Animals Eating

The Key West terminal was a white and teal block building. And if not for the planes, it could’ve be mistaken for an HVAC repair shop.

The day was humid. There was no tarmac or tunnel, so Ray and I carried our bags across the hot concrete and entered the small, air-conditioned refuge to wait on more bags. The inside was more of the same, a scene from a smuggler film. We got our things and walked out the front. Cars lined the curb and people scurried to get a lift into town. Faces from the plane looked different in the sun, in action. There was the older couple from Boston and the girl with the baby that sat a row ahead of us. The girl offered to split the ride but she was headed back toward Cudjoe. We hailed a black sedan and loaded things in the trunk.

The first time I met Ray Watterson, I was dead. I remember, because it was the Friday before Christmas ten year ago and we were having the office holiday party. Ray was dancing to a bad karaoke version of the late-80’s hairband variety and I guess he noticed me glassed over in my chair.

“Are you dead?”

“Only on the inside,” I replied.

I was new at the job and Ray was like a white light drawing moths. Over time, I ended up on a lot of planes and boats following him. He didn’t talk much about doing things, he just did them. Many times I said no at first.

“Let’s just give it one more shot,” he would say with a sly grin.

Like the next trip was going to be just the one I needed.

Ray and I consumed the short car ride with small talk about work and families. The windows were down and the air was heavy with salt. Construction noise permeated the car while bikes and mopeds sped by through tight streets.

“Fishing should be good,” I said.

“So will the beer,” he answered.

We had a studio tucked into the top floor of a deep green duplex. There was a bedroom, a bathroom, and a loft bed in the living room up where the warmer air lives. There was a window down to a shared pool.

“You gonna call and check in?” Ray asked.

I thought about it. “No.”

He looked at his phone. Ray didn’t really worry about such things.  

Neither of us unpacked but rather simply changed clothes. We locked up and ducked through the back narrow stairs, crossing the courtyard.

Duval Street was a monster that ate first timers and the unaffiliated. It also tortured the old Conchs with stories about when times were good. At heart, she was unchanged and declared it so on the daily. The moneychangers brought big boats and posh stores, and the artists and dreamers laughed in their faces. The locals might eat steak and drink fine wine, but they would do it in an old t-shirt and on three days without sleep.

We drank our way from the South end up, never getting more than one street over in either direction. New faces on old places, and some just as old as before. Singers blared out through tinny PA systems, playing acoustic covers over bustling crowd noise. We stopped in front of a rum bar and ordered a local number, neat with a napkin under the glass. A woman wearing devil horns rode by selling flowers out of her bike basket. I dabbed sweat from my brow and adjusted the fan mounted to the overhead post. Minutes later, a man walked by donning only sandals, angel wings and a hat.   

We finished the rum as Duval went from white to amber, the sun dipping behind the buildings while the establishments dotted the landscape with porch lights and candles. We headed to Mallory Square and caught the sunset show. There was applause at the end and a man that ate fire. There was a small band of merry travelers who sang songs, bringing harmony when they could and humming through patches where they didn’t know the words.

“Should we get some dinner?” I asked.

“We don’t do dinner while we’re here. You know that. Animals don’t sit down to eat.”

Animals.

“We just sat down to breakfast this morning,” I stated.

“That was this morning.” As if those were other people.

The festival raged on. Ray fell into a conga line and danced around, out of sight.

Ray was not dead inside.

I thought about calling.

I looked out on Sunset Key and counted the sailboats in the channel. Even though I had only been here a handful of times, I found myself looking over the faces in the crowd wondering if I could recognize anyone. But I couldn’t and I was relieved. A vendor was selling Cuban sandwiches and I watched him put one together for me. I bought another beer and found an uncrowded spot to stand and eat. I sat my beer on a pylon.

Animals do not sit down to eat.

The water and sky made a miracle blue, right in front of the witnesses. Some were struck by the occurrence, others were desensitized. The lampposts lining the water's edge threw an ever-brighter circle out on the water and as I turned to go, I saw a man in a tan suit.

He was staring off where the sunset just left. He stood for a spell longer then took a coin from his right pocket, flipped it spinning through the air and into the water. After one last look, he picked up his leather bag and disappeared into the swarm of revelers.

I returned my gaze to Sunset Key until I heard my name from the noise behind. Ray emerged with a pack of people, his eyes wide with excitement.

“Found a new, old mate over at the open mic,” he said.

Ray and I merged into a cyclone of friends, one of which was a guy Ray met and fished with the last time he was down on the island. The guy threw a heavy wake and parted the crowd as we crossed the street back and forth. He had a place a couple blocks up on Eaton. When we got there, a girl had a crystal container out on the counter with six faucets emerging at the base. Six silver spoons sat with a sugar cube perched in them and the white absinthe dripped from the container, melting the sugar into to the glasses below.

“Is it the white elephants, again?” I asked.

The girl just laughed.

The music was smoky and from another day, long ago. Three, four times we filled the glasses and danced. The tempo slowed and the heat rose. The small room, an old storefront, was packed and people passing on the street cast eerie faces in through the tall windows.

“This is the private party,” Ray yelled.

But people came in anyway. They locked arms and paraded through, singing like their hearts would burst. A song would end and people would make up songs to fill the empty, until the record could be flipped. The room breathed deep, embraced us and then finally expelled us out into the night.

A lady stopped us on the street and read my palm. She told me I would live a long life, but I needed to grow my claws out. She put both hands on my face to steady me and even though I didn’t say where I was going, she said she had to go the other way.

I walked with my hands in my pockets, away from Duval and the sounds. Ray walked out in front of me. We crossed through half-lit alleys and down cagey side streets. Chickens circled a streetlight, dogs barked from their back yards. My mind drifted and rose above the island. My hands never left my pockets. I hummed a song I heard the hippies singing earlier.

When I came to, we were at sparsely attended marina bar. There was a TV at the far end and two old, round tables where people could eat. A muted baseball game was on the tube, an old country song played barely audible from a stereo somewhere.

“What are you looking for?”

The question came from the back of the bar. I looked up and a guy had the remote trying to change the channel. It was the old Boston guy, from the plane.

“Hey, you were on the plane,” Ray said.

“Yeah. Looking for the Sox game,” he said.

He found the game and stood beside Ray at the bar.

“Name’s Mark,” he said genuinely.

“Ray.”

I mustered only a small wave.

We watched the game. Someone ground into a double play. Mark yelled. So did the folks in the back.

“Come to the island much, Mark?” Ray asked.

“Every winter.” His accent was strong. “Been coming for years.”

“That’s good,” Ray said.

“Yeah, we like it. We come down, we fish, we run around town.”

“We’re fishing tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah? Should be good. This is a good place to come, you see all the fish come back from the charters. They brought some doozies in his last year.”

Mark was jovial and generous. We talked baseball and music. Tourists that were filling up the boardwalk started slowing thinning out. A loud crew would occasionally walk through and break the silence.

When Mark smiled, his face scrunched up around his eyes. His laugh recoiled through the room and I could feel it soothing me. He talked about driving a truck for years. It was cold where he was from and now, here he was somewhere else. We ate conch fritters standing at the bar. The jokes came and we drowned out the music.

I thought about calling home but I didn’t. I was wide awake, maybe even alive. I was imagining taking out into that hot Florida sun in the morning and how sorry I would be. Groups still walked by outside and I peered into their faces, seeing if I recognized any.

Mark and Ray talked about tarpon and how the city has changed through the years.

“I would have liked to have seen it back in the day.”

Mark talked about when he first came down in the 80's. The rules were loose then and there was just a little bit of the old still left.

“It just felt like a refuge,” said Mark. “From where we were living, it was almost as far away as you could drive.”

Grunts of affirmation.

“I just drove as far as the road would take me.”

A man came through the door and casually walked behind the bar, throwing knowing glances at the patrons and the other workers. Ray stumbled the few steps toward the open double doors, eyeing the pedestrians outside.

“Bean Town.” A voice boomed out from some regulars in the back.

The new man acknowledged them with slight nod and grin. He was mid-20’s, tall and slender with a flock of red hair.

“Little late to be coming to work, huh?” Mark asked.

“I’m day shift bartender,” the young man said. “Just picking up my check. Spent all my money tonight.”

The regulars let Mark know the young bartender was also from the Boston area.

“Oh yeah?” Mark said out of a sideways glance.

“Born and raised. Just moved down here last year.”

“You don’t say,” Mark smiled, lips together and differently than before. He scooped up and moved his drink near to his mouth, paused and looked out at Ray on the boardwalk. He rattled his ice and emptied the glass.

The city moved from amber to dark. My heart glowed and my stomach was full, but my fingers tapped and my senses were paranoid. Even on the best days, they were jittery, like a hyena drinking from the Serengeti waters. My head swiveled back and forth between the waterfront outside and the bar inside. Ray danced around and generally entertained those passing by. Inside Mark drank and stared at the TV while the new bartender seemed to pepper him with questions. The city’s darkness seemed to ebb into the room. First the corners of the room lost the light, then the ceiling. Mark finally went from standing to sitting at one of the bar stools. I could not hear what they were saying but it seemed the bartender was struck by something and Mark was simply tolerating it. He nodded a few times, seemed to mumble at others. I turned and saw that Ray was out at the rail, leaning over the water. He yelled to some captains tidying up their boat. When I turned back, Mark and the new bartender were gone.

I smiled, but I was not sure if there was a reason or it was just the drinks.

The original bartender came down my way about the time that Ray crashed into me laughing.

“Hell of a place here, huh?” He proclaimed.

“Get any tips from those captains?”

He thought, nodding. “Fishing should be good tomorrow.”

The bartender bent down then emerged with four shot glasses. He took a bottle of Irish whiskey down from the shelf.

“What are we celebrating?” Ray asked.

“Small world, my friend,” he said.

We waited for more to come.

“Seems Nick, the daytime bartender that was just in here, grew up in the same spot, same spot there in ole’ Boston with your buddy. Said he was the same age as the old guy’s son. Said he knew his son when they were in elementary school. Said he wanted to buy a round for you guys.”

Ray slapped the bar to show his appreciation of the gesture.

“Us and Mark? There’s only three of us.” I reached up and turned one of the shot glasses top down on the bar.

“Nah,” the bartender said. He grabbed the glass and turned it back up. “He said one for the three of you, plus one more. One more for someone that’s gone. Four glasses, that’s what Nick said.”

Mark emerged from the bathroom and slowly made his way across the room. He stopped short of us and resigned himself to a table seat, as if resting for a bit.

“Nick said your money’s no good here,” the bartender poured the four shots, gave a tiny salute then moved away. “It’s on the house.”

Ray and I turned to Mark. The darkness edged down from the ceiling. Mark got up and came back to the bar, looking at the four drinks. He looked around the room and back outside.

“I love this place,” he said, breathless.

He slid a drink down to me. He slid one down to Ray. Finally, he pulled one over to himself.

“Yeah, I love it here.”

We each picked up the shots. Mark looked as if he might say something then thought better of it. We clinked glasses and drank, clattering them down afterwards. It was then quiet for a moment.

“Wonder what it would be like to head down to Cuba? That’s got to open up one of these days. Just over that horizon.”

I turned to see an island cruiser bicycle breaking the edge of my view. It was being pushed by the girl with the devil horns.

“Or even over to Bimini. I hear the finishing is great there, too. Boat can get you there in no time.”

“Right. Just a little further,” Ray said. “Maybe we’ll all find what we’re looking for.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

Ray slid the fourth glass over to Mark. “Well, let’s give it one last shot.”

Ray turned and walked back out to the boardwalk. The girl with the devil horns stopped. When she did, Ray said something to her. She laughed, pulled a flower from her basket and gave it to him.

I turned back to see Mark reach out, take the fourth glass, sweep it up to his mouth and pause. He held it a moment, drank it, and turned the cup top down onto the bar.