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Goodbyes Bob Mayo
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The
young doctor in Miami told him that he would be dying
soon. He gave him a large jar of pills for the pain, tried
to prepare an old man, with youthful words, for the expectations-such
as they are-of the last hurrah.
He walked out into the Miami
afternoon to his new pickup truck and drove it towards his home in Key
West. The painful urban traffic was its usual abomination
and the trip took four-and-a-half hours. He stopped once in
Islamorada, where a friend of his poured him a
scotch. Nothing had changed for the better in Islamorada,
including his aged friend. He avoided circulating news of
his impending death. It was hard not to
share. The pickup outside was like a stallion in front of a
Cheyenne saloon, waiting for its rider. He climbed back
inside the cab with its new smells.
The Ford rolled him southwest
in familiarity. He sped downstream where the footprints of
his life congregated. He broke speed laws, minor crimes no
longer a worry. He drove in the glow of his instrument
lights, free in luminescence and certainty, his mind charting final
courses.
He decided on some fun and an
ocean voyage, as he settled into the driveway of his empty
house. One last trip for laughs. He entered the
home and walked through it and outside to the dock and his
boat. He boarded the Hatteras and lit the salon
lights. Pablo poured scotch into a tumbler and sat in the
dim light, quiet in thought. Later he stretched on a
reclining chair and watched the skies from the dock that held his
boat. His beloved Maria had died in his arms on this dock
last year; the event changed him beyond his imagination.
He looked around suddenly,
trying to spot her in the salt night, but she was not
there. Some nights she was with him, a sparkled light in the
corner of his left eye, a moving ghost swift iin escape, caught more by
his heart than the old eye, yet with him. His sadness was a
huge grief so weighted it had begun to kill on its own, eating at his
will to fight his cancerous chest.
She had green eyes that
sparkled. When they were children together she caught his
heart and he became lost in her radiant gaze. It would last
a lifetime.
He was crying again and sat
up to wipe at the flowing tears that fell in search of compassionate
salinity through the slats of the wooden deck. He cried a
lot at night-choking, muffled, embarrassed, painful crying.
Later he cried from the
physical pain. It was a regular tearfest. He was
very tired and slept facing the stars of the southern evening.
The dream opened full of
familiarity and aromas from the sea. Maria was on the
surfboard riding the huge wake left by the Hatteras unfettered, just
riding the steady two footer smoothly, her hair streaking her shoulders
like wet shadows as she moved about the board, confident and
carefree-an angel walking a board on God's sea.
Pablo left the upstairs
control station, slid down the stainless ladder to the aft deck,
undressed completely, noticing his strong erection proudly, and climbed
atop the rail set to join his wife on the longboard, hang some toes
with her or stab her with his mighty sword. His intent was
pure, whatever. He leapt into the foam.
It was very
warm. His testicles relaxed and his erection grew in bloody
throbs, pleasured pain for an old man…or a young one. He
inhaled the foam deeply and exhaled thoroughly in enjoyment of the
oxygenated bubbles, and did not choke. Maria directly
overhead on the big surfboard, her hips working the foamy wake,
undulating, her black sex triangled by the dark large nipples above
them, bouncing athletic and firm, chasing the Hatteras on their
own. Pablo swam to the long surfboard above him, but tonight
he could not touch her once again, his right hand empty from the
desperate grasps at her and he woke without her sweaty, his hand
gripping his erection, the sole survivor from the wet dream.
It was four am. He
went to the kitchen at the back of his home, made some coffee and a
list of things.
At six thirty he drove across
US1 to the Cuban sandwich shop on the curve along Maloney Avenue for
toasted bread and a double sugared con leche. He sat at the
table with other old farts and some fishermen, late to the dock, jobs
in peril, time standing still on Maloney, something to depend
on. The pain in his chest gripped him and he swallowed two
more of the pills in the restroom, watched himself, addicted, in the
mirror. He'd lost some silver hair somewhere lately-maybe in
Miami.
He reboarded the Ford and let
it take him downstreet to Oceanside Marina. His friend, a
lawyer who fished too much, would be on his boat, holding morning court
and a blue plastic cup of good scotch. Pablo had developed a
taste for drunken lawyers, singled this one out over the years, and
given him his complete trust and some honest manly fishlove.
On the list of things, the lawyer had been first.
There had been a son, a long
time ago-only child. Good looking kid,
moxied. Image of his father, lean and muscular,
reserved. Bright student and athletic. Took to
his father's growing fleet of shrimp boats like deck
paint. Summers spent at sea, mostly with his father,
sometimes even with Maria, who loved to cook in the small galley and be
with her men. Pablo lived inside his life dream, his beloved
Key West, and the soft cocoon of Maria's hot love.
Roberto, their golden child,
tested positive for AIDS in August of nineteen
eighty-eight. He had recently celebrated his twenty-fifth
birthday. Seven months later he died. His
sexuality was of no consequence. It was a horrific year.
The bottom would drop on the
pink gold shrimp market off Key West the year after Pablo sold his
fleet, shortly following the death of his son. Timing.
They bought the Hatteras and
a nice home outside town in the Key Haven neighborhood because Pablo
liked the name, gassed up, and started to fish for the first time in
his life for fun. Maria grieved as much as she could, then
went with her husband to be near him. She loved to
fish. On other days she would drive to town, park as near
the Catholic church on Truman Avenue as possible, then walk the
fractured shaded sidewalks to sit on the smooth wooden pews that
supported her pleas to the saints for the soul of her dead
son. She prayed hard, English and Spanish prayers,
linguistic double coverage.
The lawyer who liked to fish
started hanging around the debris afloat their lives in this dark
period and was just suddenly sort of there. Pablo would find
him cleaning reels sitting in the boat captain's chair early in the
mornings behind his house. Fishing lawyer fretting over some
detail that needed attention, scolding, making noise to effect answers,
selling purpose cheap. Eventually the couple started
answering the questions again, re-booted their lives, and managed their
grief. The lawyer who fished too much drank from his large
blue plastic cup of good scotch and smiled from the sidelines.
The quiet love of the people
of Key West is a unique entity, full of strangely costumed
grace. An attraction not available elsewhere and recognized
by the password of community, it flows abundantly. The
lawyer who fished too much sprang from the center of this community.
The two friends sat inside the lawyer's home, a fifty-two foot Rybovich.
"End of the line,
pal." Pablo looked through the double glass doors that led
to the deck, lavished with ancient wood full of the bright
morning. Seemed so permanent. "Can permanence
float?" Things were taking different slants for
Pablo. There were going to be more finalities than he had
planned on up to this point, so he could dump this strange friend who
had shown up in his life, like some fish he'd eyeballed. He
just needed a little more fun, something this lawyer who fished too
much knew about.
"When you
dying? I'm pretty busy right now, big immigration case up in
Palm Beach, what?" Lawyer lying.
"First, I'm going to the
Fort, use the numbers for the red snapper, they should be there now,
leaving tomorrow, you want to go with me?" Pablo turned so the lawyer
could see his face as he spoke.
"Winds ten to fifteen, be a
bitch crossing Rebecca shoals heading into that, but it might die off
by tomorrow, haven't checked, want me to?"
"Nope. Going anyhow, in or out?" Pablo knew he had him.
"I'll come over tonight, stay
on the boat, be easier." Lawyer's name was Jim.
He left the Marina and drove
home. He had forgotten the list, which by now needed
additions. He gunned the truck and smiled at the day ahead,
fingering the jar of pills on the seat next to him.
There was quite a bit of
money, he'd been good with his cash and Maria developed a keen interest
in emerging stocks, mostly from the technology field, so there was
money. Pablo retrieved the list at home, then left again,
headed for the First State Bank, the folks who storaged his
wealth. He withdrew two hundred thousand dollars in cash,
told them not to close too early, he'd probably be back and left a wake
of startled young bankerettes out at the Roosevelt Boulevard
branch. They gave him a big cloth sack, literally, for the
money. He had requested packets of five thousand
dollars. This was meant to be fun.
The checkout girls at aisles
four and five had been nice to him since Maria was no longer there to
share shopping, and he liked them. Everybody was handed a
packet of money, including the assistant manager, a blonde
Afro-American gal with a sinful laugh full of infection. The
Winn Dixie got tumultuous. He jumped into the double-parked
truck, his great steed, cold inside motor idling harmonious in wait,
and left the shopping center. Headed downtown.
Pulled in behind the church
his wife had whispered so many prayers for their son and himself inside
and interrupted the soup kitchen run by strong Key West women in the
small house at the south end of the Catholic property. Gave
four bundles, told them to watch the mail, thanked them for being
themselves and left another roomful of startled people.
Noon. Took two
more of the lovely pills. Rode around aimless, passing
memories attached to corners, shade of majestic Poinciana trees where
Maria stood once smiling at him. She was everywhere, her
soft life of pure trust left like a scent over the
island. He stopped at the cottage on Francis Street, close
to the cemetery that had been their first home, was it seconds
ago? He could not remember a slow day, they had all brimmed
full. Fought back frog tears and pulled away right on Truman
in need suddenly of strong drink. Driving on morphine, rum
chaser. Felt fairly fearless. The pain was
considerable.
The lawyer who fished too
much found him facing toward Sand Key atop a barstool at
Louie's. He'd never been hard to find.
"Heard you had a sack of money." Lawyer Jim.
"Getting lighter all the time, you want some?" Pablo was glad to be found.
"Bill's in the
mail. You watching this weather? Still
on?" Jim, looking at his topsiders nrocking on the bar-rail,
avoiding eye contact just yet, giving the bazaar some elbow room, a
faulty nonchalance. It is truly a small island; Pablo was
already famous,
"Yep and
yep." Pablo, trying to gain eye contact, finally smacked the
lawyer's shoulder to effect it.
"I got to give some more of
this away, go back to the bank and have a grand finale at sunset, will
you help me out?" Pablo did not want to do any more driving.
The lawyer drove him to the
locations on the list. He gave the money to people that it
could astonish-a barometer of his choosing. Dignified folks
he'd walked with in his life, a myriad lot with a common denominator
that lashed each of them in respectful friendship to
Pablo. Astonished smiles make great silent
exits. The old dying man left them all grinning, gobbled his
pills, and told Jim to head back out to the boulevard, he'd run out of
cash.
He went in alone, staggering
slightly. Came out with ten thousand dollars in fives,
cramming the cloth sack to overflow-a hideous security
flaw. Lawyer hysterical behind the wheel, Jimmy Buffet on
the moon on the radio.
"Take me to the airport," said Pablo.
"Gotta leave you on the
ground for a few minutes, Eddie and I are going to do some loop de
loops before I kick the bucket. Don't mind do
you?" Pablo rode shotgun around dead man's curve, near Key
West International, mischievous grin shining through the morphine.
"Wonderful. I'll
be in the bar. You're taking the sack of fives, of
course?" Jim the driver.
"Yep, need some?"
"Hell, gimmie a handful, no
telling how long you'll fly upside down with that old
fool. Does he still have a license for that
thing?" Jim took a handful of fives and jammed the money
into his right front pants pocket, laughing.
His old pal Eddie Cebalos had
the biplane waiting and Pablo climbed into the front seat, strapped
himself in holding tightly to the large off-white sack of money with
Key West State Bank printed blue on each side. He pulled
down the goggles Eddie handed him and gave thumbs up. The
plan had been set earlier and needed no updates. Theresa,
the lovely voice in the control tower, gave them a quick clearance and
Eddie banked sharply to starboard and headed for south Key West.
The sun was a giant nuclear
orange four fingers from the water. He flew inside his
selected day, selfish to be sure, but his life had been a fun thing,
his preference was to end it with some continuity. He was
glad he lived where he did, once again.
Three thousand people had
gathered for the nightly celebration of the setting sun on Mallory
docks. When the biplane rounded the point of the island, two
thousand yards to the south of the great crowd, it rolled upside down
and flew right at the crowd less than a hundred feet from the
fire-eating wire walker. The roar was frightening and there
were screams of alarm.
The timbre of the noise
changed distinctly when the fives started to play in the winds of the
biplane and fall toward the sun worshippers. Pablo had
thrown three quick handfuls in the confusion of the first
pass. Eddie righted the spacecraft and made a sharp
one-eighty around the old Navy fuel docks. He could see
Pablo's grin from the back of his head.
They came slowly and way too
low over the crowd in goodbye, Pablo hanging the closth sack off to his
left, shaking it furiously to free the fives. They made a
big wide loop over Sunset Key, where fives mean nothing, and passed
over the crowd a last time. No one looked up; the sun
worshippers were busy. There were swimmers in the
water. Then thousand is a lot of fives. Activity
of a beehive; some worshippers were poor. Bedlam.
Eddie flew into the sun until
it melted and brought his old fun friend back to the airport in a most
salty dark. Both faces were wide pasted
grins. The mission was a success. The handshake
was gripped with meaning.
They sat together in the
Hatteras late into this special evening, two pals set to
fish. Jim mixed his scotch with melancholy. Pablo
swallowed an astonishing amount of morphine, which he chased with
Haitian rum and grit. Jim was not solicitous and called for
no behavioral cautions, very much his way. They fed on
smoked kingfish and some conch salad, picked at lovingly between
tumblers. The southwest winds had not abated as hoped for,
and blew right up their canal.
Pablo passed out sitting
upright on the sofa, chin chested to measure his labored breathing,
bobbing with uncertainty. Jim watched amazed,
anticipating. Friend shit getting harder all the time.
They were well under way when
Pablo awoke. Jim had cleared the harbor and set a course for
the Dry Tortugas. Pablo stayed below, drank some juice from
the fridge, took three of his pills and lay back down. He
slept two more hours, noticed the engines had stopped and looked
outside onto the lee of the Marquesas and its
familiarity. The winds were howling from the
southwest. Twenty miles out of Key West, Pablo staggered out
to the deck, settling into the mahogany fighting chair. Jim
came down from upstairs and noticed his decline, said nothing, entered
the cool of the saloon and made two strong drinks. It was an
hour till noon, a bright gusty beautiful blue sky drop dead gorgeous
day fit for living large and sporting grins.
Pablo thinking surfing might
be good later. Drank the whiskey in large gulps.
The fish lawyer took a stand
for staying on the hook where they were, eat and drink well the
remainder of the day, rest tonight, and ride smoother seas in the
morning. He mentioned for the first time in his summation
the obvious slide in Pablo's condition. Softly.
Pablo put forth no argument
and sat appropriately in a fighting chair, fighting. He felt
about as bad as he could, showed it, and hated himself for it, cried
some and let his friend lob an awkward arm around his shoulder and hold
him. It felt good. Some fishing trip.
Later Jim caught two nice
gray snapper, fried them immediately, and Pablo managed to eat most of
one and some applesauce. His mood lifted afterwards and he
brought the two manila envelopes from his stateroom and gave them to
the lawyer who fished too much. Lawyer Jim, the friend
standing by, put them on the cherry table next to the fishing magazines
like More Angling News, and paid them no further attention.
Near sundown the ocean calmed
like it does. The fishermen climbed to the control station
above the stateroom, sat on the thick cushioned swivel captain's
chairs, and watched the old shrimper's last sunset in a comfortable
manly quiet. His pain was unbearable. They
decided to beat cheeks to the Fort.
Jim pulled anchor and headed
for Fort Jefferson on the suddenly flat calm waters, the beautiful
Marquesas smaller off the stern quickly then gone abruptly short after,
Pablo below strapped in the fighting chair, watching the wake of the
Hatteras, his stomach clenched like his molars, steeled to pain.
Rebecca shoals were slightly
rougher, three to five footers, which the Hatteras cut through
smoothly. There was a lovely foam wake now following the
sport-fisher. Pablo kept his intense scrutiny leveled there,
seen through the familiar giant frog tears. He had not
figured on so many tears.
He thought about his life and
his times in Key West. Some fun. Some
life. He turned and looked up at the back of his friend at
the helm of this great last boat and smiled with a nod and a tip of his
fishing hat. The lawyer who fished too much missed his
tribute.
Maria was there when he
turned back around so he undressed and stumbled naked like he had
planned off the stern into the salt foam to be with her.
He caught the board on his first try. |
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Date Submitted:
2001-03-07 00:00:00 |
Copyright Information:
Copyright © Bob Mayo, 2001 |
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