Man, You miss a day in this racket and things go to hell in a hurry.
Let’s see: I slipped the 9mm into the glove box when I left the interstate and passed the Last Chance Bar on the right, the only opportunity for a drink before embarking on the 120 miles to Key West.
I had no real time to think after that- nor, do I think any thinking was actually required.
I nearly drove off the road on Marathon Key when US-1 passed the ramp to the airport and there were two gigantic warbirds in original paint- a Flying Fort and a Liberator. Uncle Dick the Famous Bomber Pilot flew both for the Mighty 8th Air Force, and it struck me that I had seen the museum devoted to the branch of the service that was second only to submariners in absorbing horrific casualties somewhere in Georgia. Another thing to do on the way back, Should I go back, that is. Arlington is buried under a foot of snow, and these were the roads in North Carolina, according to a picture my pal on the Front Range sent me this morning:
It had everything in it except some doomed Panzers rushing the other direction to try to stop the Russian advance during the retreat from Koenigsburg in 1945. I shuddered when I saw it, but hey, life is hard in Key West, too.
Anyway, let’s take this backwards to forward. Last night, Marlow was flogging the Japanese sedan up Duval Street, water up to the hubs, when
we saw a striking lady in front of the bar at 801. She was standing tall, in fact, remarkably tall, under an umbrella, since the rain was still coming down briskly.
Marlow rolled down the driver’s window to offer some words of consolation- the show must go on, after all, but she apparently could not hear what was said, and came out in the flood to hand out a card inviting us to one of the two fashion shows that night, rain or no. Up close you could see the amount of makeup and the care she had used to put it all on to stand out in the elements, and I realized what the deal was- the lady was not one, though that is perfectly fine.
We demurred on attending the show, and she seemed mildly disappointed. Marlow me off in front of the two-story frame building on White Street where I am staying and I squished across the concrete and up the dark-painted wooden central staircase to the second deck and the slightly shabby apartment, thinking I have never been happier about my decision to drive south.
We had a ball last night. Marlow and Scott were fine companions for an adventure that Marlow had conceived as a sort of Key West primer for the newbie. Solo, billed as an American Bistro, was a delight. I had the yellow fin tuna appetizer, and the specialty de jour was some delightful flatbread. Scott, a lanky former high tech executor has been down here for nearly a decade as his wife pursues a career in watercolor art. Very good guy.
It started in the Solo American Bistro and wound up in the Hog’s Breath Inn, an open-air bar in the heart of the Duvall Street party district to hear a band called “RST,” a loosely Santa Cruz-based Baby Boomer harmony band Scott had discovered during a business bacchanal in which they had consumed a display of martini glasses that for some reason had been filled with the real deal at the bar where the band was performing.
It was great- we were drinking some sort of rum drink and singing along when the skies opened. And let me tell you, they opened.
Wait, I am getting ahead of myself, as usual. Marlow had graciously buzzed me around the island in the morning, identifying key locations for me, and making a stop at the Class Six and the Commissary which are embarrassingly convenient and dramatically not available to anyone except active and retired military folks.
I know these appurtenances of the old DoD system are doomed, but while they exist, this is unbelievable. There is RV parking on the beach, no longer than two weeks in any hook-up, but apparently folks play a sort of checkers residency, hopping from parking place to parking place.
I have seen the folks do that at Dam Neck, but I think the sleet would make that unattractive at the moment.
Anyway, with some supplies laid in I moved on up the hierarchy of needs, striving for self-actualization: access to the internet was next, and I was dreading the experience. What was available? A full-up Comcast install was not in the cards- and I hate those bastards- but technology came to the rescue.
I sat on the folding chair out on the screened balcony with my ancient Droid smart phone and the iPad trying to figure out what my options were. I tried to call Verizon, but the automated voice system indicated that the telecommunications giant was sort of busy with outages from Alabama to Maine, and I sighed and thought I might just give up.
Getting a little shaky due to information withdrawal and the limited connectivity, I looked up independent contractors in Key West, and lucked out on the first call- Brett (I immediately thought of one of my favorite bartenders at Willow) said he could hook me up that very afternoon with an upgraded phone that actually serves as a wifi hotspot signal, which would enable me to generate the stupid stories about transvestites in the rain and other important issues of the day.
Which is where I am going to leave this installment. The water is down, and the sidewalks are drying and it is time to get our and about. With luck things will make more sense tomorrow.
Or not. I am in the Conch Republic, after all.
Copyright 2014 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303