583 lines
16 KiB
Plaintext
583 lines
16 KiB
Plaintext
From slcpi!govt.shearson.com!mjohnsto@uunet.UU.NET Mon Jan 7 17:36:08 1991
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To: wordy@Corp
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Subject: chapter-42
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KEY WASTED
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#42 in the second online CAA series
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by
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Steven K. Roberts, HtN (WORDY)
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Key West, FL
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March 7, 1988
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copyright 1988, Steven K. Roberts
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Ah, tourists. With every street encounter I am distanced further from the
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picturetaking plague of bustling intruders who descend en masse on every place
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immortalized in brochures. You can see them in the tour trains, faces turned
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to follow the amplified prattle of the driver; you can see them on the street,
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blocking sidewalk traffic to discuss the night's dinner options over a glossy
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guidebook. "El maizon duh peppy," one says in gross mispronunciation, "THAT
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sounds interesting."
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Later, at the dock of the Pier House, a sunset of impassioned colors fades
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completely to gray. Maggie and I stand in silence, our beers drained, our eyes
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reflecting a warm blend of love and the last glimmer of tropical daylight. An
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old woman with a vinyl megapurse approaches, leading a group of five of her
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contemporaries. "Excuse me, young man. Have they had that sunset celebration
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yet?"
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"Uh, well ma'am, it's about 23 hours from now... next block over."
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Another street encounter: two guys from Virginia on Spring break. One
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asks, "hey, what's this thing run on? Solar?"
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"Indirectly, yes. Since I'm part of the food chain, you see, it runs on
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sushi, ice cream, pizza... whatever I throw into it. The fuel is converted
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into adenosine trihydrogen phosphate and various sugars, which are then used to
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drive an efficient reciprocating bio-engine coupled to the cranks. Total power
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is about a quarter-horse."
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"Really? God, that's incredible!" He scurries around the bike, peering
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at the various components. Pointing at the Nalgene lid of the Waterboy
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pressurized water supply, he asks: "So you put the fuel in here and then the
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machine converts it?"
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"No.. I EAT!"
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"Huh?"
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* * *
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Yes, the predominant outside influence this season is spring break -- a
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sort of invasion, a rowdy overlay of predictable college- crowd behavior on a
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place known for its diversity. (Spectrally, it's like a high-power laser beam
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in broad daylight.) The campground is a sea of ragged tents and a cacophony of
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competing boom boxes... the bathrooms are an insight into the frightening
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unculture that is America's future.
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I hear conversation in the men's room: "You goin' to Duval tonight, man?"
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"Hell yes! I drove all night and didn't get any sleep, but we only got
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four days here. Gotta get a sunburn and do a blowout while I got the chance!"
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Maggie witnessed a disturbing scene in the women's shower room
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yesterday... three cute, permed, perky girls surrounded by a litter of blow
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dryers, hot curlers, lotions, potions, and notions. One of them is bitching...
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"I don't know about you guys, but I can't take this camping. I HATE
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camping! Last night Lisa got me up to go the the bathroom with her, and I like
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saw a bug! Ugh! And how are you supposed to shave your legs in a shower with
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cold water? We should get together with those guys we met last night and see
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if we can get a room... if we all go in on it, we can afford it. I really HATE
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this. I haven't been this miserable since we lived in the dorm, remember
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that?"
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"Nooo... that's something I try to forget every day of my life."
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And yet they look so heartbreakingly lovely... modeled after the pages of
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Seventeen and Self, consumers of makeup by the truckload, living in daily fear
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of breaking a nail. Seeing them out there I have a sudden rush of appreciation
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for Maggie, my wild sweet animal -- this woman who comes alive in the
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wilderness, dances in the rain, savors natural scents, sweats all day on a
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bicycle, then cooks over a fire and lets her hair flow as free as the wind
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while writhing with the raw sensual pleasure of life itself...
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* * *
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Of course, there are exceptions. We met two pretty women in their late
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20's, cycling the southeast for the last 6 months on some kind of Christian
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ministry program based in Nashville. They are playful and bright-eyed,
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religious without being too obnoxious about it, seeming almost as teenagers in
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their exuberance and vitality.
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And then there was the neurosurgeon, the speech pathologist, and the
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coma-recovery researcher. What a party! We spent a giddy evening with them in
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their rented motorhome, swapping tales of brain research, punning, drinking,
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and vowing to cross paths again somewhere in Long Island.
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Then a beach day. Here they are again: the spring break crowd, banished
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from Fort Lauderdale, a narrow slice of American culture whose precise flavor
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depends on which schools happen to be on the loose at the moment. This week,
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they all seem to be from Virginia -- so the contents of the bikinis are pretty
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and conservative. The guys' haircuts are within about 10% of the current
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standard, the beer is almost exclusively Bud or Bud Light, and there isn't a
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Speedo bathing suit in sight except on the occasional strolling local. A
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deejay is set up, playing rap songs with chest-pounding power; through the
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interstices of the music trickle giggles and the conversational minutiae of the
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late-80's college set. At first glance, Smathers beach in this season is a
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place of wanton erotica... upon closer inspection, the standardization is
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disturbing.
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A clear split is developing between the old classic sexiness and that of
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the new generation. The former is hot, sweaty, hairy, even kinky in places;
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the latter is clean, conservative, as substantial as television and about as
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untouchable. Fortunately, I'm not nearly as frustrated by this as I would be
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if I were traveling alone, for Maggie epitomizes the attitudes that might have
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evolved into the eighties had not a panoply of diseases, televangelists,
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Tippers, rippers, Meeses, and right-wingers arrived on the scene to undampen
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the human sexual spirit.
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* * *
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Ah, but the food. We had a chance to sample some world-class sushi at the
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Quay (which is not, contrary to rumor, a child's supercomputer), courtesy of
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Chuck-the-engineer-turned-sushi-chef. Flavors at once delicate and potent
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mingled poetically as a tray of piscatorial artwork transformed itself moment
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by moment into murmurs and exclamations of pure pleasure. Tuna, salmon, eel,
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octopus, shrimp, scallops... all layered with rice, touched with flavors
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exotic, counterpointed with slivers of pink ginger root and washed down with
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hot sake. If you come to Key West and have a yen for sushi, this is some of
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the very best.
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* * *
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OK. It took a week, but we finally penetrated the chitinous buffer zone
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that separates tourists from locals. Not the local street bums, who panhandle,
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greet me drunkenly as an old buddy, and strive with their unwelcome company to
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separate me from the respectable ranks of visiting celebrities so they can pick
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me apart dollar by dollar...
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No, not the street people. Key West has for years been a favorite getaway
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for recluses, writers, dreamers, and the refugees of the bland normalcy that
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spawned this generation of mini-yups on holiday. What happens when renegades
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form a community is pure poetry: a mad, explosive tangle of powerful
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personalities ranging from hardbitten retired hobos to hard-working
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freelancers, from drunken Vietnam vets on the brink of violence to dazzling
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intellects who grew exasperated with mainstream media-fed America and fled to
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the island for some REAL diversity.
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Tonight, with George and Isabeall, we set out for what was to be something
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more or less routine: beer and billiards. Over the last couple of days we've
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struck up an easy friendship with them, something deeper than the endless
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fatiguing beginnings and endings that occur on the street every 3-4 minutes.
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("Just one question," it usually begins, "what are all these switches for?"
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"That's not one question," I reply with a sigh, sizing the stranger up quickly
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to assess the likelihood of a book sale.)
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But this is different -- George Murphy is a writer, a poet, a publisher...
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and they live on houseboat row, plying a variety of freelance trades via Macs
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and phone lines while bartending, shooting video, and generally keeping a busy
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finger on the complex pulse of island life. We hung out there today,
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thoroughly burned out on Duval street, tourists, sunset, Smathers beach, and
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the other standard attractions of this too-popular vacationland. We lazed
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about, caught up with email through a real modular jack, and idly toyed with
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dinner plans.
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But off we went to the Bull Key Marina, a little-known place buried in a
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channel sumewhere up the road from Key West. Bouncing on the bikes down a
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ragged street, yelled at by a drunk on a porch ("hey, don't come ridin' that
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shit down here, man..."), flashing the helmet light into amber pairs of
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dog-eyes slinking through littered yards -- this is not the Keys of the travel
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brochures. We bounced across a rutted dirt lot past rough hulks of pickups and
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old cars, then parked the bikes under a neon beer sign and set the security
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system. From the old battered building rose whoops and raucous drunken
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laughter, smells were of fish, beer, and stagnant water. In short: not the
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kind of place I usually go.
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But we went in. Characters: our friends, a comforting island of
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familiarity. Roy the bartender, old, loony, drunk, hair slicked back, joking
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in a high voice over every little event (you saw him in "92 in the Shade)).
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Scott, longhaired and wild, a New York novelist in town for a visit. Duke, a
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local writer, big, ponytailed, rough-looking in a benign sort of way. J.P.,
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drunk but friendly, a sailor about my age. Ed, drunk and obnoxious, stubbled,
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stumbling, staring glaze-eyed at Maggie and making lewd remarks. Billy from
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Arkansas, fat, drunk, funny, dancing/clomping alone across the wood floor to
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country and western tunes and breaking now and again into a drawn-out
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soo-wee razorback hog call. Various anonymous Viet vets, drunk and semi-coherent.
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Strangers at the bar. A fish flopping outside in a styrofoam cooler. Passing
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Coast Guard toughs, looking for a smuggler. Us.
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Quarters lined up on the pool table. A micro-community developing among
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writers and mates, watched with frequent negative commentary by the drunk vets
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from their table of empty Bud cans -- DOZENS of Bud cans. "Hey, you got a nice
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ass," slurred Ed as Maggie bent for a pool shot. He sidled over to us and
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tried to get friendly: "I got a pocket full of smoke, man, you wanna burn one?
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Your woman here, man, she got some nice leg on 'er." Drunk breath washed over
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us as he reeled and drooled, and we moved away with relief when our quarter
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slid to the head of the line on the table.
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Midway through our game, it happened. Ed, by now drinking Maggie's
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purloined beer and thoroughly plastered, bounced from table to table, off the
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wall, and over to the cue rack. "It's my shot," he slurred, "I paid for this
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stick. I paid a dollar twenty five for this skinny sumbitch, man." He grabbed
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a cue and fell into the table as George returned from the bathroom.
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"This is our game, Ed, I think you should go sit down."
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"Look me in the eye and say that!"
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"OK, fine: This is our game, Ed, I think you should go sit down."
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"It's MY shot." He started shoving.
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Somebody called across the room, "It's time, Roy, we gotta get him outta
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here." A struggle started, with the curses getting more serious, the scene
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turning ugly. George discretely turned his cue 180 degrees to ready the heavy
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end, winked at me, and waited. Billy from Arkansas came over and applied
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steady skillful pressure, trying to reassure Ed that we were all his good
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buddies but that it really was time to go. They eased him to the door...
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toward our bikes... as he continued to struggle.
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In time, they slid him over the rail and onto the dock, where J.P. stood
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waiting with his boat engine idling. When at last they motored off into the
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inky night with drunken Ed sprawled across the foredeck, the mood of the Marina
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lightened noticeably.
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But the real poetry of the night was the pool game. Not OUR pool game,
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which was unspectacular and somewhat embarrassing, but the one that began an
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hour later...
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George and Duke had been playing, slowly, with plenty of time between
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shots for histrionics and conversation. Suddenly a voice snapped from the bar:
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"I've had enough of this bullshit! I want to play some pool!"
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The stranger stood, took a hard drag on his cigarette, flicked it manfully
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over the rail, and stepped to the table. "You gonna piss around all night, or
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are you going to play serious pool?" Sudden silence... but for Patsy Cline
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distorted on the jukebox and the suppressed giggles of our group.
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"Well, OK..."
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The light mood left in the wake of Ed's departure drained away... but with
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an entertaining twist. The polarized US-vs-THEM that had existed with the
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drunk vets became a wonderfully unbalanced tableau of contrasting
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personalities: an intense ego-driven stranger, playing pool as if it were a
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man-to-man struggle from which would emerge a superior victor and a shamed
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LOSER... and a playful, intelligent friend among friends, darting about the
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narrow-minded macho stranger with a wit every bit as dazzling as their hot
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succession of combination bank shots.
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It was also some damn good pool. They thrusted and parried, both of them
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brilliant, both homing in on the 8-ball. But the game was not of billiards,
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but of style: George danced around the table, eyes sparkling, singing along
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with Sinatra, modifying the words to old Hollywood standards ("What kind of
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fool is he?"), pirouetting with his pool cue and feeding on our laughter like a
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performer on a roll. But the stranger! Furious with frovolity, intense drags
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on cigarettes, muttered curses, nervous chalking, an undercurrent of barely
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repressed violence touching every move, every shot, every comment. To him,
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this was a life-and-death struggle... and George's refusal to settle down and
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lock horns was driving him into a frenzy.
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Endgame maneuvers. The stranger misses, curses; George sights in the
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8-ball, calls side pocket with a bank, sinks it with a DOUBLE bank instead...
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thus losing the game. The stranger whoops, victorious... but his sly superior
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smile turns to fury as we cheer our friend's defeat, howling at the irony,
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delighting in the realization that this loss was the greatest win possible...
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completing as it did the separation between the game and THE GAME with
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exquisite subtlety -- nay, drama.
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"He lost, goddamn it! Don't feed his ego!" The winner hissed this rebuke
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through a jetstream of Marlboro smoke as we flowed into the night, high on the
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energy of intellect, of friendship, of poetic insanity in a place bizarre.
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This is not Duval Street.
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All that, and dollar beer too...
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-----
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LATER NOTE, from Charlotte, NC: As usual, I let this file lay around in
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the compter as time passed... and passed. Between Key West and here have been
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two hamfests, countless new friends, a meeting with the entire Tallahassee
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Capitol press corps, wizards, ghastly bus maintenance, cutting torch shock
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removal, a brief visit to the AIDS capital of the US, a $65 VCR, talking
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computers, funny encounters, more bike batteries, and a new odd-eyed white cat
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with no name who has traveled with us since Homestead. Details, if I remember
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them, next time.
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And congratulations to GEnie on 100,000 subscribers!
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-- Steve
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