The Stuff Of Dreams

I had reached the end of the road. A cliche too old to be believed, of a broken life, the pieces scattered, eaten by a wolf and shit over a cliff. It may have been the accumulation of emotional blows, or merely a languid relentless grinding over time. I didn't know, and it certainly didn’t matter. One thing had become uncomfortably clear; moments spent wishing to be someplace else, were moments squandered, and self-pity could be counted on to exact a hard price. Family, career, beliefs...hell, even simple plans had been thrown away, overcome by desire, or misplaced in the cosmic debris. Is being a romantic simply a less than tragic flaw? There was one thing I could rely on; a remarkable gift for ennobling my own bullshit. Oh yes.

Camus said the only truly serious philosophical question was whether or not to commit suicide. Camus got up on the wrong side of the bed. Interesting, creative people are haunted by troubled, difficult childhoods. Dying but once, and for such a long time. Cancel the suicide watch, I was not one of these. No. I had reached the end of the road, but it was a very different road and I was traveling light. The Boss says “trade in these wings on some wheels”. Now the wheels were turning and I was goin' down. Down to the very end of the real estate. Highway 1 to Key West, where the long two-lane surrenders to the sea. The Conch Republic is an island, a fable, not quite America but not the Caribbean.

My friend JR was there; tall, attractive, and completely self-assured. Committed to the absurd with no interest in serious relationships, he was irresistible. I settled comfortably into his hedonistic life of parties, clubs, costumes and chaos. It should not be so, but the truth is, this was a world where life's great questions and personal demons easily drifted into the ether. Climbing out of the after party pool at sunrise, the 14 remaining souls in a little tribe, determinedly rising to their feet, dancing with abandon to "Love Generation". Yes, "be the love generation", and let the sun burn away all traces of the past. Experience a vision, heal the tribe, have a mimosa. Scooter rides, house music, jet skis, dancing day and night in ever-changing costumes, floating in stranger's pools without introductions and with little discussion. Floating...always. It was compelling, seductive. There was an open invitation extended to all; dedicated workers, uptight boyfriends, serious people with goals. They were amusing, and a little sad really. Let it go, let it roll, take the ride.

Late morning, as the heat gently settled in, JR emerged wearing a silk kimono and a Viking helmet with horns. He was holding a Polaroid camera. Reaching out, he decried that on this day I must have it with me at all times. I never questioned these routine inspirations. The previous day, like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza we began an odyssey to get to the beach. This process could take hours and likely as not end anywhere besides the beach. He handed an African spear to someone along for the ride that day, entrusted another with a music box, and for me, Sancho Panza, a 7' whale bone. In sacred absurdity we would carry them with us. There was no why. Just ride the serpent, with the history of the world written on it’s scales. All would be revealed in time...or perhaps not. That was all right too. In any case, it would be hilarious, or poignant, insightful and ludacris. He placed the camera in the scooter asking if I had any thoughts about the day. Coffee was a given. "Fish tacos" I replied.

JR had two scooters, though on this day we rode together, he with his Viking helmet and kimono flapping in the breeze. It was a short ride to Duval Street. Parking the scooter, he took out the camera and had me don the Viking helmet. With no discussion he took my picture and handed me the photo. We walked down Duval to a small men's boutique clothing store. Although closed, it was apparent they were waiting for him. They locked the door behind us and offered a drink. I can't recall the answer to this question ever being no. They had set out clothes in anticipation of our arrival. Trying on various things, eventually JR was dressed for the day. The warm sun and mojitos made for a pleasant ride. Pulling into a convenience store, JR asked me to buy a six-pack. We had beer at the house and we frequented bars, but as was our way, I didn't question.

We rode past storybook houses on tree lined streets until we stopped and walked into a house without knocking, finding a small group watching football. I realized it must be Sunday. I hadn't seen a television in months...maybe years. With friendly greetings, JR set the beer on the coffee table. Taking two, he handed one to me and motioned to follow him to the backyard. Two Czech Republic girls were throwing a tennis ball in the pool for an enthusiastic golden retriever. JR approached one of the girls, slipping his arms around her. Standing entwined, they spoke quietly, and shared a long kiss. During the month I had been in Key West I had never seen her and she had not been mentioned. This was not unusual. I sat talking with the other girl, exchanging thoughts and impressions, funny, and intimate. I sensed she missed home, but I didn't know, as the conversation was immediate, and in no way informational. JR interrupted asking where my camera was. When I said it was in the scooter, which of course he knew, he reminded me that I was to have it with me at all times. With a mock apology I went to retrieve it. Taking the camera he instructed the two of us to stand together, arms around each other. Then, he directed a kiss. Not just a kiss, he conceived a picture of the greatest kiss ever. It was surprisingly tender. A lovely moment. And then, as suddenly as we arrived, we were gone.

Back on the scooter, we wound through quiet streets until we slowed and circled back, stopping in front of a beautiful old Triumph motorcycle with a "for sale" sign. We sat in silence for some time, taking it in, gleaming in the sun. With complete certainty JR spoke. "You should buy it”. This was immensely important and inconsequential. I owned a Harley in Montana, a relic of a previous life. I didn't imagine I would be staying in Key West. But then again, I had no idea where I would be and I thought about that not at all. "Sure" I replied. We drove on, eventually stopping at an open, thatched roof tiki bar. Wandering in to the sound of reggae, we sat at one end of a long bar looking out over the water. The ocean breeze carried the smell of fried seafood.

The bartender, blonde, medium height, with an athletic build and a bit too much sun, looked to be in her mid-thirties. She broke off a conversation down the bar and approached, offering a weary smile. "We learn to live with what we can't rise above", I said. "Is that right?", she responded as she wiped off the counter. "No, I just thought it sounded clever. I recommend running away”, adding in a stage whisper, “people say you can't, but it requires commitment". She suddenly stopped wiping the counter, and with a level gaze said, "You seem to be the voice of experience". Looking off toward the horizon with a shroud of defeat, I confessed that, "a lady broke my heart, I never recovered". "I'd guess it was the other way around. And there was more than one" she replied. "You're cruel for a bartender, it's extremely attractive", I observed.

We ordered something tropical and finally...fish tacos. JR and I began imagining her life and I fabricated a backstory. She lives in a doublewide with her boyfriend Dwayne. He has an ex-wife and two kids in Missouri. Dwayne is a commercial refrigeration repairman. He isn't very smart but he doesn't cheat on her which she has grown so tired of. She has an Australian Shepard she loves named Sherman that came from a previous relationship. Upon returning, we learned her name was Melissa, she was a scuba instructor who worked part time at the bar. I suggested parts of her fabricated backstory. She played along, giving better than she was getting. When she moved down the bar, JR informed me that Melissa was really into me. He said these things often, almost every day. As with everything else, I didn’t take this seriously, but I never tired of hearing it. Whenever she had a moment she would drift down and chat with us. JR suggested I take the picture from earlier that day wearing the Viking helmet and write my phone number on it. Then, offer her the photo and ask her to call.

Of course it didn't matter if she called, though it would have been wonderful if she had. We were leaving for Club Med in Turks & Caicos the next day and would be out of country for two weeks. But in that day’s fantasy, in a cinematic inspiration, I would buy the motorcycle, ride into the bar, dismount, and like Richard Gere, stride across the room and sweep this woman, worn down by life, into my arms. Without speaking we would ride off, disappearing on the horizon, in slowmotion up Hwy 1, as the image slowly changed to black and white. Or something.

But a change of seasons touched the breeze. In whatever passed for the real world, the ghosts that had been my companions had wandered off and the ticking of time passing was growing too loud to ignore. The wings I managed to fool myself into believing I had traded for wheels, were merely another set of wings, grown worn and tattered. The endless boogie can begin to feel, well... endless. Of course there was a less romantic truth. The kind I diligently shied away from. I was running out of money. For quite some time, I would visit that photo, there on the wall, of me and the Czech Girl who's name I never knew, embracing in a movie poster kiss in the afternoon sunlight. And then a day arrived when I couldn’t remember why; any of the whys. That day, I took it down.