Scott, late September 1993

We were both from Missouri. I trusted him almost immediately. We became friends. He was the day manager at my first job in Key West.

My bosses had two shops less than 50 yards from the other, diagonal to the other. The smaller was all black and white clothes and was totally cool, circa 1985. The larger store sold more upscale clothing, pricey jeans and leather jackets, some clubby shirts, and lots and lots and lots of underwear and swimsuits. Many thongs were sold to people whose physiques did not merit said thongs. But hey, it’s their world—I’m just the guy behind the counter selling them a thong.

I usually worked the smaller store by myself, while two or three employees would be scheduled for the larger store. Scott always worked at the larger store. He’d come from St. Louis and had run into a little bit of trouble up there, but wasn’t too specific. He was very handsome, with black hair, dark brown eyes, great facial structure, and quietly intense. He’d come in early (7 a.m.) to do the books, and stay all day, sometimes leaving as late as 10 p.m.

He wasn’t allowed to drive, for whatever reason. I didn’t ask. Work was very important to him, and he always worked hard. Sometimes, though, he’d call me when nothing was going on, and tell me to lock up and come over to the other store. Then he’d give me money to go to the bar across the street and pick up some beers. But this was only if we weren’t busy. We’d then stand outside the bigger store, drink beer, and watch people walk by. He was a cool boss.

Both stores had fairly kickass sound systems, as the owners liked and wanted loud music for “ambience.” This was fine by me. Loud music took my mind off the disorienting change of my day to day life. Less than a month ago, Branson was still the reality, and I had no idea what life would be like here. I certainly hadn’t counted on this.

Everyone is fucked up all the time. It’s a small island, so no one has to drive anywhere, and it’s easy to overdo whatever you do when you walk. Crazy drunks. Vomit on the sidewalks in the morning. So many homeless people on Duval Street at night.

It’s dirty here, and so fucking hot! I sweat more than normal, so I’m always wet and uncomfortable. I’ve had a low-grade fever for about a week. Everything is more difficult because it’s unfamiliar.

My roommates both work at the Copa. One is bartending and the other is working the door. They’re not making any money. Neither am I.

I make $5.25 an hour. Our rent is $1100.00 a month, plus utilities. Since we’ve just moved here, we need outrageous deposits for the phone and electric, not to mention first and last month’s rent and $550 for a security deposit. Our air-conditioner was built before anyone thought of energy conservation. It’s always on, yet it’s never cool in the apartment.

Our deck looks out onto an alley and a small parking lot. We can look into the second floor of the Heartbreak Hotel, serving those arriving to or departing from Key West, who will not, or did not make it here. Checking in there must taint one, in some unseen way. Lots of anger resounding from those “hotel rooms.” The smell of crank would drift across the alley, permeating our deck experience with that miserable burnt chemical odor.

There always seemed to be a fight in progress. The screams would always escalate in intensity. Although we could hear them, we could never really tell what whoever was fighting was fighting about. Should we call the cops? No way. Those pissed off, abusive crank maniacs from God Knows Where we might rat-out can look right through our windows into our place, too. No, no thanks. More crank ‘ill cure what ails ‘em.

Tourist season hasn’t begun, so the only people out are locals. It’s their vomit I’ve been seeing. Most of the people who are out during September must be alcoholics. They have to be. I’ve never seen so many drunks in such a small concentration. Long past fun, most are aggressive or pathetic.

Lots of coke around here, too. I was pulled off the dance floor at the Copa while trying to fend off a guy’s coke-laden fingers aiming straight for my nose. He was extremely offended when I declined he drug-filled hand. I tried to be conciliatory, saying “I don’t do coke. If you have a joint, I’ll smoke it with you…” But it didn’t work. He left in a huff, and got back behind the bar. Everything is so different here.

Rent is due October first. We are two hundred dollars short. I get paid in two days, on October second. That is too late and I know it’s too late. Our landlord was very specific. Late days are charged. And the bank puts a six-day freeze on cashing newcomer’s checks. I don’t have enough money now, and certainly not enough to incur late fees. There isn’t a solution.

I start to freak out, crying alone in the smaller clothing store. I call Scott, then close the shop for a few minutes, and meet him out in front of the bigger store. Would the owners go for an advance on my check? He asks if everything is all right, and I start to overflow, crying despite my efforts.

I tell him about my (our) financial situation and rent being due, and I try to restrain my emotions, but it’s still not working. He became very calm and told me to wait there for a moment. He went to the back of the store and came back with $200 dollars. It’s his money. “Pay me back whenever you can. Whenever. Really.”

Wow. This guy who barely knows me, but trusts me enough to loan me money. Here, in Key West, where I’ve already learned not to trust anyone, he trusts me. Things will be all right. My panic subsided as I realized I’d made a friend, my first true friend, in Key West. I paid him back eight days later, the first opportunity I had.