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"Alone in the Superunkown…"
-Soundgarden, "Superunkown"
"It’s love! It’s love! I’m dying of…"
-Devotchka, "Head honcho"
My concern grows with each moment of silence…
It’s hot. There is no wind. Stoned and alone in the living room. Staring at nothing, sitting in the apartment in the late summer of 1994. Everything is falling apart.
Men Without Hats’ "Safety Dance" vibrates through our floor for close to the millionth time. Rob, our downstairs neighbor, plays that 45 all day, repeatedly, only alternating with the Village People’s "Key West." Over and over and over, over over over over…
___ is never up. He’s always in bed, sick.
In the back of my mind, coloring perception, effecting my behavior, is the growing concern/dread/panic that he’s positive, and therefore…
___ never gets out of bed.
The beat pounds continually in four-minute intervals.
The wind never blows.
I think he and I might be dying.
Our apartment is still, save for my pacing.
"…And it’s raining, all over the world…Raining, all over the world…Tonight; the longest night."
-Electric Light Orchestra, "Showdown"
We called this one particular hustler Beavis. God love him, he was so handsome, but unfortunately, he wasn’t very intelligent. About as dumb as he was good lookin’. Which was Very. A shame, really.
He was passed between various rich men on the island, or he passed himself, I don’t know. But fairly regularly, someone new was "taking care" of him, helping him out, funding his drug dealings, his circumstances always changing. He was a regular at the One Saloon at the time of my employment there. When I would bartend, he would always come to my bar. He would only come up three or four times because he didn’t drink too much, especially compared to the rest of the crowd.
He always tipped 100%. He would linger at the bar, just a bit, smiling at me, then leave. A couple of times he brought me a single carnation. He had pale blue/green eyes, sexy and direct, coupled with a killer smile. And he’d always smile that hot smile at me as he was asking me if I could hold his gym bag behind the bar, for awhile. "Sure." I’d always say, always smiling back.
The bouncer saw our little exchange one night, dragged me to the back and proceeded to explain that Beavis kept a lot of coke in his gym bag, and, if he were to get busted while it was in my possession, I could and would go down hard, too. Oh….Ohhh…Shit. So I found him, real quick-like, and returned his bag. "I can’t hold your gym bag anymore, dude." He knew I knew.
He stared at me for a moment, a weird, shamed expression lingering on his face, smiled a little, and said, almost soundlessly, "Ok." After this encounter, he still came in, but not nearly as much. He would smile at me as he came in, from a distance, but got drinks from the other bartenders. For a while anyway, he stopped bringing his gym bag.
Some months later, I quit the bar, taking a job as a production assistant, and saw much less of him. Not just him, but everyone from the bar. My new job required me to be there between 8 and 10 a.m. daily, depending on what was happening progress-wise with the magazine. So I stopped going out so much, and staying out so late.
I didn’t see Beavis for a length of time during the summer. Those months were tough for him, I think. ___ heard it through the grapevine that his new daddy, a lawyer, had kicked him out, and that, once again, he was staying with someone new. Then, a few weeks later, the same story applied to the new daddy as well. Later in the summer, Beavis was diagnosed with HIV. And then, in September, he couldn’t find a place to stay.
It rained through late September into October. So long and so hard the storms would rage, drenching everyone and everything, flooding the lower elevations of the island, like warm rain pouring from a faucet. And the sun would still shine through. It seemed to be too bright always for the current conditions. I was fascinated by this phenomenon, because it rarely stormed like that in Missouri. Storms in Missouri were cloudy and gray there, no sun, only rain.
So, during these storms, one stayed put, wherever one might be. Sometimes the cable or the electricity would be out, so I would sit on the front walkway or back deck of the apartment and watch the plants and trees bending with the gusting wind, the whipping mist and rain, wetness spotting my extended arms. Storms were a source of comfort.
During one of these showers in late September, I saw Beavis, from a distance, coming towards me. A little thinner, but instantly recognizable. His head was cocked downward, looking a few feet directly in front of him, choosing his path, silent, steady, and rhythmic, sadness surrounding him. He walked directly below me, on the sidewalk, never looking up. I remained quiet while he passed, watching his pace watching him think. He walked in his boots and jeans and white tee shirt, soaked through, walking towards no destination. I saw him twice more that day, still walking.
I had a friend in Key West that would respond to whatever was traumatizing me at the moment with a heartfelt, yet funny sounding "Poor, poor baby! Will you be all right?" Her tweaked sincerity could right my perspective quickly and always made me smile. Poor, poor baby, I thought, as Beavis continued walking, will you be all right? What’s to become of you?
The rain continued late into the evening, stopping briefly overnight, then resuming until the late morning of the next day.
..For three or four days it has rained. High water and flood conditions extend from Key West to Miami. No tourists, rather, very, very few tourists. Hal has been channel surfing for long enough to make me crazy. I have been taking care of him, and his dogs since his surgery. Barring an hour and a half break, it has rained all day; again.
Although I am now living with ___, I’ve been staying with Hal in my old apartment for the last couple of weeks. ___ and I are having some "problems," and Hal needs me to take care of him and any business of which he is unable to attend.
Miami’s Channel Seven ran "The Key West Flood" as its top story, killing any remaining business we might have had. Today the streets were surprisingly busy, briefly anyway, but it was mostly locals taking advantage of the rain break. The collective mood is grim. This storm doesn’t feel over at all.
Time crawls painfully about the apartment, coupled with the rain, limiting my movements, forcing introspection. Can’t do it. Can’t look. So much wrong now.
There is no activity on the street as there is almost no one here. The sky continues to rain and rain. Hal, having recently lost a kidney to cancer, sleeps now, much the way he has since returning home. I am bored and panicked simultaneously. Introspection waits patiently, while I continue my distractions, still pacing, scared of what I might find within.
The two devils were surprised that I could see them, as was I.
I was on an errand for Hal, picking up candy and cigarettes for him, even though it was against doctor’s orders, common sense, and over my own objections, as he’d just lost a kidney to cancer. If he dropped his vices, the doctors gave him two to three years, but if he continued his normal behaviors, the doctors gave him a year, or less. "I will live and die how I fucking want." He’d say. "If I could, I’d die by the pool with a cigarette in one hand, a drink in the other, chocolate on the table, with my pool boy in sight." I couldn’t argue with him. He’d made up his mind.
He would give me a list of carcinogenic, crappy foodstuffs and tabloids to pick up from Ekhard Drug, Fausto’s Food Palace, or the liquor store, and I’d go get them. The list included the healthy Stoli Vodka, if he was out (He drank much less after his kidney, but did not stop.), cigarettes, of course, Whitman Chocolates, anything Hostess or Little Debbie, Ruffles, cocktail onions (He loved Gibsons.), Snickers, "People," "US," or "The Star." All purchases were always along those lines. I figured he didn’t have too much time left anyway, so I would retrieve what he requested.
On this particular day, I biked to Ekhard Drug on Truman, just off Duval. Pedaling, lost in some tangent, I was attentive enough to be safe, but not much more. I looked up as they were biking towards me, everyday life slowing to one-tenth of normal. As we crossed paths, the three of us staring at the other, the shock of recognition etched on my face, surely while they work the surprised faces of unexpected exposure. Somehow, some way, I saw the demons for what they were. A rather unexpected turn of events, as I biked toward my desired destination.
The dominant devil, the Master, whatever he was, was a dark-skinned black man, very muscular, coldly handsome, and adorned with gold jewelry. His Lieutenant was smaller, almost platinum blond, flat topped, pale skin, also wearing too much gold, and pedaling just behind. The look of disbelief must have registered across my face, as it was reflected by them both, coming towards me, then passing slowly, our heads turning toward the other(s), our mutual awareness, evident.
How did I know this? How could I see them for what they were? The awareness, this recognition, was un-wanted and terrifying. I averted my eyes and began pedaling faster while time then sped past its standard chronology, my breathing faster, pulse racing, completely freaked by the encounter. I didn’t look back until I was at the intersection of Duval and Truman. They had turned around and were following me.
Ekhard Drug was not too far away, so I continued on, quickly, and cruised into the parking lot, locked my bike, and walked directly to the entrance. I turned around once again and saw them across the street, staring at me, exchanging words, standing, but still on their bikes, wearing curious expressions on their evil countenances. I turned and went inside, sweating, unsure of my next move, unsure, at that point, why I was even there. I walked the aisles, pores open, wet, as scared as I’ve ever been, grabbing items from Hal’s list, placing them in my basket, forming a plan. I slowed myself down, breathing through my nose, and thought of who I might call, what I might say, to get some tangible help without being restrained or mistaken for a mental patient, of which, I wasn’t sure I shouldn’t be. No one to call. I’m on my own.
I loitered a bit in the store, hoping they’d become bored and leave, or if it were my imagination, my brain would have dissipated them by now. I began to breathe a bit easier, slower, calming and cooling, assuring myself that yes, this was all in my head, and that, whatever it was, wasn’t what I thought it was. By the time I checked out, I was almost calm. I went back outside and there they were, still across the street, waiting for me. Oh..no.. I thought, beginning to shake.
The events passed more quickly again. I became very directed, unlocking my bike, heading through the parking lot, towards them, turning left, then past them, pedaling faster, aware that they began to move behind me. Is this happening? Why is this happening?
I crossed the street, jumped off my bike, opened the gate, groceries on my left arm, and ran down the boardwalk, up the steps, my bike held off my right shoulder, into the apartment, not looking back. Hal was rather taken aback by my entrance, and I was reticent to tell him what happened, but then I did, only interrupting every few moments to say I hoped he didn’t think I was crazy. He then told me about his own encounter with death or a demon, in the form of a taxi driver in New York City. He believed what I had to say, based on that experience from his past.
I saw the devils two more times that week, un-observed, from a distance. If they saw me, they did not acknowledge it. They were always on their bikes, talking to the other from a close distance. Their energy was dark, held close to their person(s), ringed tightly around them. Something is happening within me. Is this, was this, real?
Housekeeping. Key West, October 1994
"Work! Clean! Work it like a washing machine!"
-B-52’s, "Housework."
Ah, the ritual of repetition. Or !, if you feel strongly enough. Every day, almost every room, work consisted of the same sequence of events. A knock first, then "Housekeeping!" I’d unlock the door and enter their room with the necessary supplies.
They are all on vacation. They are rich and not so, young and old, hot, sleazy, talky, friendly, gruff, drunk, stoned, yelling, tan, or taking pictures. The hygienic state of their rooms also span a wide array, way wide. But that’s not really important. Annoying at times to be sure, but not central to the experience.
Housekeeping was, for me, about getting the most work done in the shortest amount of time and figuring the optimal systematic routines to accomplish the required tasks. By remembering those procedures, I then become a machine; my body focused on repetitive motions while my mind is free to drift. My mind would open to all forms of abstractions, multiple thoughts, ______, our problems, and possible solutions or alternatives. A form of self hypnosis develops, deep thinking and analysis allowed by mental detachment from physical action, born of doing the same set of motions in the same or almost the same manner, alone, five or six hours a day, every day.
Upon entering a room, I would first…
Turn on the television. I am already gone.
Strip and re-sheet the bed.
Make bed/fluff pillows/adjust comforter.
Place new towels and washcloths on bed.
Clean ceiling fans every other day.
Check for and spot-dust.
Check room for anything that needs straightening, or
Pick up several dozen beer/whiskey/et al bottles.
Put soiled sheets in a pile, out of general traffic.
Proceed to bathroom.
Pour bowl cleaner in toilet.
Moisten sink and apply Ajax.
Moisten tub and apply Ajax.
Pull used towels out of bathroom.
Put in pile with bed sheets.
Return to bathroom.
Scrub toilet bowl, clean toilet and immediate area.
Scrub bathroom tiles, grouting and fixtures.
Scrub sink, and clean surrounding area/fixtures.
Windex and clean all mirrors.
Replace soap as necessary.
Consolidate all trash into one bag.
Clean floor by hand with paper towels.
Trash used paper towels.
Tie trash bag.
Vacuum bedroom.
Gather all supplies, re-tie vacuum cord.
Turn off TV.
Leave.
Drop off laundry to laundry room.
Go to next room.
Begin again.
Repeat 10 more times.
Wash all laundry.
Dry all laundry.
Fold all laundry.
Put all laundry away.
Leave for the day.
And I loved it. The work was hard and I worked hard at it, but most of the time, like I said before, I wasn't even there. So many thoughts to consider then, the manic urgency of my need to know, man, was strong. My world, though, was unstable; taking shots from all directions.
I had no money, I was naïve, barely hangin’ on, but at 9 a.m., I could forget all else. Each day, the same. Blessed release, blessed relief, I was working again. I was alone and thinking alone. For six hours, I had static reality as a platform, a foundation. My structure, my sanctuary, was cleaning toilets and making beds.
I worked with three other women in Housekeeping. Renate was from Lithuania, Christina was from Poland, and the woman who was very nice, but whose name escapes me, was from Maine. The nice woman would sometimes substitute for Renate. We all had the same room assignment every shift. Renate was in early, setting up breakfast for the guests, stocking pastries, making coffee, and breakfast breakdown. Because of her early duties, she had to only clean five rooms.
Christina powered through her thirteen rooms in less time than it took for me to finish my eleven. Whether my mind was present or not, my body worked hard, and fast. But Christina worked harder, and was always faster than me. She was born in Poland and had family in Gdansk. She was the stereotypical physical archetype of a scythe wielding Eastern European harvest woman. She was built to work hard, and did so.
She had another job as a buffet attendant at a restaurant on Duval, working from 4 until 10 or 11 each evening. She and her husband sent every bit of money they could overseas to their family, so they could come to America, also. She showed me pictures of her son and daughter-in-law. Her timid giggles would bubble up and out despite herself, sometimes, at various comments I made. "Oh Lan." She would say, giggling, probably, the same way she did, I imagined, when she was young.
It rained hard in September and October, sometimes, and we would still have to work. The layout of the guesthouse contained no completely covered or enclosed access to all the rooms. On those rainy days, we would walk slowly in the rain, heavy with our supplies, the vacuum covered with a trash bag, in and out of each room, back and forth from the rooms to the laundry room. I would see her from a distance, coming in and out of rooms, carrying supplies, and clinging to thoughts of her family and the day they would all be together again. She never complained: Never. She just went on to the next room. And then I would also return to my chores. Because, after all, we were at work.
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