Mad Days of Me: Finding Eivissa

By Henry Martin

This is the second book in the Mad Days of Me, trilogy.

Astray on an unfamiliar island following his unconventional escape from Barcelona, without shelter and abandoned by his companions, an unlikely relationship becomes Rudy's only hope to settle down. Plunged into a world of uncontested authority, former lovers, and a past as perverted as his own, struggling to reconcile with his own mistakes, hope proves to be exhausting to hold on to.

This is a story of human spirit in the face of the impossible. This is a story of perseverance, and the power of dreaming. It is a story of hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Henry Martin
• Release date: Aug 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301788767

Henry Martin

Henry Martin was born in 1986. Growing up he found that he was always facinated by how things worked, later on this would lead to becoming an engineer. Always using his imagination to design or create, along with his avid love of reading, he turned toward his new passion of writing. The Revolution Road storyline is his first attempt at something he truly enjoys doing.

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Mad Days of Me

Book Two:

Finding Eivissa

Henry Martin

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 by Henry Martin

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED WORLDWIDE

The following is a work of fiction. All names, places, characters and incidents are either the by-product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any person living, dead, or otherwise, or events or locales is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the author.

Cover Design Copyright © 2013 by Henry Martin

Front Cover Image Woman on Beach by George Hodan, Public Domain image courtesy of PublicDomainPictures.net

To all who hope

Chapter I

As the massive rotors push from underneath, the ferry’s steel keel lets out a series of frightening squeaks. The engine roars a few times, then picks up speed. After a short period of extreme vibration, the monotone clapping of the diesel motors silences all abounding sounds...clap, clap...the steel monster slips over the moderate waves across the Mediterranean Sea towards our destination.

Bill, Josh, Karl, and I lie underneath an eighteen–wheeler—a dark, unfriendly place at the bottom of the ship. Just us and the darkness—a rather queer feeling. The ferry gently bounces; each new wave makes it move up and down, but once we leave the harbor things calm down a bit. We wait for about an hour, afraid to step out, afraid of being caught. We are still too close to the shore for comfort—the captain could turn around and hand us over to the port authorities.

Bill takes out a cigarette pack and passes it around.

Are you crazy? I ask, before he has the chance to light it. I am sure that they have some kind of a smoke detector in the cargo area; in addition, our clothes are soiled with diesel fuel as the result of our unconventional entry.

What’s your problem? He looks at me angrily; his eyes are but two slits reflecting the glow of the exit signs.

I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t want to burst in to flames like a torch.

He’s right, Josh chimes in. Put it away!

Bill reluctantly obeys. We crawl out from underneath the truck and stretch. It feels so good to be able to straighten the spine. I look around—nothing but vehicles. When the loading personnel had left, they switched the main lights off, so all that illuminates the hull is a single row of dim emergency exit signs lined up along the corridor of the ship. Steel and steel beams. Every step we take resonates throughout the massive iron cave. The darkness is squeezing me on the inside...I have to get out to fresh air.

Not too far from where we sit, a spiral staircase winds up to the upper level. We try it, only to find a steel door with a massive handle at the top. Although I don’t have the slightest idea what awaits us on the other side, I reach for it and push it down. It gives way; with a squeak, the door swings open, and a vacant deck meets us with its wrap–around iron railing. The sea stretches as far as the eye can see—there are no streets, no cars, no people, and no light pollution—only the bright stars over our heads glisten atop the waves like diamond dust. We have made it! After all the suffering, it is finally here. Freedom. Freedom from the madness of the city, freedom from the cruelty of humanity and the indifference that goes along with it; a chance for a new life, a chance for a new beginning. I have been waiting over three months for this, and now, seeing the open waters, I am overwhelmed. I take a deep breath; the fresh sea air enters my lungs, expanding them to the limit. At first, the brisk freshness of the air hurts, but then, as I exhale, I feel the ultimate relief, shedding away the last resisting restrictions imposed on me by the life in the city. At last! The shackles, which used to keep me down, and the curse, had been broken, rendering me no longer a slave to the streets.

A little farther down the deck, another staircase leads to the upper decks, and then one more, which takes us to the highest point on the ship, above the passenger cabins, above the captain’s bridge. We pause next to a satellite antenna, near the radar, which quietly purrs as it oscillates around its base. The stars are bright and the sea waves sparkle in the moonlight—an ultimate peace. Down below, the engines roar, the passengers stroll in and out of the deck, and the bright lights of a restaurant remind me of food. From the other end of the ship, the sounds of music and the bouncing laser lights hint at a dance floor busy with travelers.

I’m hungry, says Karl, let's eat something.

I look at him. He is gazing at the restaurant. So, I’m not the only one who has seen it.

We climb down the stairs. The restaurant is set up as a buffet, with a shiny brass railing separating the self–serving bar from the eating area. We get in line, slowly moving forward one step at a time, keeping pace with the others. As soon as we are close enough to see the meals and the price tags, it becomes clear—the little money we have between us is hardly enough for a decent meal. The decision? It’s unacceptable...I’d rather starve. After all those months in Barcelona, I cannot envision anything worse than arriving on the island with empty pockets. Not again, I’ve had more than my fair share of being left at the mercy of others.

From the corner of my eye, I spot Bill sticking a bottle of wine under his jacket. Damn. I look around. No one seems alarmed, and so I follow suit and hide one under my T–shirt. The cold glass touches my skin and sends shivers through my belly. Carefully, I turn around and manage to leave the line undetected. Outside, Bill and Josh are already waiting for me, and Karl joins us soon afterwards. We walk behind the restaurant.

Look what I got, Bill says proudly as he brandishes the bottle of wine.

Yeah, I saw you. I lift my T–shirt and take my bottle out. I got one as well.

Me too! Karl pulls one from his waistband.

Bill bursts into laughter, and I cannot help but to join him. We all turn to Josh.

What! he says. I got nothing...alright.

A few minutes ago we were empty handed and now there are three bottles of chilled wine at our disposal. This trip is turning out quite well. Still, we went in to get some food and not to get wasted.

Hey guys, Josh suddenly calls out, get over here!

We find him around the corner, his face brightened.

What is it? Bill asks.

Look what I found, he says proudly, as he points at a small round window.

We peek in. On the other side of the wall is the restaurant kitchen, full of the usual kitchen stuff.

Yeah?

Look, you idiot! He turns to me. Don’t you see the fucking baking pan?

And there it is...sitting atop a counter, a large baking pan full of juicy meat glistening under the lights.

Help me in!

Bill and Karl lift him up. As he slides through the window, Josh falls in to the kitchen, head first. He lands on a counter, cussing, and sends a frying pan tumbling to the floor. The impact resonates throughout the closed space. We duck.

Fortunately, no one seems to have noticed the commotion. As we stand up, I see Josh dart across the kitchen and grab the baking pan with the meat. He is already back at the window, sliding it out. Bill grabs it from his hand, and a few seconds later, Josh’s head follows the same path. Karl pulls him out. We run up the stairs, all the way to the top, where we sit down under the oscillating radar. Everyone breathes heavily, and my heart pumps with excitement. We stand the wine bottles up against the railing and lay the pan full of meat on the floor. It looks delicious—our little private feast. Not one of us, however, possesses a corkscrew.

Pass me a bottle, Bill nods to me. He pulls a pencil out of his pocket and pushes the cork in. After taking a good hit, he hands the wine back to me. Somewhere behind us lies Barcelona, and with it, all that I grew to associate with misery. Out here, under the open sky, we chew on roasted beef and drink cooled wine, while the stars flicker overhead. The fact that both the food and the drinks were stolen does not even bother me. Free at last—from the city and from my conscience.

After the fabulous meal, we throw the pan into the sea—we don’t need to leave any compromising evidence lying around. The ever–present stench of diesel fuel rises from my clothes, so I take my jacket off and tie it to the railing. Finally, I can enjoy the refreshing scent of sea salt. I sit down and light a cigarette, feeling the nicotine trickle into my bloodstream. The harmonious splashing of the waves against the keel, the constant clapping of the diesel engines, the stars above, the nicotine—all is calm and I relax, motionless, for the longest time since this journey began.

Let’s check out the nightclub, Bill says, breaking the serenity. He gets up, followed by Karl and Josh.

I put my jacket back on, and we start down the staircase and towards the other end of the ship.

It is not a big place. A mirror ball hangs from the ceiling above a parquet floor; some colored lights and a couple of strobes shoot beams across a bar with high stools and the few tables and lounge sofas near the wall. The wine is taking its toll on me—I feel loose, my limbs move to the beat. There is a DJ somewhere, but I cannot seem to find him. The music is mellow, unobtrusive. Some people move to the rhythm in the middle of the dance floor, and the omnipresent smell of cheap perfume is all around me. Occasionally, from somewhere below the dance floor, a puff of artificial smoke enters the air. Overall, it is not an unpleasant place.

As I look around I can see that we must really stick out—the people in here are all dressed decently, even nicely—us, on the other hand, the complete opposite. I still have on the same clothes I have been wearing for over three months, and the appearance of my companions is not much better. To top it all off, we have our bags with us. Well, the Irishmen do. Karl and I have only our sleeping bags.

Maybe we better buy a drink, says Bill. People are starting to stare.

I agree.

We stash our baggage near one of the sofas and sit at the bar. The waiter smiles, the DJ plays a cool tune, and we order scotch on the rocks. As we sip our drinks, a man seats himself next to us.

Have you been in Mallorca before? I ask, turning to him.

Mallorca, he replies, looking rather astounded. Why Mallorca?

That’s where we are heading...isn’t it?

He gives me what is certainly the strangest look of the day—twisted lips and wide open eyes—then starts laughing. You are on the wrong ferry, he chuckles, this one goes to Ibiza.

A moment of silence. We all look at one other, in shock.

Where? Bill mutters, as if he didn’t hear the man. Are you sure?

Of course I am sure, I live there, the man says in an annoyed tone, then turns back to his drink.

What follows is a short exchange amongst us, none too pleasant. Karl cusses all the while slamming his fist into his other hand. There is no doubt that this is significant—the worst possible thing that could happen. Somehow, the Irishmen snigger.

What the fuck are we going to do? I look at them, sensing my face is turning red with anger. This is not funny!

Calm down. Bill cuts me off.

I have never heard of Ibiza, but the Irishmen did. It is supposed to be some kind of a party island. Still, neither of us knows anything about it, nor do we have any contacts or knowledge of where to go once we get there. At least in Mallorca, there was Magaluf and the possibility of landing a job. But Ibiza?

Don’t worry, the stranger interrupts, there is plenty of work. Just head to Sant Antoni de Portmany, you’ll find something.

This isn’t starting well. After all the trouble and the danger, we end up on the wrong ship. The stranger finishes his drink and leaves. I sit on a sofa next to our bags, and think how depressing this is getting to be. Nothing ever seems to go easy for me, as if I carry a strange curse. The guys are not impressed either. We spent the next few hours quietly, thinking of what to do.

The sun is rising. Never having experienced sunrise at the sea, I take my sleeping bag and head outside. There are more people on the deck now; I decide to go to the top next to the radar where it will be quieter. I sit down and light a cigarette. The sun sets the horizon ablaze while the ferry remains surrounded by darkness. In awe, I take in the sea for the first time from this perspective—as if the water and the sky were connected, slightly round at the edges. Not a single cloud stains the beauty of the sky, the colors bright and pure. There are too many shades of red, yellow, and orange to count; too many colors I've never seen before or can even name. As far as the eye can see, just water. The ferry leaves behind its tail a streak of white foam, a sharp contrast against the deep monotone blue of the sea. Later, when the guys come to join me, I begin to spot a few seagulls flying above. We must be getting closer to the land.

And then I see it—the shoreline—and it is spectacular. In front of the morning sun stands a shining city erected towards the heavens like a labyrinth. Towers and rooftops reflect the sun’s rays, playing a visual game that is both intriguing and entertaining. The clay Spanish roof tiles run across the blocks of buildings, as a never–ending red sea. From the blue depths of the Mediterranean to the rooftops, the sea embraces everything. High above the houses stands an ancient fortress. The shooters’ openings and the cannons, which point to the sea, are empty, staring at me with a queer antiquity. In my mind though, they may as well be full of arrows and gunpowder, ready to attack, ready to discourage any intruders. A few hundred years ago, an arrival to these secluded parts would have meant a certain death or at least a great loss of life to the warriors invading this island. Today, only a flag high above the fortress trembles in the wind. The sound of the war horn has been replaced by the deep honk of a sea horn, announcing the ferry’s arrival instead of a slaughter. I am in awe, not knowing what to expect next. And while the once volatile environment of the Mediterranean is now one of peace, it is not to me—I’m an intruder in these lands, an undesirable foreigner disposed at the mercy of the people.

Will I be welcome here? Will I be able to sustain myself, or is this going to be my next Barcelona? I came a long way to escape the madness, yet I remain vulnerable. Will this island be the gateway to a new life, a chance for a new beginning, or will it become my grave? Only time will tell. One thing is for sure: my physical health will not allow me to endure much more. Deprived of nutrients and vitamins for far too long, my once perfectly fitting clothes hang off me, giving me the appearance of a scarecrow.

As we draw nearer, I begin to notice more details: From speedboats to sailing yachts, the marina boasts a large variety of ships, small and large, tall and lean. A sea of colors and shapes. Alongside the marina, lined with palm trees, a terracotta–tiled promenade winds itself along the shore. There is something friendly about all this; I am going to be alright. Unsure why I suddenly feel this way, it helps me to calm down and regain my composure nonetheless.

The ferry enters the harbor. The captain skillfully brings this large chunk of steel to a slow stop, changes the direction of the rotors, and then we slide sideways, coming to a stop next to the pier. The anchor pierces the water surface; the thick ropes land on the shore and are promptly tied down by the skillful dock crew. As the large cargo door opens, the engines roar, but once the ramp hits the dock, all falls into silence. The beast has opened its belly. The passengers begin to line up to leave, the truck drivers head to the cargo area. We walk down the stairs and join the line. The stewards, all the while smiling, dispatch passengers out onto the bridge connecting us with the shore. And then I see them—two police cruisers parked next to the exit from the harbor. I spot four or five uniformed policemen nonchalantly strolling among the exiting passengers. They don’t appear to be paying much attention; however, our miserable appearance plays even sharper contrast with the crowd here, in the broad daylight. If we raise any suspicion, the cops may ask us for our tickets or, worse, for papers, and I do not want to run that risk.

We stick out too much, I say to the guys, it doesn’t feel right.

They stop. Bill looks around and points to the cops who now stand near the bridge, taking more interest in the passengers.

Do you think they’d seen us?

Nah, says Josh, you worry too much.

Karl, nevertheless, agrees with me. Let’s get out of here through the cargo door.

Despite Josh’s protests, we head down the stairs to where the trucks are. The place swarms with people waiting to sit in their vehicles. An attendant or two are trying to organize the process, making the chaos seem reasonable. The truck drivers all stand together, smoking, talking about their rigs. Since the wide–open cargo door lets in plenty of daylight, it looks very different from what we thought it to be last night, when we sneaked in under the veil of darkness. For one thing, it is much bigger, full of big rigs and passenger cars—plenty of obstacles to hide behind.

Looking for a possible way to escape undetected, we walk towards the lowered ramp. Suddenly, Karl abruptly stops and hides besides the opening. He waves to us to come closer. Just my luck, there are two cops standing by the ramp and checking license plates. Damn it...they must be looking for someone. After enduring the difficulty of getting in, now we must face this new obstacle in order to get out. For a minute, I consider staying in, until the place empties and everyone leaves, but then I look at the parking lot outside. There, in rows, vehicles destined for the mainland clearly wait for a loading signal. As soon as the cargo space empties, they will start bringing them in. We have no time to waste, we must get out now.

Karl, Bill, Josh, and I have an emergency meeting. After a short discussion, it is decided: We’ll wait until both police officers are on the same side of the ramp and then we’ll try to sneak out behind a leaving vehicle. Fortunately, one of the cops seems to want a smoke—he pulls a pack from his pocket, and finding it empty, he heads toward his partner. At the same time, an eighteen–wheeler emerges from the cargo space. This is our moment! One by one, we duck behind its wheels. This may actually work. As long as the driver doesn’t see us in his rearview mirror, we should be safe.

As the driver steps on the gas, the truck spews out a cloud of smoke. I hear the distinct grinding of metal teeth as he shifts into gear. An audible click, and the rig starts forward with a jump. Step by step, we drag our feet beside the tires, carefully, hoping not to be spotted. I am the last one in line. Halfway down the ramp, the bright sunlight blinds my eyes. Instinctively, I look back. The rays of the sun are extending my shadow way past the truck. I look down in between the axles—the cops are on the other side. A few more yards and they will see my shadow. There is no other choice...I quickly run to the front, lining my steps with the tires as best as I can. The shadow follows me, but it is now completely hidden behind the vehicle. A cold sweat condenses on my forehead; that was too close for comfort. I look up and see the driver’s face in the side mirror. Our eyes meet. I think of what he might do. Is he going to stop the truck and hand us over to the police? He must have seen my worried expression, for he smiles and waves his hand. I wave back. Before he turns his eyes back to the road, he winks at me. One of the few good guys left on this earth. He continues driving slowly all the way out of the exit gate. Once on the street, he stops, giving us enough time to move away before he steps on the gas and disappears into the asphalt jungle.

We quickly cross the street and walk away from the harbor. Thanks to the trucker, we’d managed to get out of the ferry without an incident, but what’s next? We are in the town of Eivissa and, from what the guy on the boat had said, we have to go to Sant Antoni de Portmany. Which way to turn? The street is somewhat deserted, only an occasional car disrupts the tranquility as it passes by. I notice a gas station up ahead.

Maybe we can ask for directions over there, I say pointing to it. The attendant sits inside, biting his fingernails. There are no cars waiting for service. As we approach, he glances at us, suspiciously. I can’t blame him; we look trashy and out–of–place, certainly not like we belong here.

Excuse me, sir, I ask. Which way to Sant Antoni?

He takes his time to answer, the disgust in his expression obvious. Finally, after a minute of awkward silence, he points out to the street ahead. Just keep on walking...it’s about fifteen kilometers that way.

Thank you. Followed by my companions, I start toward the long road.

Chapter II

We walk for a few hundred yards. Any street in any town could look just like this one—with stores and apartment buildings left and right. A boxy, green Range Rover inside a dealership’s window catches my attention. I pause for a minute and look at the price tag—1,500,000 Pesetas—roughly ten thousand dollars. If things go well, I’ll be back to pick you up, I think to myself, full of illusions of how easy it will be to make money. After living on the street for a while I had lost my sense of reality. One always tends to lean towards dreaming of the good things, when all he has amounts to less than a pot to piss in.

A couple hundred feet later we come to a rotary where the road splits into three different directions. Fortunately, this time I can see arrows with the town names written on them. Sant Antoni is straight ahead. We decide to split and try our luck hitchhiking. Karl stays with me, while Bill and Josh stick together. Before long, a middle–aged man in an old Jeep pulls over.

Sant Antoni? I ask.

To my surprise, he nods. We get in the car; Karl takes the back seat while I climb next to the driver. So, what are you guys doing here? the man asks in a solid English. Party?

No...we came to look for a job.

It’s a good time to be looking, the season is about to begin, he says as if in passing, then he turns his attention back to the steering wheel. The car launches forward and merges into the fast moving traffic. For the rest of the ride, he remains silent and so do we. There is not much to discuss, at least that is the way I feel about it.

The road is modern and the car quickly zips through the gridlock. The black asphalt looks almost new, disturbed only by the white traffic lines and signals painted on it. I can’t see any water trenches lining the road; it mustn’t really rain here. The land is dry, only an occasional cactus breaks the scenery, but I can clearly see a mountain range in the distance. The dark blue of the mountains: a color attempted to be imitated by countless painters over thousands of years. A color so immense, so difficult to replicate, that only but a few managed to achieve it. The blue, gray, green, pink and purple hues mixed together on a pallet in the hands of Mother Nature, forever out of the reach of human hands. Our mind cannot replicate the intensity, the attitude that surrounds it. When civilization finally produces a great artist, he merely manages to convince us that the colors are identical, failing to reproduce the untouchable. One day, I would like to own a house with a mountain view. Oceans bore me; mountains live and breathe with every hour of the day, with every ray of light, with every shadow cast by a cloud passing overhead.

As I’m musing, the mountains are replaced by a row of majestic trees, standing proudly on both sides of the road, unwilling to bow down to man. The road narrows and a traffic signal posts a lower speed limit—this must be the beginning of town. Our driver steps on the brakes; there is a patrol car parked by the side of the road.

This is it, he says, Sant Antoni. Where should I drop you off?

Anything is good, maybe at the next intersection, says Karl, as he suddenly awakens from his stillness.

Up ahead, by a stop sign, the road splits in two. As the car comes to a complete halt, we jump out.

Thanks for the ride, I say while shutting the door behind me.

Good luck, guys! He steps on it, then he’s gone.

We find ourselves standing in front of strange monument—a giant white egg with a window in it. A few minutes later I learn it has something to do with Christopher Columbus. A monument? How appropriate. Somehow, humans have the tendency to erect monuments to the greatest failures in our history. Fourteen–ninety–two became the year celebrated for the discovery of the New World. I look at it as the year the innocence died, an irreparable chapter in the history of mankind. The year that initiated genocide and pillaging, rapes and murders. All in the name of advance, in the name of civilization, in the name of the Holy Cross. The year that innocence died, both for us and for the Inca, Maya, and numerous