2007-03-20
cloud walking
At sunset, the street performers in Key West take over Mallory Square. A man on a unicycle calls out, "Don't anybody look. I'm not that good."
Of course, I can't stop looking. The pier is infested with midwestern tourist types--fat men with fanny packs and "tropical" shirts. One of them asks Unicycle Man (who calls himself, Tom) about the brace on his right leg. "It's so I can do splits," Tom shoots back at him.
He juggles flaming torches, all the while shouting, "It's a free show. I have no money. By the way," he adds, "The sunset isn't real. If you don't believe me, I'll bring it back."
The breeze is thick with salty popcorn smells. Seagulls wheel above us, looking for a place to land. Mama plunks down on the dock. She squints at the sun. "I'm getting my dose of vitamin D," she says. Mama is shivering. She whips a pair of socks out of her purse (who knows what else she's carrying in there) and wears them with sandals.
"You're embarrassing me," I tell her.
She just grins.
When it gets dark, we flag a taxi that takes us to Blue Heaven, an outdoor cafe shaded by boat sails. It used to be a bordello and a boxing ring, another of Hemmingway's hangouts.
Mama raises her glass. Another toast to my dead Uncle Billy. "He's watching over us," she says.
I sip my glass of white wine. I'm thinking about spirits, Billy's ashes floating in the warm waters around Key West. Not a bad place to spend the afterlife.
A lady cabbie drives us back to the inn. Mama tries to make conversation, "Where are you from? Have you lived here long?" and only receives grunts in return. One word answers. The obvious brush-off. "Do you have any family?" Mama asks.
"No," the cabbie snaps. A pause. Then she says, "Actually, I do. My birds."
She's still talking about birds when we pull up to the WestWinds Inn. "Rescued one of them on Duval. Wasn't old enough to feed herself," she says.
"Well, give her a hug for me," Mama says as we pile out.
The cab rattles away. I stand there, thinking about all the people and animals on the island, how their lives connect, whether they realize it or not. I listen to the traffic, a sea-sound, pulsing like the ocean. Then I walk up the stairs to our hotel, turn the key, and step inside.
f-i-n at 4:37 p.m.