textfiles/fun/CAA/gecaa-41

From slcpi!govt.shearson.com!mjohnsto@uunet.UU.NET Mon Jan  7 18:46:54 1991
To: wordy@Corp
Subject: chapter-41

The CAA Transit Authority



#41 in the second online CAA series



by



Steven K. Roberts, HtN (WORDY)

Key West, FL.

February 29, 1987



copyright 1987, Steven K. Roberts





     We're still alive... still on the road... still nomads... but everything

is different!



     The miles pass quickly now, with gasoline diseappearing into the great

hungry maw of the mighty Winnebuso at the rate of a quart every two and a half

minutes.  The bikes live in the back, the attic is an old camper shell, and the

lifestyle is a melange of trade shows, talk shows, hamfests, highways, and

construction projects.  I own cabinets, power tools, and a toaster.  And

camping, once a chancy escapade of billowing fabrics and makeshift cooking

facilities, is now a daily routine of converting my plywood desk into a cozy 45

square-foot bed and collapsing.  (That's a lot of bunk.)



     Yup, the Computing Across America book is at last a reality, and the media

tour is underway.



     As a first step in bringing this long-overdue story up-to-date, here are

some notes written over a month ago... behind Bob Fischer's used-car lot in

Titusville:



                                * * *



     January 11, 1988.  The smells of fresh-cut firply and musty carpeting fill

the air.  Music:  classic King Crimson, melancholy and deeply familiar (whether

from hours of electric 70's synesthesia or from some taproot of common humanity

I can but speculate).  Other sounds:  Florida rain on a steel roof, Highway 1

rumbling through the interstices of rock-medieval syncopation, Maggie having a

go at drilling sheet steel, a refrigerator compressor clunking at odd moments

as the desklight flickers.



     Yes, this is a change of pace alright:  life in a forgotten used car lot.

Our world is a blend of funky old schoolbus under renovation and an abandoned

garage that could use a good dose of same.  Laying about are piles of old floor

mats, dead batteries, broken antennas, curious entubated components of

once-humming Detroit engines, and my own dusty plywood leavings.



     Engines.  Oh no... I OWN one now.  A 350, they tell me, which will haul

this old boat at 7-8 miles per gallon, clanking in places, slipping its clutch,

and running a bit hot.  An engine?  Moi?  But... but...



     The days have been a blur of spending sprees in Titusville's hardware and

RV stores:  like a junior homeowner I browse the aisles, watching for deals on

bullet lights and sabre saw blades.  Today at the locally infamous Frontenac

Flea Market (a sort of plebeian mall), I made off with a packload of heavy crap

I would have passed without a glance three weeks ago.  Yes, change is in the

air -- and it carries a complex fragrance of melancholy and excitement.  For

even as I fill notebooks and spreadsheets with plans and schemes, I struggle to

hold onto the past like one who has been awakened too quickly from a deeply

erotic dream.  It slips away, subtly:  the dream becoming fantasy, the fantasy

becoming desperate rational recall that wilts any trace of hypnopompic

pleasure.  You finally give up with a subvocal growl and watch the whole

experience evaporate, leaving a scum of frustrated regret tinged by day-long

irritation at whoever the hell had the gall to wake you up at that perfect

moment.



     It's that way with the schoolbus.  It fits, it's fun, it's a ticket to

book marketing and trade shows and all sorts of new, twisted pleasures.  It

makes good business sense.  But I stare out these rain- streaked windows that

remind me of weekday mornings in my pimply textbook-toting teens... and there

in the dark grime of an abandonded used-car detailing shop is the dusty

Winnebiko, still on the verge of asking in its plaintive Votrax voice: "are you

going to ride me now, Steve?"  I cling to vaporous memories of country roads

and tailwinds while my bike, for so long the very image of high-tech

independence, acquires its own hank of black rubber tie-downs.



     The changes this time are sweeping:  basic changes in the nature of my

changes.  Meta-changes are, for those accustomed to changes, every bit as

terrifying as are mere changes to those who once knew only changelessness.

Switching to a bus, if I remember my calculus right, is thus the second

differential of stasis.



                                * * *



     So.  That was in mid-January, over a month ago.  Titusville days passed in

a sort of panic:  717 pounds of books arrived as I was building the desk;

distant trade-show gigs became locked irrevocably into the calendar before I

even had the drivetrain checked over by a mechanic.  Days of greasy buswork

alternated with days of domestics, days of autograph-and-ship marathons, days

of hours passing like minutes that left in their wake only Casio-beeps.



     And then it began.  Trembling with excitement, we rumbled away from the

staging area, the bikes swaying dangerously in back, Maggie scurrying about the

bus to catch falling objects and track down rattles.  First stop:  a weekend at

the Frontenac flea market, a chance to test the whole goofy setup without

having to get too embarrassed about clumsiness.



     Titusville days became Frontenac nights.  In the flea-market subculture,

we were an anomaly -- fitting awkwardly between the hawkers of cheap new

merchandise and those who haul in truckloads of junk every weekend to help pay

the rent.  Some holler hoarsely at shoppers:  Socks a dollar!  Duct tape!  Axe

handles!  Reading glasses! Others sit glumly behind a cigar box containing

their jingling hopes for the next week's meals, waiting for someone to buy the

old toaster or maybe make an offer on that busted chainsaw.  In between, there

are leather-skinned regulars hustling imported tools, old ladies selling new

lace, tax-evaders running a little cash business on the side, shifty-eyed

purveyors of hot consumer goods, shysters pushing "CD- ready" stereo speakers

with grating spiels of poorly simulated technical expertise, a pretty girl

selling counterfeit Casio-clone watches, and hundreds of tables of junk, stuff,

clutter, garbage, leftovers, must-haves, cast-offs, and so on.  All that, and

some good stuff too -- deals better than anywhere else in town.



     Amidst it all, that weird weekend in January, you would have found a

couple of high-tech nomads with a table of fresh-smelling books and a pair of

high-tech bicycles.  The crowd swirling by had three statistical peaks:  one

skewed dramatically to the low end of the socioeconomic spectrum, another about

midrange for Space Coast yuppie culture, the third best characterized as

elderly northern tourists out slumming.  Questions, therefore, ranged from

displays of appalling ignorance ("Where the hell ya sit on that thing?") to the

keenly aware ("how do you dissipate solar heat gain under the lexan bubble?").

We sold a few books and learned how to set up an effective display, all the

while marveling at what is apparently a well- established nomadic subculture of

flea-market vendors -- wandering among the tarped-over tables and dark RV's

after closing time to swap tips and tales.



     Frontenac was just a teaser, a look at the ragged end of the marketing

spectrum (and proof that if things get really grim, we can always fall back on

any of the thousands of flea markets listed in "the bible" -- Clark's flea

market directory).  Since then, we have gone on the hamfest circuit, appeared

at the GEAR DOWN bicycle rally, done a show-n-tell at the PC Forum in Naples,

and lined up a whole string of gigs stretching from Key West to Dayton.  A few

vignettes...



                                * * *



     Camping on the Dade County Fairgrounds, the bike on display at the

"Tropical Hamboree."  Hustler, our newest sponsor, setting us up with a thicket

of mobile antennas; 73, my latest publisher, taking us out for a dinner meeting

at the notorious Crawdaddy's restaurant. Hints of Miami society, throbbing

strong at midnight.  Our camping neighbor, tied permanently to an oxygen tank,

turning out to be a brilliant artist and poet on a last joyful fling around the

country before fading health forces a sedentary lifestyle.  And books, books,

everywhere books:  stepping over mountains of them, selling them, shipping

them, staring at them in a wondering haze and picking one up, now and then, to

marvel at the reality.  Three years of working and waiting... tangible at last!



     Back north to Titusville, hanging out with ham/skydiving friends Bruce and

Dawn.  Another marathon project:  building an attic for the already-overloaded

bus, installing a camper shell on top.  This is mad, bizarre, but it works --

with him playing hookey from the Cape, we labored into the night, swatting

mosquitos, swilling coffee, slipping across a dewy bus-top ablaze with work

lights and a-glitter with tools, drilling and bolting, painting and hammering.

We became a fixture in their lives... to the point that 4-year-old Brett

announced to his pre-school class:  "There's a big bus in our backyard.  The

people don't live anywhere, but they have talking bicycles and they travel all

over the universe!"  And so we have joined another family... and with a lump in

my throat I watched Maggie and 7-year-old Tracy -- veterans of many a giggling

tickle-fight -- hug each other close in tearful goodbye.



     Rolling again, off to Mount Dora and the GEAR DOWN bicycle rally -- an

upscale gathering of 230 bikies from all over.  I spoke twice, displayed the

bike, sold dozens of books, and even managed to ride once:  touring the Lake

Country with Maggie and Chuck, the potential producer of the Computing Across

America movie.  He flew out from Hollywood for the occasion -- yet another of

those wondrous human links first formed in the vapors of Dataspace and quickly

solidifying into stable friendship.  More on that as it develops...



     Moving on, moving on.  The schedule is demanding:  we can't afford to

linger.  Back to Titusville again for final touch-ups, then west to Sarasota

and another hamfest.  This one was unspectacular (my talk was at 9:00 on a

rainy Sunday morning:  "can you all hear me in the back?" I askect the sleepy

audience of five).   But elsewhere in Sarasota is GEnie user C.BROWNE (also

known as Christoper), one of the creators of Hagar the Horrible.

Creativity-based relationships know no stylistic boundaries; within minutes we

were swapping insights and inspirations, peppering our conversation with

references to film and funnies while petting cats, watching Howard the Duck,

and stealing glances at miniskirted Maggie dozing prettily on the couch.



     South.  This is fast, compared to the bikes:  an hour's motor travel is

equivalent to an average day of pedaling.  It took only a morning to make it to

Naples, where we stumbed blinking and handshaking into the PC Forum... one of

those top-level industry summits blazing with talent and breezy with the

exchange of business cards.  Only the heaviest of end users were here -- this

was primarily a pow-wow of designers, executives, and media.  Needless to say,

we made rapid progress toward the new improved Winnebiko III... whilst hustling

books at The Registry's "swamp party" and noshing on gristly alligator, bony

rattlesnake, deviled quail eggs, and various unnameable bits of unfortunate

fauna captured and killed for our civilized pleasure.  In what has become

something of a pattern, we rumbled off boozy into the night and bedded down

with another GEnie subscriber... this time DARLINGTON, a photographer and like

spirit who sees life as something to play and talk about -- not work at.  This

makes him look at least a decade younger than his 60+ years, yet one more

reminder that the course of adventure is the healthiest option of all.



                                * * *

      I write now from Stock Island, in "America's southernmost campground."

Key West is a few minutes downwind by bicycle, and indeed, this shall be a week

of retasting something of the flavor that spawned two erotic, exotic chapters

in my book.  Four years ago, I pedaled through and stayed three weeks...

leaving with reluctance via sailboat to struggle once again with the realities

of the mainland. This is a place of diverse tastes, exotic and delicious when

you look past the frenzy and overdevelopment.



     But getting here had its grim moments:  a stuck carburetor float (a

CARBURETOR?  Me?) in a Marathon traffic jam.  In the oppressive heat of four

lanes and contruction, I sprinted between driver's seat and engine, whacking

the offending gas-soaked hardware with a small ball peen hammer and trying

again.  Just as the battery cranked its last, the engine started and we were

rolling... uneasy at this reminder of our total dependence upon mysterious

fuel-processing equipment.



     But that was nothing compared to Big Pine Key.  Mindful of the fact that

this is tourist season, we elected to stop short of Key West, camp anywhere for

a night, then find a more ideal spot before noon the next day.  We pulled into

the Big Pine Key Fishing Lodge ... maneuvering our way into the gravel lot

under the watchful eyes of elderly shuffleboard hustlers.  Maggie breezed into

the lobby to check it out.



     "They have a few sites without electricity left," she said, returning with

a green map.  "$15.26 a night."  I shrugged and slipped on my sandals,

preparing to go for a walk and pick a spot.



     But a middle-aged woman with colorless hair and hot pink jogging suit

strode purposefully toward my window.  "We don't allow buses," she said

brusquely.



     "What?  What's the difference between a bus and an RV?"



     "Well, we just don't allow them.  We don't want that bussy look."



     "That's ridiculous!" I said, remembering Crescent City's Camp Gestapo and

an evil woman in Sebastian who, years before, had refused me a motel room

because she had seen my helmet and thought I was a BIKER.



     "We've had problems with bus people before.  WE JUST DON'T ALLOW THEM."

She said this with a sort of haughty sneer, unsmiling, then turned and walked

back to the office.



     "You'll read about yourself!" I called after her.  "I hope you like bad

PR."  She ignored the comment, and I bit my lip to prevent the flow of

appropriate obscenity that she deserved.



     Fuming, angry, we drove away -- wishing there were some appropriate

gesture that could leave its mark on this insulting creature.  But she wouldn't

have cared... she just watched safely from the doorway until she was certain

that us low-class undesirables without a brand-name RV had indeed moved along.



     Events like this impose two simultaneous feelings:  violent anger at

ignorant people who judge others on the basis of primitive fears (otherwise

known as bigots), and deep empathy for those who have to put up with such

treatment daily.  It took me 30 miles to relax, during which time I concocted a

smear campaign and fantasized about all sorts of retribution that will probably

never happen.  Do you ever wonder why there are riots in South Africa?  Put

yourself on the receiving end of attitudes like those at the Big Pine Key

Fishing Lodge and it will become very clear that race has nothing to do with

the essential problem.



     And so, welcome to the Keys.  We're in Boyd's Campground now, a friendly

place, $24 a night ($3 more if you want the windy waterfront), and all around

is something rare in the typical RV park: YOUTH.  This is the party end of

Florida -- a tanned and overcrowded tropical paradise, a place of frangipani

and sunset celebration.  My memories of the place are idyllic, and it is with

trepidation that I begin to overlay new experience upon something that lies

perfect in my past.  Maybe we'll even have a day or two of nice weather,

something that hasn't yet happened in our two-month visit to the "Sunshine

State."



     Here goes...



                                * * *



     We wake in sunlight, stretch, kiss carefully without exhalation, nibble

shoulders, giggle.  Overhead, a jet roars; around us, the campground wakes,

putters, prepares for another play day.  I squint outside... a withered hand

appears in the RV window next door, fumbles with the shade through a thicket of

dried flowers, lifts it to reveal lacy curtains.  A couple in front of us

unloads a matched pair of Honda Helix scooters from a Newell-drawn trailer,

preparing to make their own two-wheeled assault on the island.  Three young

guys with healthy workout muscles emerge from their tent and catch Maggie's eye

by applying the day's first coat of suntan oil.  And best of all... a wad of

cash lies beside me, for we sold 23 books on the streets of Key West yesterday!



     It was a good cruise.  At every corner we were beseiged:  "Hey, did you

really ride from Ohio on that?  Does that need a license? What's all this stuff

do?  Are you crazy?  SOLAR panels?  How fast does it go?  Weren't you here a

few years ago?  Didn't I see you on TV?"  Then would begin the whole

explanation, the radio-controlled speech synthesizer demonstrations, the

surprise coincidences... and then $10 bills would start fluttering in Key West

breezes and I would get out the pen, sign some books.  "To Mike, with cheers

from Dataspace."  "To Chris and Kathy, from another refugee of Buckeye

country."  This, as I'm sure you can imagine, is very encouraging to the author

of a new, untested book.



                                * * *



     Another Key West morning.  Yesterday, the sweet memories of my first visit

were enhanced and flavored by more romance, more exotica, more world-class

soft-core voyeurism on the playground of Smathers beach.  Breathtakingly cheeky

bikinis, a woman hanging topless and grinning from a passing van, oily flesh

soft and tan, row upon row of beautiful bodies splayed in delicious exposure to

the tropical sun. Volleyball in the sand, the men muscled and brown, the women

bouncing in soft hypnotic splendor.  Couples cozy, cheeks rosy, Maggie dozing

pink and breezy as I relax and take it easy.  We're here with the vangaurd of

the annual spring break beach assault, and it's all quite dizzying after our

months in retirement heaven.



     We chuckled frequently at the contrasts between this and Titusville...

sort of like comparing a Mac II with a dusty old Friden Flex-o-writer.  The

energy here is mad, decadent, relentlessly erotic. After sunset last night,

after the crowd drifted away from Mallory Pier to begin the evening rituals of

intoxication and seduction, we rolled slowly back to Duval Street.  Past

"Shoehorn," the tap-dancing lyrical saxophone man, past the rowdiness of Sloppy

Joe's and the older tourists scurrying to the safety of their hotels.  In front

of Rick's we parked on the sidewalk, and for two hours answered progressively

more drunken questions and hustled books.  A grinning local named Dave with

twinkling eyes and rough denim biker garb appeared beside us with two full

pitchers of beer.  "Here!" he said, handing us each one.  "Welcome to Key

West!"



     By the time those were drained, the evening had become a blur of

ponytailed tatooed locals, Virginia/Ohio/Michigan students, eyecatching

miniskirts, certifiable loonies, and nonstop traffic. Weaving through the

latter and stopping once to stumble giggling through moonlit sand, we found our

way back to Stock Island and the reassuring bus -- which has become an

unexpected source of security in the perpetual madness of the road.



                                * * *



     So.  It's another idyllic morning -- our 4th or 5th here.  I lose track.

It's hard to leave, but... what the hell's the hurry?  We're living/reliving

the magic of island life, and the various business fires that have to be put

out seem but colorful dancing specks on the mainland horizon:  abstract and

kind of pretty.  This is the manana republic... and the notion of urgency is as

alien here as a three- piece suit in bikini-land.



     So I think I'll just ease on over to the pay phone and upload this, then

take a nice snooze in the sand.  Cheers!



          -- Steve





NOTE:  The Computing Across America book is tangible and in stock. For a signed

copy, send $9.95 plus $2 for shipping and handling to:

          Computing Across America

          Dept GE-41

          1013 Warren Ave

          Cary, NC 27511