Hole in My Life by Jack Gantos Read Free Book Online Page B

pharmaceuticals from Europe and underground labs. Then U.S.-registered pleasure boats would haul the cargo up to Florida, where it was easy to unload into trucks at any backyard dock along the intercoastal waterway.
    But all I did was smoke it. I never thought dope would
lead to trouble, and I certainly had no idea it would land my ass in jail.
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    While I was in Key West smoking dope and wondering when I would find my writer’s voice, everything in St. Croix had changed. Racial tension in St. Croix had always run high. There were a lot of white haves and a lot more black have-nots. The tension mounted when a radical black party, based on the Black Panthers, formed and publicly called for white extermination. The racial divide widened, and the anger boiled. Homes were broken into. People were murdered. Stores were looted. Hotels hired extra security to patrol the grounds and beaches. Tourism dropped.
    The news media picked up the story and before long the wealthy white people who were living in the States and building retirement homes in St. Croix decided to cancel their house jobs. It was that sudden. Now, nobody was working, black or white.
    The story must have been reported in the Florida papers, but in Key West I was “too busy” to read one and didn’t hear about the situation until after I arrived. By then, it was too late to turn around. All my father’s building jobs had been canceled. I was trapped. Instead of finding ourselves building new homes or hotels, my father and I worked at building large wooden packing containers to fill the need of the hundreds of
people who were scrambling to empty their homes and ship their belongings off island. The white exodus was on.
    All day I built crates. Because money was tight I didn’t draw a paycheck and instead reluctantly agreed with Dad to be paid in room and board. With the little money I brought from the States I just managed to keep gas in my car. And there was no way I was going to save money for college. After my year of racial harmony at the King’s Court I found the turmoil in St. Croix very disturbing. I understood the black point of view, but there was no way I could get them to see my sympathies. I was just another white target on legs. The level of anger was beyond reason. Black activists were preaching white extermination and the place was getting ready to explode. It wasn’t long before I wondered if I could build a crate and ship myself off the island.
    One morning after I had just smoked a joint rolled from old roaches a man came in with hand-drawn plans for a crate which included a false bottom about four inches deep. I remember him in detail. His name was Rik. He was in his late twenties, blond, shag haircut, green eyes, and a silver-dollarsized circular burn scar on his forehead. When I asked about the scar he said it came from being shot with a flare gun.
    â€œWhat was that like?” I asked.
    â€œBlinding,” he said dryly.
    I didn’t ask more, but he said he was shipping art and archaeological
artifacts that needed extra protection. Fine, I thought, let him ship the crown jewels. It was none of my business.
    After work I went down to the dockside bar where all the whites tanked up on duty-free Heineken.
    I took a seat at the bar, next to my dad. As I looked across the room I spotted the guy with the scar sitting by himself. “What do you think of that guy?” I asked.
    My dad took one look at him and had him pegged.
    â€œHe’s a dope smuggler,” he replied.
    â€œHow do you know that?” I asked.
    â€œJust do,” he said. “It’s a gift I have.”
    I told him the guy had ordered a crate with a false bottom.
    â€œHe probably wants to smuggle cash or dope or gold into the States.”
    â€œMaybe,” I said. “Or maybe he has Indian artifacts or pottery or stuff he doesn’t want shippers to find.”
    â€œDon’t be naïve,” he said.