Beyond Nostalgia

by Winton, Tom

  As much as we wanted to drive out of this mess, find a motel, we had no choice but to pull onto the road's shoulder and wait. After a while, exhausted from all the driving, Jimmy climbed into the back seat, I killed the engine, and we both tried to get some sleep. But it wasn't going to happen. Suddenly the wind got cooler and stronger yet, so strong that the Plymouth started swaying on its tired old springs. One time, I swear, the driver's side wheels actually rose an inch or two off the grassy shoulder. As unnerving as this was, it didn't happen again. Soon fatigue overcame concern and we managed to fall asleep for awhile. The last thing I remember before falling off was what sounded like a train roaring close by. I thought this awfully strange since we'd seen no tracks, nothing but those wheat fields, for the last hundred and fifty miles.

  When we awoke an hour or so later, the rain and winds had eased up some so we resumed our search for a motel. For sixty long miles I drove, chin jutted over the wheel, my soaked left arm out the window, wiping rain off the windshield with one of my old army fatigue shirts. Eventually, in the middle of that statewide wheat field where another two-lane highway intersected ours, we came upon a small motel. Unlike the trip to Denver, when a Holiday Inn along I-10 in Columbia Missouri wouldn't give us a room because our hair was too long for their liking, this little mom-and-pop place did take our money. When we got inside that room, both of us far beyond exhaustion, our eyes hanging out of our heads, it took one titanic effort for me to stumble across the room to the closest bed. Still fully clothed and plenty wet, I lost consciousness mid-fall as I toppled into it.

  The next morning, when we rose with a bright, promising sun, we felt reasonably refreshed though not exactly new. Kind of like a hangover that had been dulled by plenty of sleep. Right after showering and dressing, Jimmy and I were drinking free coffee and smoking in the motel's lobby when we overheard a conversation between a bread delivery man and the desk clerk. They were talking about a tornado that had touched down the night before. About fifty miles west, the delivery man said. I knew then that the roar I'd heard alongside the highway, when the car was rocking and rolling, hadn't been from any train.

  When we got back to Queens, Jimmy and I got another apartment. Neither of us wanted to go back home. Once you leave, it's awfully tough going back. Even if my mother had shaken her demons I wouldn't have. Considering her condition, she was getting by OK without me anyway. Sylvester had been home with her since his discharge from the Air Force. Between her social security survivor's benefits and what Sylvester earned as a clerk down on Wall Street, they had no problem paying the bills. With 1B being rent-controlled and inflation still a new word in most people's vocabularies, living was still affordable. With the help of the GI Bill, Sylvester had no problem paying for his night courses also. Hell-bent on getting his degree, being the brainiest in the family, though maybe not the smartest, he went to Queens College four nights a week after work.

  Getting a college education may have been an all-consuming goal for Sylvester, but I no longer cared about it. As far as I was concerned, any future I might have had ended seven months earlier when I lost Theresa. Hurt and bitter, I felt I was getting educated just fine. I thought I was kind of like Louis Lamour, getting my smarts outside the classroom from real-life experiences. I was majoring in sex education, and minoring in adventure and good times. Like that old Grass Roots' song, I wanted to only 'Live for Today'.

  For the next three years in Flushing, that's exactly what I did, partied hardy at clubs in Queens, Manhattan and out on the Island. Then I became antsy again. I needed a change of scenery. Like my father had most of his life, Jimmy and I had nothing jobs as cab drivers so we wouldn't be leaving any big careers behind. We weren't locked into anything, and when I suggested splitting again, Jimmy was more than game. This time so was Donny Scully. Yup, his hollow wedding vows to Susan Dibenedetto had long since lost what little meaning they had to begin with. That charade only lasted eight months, until Jimmy and I returned from Colorado. Shortly after Susan gave birth to their baby boy, Donny lost what little ability and desire he had to continue the charade. Stevey Waters did not come with us. He was upstate and out of the picture. In his third year at Syracuse University, after screwing off the first two, he was buckling down, thinking about med-school. So the three of us headed south this time, to Florida.

  Needless to say, like it had everywhere else, Theresa's ghost followed me down I-95. And after we got there, that big red tropical sun never set on a day that I didn't think of her. I was still haunted by all those hurt-filled replays of happy, innocent times from a period in my life when I still had a viable reason for living. But despite this burden, this unshakable loss that would torment me no matter where I went, I adapted reasonably well to life in Fort Lauderdale. How could I not? The town was an Eden for us single guys, its sugar grain beaches eternally basking, blanching, beneath that warm southern sun, the unique fragrance that every day hung over the thousand spread blankets, the sultry scent of Mother Ocean blended with gallons of Coppertone rubbed on so many bikini-clad bodies., and all those 'Fort Liquordale' night spots, all filled with golden-tanned women, all there for the taking.

  Though summertime in 'The Sunshine State' is, to put it mildly, hot and oppressive, the winters are magical. We found the trade-off well worth it. At least Jimmy and I did. Less than six months after we arrived, Donny went back to New York with a topless dancer he'd hooked up with. But Jimmy and I stayed. For three years, we shared a two-bedroom apartment off Commercial Boulevard. During that time, Jimmy had a succession of nowhere jobs with plenty of down time in between. A lot of months I had to carry him. But, Jimmy was my friend, had been for a lot of years, so I kept my bitching to a minimum.

  My first job in Lauderdale was as a groundskeeper at Holiday Park on Sunrise Boulevard. It was a sprawling city park with several baseball diamonds, tennis and basketball courts and an auditorium on the grounds. The acres of grass in between these facilities kept me atop a rider mower, alone with my thoughts, for countless hours.

  The gig was a no-brainer which was fine by me. To me, working was, and still is, merely a necessary evil. The less stress I had to endure for a paycheck, the easier I could tolerate it. I didn't much care about having 'things', never had many anyway. And what you don't have, you don't miss. You might yearn a little if you let yourself get caught up in that mindset, but you never miss them. As long as I had reliable wheels, a roof over my butt, two squares a day, and enough scratch to party on weekends, that was fine. I was in my twenties and had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up. I didn't know in my thirties either. It wasn't until just a few years ago, after leaving forty behind, that I finally realized I wanted to be a writer, but more on that later.

  When I wasn't cutting grass, or reapplying baselines on the ball fields at Holiday Park, I whiled away a lot of time fishing. Mostly on Anglin's Pier at Lauderdale by the Sea. It was a convenient spot since Commercial Boulevard dead-ends where the pier stands out of the ocean on its spindly wooden legs. I went there often. Sometimes, on a Saturday or Sunday morning, if I got out there before sun-up (I learned early on, that was the magic time to have your line in the water), I'd spring for breakfast at the tiny restaurant at the foot of the pier. Anyway, the first time I got into a school of Spanish Mackerel out there (sorry, I should pass this one up but somehow I just can't), I was 'hooked' on fishing. Because I enjoyed it so much, I quickly learned a lot about the sport and was soon making some pretty respectable catches.

  But my attraction to angling wasn't just about how many fish I could yank onto the pier's planking. It transcended that. The truest reward, although I did love the anticipation and the excitement of catching fish, was the sport's cerebral benefits, the calming, almost spiritual beauty of the ocean at daybreak, the sometimes total concentration of the act that leaves no room in the mind for other burdens. Then there was the often impossible challenge of outwitting a piscatorial creature that had a brain the size of a BB. The rush I'd get when some mysterious, u
nseen powerful force frantically bent and bounced a rod in my trembling hands. The alarming scream of my reel's drag, as a fish hightailed for the Bahamas, reminding me that the last remaining yards of line were melting off the spool. Yes, I had finally fallen in love again, with fishing, a passion that would remain in my heart, right beside my other love, for the rest of my life. Every time I connected with a good fish, the whole rest of this crazy, troubled world ceased to exist. Just like it had the year I danced with Theresa Wayman.

  Two or three times a week, after work, I'd drive down A1A to Bahia Mar Yacht Basin where I'd stroll leisurely along the very docks where John D. McDonald's fictional character, Travis McGee, docked his 'Busted Flush'. In the beginning I enjoyed watching the charter boats come in with their catches after a day at sea. How I longed to myself troll the Gulf Stream’s indigo waters. To go out on a sport fishing boat and hook up with such gallant battlers as the dolphin, wahoo, sailfish and, maybe just once, the majestic blue marlin. During those walks along the sun-blanched docks, I fantasized about catching direct descendants of the same game fish Ernest Hemingway had done battle with forty years earlier down in the lower Keys.

  But such a thrill was much too expensive for my budget. The catches displayed on the dock's racks in those early evenings had been cranked in by people of a different class; sunburnt tourists with more money than should be legal. Write-off conscious corporate types, people who didn't know a reel's drag from its free-spool. It seemed sacrilegious that these people could buy an encounter with such noble game fish. After a while it enraged me to think that the fish brought in each day, drained of their life and color, were so often used as mere bait to land bigger catches such as mergers, multi-million dollar accounts and leverage buyouts.

  Despite all my ill feelings, when I befriended a skipper named Fred Wrinkle at Bahia Mar and he offered me a job as mate on his 36 footer, I jumped at the opportunity.

  Each morning, as we headed out to the blue water, I'd do my best to hide my resentment toward the day's party. Grudgingly, like most of the rest of the world's workers, I masked my true feelings.

  Nevertheless, I loved being out on the ocean. The smell of warm sea air always seemed to heal my spirits. I loved the boundless gifts Mother Ocean offered when her mood was benevolent. Gifts like the unexpected appearance of a huge manta ray rising to the water's surface like a half-ton butterfly, its broad wings sweeping ever so gracefully, so daintily. And the sudden sight of skyrocketing kingfish, surface feeding, lifting off from schools of baitfish, looking like so many electrified silver rockets as the sun reflects off their sides. Then there's the pastel-colored dolphins that always surprise you even though you're looking for them near the floating lines of sargassum weed. The swinging bill of a lit-up sailfish is a magnificent sight as it rises to a flat line behind the boat. But, the thrill of all thrills was when a rare blue marlin, big as a full-size Cessna, literally flies out of the water after feeling the hook's sting.

  Silently I always rooted for these majestic fish every time a customer put the hook to one. Always I'd savor the relief I felt when a sail, a dolphin, or even a lucky barracuda, would jump clear of the water and throw the hook, free once again to roam the ink-blue waters of the Stream. At such times I'd be so very thankful there were still a few things in this upside-down world that big bucks could not buy, still a handful of people, things, emotions and experiences that have no price tag. But what I didn't know was that one night after two years of mollycoddling Captain Fred's charters, fate was going to bestow one such priceless gift on me.

  Chapter 19

  November 8th, 1974 was a Friday. Though it has nothing to do with why I remember that date, we made a banner catch that day. An early cool front had pushed a huge school of kingfish down to Fort Lauderdale and all that day, out over the second reef, we loaded the fish box with these oversized members of the mackerel family. The seas were heavy, the bite did not stop and neither did the four carpet salesmen who'd won the charter in a company contest. The trip was fun but chaotic. Eight continuous hours of beer guzzling (them, not me), joyous yelping, tomfoolery and tangled lines. Rough as it was outside, and with all the beer they drank, it was no small miracle none of these guys got sick. Soused as they were by the time we tied up, I didn't think they'd be able to find their car, let alone remember to tip yours truly. But they did. After I'd cleaned and iced down their catch, which was no small task, they came through big-time. Fifty smackers.

  Watching the four of them do a wobbly crab-walk across busy A1A, making their way to the Yankee Clipper's bar, I wondered what had screwed up their mobility more, the beer or all those hours of pitching and rolling in five foot seas. They somehow made it across the street alive and I merrily began my ritualistic duties of cleaning the boat and all the expensive tackle. Finishing up as the red Florida sun set behind a forest of sailboat masts, I locked the cabin, double-checked it and was out of there. I hadn't had a beer since the previous weekend and by now I was ready! I planned on having one hell of a night, even if I was going out alone.

  Full of Friday anticipation, I drove to my apartment and showered away all the salt and kingfish scales. I got into some clean faded Levis and a laundered yellow button-down shirt that enhanced my fisherman's tan nicely. I slipped my bare feet into my deck shoes, slapped on some Brut, grabbed two bananas from the top of the fridge and was out the door. I was winging it alone because Jimmy had gone off with a Dunkin' Donut's waitress on a three-day trip to the 'Mousetrap' up in Orlando.

  Scarfing down the bananas, I cruised back down A1A in the darkness. Radio semi-loud, some geek DJ pitching 'deals' on new Oldsmobiles, I flowed toward the beach with the Friday night traffic. Man, I thought, am I ready! I had that urge to get snockered that's always irreversible once my mind's made up. I hoped to get to the Elbo Room early enough to get a stool at the bar. Yeah, the 'Elbo Room', that notorious hangout of spring breaks past, and 'Where the Boys Are' fame.

  It was still early when I arrived. About a dozen people were at the bar, mostly leftovers from happy hour; a couple of early-birds like myself. I plopped on a stool near the front window and ordered a brew, and another, and another. I watched the tourists and characters parading by outside on the sidewalk as I pounded them down.

  About an hour went by before a couple of other mates I knew from the marina came in. We talked about tides, winds, tackle and recent catches. They'd had a few before they left their boat and were now downing straight shots of Jack, getting pretty loose real quick. And I wasn't far behind. They were going to a party up in Pompano and, although I turned down their invite, I jumped when they asked if I wanted to do a couple of doobies. Though the place was starting to get crowded, I gladly relinquished my barstool and went outside with them.

  When I floated back into the barroom, roughly twenty minutes later, the music seemed much louder and more intense. But I'm sure it wasn't. The place had become more crowded and livelier. I went to the bar, bought my umpteenth bottle of Miller Lite. With nowhere to sit, I shuffled tentatively around and through pods of bodies over to the Wurlitzer. I leaned a hip on it. The floor rolled beneath my feet like old waves. The heavy bass blasting from the juke sent exaggerated vibrations up and down my rubberized skeleton. I tried to appear straighter than I was but it wasn't easy with my brain beer-sopped and my reflexes decelerated from the marijuana. Methodically I checked out all the fluff in the crowd, half-focusing on a couple of good-lookers with black hair. But my eyes kept pulling back to a girl with hair of different color. She was sitting very erect, like a model, with two girlfriends at a table near the bar.

  Fairly certain I'd caught her stealing a few glances in my direction, my interest piqued even more. But with all the people roaming around, coming, going, dancing, horsing around, I could only catch short, intermittent glimpses of her. Her chestnut hair was long, thick, brushed back like a lion's mane. In the bar's dim light, during my next blurry glimpse, I was able to focus on her a bit longer. I noticed she had an extraordinarily pl
easant face. As I was taking it in, two guys approached her table. Then some people blocked my line of vision again.

  'Shit,' I thought out loud 'I can't see her now.' Damn, she looks interesting. Get the hell out of the way. Craning my benumbed neck just a bit, I tried to find her again.

  There was another break in the crowd. I slowly straightened my neck, a delayed reflex. Can't let her think I'm easy. Don't want to look like I'm gawking at her. But, then I saw her nod her head at the guy rapping to her, and a small smile lit her face beautifully.

  I thought for sure it was too late now. The guy probably said the right things, pressed the right buttons, connected with her. Surely that's why she smiled. But then she pivoted her head quickly, directly at me this time. Our eyes locked for just a moment before a biker and his mama started grinding away, blocking our line of vision again. I still remember the song that came on the jukebox at that exact moment, 'To Love Somebody', by the Bee Gees.

  I saw her making her way through the crowd, heading in my direction.

  She came up to the juke and started perusing the selections. With considerable effort, I lifted my eyelids. Trying to be inconspicuous, I took in this girl as she fed a couple of quarters into the machine. Very pretty, I thought, in a 'milk and honey' sort of way. That long, long hair, whooshed back the way it was, added just the slightest hint of recklessness, making her quite provocative. Sort of like the Breck Girl in a risqué mood. She had generous curves in all the right places and a tiny waist that accentuated them. I was struck by her waist. I'd never seen one so trim on a women whose eyes (with her heels on) were almost even with my own.