It's about a hundred miles from Miami to Key West. On the return trip, we stopped at an inviting Italian joint in Marathon. Henry and I had a piece of Key Lime pie for \$2.50. It was very good.
In Islamorada we found refuge at John Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park. Henry went to use the facilities while I parked in a spot across from them. Two maintenance men in orange jumpsuits smoked in the shade.
"Hey! You can't park there," one of them said.
"All right then." I backed into the two-way road, and pulled over to let approaching cars get around. Two minutes and one car later, Henry was back.
We made the loop, looking for a good place to park and sleep. We found an empty pavilion by the mangroves; seeing that it had picnic tables was like a child finding an Easter egg. I got a good sleep. It was about 3 p.m. when I woke up. Henry was reading something under a tree.
We discussed relationships.
"I know this couple," I said. "They have a good relationship. They met in the Marine Corps. They'll talk about anything, doesn't matter what it's about: religion, money, parents, flowers. It surprises me how much they get along and talk though things. That inspires me to see that kind of love, when there's so much hate in the world...To see two people really communicate."
"Yeah," Henry said.
"You think you'll ever get married?"
"I don't know."
"I've heard a lot of negativity about marriage from my aunts. I know it probably would be the hardest thing two people could do together over the long haul. Easy at first but it gets harder, I'm sure. It's easy to take people for granted after, you know, you're hitched. That's why I understand people not wanting to get married. But...It seems life would be less full without it."
"Yeah, I guess so. When the time is right."
"Exactly. Who the hell are we to be talking about getting married anyway? We're a couple of bums, who'd rather travel. I am anyway. I don't want to end up like Nathan, though. Remember the hitchiker?"
I decided against looking up Jay in Ocean Reef again. We later learned that he'd moved to Key West.
Welcome Back to Miami
The sun was setting, a huge orange ball perfectly aligned with Sunset Drive. While filling up for \$1.66 a gallon, I asked a lady with a Lexus S.U.V. how to get to Little Havana. She was wearing sunglasses and spoke with a Latin accent.
"Oh, that's easy," she said. "Just go back down Sunset to 47th, take a right, and that will take you to Calle Ocho."
"And how do we get to South Beach?"
"Oh, that's easy too. Just get on I-195 and go until you see the signs for Miami Beach."
When she left she ran over her gas cap. I felt responsible.
While driving across the bay, I saw the Miami Herald, lit with blue neon. Something smelled by the cruise ships. The L-train made Miami look futuristic.
Little Havana: 7:30 p.m. A bus stop bench promoted George W. Bush for president, in Spanish. Little motels, laundries, cigar shops and other stores lined the four-lane Calle Ocho. I didn't feel brave enough to go looking for Elian.
"Are you sure we aren't in L.A.?" Henry asked.
"No kiddin'."
South Beach: 8 p.m. Heavy beats erupted from Mango's Dance Club. An immaculate 50's-era Chrysler was parked in front. We parked close to the ocean and walked around. Henry pissed outside a bathroom building; I wouldn't have gone in there either. We didn't go to the beach, although we could hear the waves. We were thirsty for beer, so we walked down the sidewalk to the action.
The air was warm. At an open-air bar a woman in a black dress sang Santana's hit "Smooth," using the less-well-known Latin American karaoke version. We ordered Amstells and then sat up as a new barmaid came in, wearing a white, low-cut blouse and dark lipstick. Mike, a biker just down from Daytona, asked where she's from. She said Venezuela. He's from the Cleveland area, and I thought he could have been an undercover cop.
"I just heard about those wrecks this morning," I said.
"That happens every year," Mike said. His black Daytona Bike Week T-shirt was a size too small. "Those accidents didn't have too much to do with helmets. They were due to negligent drivers. They got run over by cars. Wouldn't have mattered if they were wearing helmets or not."
He gave us good information on where to park and sleep if we were going to stick around. We weren't drunk enough to keep paying \$5 a beer. Miami ain't that great either. My priorities for a good city include: inexpensive beer, good radio stations and good coffee shops. Miami had none of them. It does have some interesting things to see, according to my guide book. But you've got to be rich to have a good time down there.
In West Palm Beach Gardens we pulled over to tank up on coffee at the Hyatt Regency. Dr. Jones was in search of the three sacred stones on a big screen TV. I watched through the reflection of a mirrored column.
Did He Do It?
Motel signs in the Orlando area just said "No." Not "No Vacancy" or "Sorry, No Vacancy." Just "No," as in "Tough luck, schmuck."
It was 3 a.m. and the old man gave us a room for \$43, including tax and a $5 key deposit. "Paradise Lost: Revelations," an HBO documentary, consumed our attention for the next two hours. Are the Memphis Three really innocent? Was Mark Byers' confession forced? Was the crime scene really just a disposal area?
Next door was a roadside fruit stand. A German woman sold us oranges, but couldn't tell us where we could go to pick them ourselves. Down the road we ate oranges while discussing the paradox of life.
"You know...Life is precious," I said. "It's practically a miracle that we're even sitting here talking, with all the possibilities of what could've happened. You know, if the Earth was closer to the sun by a few more thousand miles. But all the right ingredients of star dust came together here on this planet and grew into a perfect habitat for life. We've come this far as a species in such a relatively short amount of time, and are beginning to unlock the mysteries of the body. It's just fucking amazing. We're going into space, man. Long-term space travel. We've gotta figure it out, because we're a bunch of parasites. We've about to use this planet up. Hell, the ozone's about gone, man."
"Yeah," Henry said.
"But at the same time...We're so fucking disposable. I mean, in a snap, we could be gone. Poof! Back in the ground, or whatever. This flesh has the power to regenerate, but a mosquito could pierce it and give you malaria. You know what I'm saying here?"
"Yeah. Hey, look at that sign."
The sign said" "STOP! WE BARE IT ALL! Nude dancing...Great food...Ladies and couples welcome...Adult toys."
"Let's stop there for something to eat," Henry said.
"Nah. We need to put down some miles. We've only been driving for an hour."
"Ah, come on."
"I don't want to eat at no strip joint. If I'm going to a strip joint, it's gotta be a nice one, but I ain't gonna eat there. Did Sammy's offer us a menu?"
"That's what makes this place special. When you gonna get another opportunity like this?"
"Your wedding maybe?"
An hour later we were in the big gravel parking lot of Club Risque. I parked next to a van with an airbrushed picture of NASCAR racing champion, Dale Earnhardt, on the spare tire cover.
We walked up to the swinging door and two guys came out. I saw that there was a \$6 cover charge, and the special of the day was spaghetti with marinara sauce, for only $6.99.
"Was it any good?" I asked the taller man.
"Well, they're not going to take you in the back room and fuck you, but, yeah, it was all right. Go on in. You'll have a good time."
Don Quixote might've busted in and rescued the poor innocent damsels. We stood around for a minute and then walked back to the car. A couple of trucks rolled in, lured by the smell of sex and spaghetti.
Old Suwannee
Church bells were ringing at the Stephen Foster State Cultural Center near White Springs, Georgia. Indians once came to this part of the Suwannee for its healing powers. Dogwoods and pink-flowered bushes lit up the place.
In a shady picnic area I cooked a pot of rice with beans and onions, under the supervision of a raven. Henry laid out his poncho and read the Miami tabloids. One had a piece on Trina, a rapper with a straight-talking foul mouth.
Back on the road, Georgia was on my mind, so I stopped at the I-75 Welcome Center. I got a Georgia map from one of the nice ladies and found a town called Lovett, close to the Johnson County line. That's a coincidence, I thought. My dad's grandmother's maiden name is Johnson.
I decided to go to Athens instead.
We pulled off in Valdosta to patronize a small coffee shop in a strip mall. After two sips, Henry rated them as "Boo." He rated strip malls "Boo" in general.
Three girls held up a sign saying: "Drink Green Beer." I couldn't exactly agree, but considering that it was St. Patrick's Day, I took their picture. We were creeping, stop and go, because of a wreck. The sun was setting under a pink sky with white and silver clouds.
Two Berrien County deputies and a tow-truck driver's assistant stood around as the traffic crept by. The car in front of us was from Wisconsin. A black man was driving; his passengers were white, guy in front, girl in back. "Hey! Them's faggots," the tow-truck assistant said, jumping and covering his mouth like a Japanese school girl. I thought this person evidently had some major problems, excluding dental.
The Sisters Said R-E-S-P-E-C-T
"STOP!"
"WE BARE IT ALL!"
"Nude dancing...Great food...Ladies and Couples Welcome...Adult Toys."
We'd arrived at Cafe Risque's sister establishment, Cafe Erotica.
"No shame," Henry said. "Imagine some kid saying, "Daddy, what are adult toys?"
Again we walked up to the door but then turned back. This had become a journey of self-respect. We opted to get a bite to eat at the Arby's across the street. I ordered a roast beef sandwich; Henry got a baked potato and watery coffee. His third attempt at finding decent coffee - foiled.
A troop of black girls came in, fresh from the tattoo parlor with white bandages on their legs. A 400-pound black man behind me stared into space. Maybe he wondered how much more food he could afford. A trucker talked on one of the telephones set up by every seat. I thought it was a good idea and called Jeff in Athens to let him know we were coming.
It was 8 p.m. Jeff's wife, Jana, answered. "Yeah, hold on."
It had been a while, but he sounded the same: soft-spoken. I briefed him about the situation, and told him that I looked forward to seeing him and Jana and their baby girl, Eli.
By 10 we were just north of Macon, Georgia.
"This is where James Brown is from," Henry said. "Otis Redding and Little Richard are from here too."
The Georgia Music Hall of Fame is in Macon. We wanted to go but it was closed. I missed my exit and vectored Henry onto Hwy 83. I'm sure this was meant to happen.
The moon was nearly full as we roved on to Monticello, past dairy farms, dense forest, and antebellum homes. We picked up the Beach Boys singing "Good Vibrations," along with road rage.
"The way I see it, it's his job to stay ahead of my bright lights," Henry said after a recommendation to switch to dim for passersby.
On Atlanta's Star 94.1, Michael Jackson tried to convince everybody that he was "Bad," followed by Foreigner's "Jukebox Hero." We also heard Blondie's "One Way or Another," and some song that went "Don't turn around, oh oh oh." I thought it might be Hall and Oates, but wasn't sure because it was really jammed.
Gazoo the prophet came on, speaking in a low voice. "Hello, Dum Dum. It's me again. I'm going to tell you something prophetic now. Listen closely to what I say. You'll become mad with mirth when the sweet intoxicating cordial passes your lips, for you have become one of my favored dinner guests, and my love for you will never die, just as your love for the road goes on forever."
"Man, Gazoo has got to go," I said.
Delirium - sticky, head-shrinking delirium - was seeping into the chamber. It was a strange mix of bad coffee, 80s pop, and Civil War nostalgia. Sherman's troops were storming the countryside. We found a coffe shop on the edge of Athens and finally got a decent cup of coffee. I ordered medium roast; Henry went dark.
Jeff welcomed us into his home on Lyndon Street. We then went to the Engine Room, one of the 50-some-odd bars that stay open until 2 a.m. It was 1, so we had enough time to drink a couple of pints of Pabst Blue Ribbon at \$1.55 each. It's kind of hard to tell how good a beer is if it's in a glass. PBR isn't as bitter as Rolling Rock, Bush, Old Milwaukee's Best Light, Pearl or Schlitz. I'd have to say PBR was at the lower quarter of barrel beer, but not that bad.
The Engine Room was full of rebellion. A revolution of some kind could have started at any moment. I wondered why the black man playing pool wore such a high hat until he took it off. His dreadlocks were three-feet long; they came falling out like cooped-up cats. The crowd was young and varied. Most of them looked like they could have been in a band, but were dressed down a little to go out on a Saturday night and drink.
"The house of sexual energy," Henry said after last call.
"What are you talking about?" I asked."
"This place is vibrating with sexual energy."
"I knew something was up, but what makes it different than other towns? I didn't pick up on it in Miami even though the girls were dressed more provocatively. What about El Dorado or Little Rock? What made you pick up on it here and not those places?"
"Maybe it was the cheap beer," Jeff said.
"Naw. It was something else," Henry said.
"What is sexual energy anyway?"
Long pause.
"Well...I guess it's like when animals are in heat," I said. "Pheromones and stuff...Combustible tissues of lust."
"There's more to it than that," Henry said contemplatively. "It's external too. The eyes are what do it. 'The gateway to the soul'...You make eye contact with someone and that's it. That's the march. A fire. A thunderbolt! That's energy."
"Benjamin Franklin would be proud," I said. "You've just discovered his hidden theory of sexuality. He was fooling us all along about that electricity bullshit. He was studying sex the whole time."
Go to Part Three
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