Sanibel Scribbles

by Christine Lemmon

  “We cannot always control life, but we can always control our breathing, said Ruth. “Now this is the Standing Forward Bend,” she added softly. “Never stop breathing. Close your mouth and breathe through your nose, making a quiet sound in your throat. That’s it. Making this sound will help you control the flow of your breath. Very good.”

  Vicki wanted badly to open her mouth and breathe, fearful that she might suffocate with it shut. She wasn’t a fish, and she didn’t have gills, so why should she breathe with her mouth shut? Was Ruth trying to kill her? As she attempted the sound in the back of her throat that Ruth wanted her to make, she felt an allergic reaction to yoga and a hypersensitivity to her own breathing. She had to stop, or it might kill her.

  “Listen to the sound of your breath, Vicki. It should be constant. Inhale as we raise our arms, and exhale as we lower. Try not to breathe out too quickly. Avoid the slightest strain and don’t push too hard.”

  Vicki felt like a tree standing on a sand dune on the brink of immediate erosion, her branches shaking and her trunk devoured by ants. She glanced at Ruth, grounded and still, and felt concerned that if she fell out of pose, so too might it disrupt Ruth.

  “Get to know your breath, because it will tell you about yourself. Some days your breathing pace will be shorter and other days it will be faster,” said Ruth calmly, as she bent down and let her arms hang toward the wooden floor of the houseboat. “Try to coordinate your movement with your breathing pace. Now doesn’t that feel good, natural?”

  Vicki could stand it no longer. The movements were simple, but the combination of the breathing and the attention given to it made her feel like a key lime tree carrying coconuts. “No!” she blurted out, in a tone as sour as an immature key lime. She fell out of the pose and collapsed on the ground as hard as a coconut falls. “I don’t feel good, Ruth. I think I’m sick. I’ve got a headache. I can’t do this anymore.”

  Ruth came out of her pose without looking alarmed or disappointed at all.

  “I feel ridiculous,” added Vicki. “I don’t know why I have trouble with the breathing part. I guess the slow breathing was a shock to my system.”

  “My guess is that you’re always speeding through life. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” she answered, a conductor confident that her interpretation of life and the speed at which to live it had been the only interpretation. Slowing down had never crossed her mind.

  “How would you describe your daily life? First thing that comes to mind.” Ruth sat on the floor with her legs twisted like roots of a banyon tree.

  “A dot-to-dot from one errand to the next on a never-ending daily list of things to do.”

  “What a place to live!”

  “What do you mean by place?”

  “We build our own dwellings, Vicki. We can live inside a shack that is constantly threatened by this and that and always in danger of tumbling down, or we can live in a fortress.”

  Vicki laughed. “What are you talking about? You live in that old bungalow I passed on the trail.”

  “No, Vicki, I live in a castle, but I once lived in a shack.”

  “I’m listening, Ruth. I’m trying to understand this one,” mused Vicki.

  “I worked many years on Wall Street.”

  “A stockbroker?”

  “No, administrative assistant to a group of stockbrokers in a gorgeous skyscraper. I answered phones and took messages with the same intensity you see in my scrubbing tables. The piles on my desk formed skyscrapers of their own, and I never turned down a single task. I didn’t know how to say ‘no,’ and that went for both my private and career lives. There was never an end to the things I had to do. My back ached from the inactivity of sitting at a desk all day. Soak in a nice hot bath? Forget it. Enjoy lunch outside on a park bench? No way. What were the colors of a sunset? I couldn’t tell you back then. I used to show up in my cubicle before the sun rose, and I’d leave after it set. My eyes burned from staring into a computer screen for hours. I was the superhero Java Queen, until one day I started feeling achy all over, and it didn’t go away. I went to doctors without getting any diagnosis, and it stressed me because I didn’t have time for that, my health, of all things. I had too much to do. It didn’t strike me until I got out here that I was spending my health making money, then spending my money getting my health back.”

  “So you escaped it all and fled to this paradise getaway? That’s awesome.”

  “Not quite. I was getting far behind at work, and one day I kicked my feet up on my desk and glanced down at a tiny blurb in the New York Times. It mentioned that Tarpon Key is the kind of island that, when discovered, makes you want to do a little dance. A dance? Ha! So I took vacation days and showed up here, having no intention of taking this management position. I returned to New York, quit my job, sold my belongings, and have been living out here ever since.”

  “Ruth, it still looks like a bungalow to me, and not that much better than the tree house I’m living in.”

  “Physically, I do live in a bungalow, and physically, the west side of old Mr. Two-Face does need a face-lift.”

  “A face-lift?” asked Vicki boldly. “I’d say a blood transfusion, a hip replacement, and a skin graft might do for starters.”

  “Vicki, when I started the job out here, granted, my surroundings were a paradise, but soon enough I noticed myself once again saying ‘yes’ to this and that and every request coming my way. I found myself again working sixty hours a week, and I’m ashamed to admit, I still had no idea what a sunrise looked like. You see, I was an ignorant bug flying right back into the same web. You could have put me in any given situation in life, and I would still have been a miserable person with no time for anything relaxing or pleasurable in life. Believe me, the word ‘yoga’ alone would have caused a panic attack.”

  “Well, you look like you’re enjoying yourself here. I haven’t seen any signs of stress on your face yet.”

  “It wasn’t my jobs, where I was living, or who I was living with that continuously caused me stress in life. Rather, it was me. I was not setting boundaries and limits. Demands, requests, and errands can hit you like a bulldozer, tearing down the walls that surround you. If you allow it, they will destroy your own peace of mind. Now I find myself tossing out the word ‘no’ as if I’m swinging a baseball bat and hitting a ball headed right for the place in which I live.”

  “The bungalow?”

  “No. I live in a castle with walls made of boundaries, and nothing is going to tear the walls down unless I allow it to happen.”

  “What if I can’t find the time or energy to build such a fortress?”

  “If you live life trying to be perfect, you won’t have any energy left for peace, joy, and things like that. Where do you want to spend all of your energy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s quite simple. Make time for yourself and, as they say on Wall Street, put yourself into your budget. You will be constructing your fortress without ever realizing it. And choose to invest. The more you do so over a long period of time, the more your fortress has the potential to grow.”

  “Ruth.”

  “Yes, Vicki?”

  “I think I’ll give yoga another try. It’s worth the risk.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ON HER SECOND NIGHT waiting tables, Ruth informed Vicki of a reservation that would require extra special attention.

  “Porter Smith is an elderly, well-established ship captain who will be bringing in a party of nine gentlemen tonight. Actually, they’ll be docking any minute now.” Ruth stood at the hostess desk and scribbled off the last name from the reservation book. “He is extremely well respected, one of our regulars for dinner, so we like to make everything just right for his table,” she whispered professionally to Vicki. She was no drill sergeant, but spoke sternly, and the employees respected her for this.

  “Waiting tables is showbiz, Vicki. No matter how you’re feeling on the inside, you need to smile on the outside,”
prepped Ruth. “However, life is not. Remember that.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Vicki stared out the screen door. She couldn’t tell where the water ended and the sky started, nor could she distinguish between the stars and the lights of approaching boats as she waited for the arrival of a guy she imagined might be wearing the white captain suit of a Miami-based cruise ship. She spotted lights approaching the island. They weren’t bright, festive, cruising lights, but rather plain old spotlights, used solely to light the way in the night. A simple boat. Maybe the captain left his cruise ship home for the night.

  “That might be them now,” said Vicki.

  “Yes, and keep in mind there’s no telling how late they’ll stay. Remember to offer them Brazilian coffees with their key lime pies.”

  “Okay, and up-charge them from iced tea to Long Island tea.” Vicki laughed, and returned to her only other table of the night. During the day, the staff waited on up to ten tables at a time, but at dinner, two proved plenty. Evening customers loved to talk and dine for hours.

  The dinner room glowed dimly, lit only by kerosene lanterns on each table. Earlier in the night, a man with long, curly hair had arrived on the island with a guitar. He played songs from the Dave Matthews Band and now sat on a stool in the bar singing “Riders on the Storm” and other Doors music. In between songs, he reminisced to Vicki about the concert in New Haven, Connecticut, many years ago when Jim Morrison got arrested and pulled off the stage. He said he liked Morrison and could relate to his lyrics. They made his blood dance in a weird way.

  When the time came to service the ten-top, Vicki took a deep breath and approached the captain’s table.

  “Hello. Welcome to Tarpon Key. I’m Vicki.” She struck a match and relit the wick inside the glass jar on their long wooden table.

  “Hello, Vicki,” said the man at the end, holding a pipe. “Mind giving me a light?”

  “Oh,” she said, surprised by his request. “Um, do you mind lighting it yourself? Unless, is it the same as a cigarette? Because I’ve lit cigarettes before, well, not for myself, but, anyway, I’ve not lit a pipe.” Nervous and ridiculous behavior, she knew. But fearful she’d set his pipe on fire, she held the book of matches in the air, inviting the man on the end to do it himself.

  “You’ve not lit a pipe before? Watch me, it’s easy,” he said and there was silence at the table as he lit his pipe. All the while, he looked at her with smiling eyes, and when he was done he puffed, then said, “Hello, dear, I’m Captain Porter Smith. So nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet all of you as well. So, you’re a captain? Of which cruise ship?”

  The captain laughed as he stuffed her matches in the pocket of his white jacket. “Oh no, no cruise ship. I’m not that type of captain. I’m a fisherman. We’re all fishermen.” He offered no more information.

  Vicki recovered, giving a salute with her hand, then returned to business, recommending the infamous Silver King Sipper—a piña colada with Frangelico. Seven of the men took her up on the offer, and Ruth, watching from the corner of the room, hand-gestured an okay signal and disappeared to do paperwork in the back office. One man ordered a bottle of Joseph Drouhin. She hated opening wine. She could open a can of beer with no problem, but had a learning disability of sorts when it came to opening bottles of wine.

  “Have you ever played poker?” asked one.

  “No, why?”

  “Don’t. You’d lose. Your facial expressions are too honest. Would you prefer we all order that island special instead of wine?”

  They laughed boisterously, like pirates. “It was the way your nose scrunched up when I ordered the wine.”

  “Oh no, wine is fine. Oh, goodness, you’re the customers, whatever you want. It’s no problem. Really! I’ve got this modern wine opener here. It came with the job. I’ll be right back with your bottle of wine.”

  She fished through the liquor closet for the right wine label. Rodney Strong, Sonoma County Cabernet Sauvignon, Beaujolais Village. When she found the bottle of Joseph Drouhin, she kissed it, her enemy, the wine, and returned to the table. Like a blonde on The Price Is Right, she modeled the $85.00 bottle as everyone gawked. Then she pierced its cork with the modernized silver point.

  “Methinks she caught a fine one. Let’s see if she can reel it in,” said a fisherman sitting next to the captain.

  She smiled and rotated the bottle. Holding the cork steady, she attempted the opposite: holding the bottle steady. She couldn’t remember which had worked best during her last disastrous attempt. She unhooked it, then re-hooked it and started over. All eyes studied her struggle. A camera flashed. She had become someone’s souvenir. She heard cheers and laughs. They were teasing her, as if she were catching her first fish. She both hated and respected the catch, the bottle, at the same time. She started reeling it in, but the fish, no, the cork, crumbled. Only half came out with the hook, no, the modern silver corkscrew. Someone handed her a knife, and she scraped the rest of the broken cork onto a bread plate, hoping Ruth wouldn’t see. An inhumane catch—she had mutilated it and felt unethical for doing so. Ashamed, she poured red wine with tiny cork crumbles into the clean, clear glass of the man who had ordered it.

  He held the glass close to the table, lit by the kerosene lantern. All became silent, but for the overhead wooden fans. “I must assess its hue, clarity, depth, and intensity. This is important. Studying a wine’s color helps me detect its age, as well as the way it was made,” he spoke as if conducting a seminar.

  Vicki wanted to take the glass in the kitchen for a minute, to strain out the tiny specks floating on the surface. Some had sunk to the bottom.

  He held the base of the glass, rotating it gently. “This swirling action exposes more of the wine to air and helps it release substances that form its bouquet, which will concentrate in the top of the glass.”

  Lifting the glass to his nose, he took sharp, shallow sniffs. “Ahhh, the more complex scent of this older wine is revealed!” He raised the glass to his lips and took a mouthful of wine, about a tablespoon. Tilting his head forward, he pursed his lips and drew air through the wine in his mouth, holding his head rigid. He exhaled the air through his nose, keeping his lips closed and then moved his jaw in a chewing motion.

  “I’ve had wine with him before,” said the captain. “He’s letting the wine flow around his mouth and come in contact with his tongue and the membrane lining the palate. Now, comes the part we’ve all been waiting for. He’ll either swallow or spit!”

  He swallowed to everyone’s surprise and pronounced his verdict. “Earthy, muscular, mature, corky. Just how I like it.” No one commented on the floating cork fragments after that, but Vicki noticed one man spitting casually into his white cloth napkin. The guy next to him picked some out of his teeth.

  “I’m sorry about that,” she whispered in his ear as he laughed.

  “But I’m curious. Where did you learn such a routine?” she asked the man who had ordered the wine.

  “I own a winery in Napa Valley.”

  “Oh.”

  “He is very passionate about wines,” added the captain, “and the gentleman on the end owns a cigar shop in New York. Bob, the big muscle man over there, opened a health food store with massage therapists, chiropractors, everything you can imagine that’s good for your health. It’s his passion.” The captain shifted in his seat as if ready to watch a good performance. “Tell us,” he said to Vicki. “What is your passion in life?”

  There was silence, and the silence made Vicki feel uneasy. She tried to quickly search inside herself for some form of passion, but all she saw were empty rooms and it made her feel like an old woman living alone in a mansion, yet having no furniture, or decorations to fill the space. The men were staring, waiting to hear about her passion in life, but she could think of nothing. And then she remembered Ruth telling her that waiting tables is showbiz.

  “Passion. Let me tell you what I’m passionate about,” she said slowly, loudly, like a woman i
n an old and dramatic black-and-white film. “I’m passionate about coffee.” She picked up one of the men’s cups of coffee and, with a gleam in her eyes, took a whiff.

  “Treating it? Roasting it?” asked one.

  “No, drinking it.” She could tell by the looks on their faces that her answer didn’t measure up. “And I’m passionate about Red Velvet Cake from the Bubble Room.”

  “My wife has been searching around for that recipe. Have you got it?”

  “Oh no. I don’t make Red Velvet Cake. I just eat it.” She didn’t like the silence or the stares or the fact that this kind of showbiz was impromptu. Where was her script? Where were her memorized lines? She felt her face turning as red as the cake.

  “But I’ll tell you my biggest passion,” she continued, wondering what might impress them most—these, her customers, and she, their waitress. “Cleanliness and personal hygiene. I’m a neat freak.”

  Why did she blurt that out? Hopefully it might gain her a better tip and impress Ruth who was standing nearby. “Yes,” she continued. “I sing the entire ‘Happy Birthday to Me’ song every single time I scrub and wash my hands.” Secretly, she knew she never sang the entire song. She only quickly sang, “Happy birthday to me, happy,” then dried her hands. Who had time to sing the entire song every time they washed their hands?

  When her show ended, there was no applause. By the time the party cleared the table and headed for the door, she felt tremendous relief. But, as she started to clear the dirty table, Captain Porter Smith returned. “Vicki, you’re a real trooper. We had a wonderful dinner and a lot of fun. Don’t run out the next time I show up. We’re not always this rowdy.”