“Sweet mother of pearl,” Lani says. “It’s a poultry uprising.”
“Should we help?” I ask, though I’m already pulling out my phone because this feels like a moment that needs documentation from both near and far.
“Absolutely not,” Ruby says, pulling out her own phone. “This is better than my wedding to husband number four.”
May bravely continues her livestream, now completely surrounded by chickens who seem personally offended by her presence and her pink athleisure. “The universe is clearly testing my ability to find peace in chaos?—”
The one-eared tomcat chooses this moment to make his move, and I recognize the look in his eye—it’s the same look my ex had right before he ruined my life, except the cat is way more honest about his intentions. He slinks toward May’s cinnamon roll with the stealth of a ninja and the confidence of a cat who’s never met a pastry he couldn’t devour.
“Oh, this is going to be good,” I murmur to Ruby, who’s already recording.
May raises her voice, trying to talk over the chicken commentary that sounds suspiciously like heckling. “As I was saying, authentic island living means embracing the unexpected?—”
The tomcat springs. May’s cinnamon roll disappears into his mouth in one fluid motion, leaving her holding an empty plate and a look of bewildered shock. Clearly, her spiritual practice did not prepare her for armed robbery by a feline.
“Did that cat just steal my breakfast on a live feed?” she asks the universe at large.
The universe responds with another rooster crow and what sounds suspiciously like chicken laughter, if chickens could laugh, which I’m starting to think they can.
“Okay, beautiful souls,” May says to her phone, her spiritual composure cracking like cheap nail polish, “sometimes the universe asks us to practice non-attachment in very literal ways?—”
The gray tabby joins the action, knocking over May’s coffee and sending it rolling across her yoga mat with a precision that suggests this was planned. The calico pounces on the bottle, mistaking it for prey or possibly just enjoying chaos for its own sake, while the black cat settles himself directly in front of May’s phone camera and begins grooming himself with elaborate indifference, his rear end prominently featured in what I assume is a very spiritual livestream moment.
“This is a disaster,” May mutters, forgetting she’s still livestreaming to what’s probably thousands of people as she spits out about a dozen colorful expletives.
“This is karma,” Lani says, loud enough for May to hear and possibly loud enough for her followers to hear, too.
May’s head snaps up, and she spots us for the first time, her expression shifting from spiritual crisis to forced enthusiasm so fast I get whiplash just watching it. Her social media-worthy smile returns, but there’s something frantic around the edges, like a beauty pageant contestant who just realized her dress is on backwards.
“Oh! Hi there! You’re from the resort, right?” She scrambles to her feet, brushing cat hair and chicken feathers off her designer leggings with a level of dignity you can only muster when you’re being filmed. “I was just sharing some authentic island experiences with my followers.”
“Authentic is one word for it,” I say, eyeing the chaos around her yoga mat, which now looks less like a sacred space and more like a crime scene.
“Ruby Figgins,” Ruby says, extending a ring-laden hand. “And this is Lani and Jinx. We thought we’d grab some breakfast and commiserate about last night’s... uh, excitement.”
May’s smile falters for just a second—brief enough that her followers might miss it but long enough that we definitely don’t. “Oh yes, that poor man. Such a tragedy.”
“Tragedy,” Lani repeats flatly, in a tone that says she has thoughts about May’s choice of words. “That’s one way to put it.”
The food truck owner, a cheerful woman with graying hair pulled back into a practical bun and forearms that could arm-wrestle a hurricane and win, calls out from her window. “What can I get you, ladies? Fresh malasadas, cinnamon rolls, banana bread? Everything was made this morning.”
“Three cinnamon rolls,” Ruby says immediately, like she’sbeen thinking about this since we left the resort. “And coffee. Lots of coffee. The kind that makes you see sounds.”
“Make that four rolls,” May adds, deciding to replace her stolen breakfast and possibly salvage her livestream. “And could you make mine extra special? I’m documenting the authentic local cuisine experience for my wellness blog.”
The owner’s smile turns slightly predatory, and I watch her eyes narrow in a way that says we’re about to witness something beautiful. “Oh, you’re the one who left the bad Yelp review about our ‘corporate energy disrupting the spiritual flow of food,’ aren’t you?”
May’s face goes through several interesting color changes from pink to red to something approaching purple, like a mood ring having an existential crisis. “I... that was just... I was having a very sensitive chakra day?—”
“Uh-huh.” The woman turns to us with considerably more warmth. “You ladies are from Coconut Palms, right? Poor things. The coffee is on the house after what happened last night.”
“You’re too kind,” I say, shooting a meaningful look at May, who’s now furiously typing on her phone, probably doing some much needed damage control to her livestream or possibly blocking followers who are asking uncomfortable questions.
We settle at a picnic table that wobbles like it’s been through several earthquakes. The cats arrange themselves in a semicircle around us with the precision of a jury, hoping for more theft opportunities or possibly just enjoying the show. The chickens wander off to terrorize other customers, their work here apparently done.
I take a bite out of my cinnamon roll and moan with delight.If heaven were personified in bakery goods, this would be it. And make no mistake about it, I’ll be looking to stuff my pie hole, or my poi hole as Melanie put it, with more of the same celestial carbs as soon as I’m through.
“So,” Ruby says conversationally, tearing off a piece of her cinnamon roll and releasing a puff of cinnamon-scented steam that makes my mouth water, “crazy night last night, right?”
