s**t, according to my pals), I didn’t have much for savings. What I needed was a job from east coast. ***** It was a Saturday night and I was at a seaside pub, sipping beer and listening to two German guys insulting each other. I was sitting on a stool placed outside, facing the beach and the wind was blowing. Suddenly a newspaper swept out of nowhere and landed over my face. I crumpled it up, cursing under my breath and shrugged to the guy next to me who thought it was mildly funny. I looked around for a trash can and having seen none, sighed miserably and fiddled with it, sulking. I was attracting trash, maybe I was not suited to the east coast. I had spent a couple of hours asking around for a job in the east side and couple more hours browsing the internet and hunting for any vacancy but there were none. I smoothed out the crumpled paper. It was a classifieds page of a Sunday paper which was one week old. I skimmed through the advertisements and halted at the bottom of the second column. “Temporary personal assistant needed for a private investigator on vacation” Fuck a duck and see what hatches! So guys, this is how weird s**t happens in life. I didn’t know what exactly I expected but I wanted to give it a try. I didn’t even look at the rest of the advertisements. I tore up the piece and stood up and it took me another five minutes to find the trash bin. I decided I was too drunk to call the newspaper office, it didn’t occur to me that it was probably closed because it was 11.45 p.m. On the following day I found the piece of paper in my wallet. Little did I know then that it was meant for my nonexistent scrap book. Well, I still have it in my wallet. I called the newspaper office and got a name and a telephone number. The name was “Albie Lester”. It sounded promising, I liked the name. I asked the lady on the line whether there were many other responses. One thing I absolutely hated was disappointments at large. “I’m afraid you are the only one who called,” replied the girl in a suspiciously amused tone and I could see her smirk in my head. Then I wondered if Albie Lester was gay and looking for some summer adventure. Why should a private investigator on vacation look for a temporary PA. There was more than one pair of words in the whole advertisement that raised suspicions. Nevertheless the lady at the newspaper office should have kept her prejudices aside while on duty. It hurt me to think about the adversaries faced by the gay community even in the twenty first century. And maybe, just maybe after twenty five straight years I was going to discover my homosexuality. I didn’t care. I could at least practice shooting with this Albie Lester. I hoped he was not senile. I tried to find an Albie Lester, P.I on the internet before I tried the phone number but without any success. I was bit nervous all right. And the number was not reachable. I waited for some time and tried again. Still not reachable. “Hey hey Joe, my man, what did I tell you about using the phone at work?’ Simon, the anxious supervisor/ assistant manager of the shop yelled from somewhere. Joe was my name at the workplace. During the lunch break I called the newspaper office again and explained my situation. After verifying my statement the lady was gracious enough to agree to give me the home address of Albie Lester. It was indeed an address from east coast. It was not by the sea, Albie Lester probably wasn’t crazy rich but it was within a convenient walking distance to east downtown and the beach. According to the street view the place looked like a modern town house apartment, white washed with a green roof, a balcony facing the street and what looked like a rooftop garden. I felt impatient to visit the place and meet the mystery man, so I begged Simon for a half day and went off to the motel to make myself presentable. I scrubbed myself thoroughly to get rid of the dirt and the grease and looked at myself in the mirror. My hair had grown longer than I expected and so had my beard. I decided not to shave it off because clean shaven with longer hair, I had this damnable tendency to look pretty. Too pretty to be straight as gay dudes put it. Thus I trimmed the beard until I looked decent enough for a personal assistant. I put on my cleanest white shirt and cream color trousers and tucked the shirt in. I wished I had brown leather shoes to match, but there, I was poor and had to be content with my canvas shoes. Then I set off for the Pedler’s Street, east coast.