{Photo of Morning Glory Cottage used in a Calendar}
The next candidate for Toxic Avenger was Lola, the lady from across the street. The day after discovering the Giant Cacti had been doused with diesel I happened to glance across the road and saw Miss Lola pouring diesel fuel from a gallon milk jug in several spots around her yard. She saw me and cackled loudly, “Fire-ants, fire-ants, Ize killin’ da fire-ants, heh-heh, heh-heh-heh,” as she fairly leaped around with glee at her handiwork. “Yah Mon, Ize killin’ da fire ants, deys bod over ‘ere, very bod, da diesel fuel she kill ‘em good doh.” She just kept laughing insanely and dancing around manically as she continued pouring diesel fuel around the sandy yard.
This of course piqued my curiosity and put her high on the list of likely perps. The whole point of who had done the dirty-deed was really moot, but I was just intrigued being curious by nature and always ready to try and solve a mystery. While staying upwind of Lola and her toxic ministrations I casually asked her if she knew anything about the poisoning of the Cacti. This really seemed to wind her up and she started shrieking about how those cactuses were used during Slave Times to protect Whitey from attack by any rebellious Slaves. In fact, this was true, and had I heard the same story while on St. Johns, Virgin Islands.
White settlers would surround their houses with all manner of spiny cacti to ward off intruders. She was practically foaming at the mouth over the whole subject of Cactus and how they should all be destroyed wherever they grew. Very interesting: Of course the cactus is an equal opportunity offender and I had heard my apartment dwelling neighbor who basically ran a chop-shop complain numerous times about how dangerous those Giant Cacti were. So we had Mark the vandal who liked to torch things with diesel, the nut-job from across the road who hated Cactus and loved diesel fuel and the mechanic who despised the Cacti and kept no end of large quantities of toxic fluids in and around his apartment.
So, there were several potential candidates for the vandalism. In any event, my only recourse was to seek out the apartment manager from next door and convince her that the problem had to be fixed. Fortunately, some of the other apartment dwellers were beginning to complain about the psychoticly deadly smelly pollution situation: Fortunately after much whining and moaning by your’s truly, the manager finally and reluctantly agreed to tackle the problem.
By now it was Wednesday and as we were scheduled to have our guests sitting down to lunch at noon on Friday, I rolled up my sleeves, grabbed a shovel and went over to help out. It was a Herculean task. It really required a back-hoe to dig up the 6 400-500lb monsters, but there was no way the manager could pay for one, plus there was no way to get a back-hoe in the area where the digging needed doing. So she hired the 2 Jamaicans who did odd-jobs for the apartment complex.
In theory these guys were Maintenance Men, but that was really stretching the truth. Don’t get me wrong, some of the hardest working humans I’ve ever met were Jamaican. But these 2 clowns were ganja-smoking layabouts that could turn a 1 hour job into a week-long career. I had watched them numerous times while they were supposed to be painting the exterior of the 20 unit Apartment building. Out of an 8-hour day, they probably actually worked a total of 20 minutes. I didn’t want to rat them out, but on this job, I was determined that they actually do what they were supposed to. Again, it was a ginormous job, but I insisted that the manager ride herd on them while she could and I never left them alone for the next 3 days.
First, the Cactus had to be cut in sections using a chain-saw. Each section weighed around a hundred pounds and were covered in spikes. They had to be placed gingerly into a wheelbarrow and carted off. This scenario was repeated for all six plants. Then the root systems had to be dug out by hand, and extensive roots they had. The roots had absorbed the diesel and an area a couple of feet around the plants was soaked with fuel, so it had to be dug up and hauled away. I am still baffled by the enormity of the vandalous act as at least 20 gallons of diesel fuel had been poured over and around the Cacti.
I worked like a Trojan right along side the “Maintainence Men” and it was brutal. If not for the constant Trade Winds blowing to offer some relief from the heat, I would probably have died in the doing of it. But, finally, by 11:00 am Friday, the last wheelbarrow load of sand was hauled up to the street and disposed of.
I went home, had a quick shower and was dressed and ready for our guests who arrived moments later, escorted them out to the porch over-looking the sea and proceeded to have one of the nicest, most relaxing afternoons I’ve ever spent. The breeze was cool and sweet, the food was excellent, the guests imbibed their drinks and lingered over coffee and dessert, never knowing what a battle had taken place to make the scene safe for human habitation.
That afternoon as we bade our guests a fond farewell, I caught my breath as I smelled the unmistakable stench of burning rubber. I looked across the road and there was Lola, cooking over an outdoor fire which she often did, but this time with one noticeable difference. Instead of a steel grill, she had placed a section of plastic/rubber coated steel shelving over the bed of hot wood. You’ve probably seen the shelves, made for closets and storage, they are shaped much like a grill or oven rack but coated in rubber to protect the steel from rusting. So, as I watched the rubber melting and oozing into her food, I decided that this method of outdoor cooking should be avoided if at all possible. Bon Appetit!









