1. (November 1993) On the first night of her arrival, my roommate _____ got hit in the head by a coconut. We had been drinking in celebration of her arrival on the island, and were walking down a side street. _____was underneath a Palm at exactly the right moment. The coconut came loose and dropped right on her head. Coconut impacts have killed people before, but this incident only left her extremely shaken.
She never liked living in Key West. And from the beginning, the feeling was evidently mutual.
2.(November 1994) My friend Ana, the French girl, and I would sit outside our respective places of work and smoke. "Let’s have a ciggy, shall we?" She’d say. So we’d sit, with nothing else to do but smoke, watching the people walk Duval.
A drunken bearded man in a black dress riding a bicycle approached. When he got in front of us, he decided to stop by putting on his brakes and slowly falling over. Ana and I exchanged looks, neither of us busting out with laughter, but close. The man lay half on the street and sidewalk for awhile, then began to get up, wrestling with the bike and his dress and his intoxication in the fight to right himself vertically. It was a slow process.
His dress appeared to be of cheap satin (Is it called Crinoline?) that swished and crunched loudly as he rolled around the sidewalk. And unlike the drag queens, he didn’t wear makeup. But then, how could he, with that full, full beard he was sporting? I’m not sure he was even aware that we were several feet away the whole time. Seconds turned into minutes turned into pathetic, and we decided to go inside by the time he began to fully stand. We watched some more from inside, as he smoothed his dress down and began walking in the direction from which he’d come, leaving his bike half on the street, half on the sidewalk.
3.My stalker, Simon – October 1993 to May 1994
God love him, this guy was a mess. He was obsessive, kinda creepy, not threatening, really, but he did provide some seriously unintentional comic gems during our stalker/stalkee acquaintance.
The first time we met, I was working at the smaller clothing store by myself one Saturday afternoon/evening. He came in, looked around a few minutes, and then began to ask me questions. No one was in the store, so he questioned further, then began telling me about the minutiae of his excruciating everyday existence. Painful to go through, I’m sure, but painful to listen to, as well.
No one came into the store, so I had no distractions and no course of action but to continue listening. After about 90 minutes, the manager of the other store called and I acted like he wanted me to close the store and go across the street to the other store, for a moment. So I finally got rid of him, for the meantime, for the first time, that day. He then began to show up at either store frequently, and consistently.
After I got fired from the clothing stores, I got a job barbacking and bartending at One Saloon. Simon couldn’t find me, for a while, anyway. He spotted me one night, emptying glass bottles into one of the recycling bins at the front entrance of the bar. I saw him coming, mentally cussed for a moment, turned around, said hello, then went back to work. Afterward, his visits became, once again, frequent and consistent. Sometimes he’d come in, sometimes not, content to speak with me by the garbage cans. Once in a while, my friend the bouncer wouldn’t let him in, just to fuck with his head.
On my nights to bartend, I usually worked the bar by the dance floor. It was a little slower volume-wise, and the other bartenders had seniority, so they’d take the two other, busier bars and leave that station to me. But I was totally fine with arrangement. I loved the music, and could work at a little slower pace than when I’d barback. And I was also first out, which meant I might get five or six hours of sleep that night, as opposed to my normal two and a half to four. My life consisted of nap time, twice daily, and work. Graphic design by day (10:00-5:00), bar staff at night (8:30/9:00-5:00), and in between, sleep.
The bar wouldn’t fill up until 10:30 or 11. Sometimes it was earlier on busy weeks, but at 9 when we opened, there was almost no one there. Few people came in earlier than Simon. The dance floor was fairly small, mirrored, had a continuous rail for drinks and ashtrays, and light and fog effects for the dancers. And it was empty, except for me and Simon, disco music blaring from the speakers as he awkwardly stared and/or mumbled.
The owners took operation of the bar seriously. One of them was the DJ on Mondays and Tuesdays, our busiest nights. On those nights, Simon would stand at the back of the dance floor 20 feet away, and lay out papers against the back wall of the floor, showing me proof that he’d done his homework. He went to school at Florida Keys Community College. He’d leave them out until people started filtering back to the back bar. Then he’d get very frantic, quickly pull the papers together, and rush out the back exit, all in a matter of 15 or 20 seconds. Just like his presence, his aftermath was puzzlement to all involved.
Sometimes, if I was behind the garden bar changing kegs or doing whatever, the bouncer would give me a heads-up that Simon was there by saying his name loudly. I’d stay hidden until he was convinced I wasn’t working that night. He was harmless, like I said, but some nights, I just couldn’t be bothered. It was a game, in a way. I never led this guy on, but I didn’t take his visits too seriously, either.
One night, as I worked at the garden bar, Simon came in, drank three cans of beer, and fell asleep in his seat, face-first on the bar, snoring somewhat softly. He said he’d been drinking earlier, so his passing out was of no surprise. The waiters from our sister establishment, La Trattoria Venezia, would usually sit at my bar after their shift, get very drunk, and leave lots of money. They were also great customers, very pleasant and fun to be around. Sometimes the bar would show gay porn on the televisions around the bar, and we’d make up dialogue to coincide with the action.
But on this one particular night, they were content to drink and laugh, humored at the sight of Simon sleeping and snoring and drooling at the end of the bar. I looked at the French girl, Coco, and said,
"Watch this—SIMON WAKE UP!!" I screamed. He jolted and shook and panicked and ran out the door before he’d even woke up, laughter from the employees following him down Appelrouth Lane.
I didn’t see him for awhile after that. Evidently, I wasn’t the only one he was stalking. ___ said a friend of his found Simon in the gated driveway of his house, asleep on the gravel drive. And he’d follow other guy’s home, too, never threatening, just following or talking. Later, another friend told me he’d seen Simon being restrained then dragged, screaming, from the Red Cross blood drive.
4. November 1993
The cute insane guy would walk the streets all day, every day for awhile, holding a copy of some unexpected classic in paperback, saying very little ever, walking and stopping and staring. I’m not sure if he was homeless or not, as he stayed pretty clean despite the heat. And he was so damn cute! Really strong, handsome good looks, good hair, and (had he not been crazy) beautiful eyes. He wasn’t ill mannered or seemingly all that tortured, just not there.
My guess was assisted living via rich family. Out of sight, out of mind, fun in the sun, this sort of rationale. He left or disappeared maybe a month and a half later. I wish I could remember the name of that book. It gave me the impression he was really smart, but had crossed the line. I also got the feeling he read that book repeatedly.
5. September and October 1993
The owner of the ChitChat was quite demonstrative of his opinions. The sign outside the restaurant promised a two eggs, grits, and home-fries meal for 99 cents. The place was always busy, although I never met anyone who’d gone twice. The ChitChat was our first breakfast in our new home. The eggs sucked, the cream curdled the second it entered the coffee, and it was there that we realized Ben’s van had been towed, as it was visibly gone from where it had been parked. The waitress said, "Welcome to Key West."
Along with the restaurant, his property included a white stone wall along Duval Street. Whenever the urge his him, he’d spray paint different anecdotes to provoke thought, incite a riot, or some action in between from those reading his diatribes. I took a picture of one that said, "Surgeon General Jocelyn Elders: Tell the American people about "Agent Orange and AIDS serum"…When was it made??? By whom? "Well maybe I can help you" (1) July 7, 1976." After awhile, he’d repaint the wall white, and then later, he’d spray paint something else.
6. September 1993
Ben and I listened to the Smashing Pumpkins’ "Siamese Dream" most of the way from Missouri to Key West and then until he left, three months later. I don’t know how many times we listened to it, but the number was close to 200. And I still don’t know the names of most of the songs and very little of the lyrics. But he really loved that CD.
7. _____ hated to go to the New Moon Saloon, but she would go if I repeatedly asked her. They had great burgers and wings, but they also had the worst service on the island. The bar was sunken, so the sitting patrons and bartenders were at eye level with the other. There were black velvet portraits on the walls of Miles Davis, Carly Simon, Jimi Hendrix, I think, and Sinatra or someone like him. There was always some kind of shit kickin’ rock and roll, boogie or blues, or metal blaring, much more for the bar patrons than the restaurant. And those Sixties or Seventies-era monolith comfort booths really hit the spot after a hard night of drinking.
But the service sucked so bad! On more than one occasion, the waiter or waitress was obviously more wasted than we were, seriously pissing _____ off. Also, there was this funked-out crack-head vibe about the place, as it was only one of a few 24-hour places in Old Town. Lots of weirdness, lots of druggy stares and behavior, from both the staff and clientele, and snippets of conversation that was, in any context, unsettling. Always.
Good wings, though.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
1994, in the evening…
1. "In the beginning,
We closed our eyes
Whenever we kissed.
We were surprised
To find so much inside…"
-Wilco, "Pieholden Suite"
2. "And these are the days when our work has come asunder…
And these are the days when we look for something other…"
-U2, "Lemon"
3. "When you’re ripe you’ll bleed out of control."
-Deftones, "Elite"
4."I feel the reason as it’s leaving me no, not again,
It’s quite deceiving as I’m feeling my flesh make me bad…
Does it make me bad? Does it make me bad?"
-Korn, "Make me bad"
I’ll show you, fucker.
Goddamdamdamdamdam. I’m walking quickly to the bar. Drunk, stoned, fucked up. Just fucked. I stopped crying hours earlier. Nothing left there, either.
For the last few months, his continual infidelity taptaptapped on the thick glass of my denial. He thought I didn’t know about the others, as opposed to my full scaled, self-inflicted ignorance of our current situation. He would cheat on me, and I would lie to myself about it.
Then I found the letter, sometime in the morning after he left, from some trick in Fort Lauderdale, where he was headed that weekend. "I can’t wait to have sex with you again…to swim with you, to watch movies with you, to have sex with you…" This heartbreak in a letter dated two weeks earlier. And he had saved it.
Bile and upheaval. Holy shit; it’s all true. All of it. I knew it from the beginning and now was unable to deny the truth any longer. My vision blurred; equilibrium reeled. Glass was everywhere. Then I was on my hands and knees, vomiting in the toilet, absolutely hating him. Hating myself for my denial. I’ll get you for this, ___.
That night.
After drinking a lot of beer and smoking a lot of weed, I went to One Saloon, where I used to work. It was a fairly busy Saturday night, and I walked directly to the back bar. Gregory got me a beer and I gulped down half of it right off. I put the beer down and looked up at the guy five feet away who was staring at me. I stared back. He walked over. I stared at the back door, just off the dance floor. We walked through the dancers and left without talking.
Elapsed time: Approximately two minutes.
Going back to my place wasn’t an option. I wanted revenge, but sex in our apartment would be too much for me: too final. I wanted no continual reminders of the guilt I was preparing to commit. We walked to his hotel. He is a steward with Lufthansa. He is cute. He looks like Max. I try not to say too much because the shit sloshing around my head is not the type of conversation you talk about with a horny trick. A detraction from the fantasy. Shhh… Lance, don’t talk.
He is sharing the room with a female co-worker who decided not to go out that night. She is in the other bed and I tried to be quiet, but not too hard. The fact was I was fucking this guy three or four feet from a sleeping girl in a hotel room I had no business being in, all to get even with my boyfriend’s infidelity through revenge fucking. I’ll show you—I’ll hurt myself.
He laid on his stomach and I fucked him from behind. Over him. Looking down on his back, then to his fists clenching either side of the mattress. His grunts and gasps were involuntary. A little later I left, and threw up a couple of times on the way home.
He came back from Lauderdale or Miami (whatever the lie was this time) the next day. Not sensing anything wrong with me or us, he unpacked his suitcase and left a short while later, "for a bit."
I went to my room. Closing the door, I laid down on my back and watched the ceiling fan. I lost weight the next week because I couldn’t keep anything down.
I guess I showed him.
We closed our eyes
Whenever we kissed.
We were surprised
To find so much inside…"
-Wilco, "Pieholden Suite"
2. "And these are the days when our work has come asunder…
And these are the days when we look for something other…"
-U2, "Lemon"
3. "When you’re ripe you’ll bleed out of control."
-Deftones, "Elite"
4."I feel the reason as it’s leaving me no, not again,
It’s quite deceiving as I’m feeling my flesh make me bad…
Does it make me bad? Does it make me bad?"
-Korn, "Make me bad"
I’ll show you, fucker.
Goddamdamdamdamdam. I’m walking quickly to the bar. Drunk, stoned, fucked up. Just fucked. I stopped crying hours earlier. Nothing left there, either.
For the last few months, his continual infidelity taptaptapped on the thick glass of my denial. He thought I didn’t know about the others, as opposed to my full scaled, self-inflicted ignorance of our current situation. He would cheat on me, and I would lie to myself about it.
Then I found the letter, sometime in the morning after he left, from some trick in Fort Lauderdale, where he was headed that weekend. "I can’t wait to have sex with you again…to swim with you, to watch movies with you, to have sex with you…" This heartbreak in a letter dated two weeks earlier. And he had saved it.
Bile and upheaval. Holy shit; it’s all true. All of it. I knew it from the beginning and now was unable to deny the truth any longer. My vision blurred; equilibrium reeled. Glass was everywhere. Then I was on my hands and knees, vomiting in the toilet, absolutely hating him. Hating myself for my denial. I’ll get you for this, ___.
That night.
After drinking a lot of beer and smoking a lot of weed, I went to One Saloon, where I used to work. It was a fairly busy Saturday night, and I walked directly to the back bar. Gregory got me a beer and I gulped down half of it right off. I put the beer down and looked up at the guy five feet away who was staring at me. I stared back. He walked over. I stared at the back door, just off the dance floor. We walked through the dancers and left without talking.
Elapsed time: Approximately two minutes.
Going back to my place wasn’t an option. I wanted revenge, but sex in our apartment would be too much for me: too final. I wanted no continual reminders of the guilt I was preparing to commit. We walked to his hotel. He is a steward with Lufthansa. He is cute. He looks like Max. I try not to say too much because the shit sloshing around my head is not the type of conversation you talk about with a horny trick. A detraction from the fantasy. Shhh… Lance, don’t talk.
He is sharing the room with a female co-worker who decided not to go out that night. She is in the other bed and I tried to be quiet, but not too hard. The fact was I was fucking this guy three or four feet from a sleeping girl in a hotel room I had no business being in, all to get even with my boyfriend’s infidelity through revenge fucking. I’ll show you—I’ll hurt myself.
He laid on his stomach and I fucked him from behind. Over him. Looking down on his back, then to his fists clenching either side of the mattress. His grunts and gasps were involuntary. A little later I left, and threw up a couple of times on the way home.
He came back from Lauderdale or Miami (whatever the lie was this time) the next day. Not sensing anything wrong with me or us, he unpacked his suitcase and left a short while later, "for a bit."
I went to my room. Closing the door, I laid down on my back and watched the ceiling fan. I lost weight the next week because I couldn’t keep anything down.
I guess I showed him.
In the lair of the Europeans, December 1994
"Why don’t you close your eyes and re-invent me?"
-Massive Attack, "Mezzanine"
Sticking close to Ana, my security, not knowing them, unfamiliar, unsure, and yet…
Limbo, the treetop bar, overlooking Duval, close to midnight, on a still warm December night. I am with Ana, of course, and Nathalie, Sharon, and Elan, sometimes Helen and Stephan, and the gay Israeli guy who likes me (and I kinda like him, but I’m still with ___, so no…) are there, too. The trade winds are blowing most pleasantly, and there are some girls dancing in front of the DJ, who is from England (not that that makes him cool or nuthin’) and more than competent…
The bar catered to this fun, young, gorgeous, international crowd that was so nice to look at. But most of the time, I was quiet. Observing them, shy, intimidated by these interesting, rounded, sophisticated young adults, some of them, anyway (sophisticated, that is), their hands extended in friendship to me.
I wear a baseball cap, flannel shirt, smoke Marlboro Reds, and drink Budweiser.
"You are so American." They say. "And yet you are not."
They are curious of me, also.
-Massive Attack, "Mezzanine"
Sticking close to Ana, my security, not knowing them, unfamiliar, unsure, and yet…
Limbo, the treetop bar, overlooking Duval, close to midnight, on a still warm December night. I am with Ana, of course, and Nathalie, Sharon, and Elan, sometimes Helen and Stephan, and the gay Israeli guy who likes me (and I kinda like him, but I’m still with ___, so no…) are there, too. The trade winds are blowing most pleasantly, and there are some girls dancing in front of the DJ, who is from England (not that that makes him cool or nuthin’) and more than competent…
The bar catered to this fun, young, gorgeous, international crowd that was so nice to look at. But most of the time, I was quiet. Observing them, shy, intimidated by these interesting, rounded, sophisticated young adults, some of them, anyway (sophisticated, that is), their hands extended in friendship to me.
I wear a baseball cap, flannel shirt, smoke Marlboro Reds, and drink Budweiser.
"You are so American." They say. "And yet you are not."
They are curious of me, also.
Bahama Village/Key West, autumn 1994
"Exit Light, enter Night, take my hand…we’re off to Never, Neverland…."
-Metallica, "Enter Sandman"
The house was white inside, and sparsely furnished. A black and white TV was on all day for the dogs to watch, and the ceiling fans spun. Except for me smoking pot and cigarettes, laying on the couch, waiting for work, waiting to turn predatory for the evening’s upcoming hunt, there was no movement, no real motion. The house was surreally, oppressively silent during the day, the wind a cross breeze through the French doors on either side of the living room. The room hummed at a very low, dense, disorienting frequency.
I would sit on the couch most of my waking time, and the couch also doubled as my bed. So there I’d sit, smoking cigarettes and pot, trying to write, thinking really crazy thoughts really fast. I’d stare out the window at the relatively cute compound manager doing light utility work in cut off jeans and no shirt. I yelled at the evil, evil cocker spaniels that were the perfect pets for their evil, evil owner, the thing masquerading as a friend, who wanted me to stay with him out of the ulterior-ness of his heart. But almost no moving around. I fancied myself a vampire, a loner, The Outsider. One who sleeps during the day and hunts relentlessly at night. I had to be still to save energy for crazy thoughts and Night’s approach.
I looked forward to work. I was a cashier in one of the last Key West-funky retail shops on Duval Street. The shop was all airline related and the signature logo of the store was a cool graphic of a DC-3 taking flight over a palm tree, the artwork more striking, of course, than my description. The store sold a lot of t-shirts bearing this logo, and the image struck some universal chord in people, and they’d want to know everything about the store, the logo, the experience of living in Key West, etc… which was all well and good, but…
I wanted to be quiet and cruise guys on the street. Or, if I had to talk, it would be to Nathalie or Ana next door at the jewelry shop. Or I’d let my paranoia about my then boyfriend’s real or imagined actions fuel my justification in advance of what I might be doing later, given the opportunity. I was The Outsider, and Night would open himself to me, saying "Look what there is for you! Men, drugs, alcohol, an endless number of interesting, beautiful acquaintances for whom you can re-invent yourself time and time again, dancing, as late as you care to stay, sex in the bathroom, sex in the alleyways, whatever you want, baby. It’s all for you. And it’s all good -- in a manner of speaking. The cost to you is very little, and we’ll talk about that later. In darkness, everyone will want you. Look around; they do already."
So I’d cut a deal with Night out of misdirected loneliness, searching for answers in places where my questions were irrelevant. And then, work would be over. It was time to go out. Night had control of my ever-darkening heart.
But already, I’m going too fast.
-Metallica, "Enter Sandman"
The house was white inside, and sparsely furnished. A black and white TV was on all day for the dogs to watch, and the ceiling fans spun. Except for me smoking pot and cigarettes, laying on the couch, waiting for work, waiting to turn predatory for the evening’s upcoming hunt, there was no movement, no real motion. The house was surreally, oppressively silent during the day, the wind a cross breeze through the French doors on either side of the living room. The room hummed at a very low, dense, disorienting frequency.
I would sit on the couch most of my waking time, and the couch also doubled as my bed. So there I’d sit, smoking cigarettes and pot, trying to write, thinking really crazy thoughts really fast. I’d stare out the window at the relatively cute compound manager doing light utility work in cut off jeans and no shirt. I yelled at the evil, evil cocker spaniels that were the perfect pets for their evil, evil owner, the thing masquerading as a friend, who wanted me to stay with him out of the ulterior-ness of his heart. But almost no moving around. I fancied myself a vampire, a loner, The Outsider. One who sleeps during the day and hunts relentlessly at night. I had to be still to save energy for crazy thoughts and Night’s approach.
I looked forward to work. I was a cashier in one of the last Key West-funky retail shops on Duval Street. The shop was all airline related and the signature logo of the store was a cool graphic of a DC-3 taking flight over a palm tree, the artwork more striking, of course, than my description. The store sold a lot of t-shirts bearing this logo, and the image struck some universal chord in people, and they’d want to know everything about the store, the logo, the experience of living in Key West, etc… which was all well and good, but…
I wanted to be quiet and cruise guys on the street. Or, if I had to talk, it would be to Nathalie or Ana next door at the jewelry shop. Or I’d let my paranoia about my then boyfriend’s real or imagined actions fuel my justification in advance of what I might be doing later, given the opportunity. I was The Outsider, and Night would open himself to me, saying "Look what there is for you! Men, drugs, alcohol, an endless number of interesting, beautiful acquaintances for whom you can re-invent yourself time and time again, dancing, as late as you care to stay, sex in the bathroom, sex in the alleyways, whatever you want, baby. It’s all for you. And it’s all good -- in a manner of speaking. The cost to you is very little, and we’ll talk about that later. In darkness, everyone will want you. Look around; they do already."
So I’d cut a deal with Night out of misdirected loneliness, searching for answers in places where my questions were irrelevant. And then, work would be over. It was time to go out. Night had control of my ever-darkening heart.
But already, I’m going too fast.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
