To: wordy@Corp
Subject: chapter-42

KEY WASTED



#42 in the second online CAA series



by



Steven K. Roberts, HtN (WORDY)

Key West, FL

March 7, 1988



copyright 1988, Steven K. Roberts





     Ah, tourists.  With every street encounter I am distanced further from the

picturetaking plague of bustling intruders who descend en masse on every place

immortalized in brochures.  You can see them in the tour trains, faces turned

to follow the amplified prattle of the driver; you can see them on the street,

blocking sidewalk traffic to discuss the night's dinner options over a glossy

guidebook.  "El maizon duh peppy," one says in gross mispronunciation, "THAT

sounds interesting."



     Later, at the dock of the Pier House, a sunset of impassioned colors fades

completely to gray.  Maggie and I stand in silence, our beers drained, our eyes

reflecting a warm blend of love and the last glimmer of tropical daylight.  An

old woman with a vinyl megapurse approaches, leading a group of five of her

contemporaries.  "Excuse me, young man.  Have they had that sunset celebration

yet?"



     "Uh, well ma'am, it's about 23 hours from now... next block over."



     Another street encounter:  two guys from Virginia on Spring break.  One

asks, "hey, what's this thing run on?  Solar?"



     "Indirectly, yes.  Since I'm part of the food chain, you see, it runs on

sushi, ice cream, pizza... whatever I throw into it.  The fuel is converted

into adenosine trihydrogen phosphate and various sugars, which are then used to

drive an efficient reciprocating bio-engine coupled to the cranks.  Total power

is about a quarter-horse."



     "Really?  God, that's incredible!"  He scurries around the bike, peering

at the various components.  Pointing at the Nalgene lid of the Waterboy

pressurized water supply, he asks:  "So you put the fuel in here and then the

machine converts it?"



     "No.. I EAT!"



     "Huh?"



                                * * *



     Yes, the predominant outside influence this season is spring break -- a

sort of invasion, a rowdy overlay of predictable college- crowd behavior on a

place known for its diversity.  (Spectrally, it's like a high-power laser beam

in broad daylight.)  The campground is a sea of ragged tents and a cacophony of

competing boom boxes... the bathrooms are an insight into the frightening

unculture that is America's future.



     I hear conversation in the men's room:  "You goin' to Duval tonight, man?"



     "Hell yes!  I drove all night and didn't get any sleep, but we only got

four days here.  Gotta get a sunburn and do a blowout while I got the chance!"



     Maggie witnessed a disturbing scene in the women's shower room

yesterday... three cute, permed, perky girls surrounded by a litter of blow

dryers, hot curlers, lotions, potions, and notions.  One of them is bitching...



     "I don't know about you guys, but I can't take this camping.  I HATE

camping!  Last night Lisa got me up to go the the bathroom with her, and I like

saw a bug!  Ugh!  And how are you supposed to shave your legs in a shower with

cold water?  We should get together with those guys we met last night and see

if we can get a room... if we all go in on it, we can afford it.  I really HATE

this.  I haven't been this miserable since we lived in the dorm, remember

that?"



     "Nooo... that's something I try to forget every day of my life."



     And yet they look so heartbreakingly lovely... modeled after the pages of

Seventeen and Self, consumers of makeup by the truckload, living in daily fear

of breaking a nail.  Seeing them out there I have a sudden rush of appreciation

for Maggie, my wild sweet animal -- this woman who comes alive in the

wilderness, dances in the rain, savors natural scents, sweats all day on a

bicycle, then cooks over a fire and lets her hair flow as free as the wind

while writhing with the raw sensual pleasure of life itself...



                                * * *



     Of course, there are exceptions.  We met two pretty women in their late

20's, cycling the southeast for the last 6 months on some kind of Christian

ministry program based in Nashville.  They are playful and bright-eyed,

religious without being too obnoxious about it, seeming almost as teenagers in

their exuberance and vitality.



     And then there was the neurosurgeon, the speech pathologist, and the

coma-recovery researcher.  What a party!  We spent a giddy evening with them in

their rented motorhome, swapping tales of brain research, punning, drinking,

and vowing to cross paths again somewhere in Long Island.



     Then a beach day.  Here they are again:  the spring break crowd, banished

from Fort Lauderdale, a narrow slice of American culture whose precise flavor

depends on which schools happen to be on the loose at the moment.  This week,

they all seem to be from Virginia -- so the contents of the bikinis are pretty

and conservative.  The guys' haircuts are within about 10% of the current

standard, the beer is almost exclusively Bud or Bud Light, and there isn't a

Speedo bathing suit in sight except on the occasional strolling local.  A

deejay is set up, playing rap songs with chest-pounding power; through the

interstices of the music trickle giggles and the conversational minutiae of the

late-80's college set.  At first glance, Smathers beach in this season is a

place of wanton erotica... upon closer inspection, the standardization is

disturbing.



     A clear split is developing between the old classic sexiness and that of

the new generation.  The former is hot, sweaty, hairy, even kinky in places;

the latter is clean, conservative, as substantial as television and about as

untouchable.  Fortunately, I'm not nearly as frustrated by this as I would be

if I were traveling alone, for Maggie epitomizes the attitudes that might have

evolved into the eighties had not a panoply of diseases, televangelists,

Tippers, rippers, Meeses, and right-wingers arrived on the scene to undampen

the human sexual spirit.



                                * * *



     Ah, but the food.  We had a chance to sample some world-class sushi at the

Quay (which is not, contrary to rumor, a child's supercomputer), courtesy of

Chuck-the-engineer-turned-sushi-chef. Flavors at once delicate and potent

mingled poetically as a tray of piscatorial artwork transformed itself moment

by moment into murmurs and exclamations of pure pleasure.  Tuna, salmon, eel,

octopus, shrimp, scallops... all layered with rice, touched with flavors

exotic, counterpointed with slivers of pink ginger root and washed down with

hot sake.  If you come to Key West and have a yen for sushi, this is some of

the very best.



                                * * *



     OK.  It took a week, but we finally penetrated the chitinous buffer zone

that separates tourists from locals.  Not the local street bums, who panhandle,

greet me drunkenly as an old buddy, and strive with their unwelcome company to

separate me from the respectable ranks of visiting celebrities so they can pick

me apart dollar by dollar...



     No, not the street people.  Key West has for years been a favorite getaway

for recluses, writers, dreamers, and the refugees of the bland normalcy that

spawned this generation of mini-yups on holiday.  What happens when renegades

form a community is pure poetry: a mad, explosive tangle of powerful

personalities ranging from hardbitten retired hobos to hard-working

freelancers, from drunken Vietnam vets on the brink of violence to dazzling

intellects who grew exasperated with mainstream media-fed America and fled to

the island for some REAL diversity.



     Tonight, with George and Isabeall, we set out for what was to be something

more or less routine:  beer and billiards.  Over the last couple of days we've

struck up an easy friendship with them, something deeper than the endless

fatiguing beginnings and endings that occur on the street every 3-4 minutes.

("Just one question," it usually begins, "what are all these switches for?"

"That's not one question," I reply with a sigh, sizing the stranger up quickly

to assess the likelihood of a book sale.)



     But this is different -- George Murphy is a writer, a poet, a publisher...

and they live on houseboat row, plying a variety of freelance trades via Macs

and phone lines while bartending, shooting video, and generally keeping a busy

finger on the complex pulse of island life.  We hung out there today,

thoroughly burned out on Duval street, tourists, sunset, Smathers beach, and

the other standard attractions of this too-popular vacationland.  We lazed

about, caught up with email through a real modular jack, and idly toyed with

dinner plans.



     But off we went to the Bull Key Marina, a little-known place buried in a

channel sumewhere up the road from Key West.  Bouncing on the bikes down a

ragged street, yelled at by a drunk on a porch ("hey, don't come ridin' that

shit down here, man..."), flashing the helmet light into amber pairs of

dog-eyes slinking through littered yards -- this is not the Keys of the travel

brochures.  We bounced across a rutted dirt lot past rough hulks of pickups and

old cars, then parked the bikes under a neon beer sign and set the security

system.  From the old battered building rose whoops and raucous drunken

laughter, smells were of fish, beer, and stagnant water.  In short:  not the

kind of place I usually go.



        But we went in.  Characters:  our friends, a comforting island of

familiarity.  Roy the bartender, old, loony, drunk, hair slicked back, joking

in a high voice over every little event (you saw him in "92 in the Shade)).

Scott, longhaired and wild, a New York novelist in town for a visit.  Duke, a

local writer, big, ponytailed, rough-looking in a benign sort of way.  J.P.,

drunk but friendly, a sailor about my age.  Ed, drunk and obnoxious, stubbled,

stumbling, staring glaze-eyed at Maggie and making lewd remarks.  Billy from

Arkansas, fat, drunk, funny, dancing/clomping alone across the wood floor to

country and western tunes and breaking now and again into a drawn-out

soo-wee razorback hog call.  Various anonymous Viet vets, drunk and semi-coherent.

Strangers at the bar.  A fish flopping outside in a styrofoam cooler.  Passing

Coast Guard toughs, looking for a smuggler. Us.



     Quarters lined up on the pool table.  A micro-community developing among

writers and mates, watched with frequent negative commentary by the drunk vets

from their table of empty Bud cans -- DOZENS of Bud cans.  "Hey, you got a nice

ass," slurred Ed as Maggie bent for a pool shot.  He sidled over to us and

tried to get friendly: "I got a pocket full of smoke, man, you wanna burn one?

Your woman here, man, she got some nice leg on 'er."  Drunk breath washed over

us as he reeled and drooled, and we moved away with relief when our quarter

slid to the head of the line on the table.



     Midway through our game, it happened.  Ed, by now drinking Maggie's

purloined beer and thoroughly plastered, bounced from table to table, off the

wall, and over to the cue rack.  "It's my shot," he slurred, "I paid for this

stick.  I paid a dollar twenty five for this skinny sumbitch, man."  He grabbed

a cue and fell into the table as George returned from the bathroom.



     "This is our game, Ed, I think you should go sit down."



     "Look me in the eye and say that!"



     "OK, fine:  This is our game, Ed, I think you should go sit down."



     "It's MY shot."  He started shoving.



     Somebody called across the room, "It's time, Roy, we gotta get him outta

here."  A struggle started, with the curses getting more serious, the scene

turning ugly.  George discretely turned his cue 180 degrees to ready the heavy

end, winked at me, and waited.  Billy from Arkansas came over and applied

steady skillful pressure, trying to reassure Ed that we were all his good

buddies but that it really was time to go.  They eased him to the door...

toward our bikes... as he continued to struggle.



     In time, they slid him over the rail and onto the dock, where J.P. stood

waiting with his boat engine idling.  When at last they motored off into the

inky night with drunken Ed sprawled across the foredeck, the mood of the Marina

lightened noticeably.



     But the real poetry of the night was the pool game.  Not OUR pool game,

which was unspectacular and somewhat embarrassing, but the one that began an

hour later...



     George and Duke had been playing, slowly, with plenty of time between

shots for histrionics and conversation.  Suddenly a voice snapped from the bar:

 "I've had enough of this bullshit!  I want to play some pool!"



     The stranger stood, took a hard drag on his cigarette, flicked it manfully

over the rail, and stepped to the table.  "You gonna piss around all night, or

are you going to play serious pool?"  Sudden silence... but for Patsy Cline

distorted on the jukebox and the suppressed giggles of our group.



     "Well, OK..."



     The light mood left in the wake of Ed's departure drained away... but with

an entertaining twist.  The polarized US-vs-THEM that had existed with the

drunk vets became a wonderfully unbalanced tableau of contrasting

personalities:  an intense ego-driven stranger, playing pool as if it were a

man-to-man struggle from which would emerge a superior victor and a shamed

LOSER... and a playful, intelligent friend among friends, darting about the

narrow-minded macho stranger with a wit every bit as dazzling as their hot

succession of combination bank shots.



     It was also some damn good pool.  They thrusted and parried, both of them

brilliant, both homing in on the 8-ball.  But the game was not of billiards,

but of style:  George danced around the table, eyes sparkling, singing along

with Sinatra, modifying the words to old Hollywood standards ("What kind of

fool is he?"), pirouetting with his pool cue and feeding on our laughter like a

performer on a roll.  But the stranger!  Furious with frovolity, intense drags

on cigarettes, muttered curses, nervous chalking, an undercurrent of barely

repressed violence touching every move, every shot, every comment.  To him,

this was a life-and-death struggle... and George's refusal to settle down and

lock horns was driving him into a frenzy.



     Endgame maneuvers.  The stranger misses, curses; George sights in the

8-ball, calls side pocket with a bank, sinks it with a DOUBLE bank instead...

thus losing the game.  The stranger whoops, victorious... but his sly superior

smile turns to fury as we cheer our friend's defeat, howling at the irony,

delighting in the realization that this loss was the greatest win possible...

completing as it did the separation between the game and THE GAME with

exquisite subtlety -- nay, drama.



     "He lost, goddamn it!  Don't feed his ego!"  The winner hissed this rebuke

through a jetstream of Marlboro smoke as we flowed into the night, high on the

energy of intellect, of friendship, of poetic insanity in a place bizarre.

This is not Duval Street.



     All that, and dollar beer too...



-----



     LATER NOTE, from Charlotte, NC:  As usual, I let this file lay around in

the compter as time passed... and passed.  Between Key West and here have been

two hamfests, countless new friends, a meeting with the entire Tallahassee

Capitol press corps, wizards, ghastly bus maintenance, cutting torch shock

removal, a brief visit to the AIDS capital of the US, a $65 VCR, talking

computers, funny encounters, more bike batteries, and a new odd-eyed white cat

with no name who has traveled with us since Homestead.  Details, if I remember

them, next time.



     And congratulations to GEnie on 100,000 subscribers!



     -- Steve