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The Move South Garnet Ricks
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Twilight, mid-June, 1985:
The truck stopped. Hissed. Choked twice and died
at the small motel just off Duval Street. The faded sign of
the establishment was a welcome a sight, just as the southernmost
lighthouse beacon must have been to the many sailors arriving at Key
West during the past hundred and fifty years. The two
brothers got out, stretched and looked back at the vehicle as if it was
a large animal they had brought in after a hard fight.
“So this is it huh?” asked Leslie, as if questioning his brother’s
sanity. “One thing I will say, when you go for a change, you
go all the way. This is one hell of a change from Boston.”
Keith looked at his brother
with a mischievous smile on his face. He knew his younger
and was not the sort of person easily upset with events he felt he
could control. Leslie was a large young man in his early
twenties, a little over two hundred pounds, nearly half a foot taller
than his brother, and with three years of college football behind
him. He had his own ideas of right and wrong, finding it
hard to deviate from his opinions even when he left people with the
thought that he had.
“With Mom and Dad moving back
to Bermuda and Gary solidly entrenched at Wang, it seemed like a sound
decision to me,” said Keith.
“Kicking us out of the nest
was one thing, but moving the next nine hundred miles away made it sort
of permanent,” said Les, and both started to laugh.
“The foliage around her
reminds me of Bermuda,” Les stated. “The buildings look more
laid back, but not bad. I think I could hang for a while.”
“It grows on you pretty
quick,” said Keith. “Well, let’s get you checked in.”
Moving to the back of the
truck, they took out a suitcase and went into the
office. Inside, the flora was even more robust than
outside. Besides the abundance of tropical plants, the
office was full of comfortable wicker furniture with overstuffed
padding. A counter ran three-quarters the length of the
room. A young man rose up from a seat hidden from view,
which made him appear to have materialized from nowhere. The
receptionist was in his late twenties or early thirties. He
was slim, with the type of chiseled features one would expect to find
in Lost Angeles. His eyes were bright and alert as a healthy
park squirrel, with dimples when he smiled that would support a pencil
eraser.
“You fellows checking in, I
take it,” he said, placing his hands on a computer panel sitting on the
counter. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes. I made one here last week for Leslie Ricks,” said Keith.
“Oh, yes. In fact,
I took it myself, but I put down ‘Ms’. My mistake,” the
clerk said, but his smile left his face when he saw the stone reaction
he was receiving from Leslie to his joke.
“Please sign here, Mr. Ricks. Will it be cash or charge?”
“It’s be charge,” Keith
stated. “And put it on my card.” He handed the
clerk his American Express card.
The clerk registered the card
and finished the check-in. “If you fellows will come with
me, I’ll show you to your room.” He came around the counter
and looked Les up and down. As he picked up the bag, he
sucked air through his teeth, ran his fingers through his abundant
hair, and walked out the door. These actions were not lost
on Leslie, and if the clerk had looked back again, it might have been a
snarling animal he found.
The action was not lost on
Keith, either, as he read his brother’s
face. “Cool. I said it was
different.” He smiled and picked up his brother’s other
bag. “After we get you settled, we’ll run down to my place
and unload the truck.”
They left the motel after
changing from the travel clothes they were wearing. Les wore
a rust-colored Ban-Lon shirt and a pair of natural-colored,
side-pocketed trouper trousers made of sailcloth, with red and white
Air Jordan sneakers. Keith had changed into a pair of green
shorts and a tee shirt advertising Filene’s Basement of Boston,
boater’s shoes, and no socks. After a lesson in patience and
an example of sheet determination, they got the truck restarted and
proceeded the few blocks to Keith’s new residence. When they
arrived, Keith punched the combination into the privacy fence gate lock
and opened up a section of what seemed to be a nondescript wall covered
with foliage.
When
the gate opened, however, Les found himself in an entirely new
world. The gateway was the width of a small truck, paved
with white, pea-size rocks, and lighted by bulbs hidden in lobster
traps. A walkway led to a wooden-decked courtyard surrounded
by individual homes that looked more like cabins, with lush,
well-cultivated trees and shrubs placed between each building
surrounding the courtyard. A small swimming pool and hot
tub, illuminated in the center, supplied most of the light, with the
porch lights from the houses adding to it. Several groupings
of furniture were placed at random around the yard. Three of
the benches were occupied, with the people in each group chatting
privately amongst themselves. The two young men entering the
yard became the immediate center of attention.
“Hi,
Keith. I see you returned to our little Shangri-La,” said
the nearest man, rising from his seat and approaching
them. He was dressed in bicycle riding pants and matching
shirt, and had a smile that was contagious.
“And
who is this nice-looking young man with you?” He must be
your brother. A little rougher around the edges, but
definitely a brother.”
Les
felt uneasy about the examination he was receiving. But he
was even more upset when he noticed the hooded look he was receiving
from the companion of the man speaking. The second man got
up from his seat reluctantly. He was dressed in a blue and
white flowered shirt and blue shorts, and had the physique of a
gymnast. His eyes never left Les, as if he considered him a
threat.
“Boy, it’s
good to be back,” said Keith. “That was some
drive. This is my kid brother Leslie. Les, this
is Carl Thompson and his friend Ted Ingram. They live here
on the right.” Les shook hands with Carl and gave sort of a
wave salute to Ted, who acknowledged him with a nod of his
head. “This is Bill Compton and his wife
Julie.” The couple smiled and waved a
welcome. “This big, burly character is Fred
Flintwood. We call him Bam-Bam for short.” The
big guy got up, looking like a self-propelled mortar round with hair
all over and a smiling face painted on it, came over, and presented his
hand. “And this last little lady is his wife
Carol.” Carol did not get up but offered her hand.
The door to the yard swung
open and a young lady entered, closing the gate behind
her. Turning back to the yard, she noticed Keith for the
first time. Her face lit up, and she rushed forward,
clinging to him like a small vine.
“You remember my brother,
Les. He helped me drive the truck down,” said Keith, when he
was able to catch his breath. “Les, you remember
Angela?” Angela Cavanaugh was a small, thin girl, freckles
on her nose, long brown hair that she wore in a pony tail hanging over
the front of her shoulder, making her look much younger than her years.
“Of course I remember Les,”
she said, looking over her shoulder at him, while clinging to Keith.
“If your truck’s outside, we can all give you a hand unloading it now,” said Carl.
Everyone from the court
helped to unload the truck. Angela was inside directing
traffic, Keith and Ted were on the truck handing down boxes, and
everyone else labored at carrying them inside. After several
trips, Les decided he would stay inside to help Angela position the
furniture. Actually, he felt uneasy about being in contact
with Carl any more than necessary.
*
*
*
During
the traditional Duval crawl (a must for anyone visiting Key West), the
two brothers, along with Angela, stopped for dinner at a restaurant on
Caroline Street called Pepe’s. It was a quaint little place
frequented primarily by locals, and all the patrons seemed to know each
other. After a round of handshakes and introductions to
those Keith and Angela knew, the trio was seated.
“Boy, you sure got to know a lot of people in a couple of weeks,” Les commented.
“I ran into Skip through the
music community. And Skip, he knows everybody, and I mean
everybody,” Keith replied.
“Half of them gay,” Angela added in a hostile tone.
“Ange, if we’re going to live
here, you’re going to have to change your attitude toward some people,”
Keith spoke as if this was an ongoing disagreement.
“You’re not my
husband. You’re my boyfriend. I don’t change for
anybody, and you should know that by now,” Angela retorted.
“You know when I came here I
felt a lot like you do, Angela. But now that I’ve met and
gotten to know some of these people during the past few days, I feel a
lot more at east with them and not so much threatened, you might
say. Now I wonder why I felt that way in the first place.”
“I’m sure glad you encouraged
me to go on that back country fishing trip with the guys from the
compound,” Les said.
“I hear you were quite a hit
with those guys,” Keith replied. “I never knew you were a
fly fishing expert.”
“Well,” Les spoke in a less
embarrassed manner, “it’s not much different than trout fishing, but
the fish are bigger and run much harder.”
“Well, from what I hear you
gave them quite a clinic. I’ve been hearing about it ever
since,” said Keith.
“One
thing I will say is, those shoulders of Bam-Bam’s are not
false. That guy can pole a bot like a three horsepower
motor, and Ted can spot a school of fish like a hungry
shark.” As he spoke, one could hear his excitement building
as he relived the trip.
“Careful,” said Keith, “or
you’ll be a conk before you know it.” The group broke into
laughter.
“Well, it’s still not right
to me,” said Angela, and the subject was dropped as dinner was
served. “I’m sorry to hear you decided to stay up north,”
she added.
“Right before I left I met a
girl named Maria, and I find myself missing her. I called
her last night, and that sort of sealed it for me.”
“I, for one, will be sorry to
see you go. With Mom and Dad in the islands, it feels like
we’re caught up in that game we used to play as kids called four
corner,” Keith said in a longing voice.
“I’m surprised you’re living
down here, Angela. As I recall, you used to be afraid of the
water,” Les stated.
“I’m getting used to it
now. I can at least wade on the beach now without
panicking,” Angela answered.
The whole compound was a
bustle of activity at the cookout to say good-by to
Leslie. Some were spread on towels around the pool, drinking
wine or soft drinks. Fred (Bam-Bam) Flintwood was
introducing his new recipe for grilled salmon. He had a
fillet with the skin on, marinated in soy sauce, liberally coated with
mayo and topped with crushed garlic, the grilled skin down on the
charcoal grill.
“Boy, this is delicious,”
said Les. “I’ve got to remember this. Does it
work as well on other fish?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve
tried it on grouper and fresh tuna with good results,” he answered.
Angela was coming across the
deck, carrying a plate of food, when she found herself in a spot where
she either had to step over Carl or negotiate along a few inches at the
edge of the pool. Paying more attention to the couple on
deck than she should have, she nearly dropped them, and in compensating
to correct herself she stepped over the edge and tumbled into the
water. Panic immediately set in and, struggling, she went
under. Les jumped first in the water, without a thought that
he was not a strong swimmer. Reaching her near the bottom of
the pool, nine feet down, he found himself locked in Angela’s grip,
which pinned both his arms to his sides. It did not look
good, but help was not long in coming. He found himself
being pulled to the surface, and finally got a breath of fresh air as
Ted towed him to the shallow end of the pool. Panic set in
again until he noticed Carl bringing Angela to the ladder.
“Boy, I sure want to thank
you guys. I thought for a minute I was a goner,” Les said.
“That’s what friends are for,” Carl replied, “to be there when you need them.”
*
*
*
The plane was about to leave,
and they had all gathered at the airport to see Les off—Carl, Ted,
Bam-Bam, Bill, and Keith.
“I don’t know how long it
will be, or even if I will return, but I will say I learned a lot here,
and I’ll carry a lot of memories with me about Key West for the rest of
my life. This visit was short, but it carried a
wallop. Thank all you guys for being part of it.”
After hugging each guy, Les
went through the door of his plane, afraid to look back in case they
might see the tears in his eyes. |
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Date Submitted:
2001-03-07 00:00:00 |
Copyright Information:
Copyright © Garnet Ricks, 2001 |
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