Near the end of the first 100 or so days All of December, Key West 1993

Counting backwards, still…

December 31

It was getting close to midnight and 1994 was seconds away. Not everyone in the bar had a glass of champagne yet, so my job was not yet complete. Laughter, drunken celebration, anticipation all around me, but I had to get those drinks out, so excuse me please. Everyone around me celebrates, their hopes and aspirations, all rising up to meet 1994, while I ran behind, or around them, changing their ashtrays, cleaning their messes, pulling their bottles and glasses.

What would 1994 hold?

December 27

We were really here. We were really stuck here, _____ and I. The overcast weather and humidity mirrored our temperaments. Max is gone. Our phone is still out.

Both _____ and I, though, are making money. Key West is jam packed full of people, therefore, so are the bars. And during this week, we worked hard. People are tipping generously. Hopefully we can pay the over $600 dollar phone bill soon.

_____ is homesick. Physically she feels better than she did yesterday. There’s nothing I can say to make things better for her. I feel very guilty for her situation. I feel responsible for her missing her family over the holidays and corresponding reaction and actions.

December 26

_____ still hasn’t recovered from Christmas Eve. Something isn’t quite right with her mind. She pointed a knife at me and asked me if I was scared of her. When I said I wasn’t, she said, “You should be. You should be.”

She hasn’t eaten today and only a few bites of chicken yesterday. Her mouth contorts with disgust when she looks at me. Her blue eyes radiate with hate. I don’t know this person. I am scared of her. Not for myself, really, but for what she might do to others, or her real self locked behind that countenance somewhere. She really got hammered two days ago.

I found out today what happened. The Copa hosted a “Turnabout” for Christmas Eve. A Turnabout is a lip sync performance by the staff, while bartenders from other bars work for them. Proceeds usually go to charity. The men dress up as women, and the women dress up as men. Hence, the name “Turnabout.”

_____ was dressed up as Kenny Rogers and was paired with a bartender named Ramon, who was dressed as Dolly Parton for their duet of “Islands in the Stream.” A couple of _____’s friends came in shortly before her performance and made her do a bunch of coke. _____ can’t say no. She doesn’t want to offend anyone; even if said offended might be a gaggle of cokeheads.

_____ does several rails with these girls, drinks some more, then proceeds to attack Ramon onstage. She tried to pop his breasts, then hugged and humped him, then screamed at him, storming offstage in the middle of the song. Then she passed out. Some bartenders brought her home. One of them told me what had happened. _____ doesn’t remember anything after arriving for work.

There are people everywhere. They crowd the streets, not paying attention, talking loud. There’s nowhere to go; no place for quiet. I leave the apartment and walk around for awhile, hoping _____ will be all right for an hour or so without hurting herself. I don’t know what to do.

December 25
Christmas at the beach!!

_____’s breathing was less labored than before. It was becoming clear she wouldn’t overdose on this holiday. Since it was around two p.m. Central Standard, and since our phone had not re-connected itself like I had asked God and Santa for my one Christmas-time miracle, I would have to go somewhere to find a pay phone. Hopefully one in a semi-private location, because the wholeness of my aloneness was biting down hard as I decided on and pedaled to a pay phone at Fort Taylor beach.

It was cool, drizzling, overcast, windy, and quiet. No one else was in the immediate area. Good. I didn’t want anyone to see me. I looked out onto the water. The darkness of the clouds extended to a point beyond visibility, beyond the horizon.

It was a sad day all over. I was fully aware of the fact that I was gonna be in bad circumstance for awhile. And then…I realized that I realized this! A Christmastime epiphany! Mental thunderclap, explosions, and the strength to fake some holiday cheer for my family’s sake because after all, I was calling from the beach and everything was fabulous, excellent, and why wouldn’t it be?
The sky darkened and the wind picked up. The drizzle intensified. It was cold and snowy in Missouri where the whole family was gathered. My displacement weighed heavy in Mom’s voice. Her baby was missing; somewhere else, away. She could hear, but not see or touch me. Her tone was sad, hollow.

It rained and I cried long after hanging up, staring at the trees bending leftward, and at the crashing and rippling waves, the only visible movement to the end of the horizon.

December 24

The three of us had our Christmas Eve meal at Subs of Miami. We were equally miserable. Howard bitched the entire meal about how lonely he was and how he hated and alternately missed New York, along with other gripes I tried not to pay attention to, as I didn’t want to feel any worse than I already did. ____ and I ate more or less in silence.

It was our first Christmas here. No family, our roommates from Missouri freshly departed, very few friends, and almost no trustworthy ones. Well, this is as bad as it gets, right? Just then, a colossal bunny-hop/conga line came dancing through the Subs of Miami, started outside by a stupid-ass guitar player from the bar next door who was too peppy not to be a detriment to everyone. We stared at each other in silence as the progression of drunken straight hopper hopped and extended their legs by us, keeping up with the person just in front of them, laughing, 30 or 40 of them, past our sullen table, through Subs of Miami, in Key West, on Christmas Eve.

We left Howard and went home to shower and change. _____ was in the shower and I was on the deck smoking pot, when gunshots rang out. They sounded close. I went to the bathroom and told _____ what had happened. We learned later that it was a Conch man that was killed. Just out of the Navy, a new father, knew all the locals, loved by everyone, starting a new life, killed on Christmas Eve 1993. An innocent bystander between two people with guns and drugs. We knew none of this information then, only that those shots weren’t good. Those shots were a violent, staccato portent to the course of the rest of the evening.

There’s something unsettling or unholy about being slammed shitless at work on Christmas Eve night into Christmas morning. We stayed busy until 2 a.m., and then, nothing. Everyone had gone to the Copa, so, after closing and cleaning, Howard and I went there, too. We couldn’t find _____. We danced for awhile, but I wasn’t really into it, so I left to go home.

From a distance, I saw Max get into a cab. He didn’t say goodbye. I yell to him and he flinches, pretending not to hear me. I guess he thought it would be easier this way. He left on Christmas Day. I haven’t seen him since.

As I opened the door to our apartment, I saw _____’s naked body sprawled out on our bed. She was on her back, outlined in sweat, her breathing heavy and labored, unconscious. Panicked, I quickly jumped on the bed and rolled her onto her side. I had no idea what she’d taken to end up in her current state.

She’s barely breathing. I woke her once. She mumbled something incoherent at me, and then slipped back into the depths. So I lay there, with all the lights of the apartment on, holding her on her side so she won’t choke on her own vomit, just in case she should vomit.

I can hear a party going on next door, as our bedroom adjoins the other unit. The cadences of laughter and speech and several conversations at once were in contrast to the buzz of silence on our side and the occasional noise _____ made, trying to breathe. I made a conscious decision to stay with her and ride this one out, rather than call the paramedics. Because phone service was cut yesterday, I’d have to leave and go use the pay phone.

Anything could happen while I was gone. I suppose if she got worse, I could ask the neighbors to call for me. So I stayed there, listening to the partygoers next door, thinking about how our very different circumstances were separated by this wall that I could hear their laughter emanate from. I held _____ still, whispering for her to relax, hoping she never stopped breathing.

About 5 a.m., as the party next door is in high gear, someone knocks on our door. _____ is somewhat stable in her labored breathing, so I got up and answered the door. In sweeps this drag queen in a beautiful red satin dress, bouffant hair, holding a bottle of champagne, spreading Yuletide cheer. “Merry Christmas darling.” She says in a throaty whisper, smiling.

“The party’s next door.”
“Oh…” She says, her smile on pause, then, “I’m sorry—excuse me.”
“Can I keep the champagne?” I ask, attempting a smile.
“No.” She says, not smiling, grabbing the bottle, sweeping back out of the apartment. And then she was next door, where the noise level went up for a moment the moment she walked in.

I went back into our bedroom. I’m very tired, but I stay awake until after 6, to make sure she still breathes. Christmas morning arrives as I fall asleep from the day before.

December 23

Our phone has been cut off. We owe over $600 to the Phone Company. $210 of the bill is ours. Our former roommates called yesterday from Miami to get their half of the apartment deposit back. But since the rest of the bill is theirs, we told them to fuck off, on speakerphone no less. Now, at least we won’t hear from them again. We can’t. We ain’t got no phone.

The rash around my waist has spread to behind my underarms. _____ has it too, as well
as people who’ve slept in our bed. I’m freaked out because I still don’t know what it is.

December 21

Our two other roommates left today for Miami. Their departure comes three days after telling us they wouldn’t leave for several more months and giving us proper notice. _____ is completely freaked out by this turn of events. I’ll never forgive either one of them for this. They have left us alone at a critical time.

December 18

Went to a birthday party for the man with whom Max is staying. There were less than 10 people left when we arrived just before 5 a.m.. They’d all been doing coke since about 1 p.m. that previous afternoon and were all pretty “geeked out.” When one “geeks,” that person has done so much coke that they move in spasms. They jerk their head to talk with you, or their hands jerk to light a cigarette. They move like someone afflicted with Cerebral Palsy. Glamorous. Max and I had smoked a joint, so I couldn’t relate to this scene at all. They all jabbered at each other in a little circle, except for the birthday boy, who sat away a little distance, observing. He was a lawyer in town.

I knew of him before I knew Max, as he had come into the bar before. Some acquaintances of mine referred to him as “The Devil.” He had an almost soundless gait, floating almost, and a peculiar, serene expression pasted to his countenance at all times, in all circumstances. He would simply “appear” places, not producing any resistance or sound, seemingly an inch above ground, always surrounded by some motherfuckers of ill repute, smiling that weird little half-smile, taking it all in. Creepy.

And there he was, smiling that smile, surrounded by these geeked out cokeheads, still presiding in the moment, even close to sunrise. He watched Max and I talk with each other, focusing on us, cutting through the extraneous noises. He would smile and nod at us occasionally. Then he’d re-narrow his eye just a bit, still listening.

December 17

At the beach

I see him in the water
Through my hazy, stoned perception
Moving slower,
Coming closer,
Head down as he rises,
Out of the water,
Onto the sand,
Smiling
As he walks.
Swinging his arms
With fluid, flirty
Motion,
His mouth upturned in almost a perfect curve.
His teeth shine.
His square cut trunks cling to his thighs.
His curly brown hair form ringlets
From water’s saturation.

He turns away, just for a moment,
Then turns back,
Another smile forming,
In motion again,
As he bends down to kiss me,
Gently,
On the beach, by the water.

As bad as the rest of my life is now,
This man is equally good.
I am so thankful for my friend Max.
I feel so much better around him,
And for the knowledge
That people like him, do indeed, exist.
He’s sexy and intelligent.
He has a good heart.
We make each other laugh so much!
Sometimes it takes awhile longer than others, but
When I am with him, I do forget everything else.
I can relax.

I like him.
I love him.
I could fall in love with him.
So why does he have to leave?

He stands before me, the sun behind his head, his aura aglow, smiling.

December 15

Both ____ and I have terrible rashes extending from armpit to ankle. The rash is painful, and is worst around my belt line, where the sores break easily and ooze constantly. Other people have slept in our bed and are now getting sores on their body too. What the fuck is this? We can’t afford a visit to the doctor. ____ and I are both freaked out, as our rashes only get worse.

December 14

He was frolicking in the water at Fort Taylor beach, flopping around, standing up, a sexy look or pose, then more jumping. And laughing. And smiling the smile of a mischievous child aware that you’re aware what he’s doing is wrong and catching him in mid-act, but what the hell, he’s adorable…

I was shocked when he began to roll a joint right there on the beach. He told me to relax; a lot. “Everything will be alright.” “Relax” was the word. And when he said it to me, I would. Or at least I would try. We giggled and toked, sunning and kissing, smiling big, our secret behavior barely secret.

I could always eventually relax with Max. His energy had a wonderful, calming effect on me. So very soothing. Time spent with him seemed slower, molasses smiles, activities stretching out over the course of an afternoon seemed so much longer. He was a living example of Zeitgeist.

After almost three months of unwanted come-ons and general bullshit behavior by tourists and other locals, I decided to gain 20 pounds and grow a beard so “they” would leave me alone. Needless to say, my roommates thought I was insane. “You’re crazy.” “Are you insane? – What is wrong with you?” was their response.

So I didn’t gain the weight, but I did grow a beard. And I didn’t cut my hair. There, that should do it. And it worked. My beard was not very attractive, and my hair was kind of weird and unkempt, and people stopped noticing me, which was what I wanted.

I had been fired from my job at the clothing store earlier that day, and was drowning my sorrows at the Copa, at the bar by the dance floor manned by a roommate. I was watching the crowd while drinking, hoping the dancers would cheer me up. One guy seemed to be dancing with everyone around him. He was cute and entertaining as he bopped around, smiling and grooving, moving person to person, enjoying himself as much as the others enjoyed being around him. When he would stop for a break, he would stand a few feet away, nodding and smiling at me. Then he was back on the dance floor, grooving once again. I began to realize that I really enjoyed watching him.

Awhile later, he came back again, smiled and nodded again, then came over. He began to talk and question, eliciting my responses, comforting tones re-enforced with wide open eyes, sincere, positive, warm, in unison with his voice. He glowed. My response to him was immediate, but I still remained cautious.

My inhibition didn’t last long, though, as we’ve seen each other every day since. He has come along at just the right time.

December 12

Scott has an outstanding warrant from another state.
I have helped Scott rent a car with my credit card.
Now Scott has disappeared, and his uncle calls me regularly, knowing I know something.
But I didn’t, I swear.
What went down never occurred to me.

His uncle tells me I could be arrested for aiding and abetting a fugitive.
Holy shit I’m naive.
Why did I even get involved?
I have to lay down now.

December 10

I started at the One Saloon last night. It’s dark and they are renovating, so everything is coated with sawdust. The bar by the dance floor is under plastic. They are still places to stand, though. The manager says it’s all right for people to stand back there. “Just don’t let them get too crazy.” I bar back, so I stock and fill and empty. Last night wasn’t too busy, but the manager says that will change.

December 9

They all come home from the Copa smashed and screaming at each other, every night. Especially _____, but the boys are right there, too. Then I get to be in the middle. Fun!

The only reason I mention this is because it hasn’t happened in two mornings. They’ve been in Miami for the second time in less than a month. It’s obvious they want to move, and if _____ and I could afford it, that would be great. _____ and I get along very well together, and we would be perfectly happy without them around. But the rent between two of us is too much.

They’ve said, though, that they won’t move for awhile and I have to believe them. _____ and I hung out on the deck, smoked pot, listened to the roosters crowing in Bahama Village, and laughed amongst ourselves.

December 5

Got fired today, for the first time ever, from the clothing store. Scott and I told our bosses the other two employees were ripping them off. But the other two employees were also sleeping with our bosses, so they won. I’ve never been fired before, much less over trying to do the right thing. I’m stunned.

December 1

_____ got drunk last night and told this beautiful guy how obsessed I was over him, on the dance floor, at the Copa. I don’t think he feels remotely the same way. I don’t want to look at or be near him. That will be difficult, though, as he works two stores down from where I work. Beautiful.

December 31

The crowd counts down the final seconds (“Four! Three! Two! One!”), then the collective New Year’s celebration reaches climax for a minute or so. The kissing and yelling and drinking and spilling of alcohol and groping of the revelers is a just reward for making it through another year. The confetti, smoke, and music in the air, the temperature in the 60’s at midnight on this new January morning; it’s all un-natural to me. I view the festivities with detachment. They celebrate while I endure.

I watch the crowd for some sense of happiness or fulfillment or encouragement via osmosis. But the scene leaves me flat. I return to work with a growing dread of the offerings offered by this new year 1994, a week from my 28th birthday, unaware of just how difficult the experiences of the coming year would actually be. “Tommy’s out of Bud! Go change the keg!” The manager screams at me over the crowd.

I head to the cooler, humming a tune to block out the ill feeling welling up inside of me. I think to myself, “There should be snow on the ground.” I don’t even like snow. “Without it, everything is wrong.” A few feet away from me, a man is laughing.

Welcome to 1994, Lance. Try to be brave.

Winter 1993

Vincent and I would drive around the island in his pickup. He, dropping off bags of weed here and there, me, along for the ride. We enjoyed each other’s company. He would get extra food when we’d order out, when I couldn’t afford it, because he felt I was losing too much weight.

Which, in reality, I was. I was not taking care of myself, working too much, and constantly popping ephedrine tablets. Ephedrine is one chemical ion away from being classified as a meth-amphetamine. Did you know that?

I only found that out a few years ago, and not when I lived in Key West. I’m a little hyper anyway, and being strung out on ephedrine and caffeine did make me lose weight. “Eat! Eat! You’re a growing boy!” He would say, making me finish whatever he had ordered, taking care to insure I lost no more weight. He was very nurturing of me.

He was the first one at work to offer a friendly hand. That meant so much, as I was intimidated by the unfamiliarity of my new workplace. I was there as an apprentice. If I showed any promise or talent, my boss would hire me on. Which he eventually did, but at first, there was no such guarantee. But none of that mattered to Vincent.

I worked in silence those first couple of weeks, learning the photo-stat machine, how to use an exacto-knife, how to cut a rubylyth, and how to typeset. Simple procedures to someone skilled in graphics, but unfamiliar and difficult for me. So I worked quietly, doing what was asked, timid and unsure, praying for patient responses to the inevitable mistakes I kept making. He responded to every mistake and question with a smile.

He sold me weed. He kept me fed. He was patient and helpful. He was actively concerned about my well being. He came along at just the right time.

My dealer became my friend.

Missouri dirt road – Key West, winter, 1993-94

I have twisted my ankle or fallen may times running that dirt road. Rocks, ruts, the downhill slope, staring out onto the view…all contributing to falls or injuries received. Rolling pastures on the right, tree line, bluff, lake, more pastures and view, to the left. The road leads past a farm, up and down two smaller hills, then to a fork in the road.

To the right, the gated part of the road leads almost directly to the lake. I have been there many times. My father and uncle used to fish there. When I didn’t want to run the full distance, I would take the right fork. And I would end up here. The lake that used to be a river’s dam-controlled current rolls by, a constant 53 or 54 degrees. The air is heavy with fog or humidity, depending on the time of day. I would stay here, catching my breath for a moment, then turn and begin the walk up the many hills toward home.

But, if I chose to run further, I took the left fork, which sloped rather sharply downhill. My speed could not help but increase. Looking down at the my vibrating legs and knees and shoes that preferred to go pigeon-toed, demanding rigorous thought for opposite results. Stretching out, each graceful, successive shock, meeting the downward sloping earth, sure-footed, cautious, but faster each time.

My friend Inertia goads me on, urging my legs to keep time with some theoretical construct involving mass, velocity, and resistance with no consideration to rocks, ruts, and variable terrain. Inertia whispers “Faster, faster!” The sound of wind rushes by my ears. I become aware of my grunts that correspond with the shock of each step. Then, the hill levels out and my pace slows, re-adjusting to the flattened terrain of the road next to the lake.

Trees and the waterline on the right, a green, sloping and sheer bluff on the left, and the rutted dirt road, leading through the outskirts of the magical forested mountain. To the left, the sounds of animals in the leaves. They observe from a protected distance as I pass through their territory. Lake Taneycomo floats gently by, its heavy, chilly fog rising and dissipating. The occasional fisherman passes by in a motorboat, breaking the lake’s glass-like surface. Sometimes the fog eliminates visibility entirely on or near the lake. Although those conditions make running unsafe, the reduced temperature and liquid air are comforts on the last stretch of the four-plus mile trek.

My beating heart and breaths fell into rhythm miles ago. My thoughts focus on faraway constructs and situations. I am not really running. I am somewhere that is not…there…or anywhere else. I am thought as I exercise my body. I am years ago. The lake, the stillness of surroundings, my heart, the quiet, and my recuperative breaths are this world. I long to stay here.

I get off the Stairmaster. My 45 minutes are up. All around, guys are lifting and cruising, laughing, talking about the upcoming night. Where they’ll go, what they’ll do, who they’ll do… All set to the beats of the DMX blaring techno music throughout the gym.

None of this is familiar. None of this is comforting. Everyone seems so happy. I can’t connect with any of it. I feel lost. I stare at some of their faces for clues on what I might be missing. Nothing. I don’t understand.

I leave the gym quietly and unnoticed. As I walk back to the apartment, the people that pass by begin to fade. I start the long walk back up the hills. I take care to mind the ruts, slowly traveling the road back home.

It’s January of 1994, and I run that dirt road more now than I ever did when I lived in Missouri.

Between December of 1993 and May of 1994

I have biked through the Key West cemetery almost every day. I am usually alone, pedaling slowly, stoned, sometimes stopping for a closer inspection of a tombstone, but only sometimes. I loved listening to the resounding stillness as I pedaled along the path. But, at times, there were others present.

Some sang, to themselves, loud and soft. Others talked with those in graves. Others did grave rubbings. Some met my eyes when I looked at them, searching for some empathic trace of their motivation. Others paid no heed or looked away, as I pedaled to or from work, thinking of death, other thoughts, and now, of the strangers along the way.

1994, sometime, a little dazed, maybe…

When I lived in Missouri, I sort of believed in Angels and Devils. When I lived no where else, I thought my convictions were strong. When I lived near my parents, I thought I was sane. When I lived near my family, I thought I had roots. When my friends were around me, I thought I was loved.

When I lived in Missouri, I longed for excitement. I yearned for sex with beautiful men, for fun, for a life that to me, for me, has always been unreachable and unrealistic. Now I just want calm, sleep, and to write un-interrupted. But I don’t think this will happen soon.

What has happened? Where am I going?

Perception, or hallucination? January 1994

Sometimes, while dancing at the Copa, if I was intoxicated or manic enough, I could see thin lines of light or connecting webs of energy from all those dancing around me, to me, and to others throughout the building. It was brilliant, with energy, lights, motion, and the feeling of having tapped into something not of this plane. No thought was necessary to dance. Coordination operated from the subconscious, along with access to these perceptions, normally hidden.

Sometimes the experience was so powerful the music would fade, leaving my breathing as the only sound. I became acutely aware of the synchronicity of our collective movements. I was also able to imagine how the dynamics of the people in this one bar on this block in this town connected with people all over, and how my, and their, dancing, their movements, their behaviors, contribute to the overall rhythm of our existence. These flashes were beautiful, powerful, temporary, and comforting in the way that, to me, proved there was indeed some higher power at work. And what wasn’t understood by the whole of us was still all right, as the divine is (of course) beyond our comprehension.

But something always brought me back. An obnoxious drunk, laughter, another dancer bumping into me… The music would return. The connections would dissipate. And I would again be left on this plane, intoxicated, disappointed, and disoriented by what had happened.

Cary the Angel – 1994

"Oh what, wow, he’s the greatest dancer…Oh what, wow, that I’ve ever seen…"

-Sister Sledge, "He’s the greatest dancer."

"What is the light that you have shining all around you. Is it chemically derived?? Cause if it’s natural, something glowing from inside, shining all around you, its potential has arrived. Looking into space it surrounds you."

-The Flaming Lips, "What is the Light?"

The Europeans are less inhibited than Americans, so it is much more fun to dance with them…

There is a response triggered deep within the being of some people that only a few types of music could elicit. The shedding of self-consciousness. The ability to float through and around the rhythm rather than dancing to the beat. Heightened awareness yet very selective focus. Unconscious unified aerobic respiration. The duality of frenzied physicality and the relativity of a trance-like state running parallel. It is old and innate and powerful and is experienced by far too few. But that is also what makes it special.

The dancer is black and his features are beautiful. It seems apparent that he is happy, yet he rarely speaks. Usually he is dancing by 12:30, no later than 1:00. And when he dances, it is Motion. A sight to behold, so beautiful, so graceful… He is a dancer. More than that, really. I think he’s an Angel. I can’t really prove it, but this man inspires such positivity from those around him when he is in his element of the Dance Floor. The smile this man has when he is in harmony with himself and the rhythm! His movement is coordination from some other plane, very precise and fluid, twirling like a drill bit, then bending like long grass flowing in the wind. Amazing.

He only comes out at night. His beauty is so striking, so appropriate. He dances and sweats and gleams, throwing off so much wonderful energy, freely given to whomever is dancing around him. His drown-brown eyes have a smile all their own when he’s inspired and inspiring.

I would dance next to him or just watch from a few feet away. I always felt like I was in the presence of an Ethereal rather that a mere mortal, because men are too closely linked with the earth. Sometimes I thought he would just float off somewhere in mid-step, his movement that light. People would start dancing all around him, spontaneously, just to be close to his energy, his impact that profound.

There is no doubt he is very old, as he has fully mastered the language of rhythm, yet he is not boastful of his talents. My friend Ana says that no one in Key West is deserving of him. He is too special. I hope he’s not lonely, because I think she is right.

He draws out what is good of the people who dance near him, and for those moments, that time, it’s all that is important. This lone beacon, a divinity, joyfully dancing alone after midnight in a club in Key West.

No one living ages 38 – 45, February 1994

It hurt to remember. Yet, in this context, he felt he must.

The letter came from Maryland. It was late winter, and my boss wasn’t prepared for its arrival. The letter was from the parents of an old friend. Enclosed was a picture, along with a letter telling him that his old friend had died two weeks earlier. He had lingered, and his death had taken a long, painful time to arrive. His name was George, and he and my boss had known each other back when they were in their 20’s, smokin’ hot and wild and loose and sexually free.

I had arrived at work a little late that day, tired but amped from the pot of coffee I’d ingested just to get there. He sat at his computer, alternately staring at the half-empty monitor, the picture, the keyboard, and his hands. He didn’t say too much at first, just that an old friend had died. He gave me some work due at the end of the day and returned to staring and being quiet.

Then, not more than a few minutes later, he jumped up and said, "Let’s go upstairs." This was the cue to get high, as we smoked a lot of pot at work. So we smoked a joint in silence, and I sat on a box, looking at him looking out the attic window. "Should we go back to work?" I suggested, snapping him back to the present.

He stared at me for a moment, then said "No, let’s go for a drive." Ok. It was becoming obvious we wouldn’t get much work done today, anyway. We went back to the studio; told the secretary we were leaving, leashed his insane, hyperactive, and not very bright Dalmatian, walked downstairs, and got in his Jeep. The nutso Dalmatian had to be watched closely when we drove, as she had a tendency to jump out while the Jeep was still moving. When she was properly secured, my boss turned the ignition and we proceeded to wander around Old Town, no destination in mind. We cruised the streets, watching people, looking at houses, enjoying the 75 degree February morning. The wind blew, the trees rustled, and the dog barked and bit, not sitting still.

He began to tell me about George, their younger days, the friends they had, the things they did together. Then he told me about the other friends that he had who had also died. How he knew them, how they died, what they meant to him, and that, one by one, they had all gone and left him alone. "Do you know what that’s like? I have no friends. They’re all gone. AIDS wiped out everyone I loved. There’s no one left…"

I kept silent. No, I couldn’t know what that’s like. I had no idea what to say. Nothing was most appropriate.

He had been friends with a really famous gay porn star, as he’d told me on many occasions before. Porn made him money, but he was also an accomplished artist. His art came from discarded construction equipment, metals, woods, even soil. He had gained some notoriety in southern California for his work, but he too, had died, leaving only the legacy of his mega-star porn career behind, his sexuality overwhelming his creativity as a lasting impression.

Somewhere, in the course of my life, I picked up on a statement concerning the process of grief upon the death of a family member or loved one. A loose paraphrase like, one never really "gets over" the death of someone close. Little by little, the pain becomes manageable, and the sorrow will recede. With the process of time, the death of a loved one becomes, simply, a burden one can bear. But you’ll still remember. You will never completely "get over" it.

"There’s no one left, Lance. I have no friends my own age. I’m the last one…" He never cried, but the remembrance of those friends now gone came back, each old friend heaping more memories upon the burden he could hardly bear to begin with. I rode shotgun and kept quiet, letting him talk when he needed, letting him remember what he needed.

It was a beautiful day, that winter’s day in Key West, with the sunshine, the clouds here and there, the color, and the light. That crazy dog, though, was of no comfort to her master. Oblivious to his pain, she just wouldn’t sit still. We drove around for several more hours, then returned to the studio. Our jobs had not completed themselves, and he worked in silence, typesetting like he had done the day before.

Dummy the cat – Key West – 1993, 1994

The cat that had lived around the apartments for apparently a grillion and a half years adopted us immediately. This ancient Siamese cat, emaciated, barely able to walk more than twenty or thirty steps before laying down wherever he was… His cloudy, glaucoma-blue eyes looking up at me… His little body shaking while he meow-ed for my attention. He would sit outside our door, or Mark’s across the way, in the shade, still not protected from the heat, waiting for either of us.

One of my roommates found the cat nothing but a nuisance. But the cat’s age and obvious tender demeanor really touched me. I would feed and pet him while he shook. The cat seemed to visibly deteriorate during the first few months of our stay, cancer, or some other equally terrible affliction his worst enemy. Although he wanted our affection, he never attempted to enter the apartment and was content to just stand and shake by the front door.

On a particularly hot day in early spring, I opened the door to give him some food and in he came. Trotting almost, entering the apartment about 10 steps before stopping. He stood there, next to the ladder to the loft, obviously drained from the exertion. "Dummy, c’mere…c’mere," I said, from two steps away. He shook, but continued no further.

He moved his head slowly around the room as his legs stood rigid and his chest expanded and contracted heavily. Upon closer inspection, he looked worse than usual. I let him stay inside awhile. The air conditioner with the Buick-sized engine roared and ate electricity in compensation for the little cool air it provided. Dummy barely moved during his stay.

In the evening after sunset, the temperature cooled a bit and I attempted to pick him up, but relented because he seemed so fragile. The very act of lifting him could’ve broken him. I sat on the floor and directed him, slowly, to the door. He stepped down the step and stopped; then lay down. I looked outside a half an hour later, and there he was, next to the bowl of water, looking at me.

The next day he was gone and none of us saw him again. Sturdy little fragile cat, his eyes conveyed some understanding he was unable to articulate otherwise. Sweet little thing. I cried when I knew he wasn’t coming back.

Our first dinner together – February, 1994

We were eating outside. We were talking, enjoying our mutual company, the time passing in a relaxed, yet quick fashion, when we agreed on some point in the conversation. I looked over at you. You were looking back at me, with those gentle, coy, smiling, twinkling, beautiful eyes, your lips half parted, glad to agree. Your.. You really touched me.

Is this where it has begun?

His very presence/When it began.

March through May, 1994/Key West

He could be so concerned
And caring
And thoughtful
And sweet.

He would visit me at work,
At the studio or at the bar,
Bearing food,
Or a note,
Allowing me to take a much needed break,
In the care of someone so handsome and so
Attentive.
My feelings for him deepened.

When we went to lunch,
we almost always ate at the Compass Rose.
Great comfort food, outdoor dining, and lots of cats.
___ always had great stories.
His timing, his humor, his perspective…
An endless stream of entertainment and affection.
All the while, my devotion to him continued to grow.

___ had seen and done much in his life, and
had met with more than his fair share of adversity,
yet,
when he slept, his countenance reflected
an innocence undamaged by past events.
I loved to watch him sleep.

_____would take a Troll doll or a plastic Chicken McNugget and hide it around the apartment, sometimes in a glass of water in the freezer, in the bathroom, underneath the sheets, always in an unexpected place.
He made crank calls.
He would meow-talk.
I appreciated the laughter he gave me.
He was compassionate and rational and had the most beautiful blue eyes. Direct, unwavering, full of warmth.

He made me feel like everything would indeed be all right.

That spring, in Key West, Florida, I began to fall in love with ______.

Monday night at the One Saloon – spring 1994

Mondays and Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays featured strippers at the One Saloon. I worked Sunday through Thursday, bar-backing on Monday and Tuesday. Because the Copa was not open on those days, Monday and Tuesday were also our busiest nights. If you have never bar-backed, I must tell you it’s very physical work. Hauling kegs to and fro, on the run, always emptying or filling, lugging this or that to this or that, helping the bouncer…lots of busy work. It’s hard to be a good bar-back because you should always be thinking about your next move while continuing to bust serious ass. And I was a good bar-back.

When bar-backing, I’d get to work a little before 9 p.m. and would always leave around 5 a.m. Work could be such a blur, clearing the ashtrays on the rail, progressive stocking for the bartenders, getting change, keeping drinks off the pool table, reprimanding stupid drunks…Juggling these little balls of responsibility as responsibly as possible. The customers were of no help, obstacles to my working rhythm. Then there were the strippers.

The profession of choice of the sadly beautiful and traumatized, stripping offers an allure, a glamorous mythology very different than the reality in which strippers actually live. As a result, some were difficult to work with. But some were not. We had some regular and semi-regular dancers, some too regular and some one-time only(s), for whatever reason. There were also strippers whose reason for never performing there again was more obvious.

This Monday night was packed. The strippers danced mostly on the main bar, as it was bigger and the center of the club, and the dancers could attract the most attention there. The problem with the main room was maneuverability, as the pool table dominated a lot of floor space. As a bar-back, people, then the pool table, were my biggest impasses. Their loud drunken conversation, cigarettes swinging wildly, their utter non-attempt to move out of the path of an oncoming keg, almost every motion, behavior, direction or action taken made my job just that much harder. And the pool table was too big for the room and very popular. So I had to be alert, assessing situations, as they develop in order to be as effective and inconspicuous, weaving through the crowds with as little interference as possible.

It was already shaping up to be a crazy shift. Monday was our night. When the Copa was closed, their employees came here. One of the owners spun on Monday and Tuesday, and was one of the best DJ’s I’d ever heard. He always had the best, newest, sweatiest, pumpin’ music on the island, and was completely in touch with and control of his dancers on the floor. I’d watch him during spare moments, dancing around, reacting and provoking, loving every beat as much as those dancing. And, of course, we had hottie strippers, alternating sets, writhing and grinding in twenty-minute increments. So we all worked, at a running pace, all night long, every Monday night.

We filled up early. It was a late winter’s night, but still very warm. Since there was a snow storm on the East Coast from D.C. to New York, those snowed-in down here did what their neighbor back home did, under the circumstances: got crazy drunk, and had lots of sex. Everyone made the most of the situation, and they were all up-up-up! Tonight.

I don’t really remember that second stripper. He could have been that Brazilian guy or even the 24 or 25 year old, nicely toned and goateed guy…I don’t know. The French guy, who never stripped there again (that I knew of), made quite an impression as the opening stripper.

Henri, Hercule, whatever his name was, spoke almost no English, having evidently just arrived from France. But if anyone could survive, nay, flourish on one’s looks only, it would be him. He was firmly planted in that upper stratosphere of physical beauty, in the company of super models and the really "beautiful ones" found in the more select resorts and playgrounds around the world. And, he liked to dance naked, as we were about to find out. Now this would not be a problem in Miami, where dancing nude is legal, but here in Key West, it was not. Henri, or Hercule, had not been briefed as to the differing legalities of the two cities hosting his performances and the ramifications thereof. Or maybe he understood, but just didn’t care.

I was in the bar closest to the dance floor, stocking for and talking to the bartender, when a chorus of shrieks, yells, screams and laughter, total pandemonium, erupted from the center of the bar. The bartender and I looked toward the main room as the intercom phone began to ring. On the bar, Frenchy was totally nude, swaying back and forth, twirling his incredibly huge cock in a circular motion, as if it were a pocket watch. The uproar was deafening. The bartender was laughing hysterically along with the crowd, stunned at this unexpected turn of events. The phone was still ringing, so I answered it. The manager was behind the main bar. I watched him scream into the phone at me, demanding I get jumbo-cock down immediately, as he was too busy serving drinks to do it himself.

That scene, hopefully, will never fully dissipate from memory. That so, so perfect-looking French guy, twirling his disturbingly gigantic appendage counter-clockwise, in a groove, with shrieks, gasps, laughter, and admiration from the crowd his feedback. His presence was inciting chaos, of which I have now been charged to stop. So I crawl through the hole, weave through the crowd, grab his thong from the manager, motion and talk French-Fry down to ground level, and put a stop to his penis; pronto!

"Oh, no no…You’ve got to come down now…" I’m waving him down from the bar, and he’s smiling, as if he has no clue he’s done anything wrong, his big, big cock still swinging. He bends down towards me and I take his hand, motioning him to come down with my right hand, pulling down with my left. The crowd in front catches on to what’s happening, and starts to boo. I look over at the manager, who’s still serving drinks, motioning me to continue getting him down off the bar.

French is devastatingly beautiful up close. Perfect teeth and smile, clear, aquamarine eyes, symmetrical features, and naked! I clear a path through the crowd, my left hand holding his hand, in my right hand, his thong, until we can get to the stripper’s dressing area behind the front bar. "Keep this on please." I say, shaking the thong at him.

He’s smiling. I think he understands, but I’m not sure. He is so beautiful… He puts on the thong.

I saw him a few minutes later, during the other stripper’s set, off in the corner, thong around his thighs, giving a patron a chance to examine that big ol’ salami up close and personal. Well, I tried. There was still a lot of work to do. The crowd wasn’t leaving, the music still pumped, and we stayed busy up until 4 a.m.

The little match girl

Leighanne had small breasts, for a stripper. She looked like Uma Thurman all beat up, after spending an inordinate amount of time in bars, either working or drinking. She was wild, outrageous, and took delight in shocking others, embracing and provoking The Unexpected. Laughing, a smile bursting into a laughter, then an incredibly filthy comment, followed by more laughter was always part of the conversation. That’s how she was, and still is, for all I know.

Her bar-trick claim to fame was splitting matches, putting them on her breasts, and lighting the matches with another lit match dangling tight from her mouth, then dancing around. Visually, it was a little more stunning than that description. She never drank beer, only clear liquids. She loved shots, too.

She came to One Saloon a couple of times when I still worked there. I could hang out when we weren’t busy, so I would talk with her and her friend(s) when they drank. She came in once with one other guy, and they stood at the main bar, drinking and watching the strippers. She flirted with one stripper, and he flirted back, in the way that gay men flirt with straight women, along with some condescension thrown in, as he was unavailable to her.

She called him down to her, as he was dancing on the main bar, just above us. He wriggled down, smiling, as Leighanne says to him, "I wanna smack your ass!" The stripper laughs, clearly delighted, for whatever reason, and said "Yeah—Ok!" He turned around and bent over, sticking his ass in her face, confident of a sexy (but bearable) spanky spank from this little girly-girl here.

Leighanne looked over at us, arched one eyebrow, licked her palm, slung her arm back, and struck the stripper as if she were holding a whip. Only, it was her hand. The sound was a loud, bass-y resounding pop! The sound was full. It had legs. It had chops. Tears involuntarily welled in the stripper’s eyes. He was visibly shaken.

I think his feelings were hurt, too, as a lot of people were laughing. Leighanne was laughing, too, and trying to get the stripper to turn back around so she could see the welt develop.

Spicy, she was.

Conch Independence Days

The sky was clear that afternoon/early evening. We were armed with tomatoes, hot dogs, and oranges. And the day was so beautiful! A few clouds, upper 70’s, a light breeze, and every boat that could be was afloat for "The Battle that Never Was." A gigantic, surreal, food-fight-made-up-re-enactment of the defining moment of Key West’s Conch Independence Days.

Some background: As a result of the Mariel boat lift in the early 1980’s, an increase of drugs and illegal aliens headed up U.S. Highway One from the Keys into Miami. The DEA decided to roadblock the Keys to stem the huge number of immigrants and drugs surging into the area, and then consequently, into the rest of the country. Ordinarily, the drive from Key West to Miami is between three and a half and four hours, depending on speed and conditions. During the roadblock, travel time to and from Miami doubled. I’m sure there was a lot of tension and frustration and many more reasons prompting the city’s course of action, but the roadblock is the only one I heard.

So, in response to the situation, the citizens of Key West seceded from Florida and the United States. Someone fired a single gunshot into the air. They surrendered, and applied for federal relief as a defeated nation. And they won! The roadblock was ceased, and the government withdrew. Ha! Take that! Not too bad for a bunch of potheads and drunks, huh?

And each year, in honor of that singular achievement, they throw one hell of a party. A food fight. A fuckin’ massacre. I don’t know if I’ve ever laughed so hard. Maybe once. But I wasn’t in love, then. So this memory is sweeter..

We went out on the water early. There were already many others sailing about, the excitement of impending fun was felt all around. Everyone was amped. One could hear lots of laughter and happy, positive cadences in the rhythms of distant exchanges. The sun was still in the sky, lowering slightly, increasing anticipation. The water became more and more congested with jet skis, yachts, pontoon boats, sailboats, the Coast Guard; you name it, they were there.

And then they were all throwing food. It was amazing. Observation craft like the Schooner Appeldore were attacked: By us! The Captain was totally shocked when we started pelting them. We struck hard, then got out of there. As we were leaving, another boat started to attack the Appeldore as well. You just wanna watch, huh? Not today.

Jet skis ripped by, turning sharply, splashing us, then zipping off, like dragonflies. The Coast Guard pounded us with their firehose. We were falling and yelling and incapacitated and laughing. And as they were driving off, sprayed us one more time, for good measure.

The gambling boat was dead ahead. I had an acquaintance that was the Second Captain of the Fun Kruz. The owners of the boat wanted you to think "Cruise," but I always said it like it was spelled. Kruz. Three levels of Kruz, to be exact. Gambling, drinking, and buffets on one big funtabulous six hour international (waters) cruise. And we were coming up fast from behind.

When we were a little less than 50 yards away, my Fun Kruz buddy popped his head out one of the windows directly in front of us, taunting and laughing, daring anyone from our boat to hit him. So I threw a tomato at him. Actually, I winged one at him, missing the left side of his head by inches, the tomato exploding against the back wall of the second level. Staring and stunned, my friend ducked back out of view. And then everything went crazy.

The people on all three levels on the backside of the boat began to throw their buffet food at us, all at the same time. There was nothing we could do. I wanted to duck, but I couldn’t help but watch all the food, flying in the air, hitting the water, the boat, and us. Rolls, pork chops, pickles, chicken legs, fruit…it was totally and completely off the hook. We couldn’t stop laughing. People on our boat were taking cover under the tarp, but a few had fallen and were left exposed, howling with adrenaline and delight, flailing around in buffet food.

At one point, I remember looking over at ______, an excited smile and bursts of giggles emanating from him, his buoyancy, a comfort of which I was so thankful, and I could not ever remember a time in which I had been so happy. He was talking with a friend, slowly turning to look at me looking at him, and he was smiling. He was smiling at me. And at that moment, my heart expanded, reaching the inner walls of my skin, happy for acceptance.

The fighting continued for twenty or thirty more minutes, sunset heralding the end of battle, signaling peace and victory for all participants. We went back ashore, and I pedaled to my apartment to change for work. I would be barbacking this evening at One Saloon, and would be working hard until 5 a.m.. I go to work at 9. It’s now 8. I am exhausted. I have given up my only chance to nap between my day job (10-5) and my night job (9-5). I brew a pot of coffee, take five tablets of ephedrine, shower, and am content with my decision.

The night goes by very quickly. It is very busy in town. We have strippers tonight. It’s also our five-dollar "Drink and Drown," all the draft you care to drink, but not necessarily care to enjoy.

The music is good, I’m sure, as it always is on Monday and Tuesday, and the crowd is deep and thick throughout the bar. But none of it matters. I keep hitting replay, slowing it down, watching the wall of water, the jet ski screaming by, frame by frame, watching the tomato arc gently by Troy’s head, laughing, ______’s head, slowly turning to me in the middle of a burgeoning smile… And soon, I will once again be with him, sleeping by his side.

I drop a keg, unhooking and moving the empty one, mightily push and slide it into place, make the new connection, and call to the bartender that the free flow of Bud can continue. I smile down at the keg, smiling at him smiling at me. And then I return to collecting empty beer bottles along the back rail of the bar, into and around the dance floor.

Key West, spring/summer 1994

He is such a restless sleeper.
He is plagued with recurring nightmares.
He is a hypochondriac, too.
I lay my hands on him at night, while he sleeps, in an attempt to heal him, or at least, ease some of the chaos that invades his sleep.

His sleeping body relaxes a bit, if only for the awareness of my, or another’s presence.
But the terrors never fully go away.
His tossing and turning, his sub-conscious fears, concern me.
I can do nothing for him in this realm of his existence.

Me and ___…summer, 1994

"I have a drug problem and a love issue. Or maybe I have a love problem and a drug issue…"
-Alley Sheedy, "High Art"

He held the little brown bottle underneath my left nostril while I was on top and inside him. After inhaling while pushing in the opposite nostril, we would repeat the process on the right. Then I’d hold the bottle for him while he did the same. And then, our systems would flood and rush, expand and contract, our vision becoming blurry, then focused. Sometimes we could return the bottle to the nightstand before total immersion in our passion was complete. The feeling of being inside him, kissing him deeply, cradling his naked body, joined, locked, not wanting to breathe, under the influence of this drug amyl nitrate, was love itself.
We would meet each other’s thrusts, changing positions, clinging to the other with feverish intensity. Total arousal, spiritual and physical one-ness, an overwhelming sense of everything pleasurable and good, saturation of psychic and empirical senses, all possible from the contents of that little brown bottle.

The feeling would last only a few minutes, then we would do more, usually still joined, before the effects of the drug wore off entirely. Little yellow dots would appear before my eyes, travelling across my vision before dissipating. ___’s eyes were wide; his breathing in gasps, while his sphincter muscles tightened and relaxed around my penis. It was complete and total, sensual over-load. I would bring him closer to me, no space between our torsos, arms wrapped and clinging to the other, flooded with love, in physical and gaseous form.

"This isn’t wrong – how could this be wrong if it feels so good? I’m not bad – this isn’t bad, is it?" He would ask these types of questions during intercourse. He needed re-assurance. He needed to be told he was good. And I would always re-assure him, holding him close, both of us close to sexual ecstasy, that he was not bad, that we were not bad, that we were in love. Our passion, rising, our thrusts, synchronized, our orgasms, imminent.

By the time we came, our eyes were bloodshot, and our skin had taken on a yellowish, jaundiced pallor. This was the down side of constant inhalation and use of amyl nitrate. Afterward, the walls would return, the intense emotions of the recent past, were forgotten. His psychic distance, the aloof posturing, always came back.

Other than this altered state, emotional penetration of ______ was denied.

Sexual penetration was all he would ever allow.

August/September, 1994 – Key West

"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.

A flower from Beavis – winter 1993/September, 1994

"…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.

September 1994

..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.

Late September, 1994

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.

Saturday, November 12, 1994

Just got off work. Hot damned day, no shirt on, my mind awash with disjointed negative thoughts and emotions careening by at 10,000 miles an hour, coursing through my being. When my thoughts travel this fast or in this fashion, mental control is tenuous.

About four years ago, a bunch of us took some powerful psyllocibin cubinza mushrooms that generated a wild ride (for me) on the tip of a stylized 1930’s art-deco pen, zooming along a landscape of steel and rivets, with an unnaturally glowing blue sky, with mountains in the distance that never got any closer. The image itself wasn’t necessarily bad at this point, and when all was quiet, the vision hummed along and was very satisfying. But when there was noise (which occurred frequently, as there were five others tripping with me), the trip was turbulent, me veering from left to right and back again, white knuckled, hurtling along the chemical panorama on this crazy pen, praying for absolute quiet, not only for enjoyment, but for the sake of my sanity. Love and hate took on very real directions, and the whole episode etched itself onto my mind, probably forever. The experience got really bumpy when the rivets sprouted thorns, but this is unimportant now. This time around, everything ended fairly well, considering no one, especially me, freaked out bad enough for the cops to come calling. My thoughts always travel this fast on a pretty regular basis, without the aid of mushrooms.

I called Mom after my first therapy session to tell her that I’d gone. Her somewhat chilly, cautious response was "I hope this isn’t something that goes on for years." Yeah, well, I hope so, too. Therapy is a dirty word to my parent’s generation. But if they could look into my head, they’d want me to go.

Therapy is a step in the right direction. Ana tells me it can be very liberating, venting whatever you feel, saying the unsayable. She’s encouraged me talk to myself when alone, and while this has been helpful, I must be careful where and when I speak freely to myself, and not to get too wrapped up in the overall significance of what I say aloud. After all, to vent is to vent; nothing more, nothing less. Turn the valve yourself. Ease the pressure.

I must slow my thoughts. I must take control of my thinking. I must slow down. I must..

Home

"What is this place?"
"Branson, Missouri. My dad says it’s like Vegas, if it were run by Ned Flanders."
-Exchange between Nelson Muntz and Bart Simpson, from "The Simpsons."

1994, looking back…

I grew up in Branson, Missouri, the Country Music Capital of THE UNIVERSE, as opposed to Nashville, Tennessee, the Country Music Capital of America. Branson is located about 15 miles from the Arkansas border in southwestern Missouri, almost equidistant to and triangulated by Kansas City, St. Louis, and Little Rock, Arkansas. It 40 miles to the north of Harrison, Arkansas, a stronghold of the KKK, and 40 miles to the south of Springfield, the world-wide headquarters of the maniacally evangelical Assemblies of God organization. Because of its central location, Branson is very auto-accessible. It is within a 15-hour’s drive of almost two-thirds of the nation’s population. The upward rise of tourists and popularity to the area has resulted in a frenzy of highway construction in preparation for future driving masses projected to come five to ten to twenty years from now, causing major headaches for the locals and newcomers already there.

Branson came into existence in 1903 as a post office. Built on the shores of what was the White River (Before construction of the Table Rock Dam), Branson’s evolution to its current incarnation caught most everyone by surprise. From nothing, really; nothing, to an end of the millennium wild (mid) west boomtown orgy of bad country music, has-been performers, non-stop buffet food, go-karts, bus gridlock, cranky old people, Southern Baptist moneychangers, and the wholesale rape, pillage, and plunder of the environment by any "investor" willing to plunk down some cash for a little piece of the "Branson Dream," the town’s expansive flux could not have been predicted.

My Grandfather was a realtor in town, who, during the course of his career, bought and sold every lot of land along Highway 76 from downtown to Indian Point Road, past Silver Dollar City, the 1880’s themed amusement park. He never held on to any of these lots, dying in 1981, nine years before this very same land became ground zero for the real estate and construction boom occurring there. Consequentially, our family remained middle class, while those who now owned the land became rich. One tract of land of 76 sold, in September 1992 for 50 thousand dollars and resold the next month for 250 thousand. Ain’t that a bitch? Grandpa never held ‘em -- He just bought and sold ‘em.

Branson is the number one bus-tour destination in America. Hundreds of thousands of senior citizens from all over the country and Canada flock there for a five to seven day blitzkrieg of all you can eat breakfasts, lunches, and dinners tucked neatly between shows at 10 a.m., noon, matinees at 2 or 4 p.m., and an evening show at 7 or 8. Then it’s up at 6 a.m. to do it all over again. Imagine a week of doing nothing but (1) Sitting – on a crowded bus, in a show, at a buffet, (2) Eating – snacks on the crowded bus, popcorn and candy at the show, fried foods and lots of dessert at the buffet, and (3) listening – to John Davidson digress, to Yakoff Smirnoff’s yuk-yuk ultra-nationalist agitation propaganda, to the oh-so-sunny but not quite all there Tour Director, and then imagine you think this is GREAT! Your adrenaline is in constant surge.

All this excitement can be overwhelming, and sirens sound throughout Branson, alerting the townsfolk that someone couldn’t mainline This Much Fun directly into their system and croaked. Casualties run high on the bus circuit, and as a result, Branson now has an extremely nice hospital, by rural standards. The hospital boasts lots of parking and is in a state of continual expansion, much like the town itself. Close to 6 million people will traipse through Branson this year, and the town is poising/bracing itself to be the logical mid-western hybrid of Orlando, Nashville, and Vegas. This is most visible on Highway 76, or "76 Mountain Country Boulevard," as it is now referred. The vulgar display and placement of lighting, corny advertising billboards, and cheezer hillbilly iconography draw comparisons to a miniature, tacky Vegas by more than a few tourists and locals. A stinging, backhanded compliment, if you ask me.

The recent rise in popularity is close to five years old, set off by a slew of national publicity, including features by "60 Minutes," The Los Angeles Times, Newsweek, The Chicago Tribune, and The Star. Since 1990, the town has been caught up in a serious gold-rush mentality, throwing up shoddily built attractions and lodging wherever possible with little regard to the environment or construction safety standards, as OSHA could probably attest. Traffic delays and roadwork are common, a nightmare of waiting to move, only to wait again, this time only inches or feet closer to your destination. Patience is definitely a virtue on Highways 76 and 65, the two narrowest, longest parking lots in the whole mid-west.

So in September of 1993, I left. I’d had enough of family values, narrow Midwestern mindsets, and thinly veiled greed destroying what had at one time been, albeit cheesy, a cute regional tourist town from April to October, and a pristine Ozark town during the off-season: quiet, unspoiled, and undeniably beautiful. Although there are flashes of its past still lingering among all the changes, that town no longer exists. So I moved to Key West, Florida, having never visited there, not knowing, but with expectations high, of a new life, South Florida style, in this, the first island of the Caribbean.

I had absolutely no fucking idea what I was doing.

Still 1994

I have recurring daydreams. I get out of a truck somewhere in the mountains and look in all directions, no one else around, and no one looking back. I breathe deep and smile to myself. The panorama is incredible, indescribable. There are no distractions. I am in love with my life, my situation, and my progress.

The vision dissipates as quickly as it congealed. I am at work. I work in a guesthouse. Housekeeping. Making the beds, sweeping the floors, and cleaning the toilets of the visitors visiting my new home, the island paradise of Key West.

It’s physical work. I’m wiped out after every shift. But this routine allows me to think. To wander freely mentally is good for my shaky sanity, as events have been a bit schizophrenic for the last year or so, coinciding with my move here.

Eight jobs in 13 months, lots of drugs and alcohol, numerous strange encounters with strange people, always choosing the wrong corridors. Always working, struggling so hard to remain poor. I trust almost no one here, and still I trust too much. I moved to Key West to relax, to find a career, to become comfortable with my homosexuality, to start over.

What has happened is something entirely different.

7 random thoughts of Key West

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.

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.

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.