by Cooper, Doug
Five cars go ahead of me. I release the brake and move forward. Ja-jink.
Yellow arrows painted on the road direct me: jog right, then up a hill to the main road. Several taxis and a tour train await new arrivals.
Poplar and cottonwood trees line the side of the road and reattach above, forming a canopy that erases the sky for seconds at a time. Tucked between the trees and the occasional cottages are several businesses, including a bicycle and golf cart rental, the island quarry, the airport, and the Skyway Restaurant, which reminds me that I need to eat. The caffeine from my trip is knotting my stomach.
Like flipping the page of a pop-up book, a left turn onto Delaware Avenue transforms the pastoral surroundings into the quaint village of Put-in-Bay.
The Crescent Tavern stands on my left, another golf cart and bicycle rental on my right. The water and docks, sparsely populated with boats, beckon on the other side of the park, which serves as the center of the town square.
A flash of red—fire engine red—snaps my attention back to the left. No mistaking this structure. A round, red building with a white porch and a dome roof: the Round House. Next door is the Park Hotel, a large Victorian-Italian villa with a wraparound porch, similar to many of the buildings I’ve seen on the street. My new home, at least until I find something more permanent.
The screen door of the hotel rattles as I open it, waking the man sleeping on his hand at the front desk. “Can I check in early?” I say. “I drove all night from St. Louis and could really use a bed about now. My last name is Shepherd.”
His yawn transforms to a nod as he checks his register.
I slide my credit card across the desk. “Where can I get something to eat?”
“Snack House next door,” he mumbles, minimizing words in his sleepy state, the lines from snoozing on the back of his hand still visible across his cheek.
“People don’t spend much time thinking of names for things here: the Depot, the Round House, the Snack House.”
“What you see is what you get. The island is imaginative enough. Creativity don’t need to be wasted on naming things.”
“Sounds perfect. Exactly what I need.”
“Well, I can help you find anything else. Just holler.” He rubs his eyes and releases another yawn. “Bathroom is down the hall, European style.”
All I can do is shake my head and smile at my new life. I’m unemployed and homeless, living in a European-style hotel on an island in Ohio. On the outside it seems so logical while remaining carefree with a hint of crazy. But beneath my outwardly adventuresome spirit, I know that I am lost and that I have been for some time. Worse yet, I don’t have a clue as to how to find my way back. Hell, I don’t know whether I want to go back, forward, right, or left. So instead, I choose a fixed point in the middle of Lake Erie to sort things out.
The blaring of an electric guitar rips me out of sleep. Where am I? Did I sleep through the day? I check the clock. Three p.m.—time to get moving. I want to surprise Birch and Haley.
Oedipus Birch is my link to this whole new life. His band, Whiplash, played occasionally at a Saint Louis U bar where I used to stop after graduate classes. Teaching junior high for eight hours followed by evening classes and several hours in the pub made for a long day, and an even longer day after, but I needed something to make me feel like a normal twenty-eight-year-old.
The first time I saw Whiplash, Birch and I struck up a conversation during one of their breaks and instantly became friends. His given name of Oedipus made me think that his mother either had quite a sense of humor or that she should’ve been committed. Either way, the more time I spent with him, the more I realized that the name was only a precursor to the tangled mess that lay within. When you’re searching, there’s something comforting about being around people who are even more twisted than you are.
When I showed up the night of Barry’s death, Birch had heard on the news about it, but he didn’t know it was my classroom until I told him. I was beating myself up pretty bad. I couldn’t escape the thought that if I had let Barry go to the restroom or the nurse, things might’ve been different. Birch’s response to that was: “Maybe Barry would’ve died in a stall alone if you had.” Birch always has a way of flipping a situation on its head and seeing it from a different perspective. Another reason I love being around him. That night he could tell I needed to forget but didn’t know how. He said, “Why don’t you take some time off?”
There was no way I would desert my students. I said, “What kind of example would that set? If the students have to be there, I should too. Besides, spring break is only a week away. We can all take some time then.”
Almost as if it was his plan all along, he proposed, “Just come down to Key West with me and the band for spring break then.”
Of course I had a list of excuses why I couldn’t go—no money, no reservation, too much schoolwork—but he had an answer for each one. By the time I left the bar, he had me convinced to work as a roadie, bunk with the band, and take my work with me.
As to be expected, when I told my parents about this plan, my mom accused me of running away and blamed Birch for being a bad influence on me. She never has liked him. Thinks he’s a dreamer who needs to grow up and get a real job. It’s always easier to reproach the friend than address issues with the person closest to you.
This kind of meddling was exactly why I moved out after my first year of teaching. I would’ve loved to live rent-free and save money, but most days I was just trying to survive the school day. I’m not going to lie; in that first year it was a difficult transition from the college quads to the corridors of a junior high. I would come home exhausted and frustrated, and all she wanted to do was talk about what had happened. If I did open up about how tough it was, she would get worried that I was planning to quit, and she reminded me how she wished she were lucky enough to have such a good job with full benefits, retirement, and holidays and summers off. Ever since I was a kid, I was never allowed to quit anything. If I started something, I had to see it through to the end.
I know she meant well, but she has this remarkable ability to make every situation relate back to her and make me feel like shit in the process. Just like when I told her and my dad that the suspected cause of Barry’s death was an overdose on his mother’s pain pills. She went to the sink, picked up a dishcloth, and dried a bowl in the rack that wasn’t even wet. She said, “Oh my—I can’t imagine how she feels. To know you played a part in your own child’s death must be unbearable. You’ll understand if you ever have children.”
I didn’t need to have children to know that what happened was fucked up. But I kept my mouth closed and let the words pass unchallenged. All I said was, “I just wish I could’ve done more.” I felt like I had to remind her that it did have a little something to do with me.
My dad picked up on my jab. He said, “Knowing you, I’m sure you did everything you could’ve. Now you just have to move forward.”
Usually I’m cool with my dad. He’s the peacemaker between my mom and me, and he stays pretty neutral. But this set me off. What did he know about the situation? What did he ultimately know about me? He married my mom right out of high school and has been working the same auto mechanic job for twenty-nine years. I said, “How in the hell do you propose I do that with an empty desk glaring back at me every day? I just need to get away from everything for a few days.”
“There’s no reason to use that tone or language,” my mom said. “We’re just trying to help.”
And there we were in the same spot we always ended up: me pissed off, my mom upset, and my dad trying to fix the situation with clichéd advice. He said, “It’s only a week. A few bikinis might be exactly what you need. Just remember who you are.”
Gee, Dad, thanks for the words of wisdom. I’ll get right on that.
A shrub of a lady, much more awake and energetic than the clerk this morning, asks for my key as I pass the front desk. “You can pick it up on your way back,” she says. �
�That way, you won’t lose it.”
I smile back, understanding the real reason for the precaution: Management can also keep track of who comes and goes.
I walk outside and down the porch to the Round House. I peer inside through the window on the side door. A red-and-yellow-striped parachute serves as a ceiling, concealing the dome roof. A single globe light hangs in the middle, and a ring of bulbs outlines the perimeter. The bar, which stands four feet high, almost like an altar, circles out from the back wall and around the stage toward the door.
Whiplash is on stage, but last night must’ve been a rough one. The guys are pale and scruffy and seem eager to breeze through the afternoon set. Haley and two other bartenders work in the three-foot area between the stage and the bar.
I push through the door as the band finishes the song. Why does the music always stop right when you walk in?
A look of surprise washes across Haley’s tan, round face. Her sun-streaked rusty ponytail swings back and forth as her eyes flip between the band and the crowd and eventually rest on me. She leaves her post and welcomes me with a hug. Her hugs are like a good handshake, firm and secure but not overpowering. “What a nice surprise. I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”
I relish the contact and pull her close. “Couldn’t wait to get here, so I left early and drove all night. Came over on the first boat.”
Since Key West, it was imagining moments like this that got me through all the crap. Although Haley and I haven’t known each other long, we have become quite close. I know about her family, her numerous failed attempts to get a college degree, and her relationship difficulties. She has spent twelve summers on the island and feels a sense of belonging here, where the wind isn’t as harsh on her face and the sun doesn’t scorch her skin as badly. Haley probably should have been a guy. She dresses like a guy, drinks like a guy, and talks like a guy. A lot of turmoil seems to reside inside her, but she rarely shows it. Her pain remains buried, only revealing itself in swift, caustic strikes.
Nothing romantic has occurred between us, but we’ve slept in the same bed twice. The first time was the night Birch and the band and I arrived in Key West. We had been on the road for twenty-two hours straight. Anyone who romanticizes life on the road for a band just needs to drive 1400 miles cooped up in a van with three other guys. On the map it looks like such an exciting journey—Nashville, Chattanooga, Atlanta, Orlando, Miami—but you don’t have the time or money to stop and enjoy any of it. And if you don’t kill each other from the forced captivity, you might die from all the noxious odors that emanate from men subsisting on fast food and gas station delicacies. Understandable why two of the guys flew down. I guess the result is either you end up with a band or a cult. Fortunately Birch and the guys have musical talent.
About the only thing all of us agreed on the last six hours of the trip to Key West was that our first stop should be Sloppy Joe’s. When we got there, Haley was working behind the bar. After Birch introduced Haley and me, her idea to get acquainted was to pick up a shaker, fill it with ice, and pour four different liquors into it, all too quickly for me to even recognize what they were. After a few shakes, in front of each of us was a perfectly poured shot.
At that point I was still angry about being squeezed to take a leave of absence and feeling worn from the long drive. I wasn’t much of a drinker, so a shot wasn’t really my first choice. Not that I was a complete teetotaler. It’s just that with teaching, coaching, and going to school, I had to give something up, and partying seemed like the most logical. Birch could tell I was uncomfortable. He said, “No pressure. I’ll do yours if you don’t want it.”
“Nonsense,” I said, “I’m on vacation.”
If I was going to let go, I had to be willing to do something different. I cheered with the others and drank down the red concoction, which tasted like cough medicine with a sweet aftertaste.
From there, we kept drinking … and drinking. It was one of the most drunken nights I could recall, or rather not recall, in a long time. I woke up the next morning one eye at a time, not really sure where I was or how I got there. Still fully clothed, I did the panicked pocket inventory check of phone, keys, wallet. All were there, but I still had no idea where I was. I looked to my right and saw Haley, who was also fully clothed. Together we pieced together the evening, resolving that anything we’d forgotten must not have been worthy of being remembered.
The second time that Haley and I slept in the same bed was my last night in Key West. I was so physically spent from partying that I couldn’t endure another night. I didn’t want the week to end, but the impact of the drinking and minimal sleep and knowing that my fight with the school district was waiting for me in St. Louis had put me into a foul mood. Fortunately Haley had the evening off and recognized I couldn’t be in a bar another night. During the band’s first break, she suggested we get a bottle of wine and go back to her place.
The offer sent a wave of instant relief through me. It was exactly what I needed. The rest of the evening Haley and I sat at her place retelling stories from the week, attempting to separate the blur into memorable chunks to prolong my inevitable departure.
Stretched out on the kitchen floor, I rested my head in her lap. She stroked my hair. The coolness of the tile comforted me, as did her gentle petting. I, although sad, was strangely at peace. For the first time in a long while, I felt no pressure to do anything. I wanted to lie on that kitchen floor for the rest of my life. Nothing or no one could’ve made me leave. Tears pooled up, eventually streaming down my face. I don’t know why. It wasn’t solely because I was leaving. It was much deeper.
For nearly two hours the words and tears poured out of me. She listened in complete silence. I told her about Barry’s death and how it made me feel like a failure as a teacher. I admitted that without teaching, my existence in St. Louis would be hollow. The only other thing I had was graduate school, and I was graduating at the end of the semester. In my admission, I released all the pent-up emotion that had been building since long before that week. My work, my parents, my whole situation. If I no longer had my teaching job, what would I do? Another teaching job? After what happened and how I was being treated, the last place I wanted to be was in a classroom in front of students. But what else could I do?
Haley hadn’t said too much up to that point. But after hearing this question, she lifted my head from her lap and peered deep into my misty gaze. “Maybe you’re asking the wrong question. Maybe you shouldn’t ask what you can do, but what you want to do.”
Her words shot to my core, vibrating and sending tremors through my whole body, forcing me to realize something I had been denying all along: I had no fucking clue what the answer was.
As I contemplated her question and my emotional barrage lessened, she leaned down and whispered the epiphany that brought me here: “Fuck St. Louis. Move to Put-in-Bay.”
I nod toward the ornate display of bottles behind her. “I think this calls for a shot.”
She whisks behind the bar and scoops a shaker full of ice. “Why not? My sobriety can wait for another day. Lemon Drop?”
“Whatever. You’re the professional.” I say, still a novice at the shot game.
Birch exits the stage. On Put-in-Bay, Whiplash is pretty universally regarded as the “island band.” There are bands equally as talented, but Whiplash has endured, and that means something. Loyalty is still respected on this island. While it’s easy to make friends here, time spent on the island is a valuable commodity, and Birch has put in his time. He says, “Well, if it isn’t my favorite Key West roadie.” His black curly hair stands six inches high and falls to the middle of his back. Black, crescent-shaped lines extend under his eyes. “When did you get in?”
“From the looks of you,” I say, “probably when you were getting to bed.”
He pushes down the top of his rising mane. “How are we? Too loud?”
Haley removes a yellow foam earplug. “You’re always too loud, Birch.” Haley can say wha
tever she wants to people, and they’re never offended by any of it. Her consistently rough exterior and sarcastic tone make everyone think she’s always joking because no one could be as bitter as she always seems to be. She swirls the shaker. “Hair of the dog?”
He forms a cross with his fingers. “No way. I’m not ready to get on that bus again. I’ll catch up with you later. I need to sneak in a shower during the break.”
“Don’t be late for the last set, slacker.” She removes a piece of paper from her pocket and hands it to me. “You can always work security here, but I gathered some information on other places that are hiring. You got here early, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to find work.”
Afraid that one shot may lead to five, I glance down at the list that Haley gave me. “Let’s continue this reunion later. I gotta find something to keep me out of trouble. First stop, the Boat House.”
She says, “I’m off tonight. Let’s meet here at eight.”
“Deal.” I lean across the bar and kiss her on the cheek. “So good to see you.”
I exit through the front door onto the porch. The rays of the sun weave down through the leaves and speckle the ground across the street in the park. The sticky air feels like jelly on my skin, but the sight of the water, now a royal blue, refreshes me as if I’ve been dropped in it.
“Beautiful, huh?” a voice from behind me asks.
I turn around. The man sits on a stool against the wall and stares out at me and at the park behind me. His body is a red pillow wearing the same Round House shirt as Haley with thick, stubby legs that poke through baggy khaki shorts; his head is a tan egg. Wrap-around sunglasses conceal his eyes, and his lack of hair makes it difficult to discern whether he’s twenty-five or thirty-five.
“My favorite view in the whole world,” he says. “Sometimes I can’t believe I get paid for this. First time on the island?”
“Just got in this morning from St. Louis.”
“Oh yeah, you’re Haley’s friend, the teacher. That’s my planned profession, too, when I grow up. Cinch Stevens. Nice to meet you. Shep, is it?”
