Read The Other Guy for Free Online Page B

Flanked by the signs was a neat row of scooters in gleaming primary colors. I took a picture of them.
You hear of these stories in the news occasionally, a hiker who falls off the trail or gets eaten by a bear, and they accidentally take a picture of that last moment, leaving rescue parties to find and piece together the event from that final photo on the roll.
This was essentially the same concept; I figured that if anyone found my camera after I'd ridden, flailing, straight off a cliff, I'd be helpful and give them a clue. You know, just in case.
"Ever ridden one of these before?" Nate asked, inspecting a shiny silver scooter.
"Never," I said, snapping another picture for good measure and posthumous utility.
"Well, it's not too difficult; I can teach you," he said absently, smiling up at the rental representative who had come out of the hut to see what we wanted. "Do you have an international license, insurance?"
"Yes," I said decisively, though I could just as easily have lied to get out of riding on one of those things.
Michelle had delegated to me all the boring tasks of getting the proper documentation well before the trip, and it seemed just as well that I should use them after putting in all that work.
Besides, I wasn't allowed to be my overly prudent self this week, and as uneasy as it made me to think of plunging myself into what was frankly some of the craziest traffic I had ever seen, there was also a distinct sense of delight at the prospect of taking on, and possibly even succeeding at, something I had never considered doing before.
Nate grinned. "Well, then, we are going to have a fantastic day."
He bartered the rental price down, mostly by dint of charm, as far as I could tell, and put me in charge of taking several photos of the scooters we were renting in case of damage. I couldn't remember whether Michelle and I had planned to do this, and presumably we would've figured the process out eventually, or at least read up on it, if we were going to do scooters, but I was glad to have Nate's experience on hand.
After checking our tanks, doing a little trial run, and making sure the rental person had written down all the existing outer damage, Nate handed our money over.
"Okay," he said, squinting down the road. "There isn't really anyone around right now, so I think we can just have our lesson here?"
I shoved my helmet on, hoping it would hide the apprehension likely radiating from my face. "Sure."
It wasn't horrible, and nobody died in a fiery explosion, so I awarded myself a gold star. And, to his credit, Nate was a patient teacher, still in retention of his natural good humor by the end of the lesson about forty-five minutes later, when I'd finally gotten comfortable enough with the machine to be allowed in slow traffic.
We set off at a reasonable pace, taking quiet back roads where I couldn't accidentally run over or into anything.
The island, predictably, was pretty as its postcards made out, all turquoise waters and gleaming sand and generous hospitality. We made several stops along the coast, whenever Nate saw something that caught his creative eye. Not one to argue, I fished out my little digital camera as well at those points and took a few pictures of my own.
"Here," he said, holding out his hand for my camera at one of the beaches. "I'll take one of you. Otherwise all you'll have when you get back home to show everyone is scenery."
"Scenery's good," I said. "I mean, they know what I look like."
"Gimme." Nate took the camera from me and directed me to stand a little over to the left. "Okay, smile."
I did.
Nate lowered the camera. "Dude, I said smile."
"What? That's what I'm doing."
"No, you look like you're posing for your eighth-grade school photo. Stretching your mouth one millimeter to the left doesn't count as a smile."
I elevated an eyebrow. "Are you always this pushy when you take people's wedding pictures?" Dropping my voice an octave, I imagined him out loud, " Hey, you, you guys are the worst at