Bomba is not an attentive host, freshening the drinks and restocking the peanut dishes. In fact, he seems wholly oblivious to the extraordinary goings-on around him. Rocking back and forth on the hood of a car, snapping his black suspenders against his overalls, he watches the moon's soft progress across the sky. At his feet, the dregs of an overturned bottle of wine flow pinkly across a tourist brochure.
A nude German surfer drops to his knees before Bomba, as if bowing to some dissolute Virgins King. The surfer clasps his hands together in mock prayer and bays at the moon. Bomba smiles modestly.
"Bomba's a simple man," says Debby the bartender, "a humble man." This simple, humble, decidedly un-Bombastic man has seen the folly of ambition and chosen debauchery instead. "It's freer to live this way than the hustle-bustle," says Bomba. "Instead of racing and running, you got to stop and take a breath."
In the Pleistocene phase of the shack's fame, which would be like eight or nine years ago, Bomba bombed around Tortola in a beat-up taxi. These days he drives a new red-and-white Fleetwood and lives in a hilltop mansion he calls Bomba's Casino. "I don't have to deal with nobody," he says. His face is alert yet so detached that it's almost impassive. "If I had an eight-to-four job, I'd die. I've done a lot in my life, but I'm really happy with my style of living. I haven't stole, I haven't shot, I haven't killed: I just make other people happy."