Florida Blues / part 1
Excerpt from a collection of short stories entitled, The Little River Outlaws and Other Stories of Adventure.
The fasten seat belt sign came on and the airline pilot announced to the
passengers that they would be arriving in Miami shortly. Roy looked out the
window and searched the distance for the bright lights of "Little Havana". He had been looking forward with much anticipation to when he would finally
get to experience the sights and sounds, as well as the culinary pleasures of a place
that had provided much inspiration to artists and writers such as Winslow Homer
and Ernest Hemingway.
It was spring break and most of his college buddies had headed off to the Florida panhandle with visions of beach bunnies basking in the sun. No doubt he would have joined them had this opportunity not been an option.
Since it was late evening when he arrived at Miami International Airport, he decided to wait until dusk before continuing on to Key West. There was still quite some distance to go yet, before reaching the most southerly point of the lower forty-eight. In any event, he didn’t want to miss any of the sub-tropical scenery and other sights of interest by traveling at night. Rather than stay at a hotel, however, he decided to remain overnight at the airport in an effort to save what spare funds he had. Apparently, there were more important things to spend money on.
As
he strode through the concourse, he scanned the lounge areas on both sides for
some place where he could sit comfortably and hopefully even get some sleep
until the sun came up. The airport was relatively quiet as there were very few
other people in the concourse, mostly just maintenance crews and airline
personnel. The waiting areas at the gates were all the same. One seat was as
good or bad as another and so he walked randomly over to one of them and sat down. Within a matter of minutes, however, the thought of a relaxing bath and a big comfortable bed began to
have a much greater appeal. Though the situation was certainly a test of fortitude to a certain degree, it wouldn’t have been so
unbearable, if not for the glare of the multitude of overhead lights. Maybe
there’s some other area around here to lounge around in that isn’t so intensely lighted, he thought. It
was a fairly tall order, but necessity is the mother of invention. In this
case, necessity was also a space that was much less glaring and therefore more conducive to inducing restful sleep. He stood up and scanned the airport concourse to
look for a more desirous area when his eyes caught the lustrous reflections of
a new Cadillac sedan displayed upon the landing of a carpeted ramp. Bingo! He grabbed his travel bag and
over to the automobile he strolled. Naturally, the doors were locked. He quickly glanced around to be sure he was
unobserved.Then he threw his travel gear under the car and
rolled his body onto the carpeted landing and away from the glare of the fluorescent
lights.
It
wasn’t quite as uncomfortable as the wafer-thin mattress on a sleeper sofa that he once had
the misfortune of sleeping on, but it was better than enduring numerous hours
of tedium and restlessness that the other option offered. A variety of whirring
and humming sounds that had just moments ago served only as ambient noise, was
now lulling him to sleep. He closed his eyes and drifted off into slumber land.
When he awoke, the sounds of shuffling feet,
typical airport announcements, and voices were all around. There were several people
close by, but nobody, apparently, noticed him sleeping under the car. He rolled
out to the edge of the carpeted landing and quickly stood up and walked
nonchalantly away. Luckily, the airport bulls were elsewhere.
As he exited the airport, he was met by a gust of warm air,
brilliant sunlight, and a clear blue sky. He stood for a moment basking in the
warmth of the sun and then ambled along with his arm extended outward and his thumb
pointed skyward. A jacked-up fire engine red muscle car with lightning stripes
emblazoned on the front side panels and huge racing tires on its rear axle eased over to the shoulder. Roy glanced
at the driver for assurances and then got into the car. The driver didn’t say
much, except, “Where ya goin, bro?” and an occasional “Yes” or “No” thrown into
the mostly one-sided conversation which was mainly about bad-ass hotrods such
as the one they were in. Most of the time was spent not in conversation but
admiring the roar and the rumble of the clean machine’s engine. Twenty miles
later, the hombre pulled over in the military town of Homestead and the passenger got
out.
For more than an hour, Roy stood, paced, sweated, and sat on the
shoulder of the road holding a large sketchbook on which he had painted an
orange sun and the words, KEY WEST in blue toward the southbound traffic. It
was almost nine o’clock in the morning when a sedan with a
salty dog finish stopped to offer a ride.
“Hold
on. I’ll just throw some of this stuff into the back”, said the driver.
The man appeared to be living out of his car, judging from the
immense amount of clutter. Apart from the eau de beer fragrance that wafted from
it, it seemed normal enough, for someone who was possibly homeless.
“Hop
in pilgrim.”
Roy tossed his bag onto the man’s belongings in the back seat and sat
down.
The driver was a study in contrasts; nicely groomed and smartly
dressed, while the interior of his automobile was greatly in need of cleaning
as was evidenced by the clothes, cooking utensils, boxes of cereal, and various
other items that jumbled it’s space. With one hand
holding the steering wheel and the other holding a beer, he swung the car back
onto the blacktop.
“I’m only goin’ ‘bout five miles up the road,” He paused and then an
odd smile came to his face. “But that’s five miles closer to where you’re goin”.
“That’s certainly true,” replied Roy.
They had not driven more than half a mile when the driver slowed
his vehicle and came up alongside a shapely young woman walking on the sidewalk. “Goodness
gracious! Would'ya look at that!” he almost yelled out, though perhaps not
so loud that the woman heard his call of the wild. “Hey good lookin’!”
The woman ignored him and kept on walking while Roy was caught between
their glances.
“Where
ya goin?” asked the driver.
“To
work”, she replied in a tone that suggested slight annoyance.
“Well
hop in. I’ll give ya a ride.”
“Nah!
Better not,” she fired back with a knowing smile.
The man was clearly disappointed but wasn’t ready to concede defeat just
yet as he considered momentarily what he would say next. “What’s your name?”
“Lucille.”
“Whatcha
doin’ after work, Lucille?”
“Goin’
home.”
“Say,
you like to dance, don’tcha?” The Don Juan wannabe must have thought he was
reeling her in.”
“Yeah.
Why?”
“Well,
I know a really funky place where we can really get down.”
“Is
that so? Where?”
“The
Conga Club,” he replied. It was evident from the wide toothy grin on his face that he thought he
had made the sale as he waited for her to answer.
She just sashayed along, playfully glancing over a few times to give him
the impression that she was actually considering it as he waited anxiously for her reply. “Nah. I
guess not,” she finally answered. Clearly, she was amused.
The bold and brazen man gave her, the “c’mon now be reasonable” look, but
no amount of coaxing would make any difference. The fish wasn’t taking the
bait. When he finally realized this, he muttered an expletive, gave her a
disappointed look and pulled the car away. He chugged his beer and scanned both sides of the
road for more babes while driving unsteadily in the middle of the road. When he
had finished the beer, he turned to Roy and said, “Hey man, you wanna get a couple
of cold ones?”
“Sure.”
Roy wasn’t unaware of the fact that the driver was somewhat impaired
and that it was still early in the day, by normal standards, to consume alcoholic
beverages. But his throat was parched. An ice-cold beer, or two, would no doubt
wet his whistle again.
The driver pulled up to a convenience store and Roy went in to buy a
six-pack.
When he got back into the car, the driver asked, “Say, man, what’s your name?.”
“Roy,
and yours?”
“I’m
Leon.”
They
did the usual soul brother salutation, starting with the high five, followed by the hand clasp, then the knuckle clutch, and finally the finger-snapping thing, though rather awkwardly,
as it was not the sort of greeting that Roy was accustomed to.
“So,
how come you’re goin’ to Key West?”
“I’m meeting some folks there on vacation.”
“Ain’t
much down there ‘cept a bunch of motels and mobile homes.”
“Is
that so?” Roy had heard otherwise.
On more than a few occasions, when they drove up alongside a car driven by an alluring female,
the soul brother would shout out a double entendre or colorful metaphor. Roy was along for the ride, so there was nothing to do but smile somewhat disconcertedly at the surprised receiver of the cat calls.
Initially, it was the sexy ones and then it was the not so-sexy ones that the soul brother tried to entice. Eventually, it reached the point where it probably wouldn't have mattered much if it were Ugly Betty or Hilda the Hag . Such were, and often are, the effects of one too many bottles of beer.
Initially, it was the sexy ones and then it was the not so-sexy ones that the soul brother tried to entice. Eventually, it reached the point where it probably wouldn't have mattered much if it were Ugly Betty or Hilda the Hag . Such were, and often are, the effects of one too many bottles of beer.
(...to be continued)
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