Smiling In the Sunshine: Secrets

Secrets

     “What's the situation with your warehouse out by the Airport?” Cromwell asked as we pulled away from the storage place.

     “Well, it's still there, if that's what you mean.”

     “No, I mean did Mona ever get her hooks into all that old saloon stuff or does she have a key or is her lawyer hanging around or anything?” He went past the turn to his pottery shop and continued north up Old Dixie Highway. Towards the airport and towards my old warehouse full of salvaged saloon fixtures, antique wall panels, old brass lamps, a British phone booth, stained glass windows, stacks of choice hardwood lumber and other oddities I had collected in my years working throughout the South. This was the first time Cromwell had ever expressed any interest whatsoever in the place.

     “No, Crom, no harpie's hooks or bushwacking barristers. And yes, you may stash this crate of whatever it is we just stole in my warehouse. I changed the lock a month ago and Mona never had any more interest in that stuff than you did, until now. But is it too much to ask what is happening? And if you will be buying lunch?”

     “Lunch is on me, alright, after we unload this crate.  I want to get a better look at what's inside and see if I can find a shipping manifest or anything else that might tell us if this stuff is what I think it is.” He blew through a yellow light and cut left across the railroad tracks over to the little warehouse district behind our small municipal airport. “Which one is yours?”

     “Right over there, next to the welding shop.” He pulled up in the front next to the big sliding door.

     “Wait a minute,” I said. “Look, if you pull over there to the side a little, see that block wall between my shop and the other building? It's not a wall, exactly. Let me push it open and you can back down in between the buildings where we can unload this thing with privacy.” I hopped out before he could ask any questions and jogged over to the “wall” between the two buildings, waited until he had the van positioned properly then reached over the top and hit the little button that you had to know about to push. That released the magnetic lock and the big block wall section swung inward, taking with it the planter and ornamental shrubs that were attached to it and gave it the appearance of being a solid, fixed wall. Cromwell backed the van into the ten foot space between the two buildings and I shut the gate.

     “You have a secret passage?” He said. “I'm impressed. But why?” I was busy unlocking the compact roll up door, and when I sat the big padlock on the shelf next to the opening I hit another little switch that Crom didn't see. It killed the security system.

     “Don't be too impressed,” I said, “It came with the place. All the same, let's keep it between you and me.   Now, let's get the contraband out of the truck, I'll rustle up some boxes and we can inspect the booty.” He opened the van and we pulled out the crate with the dolly. It came out a lot easier than it went in. I got a couple big oak planks and put them on a pair of sawhorses, creating a makeshift table. Cromwell got busy digging into the crate, brushing off the pieces and setting them on the table. They were terra cotta figures, oddly shaped.

     “They remind me of a chia pet,” I said.

     “Well, these will sprout some green, indeed, if they are what I think they are...but listen, Blix, I have some checking to do. It is imperative that not one word of this crate leaks out. OK?'

     “I never imagined I would ever hear you say 'imperative'', I said. “But sure. Don't worry about it. Who's the one with the secret passage, anyway? I'll let you out the gate. The secret gate.” I wasn't too happy about any of this. Whatever that crap was in the crate, I realized I had just added some convolution to my already convoluted life.

Smiling In the Sunshine: Capone

     Capone

Blix considers, Summer returns

     “You remember that local legend about Al Capone having a house down by the river, with a speedboat in the basement ready to go at any minute?” I was doing my bad Monday habit of collecting all my olives into one glass in order to gain proper nourishment in one blast of oliveness. And yeah, I knew about Capone's house. It had belonged to his mother, actually. There was a fish carved into the mantlepiece. The house was built of brick and my great-grandfather had built the place. The bricks came from Chicago, the boat had come from Miami and the legend had come from Cousin Al's general awfulness. He...well, wait:

     “I don't know that one, Crom. There are basements in Florida?” I waved at Summer. She was waiting tables at the Breeze this year, having narrowly escaped some kind of wackiness down in the Islands. It was Martini Monday happy hour, dollar martinis from noon 'till midnight. It was two in the afternoon.

     “Yeah, I thought you were up on all this stuff. The story is that sometime in '29 John Dillinger went on a little vacation south to Daytona. But first, he had contacted Capone about doing some side work in Miami while he was in the area but The Boss shut him down quick on that idea and instead asked if he could drop by the Field Museum and pick up a package. Dillinger was so eager to get in with the big dogs he jumped at the chance. The package was a crate of pre-columbian artifacts that were worth plenty, but certainly not enough to get Capone in bed with a scumbag like Dillinger. That was the story, anyway.” Summer came to the table with a big tray covered with little plastic fake martini glasses. We got four each.

     “How ya been, Blix? How's that fucked up boat of yours?”

     "Lonesome, darlin', me and the boat both. When we goin' out again?”

     “Any time, sweetie, give me a call.” She winked and turned on her toes and padded away. Not every saloon has barely-dressed barefoot waitresses, but the Breeze did.  I got a little lost remembering some fond memories...

     “Blix!”

     “Yeah, buddy?”

     “Al Capone!”

     “Where?”

     "Christ, man, I think you're turning into a wet brain! What did that bitch do to you, anyway?”

     “Summer?”

     “No, dammit, that fucking Mona. You haven't been right since the divorce.”

     “Well, I did lose everything, you know. And business hasn't been so hot.”

     “It's you that hasn't been so hot, brother. You need to snap out of it.” He killed two miniature martinis in two gulps. I carefully picked the olives out of mine and put them in my oliveness stash. I really liked Cromwell. He was a smart one and he had a graduate degree in pottery or something but at the same time, I could feel a trouble coming. There were things I needed to think about and being chastised by a drinking buddy was okay; he knew not what he did. I learned way back in college to cover confusion with apparent drunkenness and I was drunk enough, most of the time; but not right now. Right now I was worried and trying to sort out this mess that we had dropped into and there were people who would be also thinking about this, soon enough. I needed to talk to my Uncle Phil.

     “I'm sorry, Crom old buddy, I really am. I'll try to do better.” I slammed each of the four baby martinis in rapid succession and stood up. The room tilted about the axis of reality and then settled back into horizontal and vertical lines. I tossed back my olives and chewed and spoke at the same time.

     “Lunch was on you, remember?” He smiled and nodded okay. I turned and walked to the door. I never did any work here at the Breeze. It was a new place on Coronado Avenue. Cromwell didn't know that Mona had told me about sleeping with him while I was up in Alabama three summers ago, before the divorce.

     “Blix!” shouted Summer, standing on delicious tiptoes and stretching up from a table across the room, her halter top revealing more than it concealed. “Call me!”

I waved at her, then turned and headed out the door.  I wasn't feeling too good.

Smiling In the Sunshine: Homeland Security

Homeland Security
Ponce Is Here!

     The twenty-five foot Defender-class Fast Boat, one of the old original Homeland Security models, was making its way across a calm sea at twenty knots. The fifty caliber on the forward deck was mounted and armed. A seaman was lounging against the gun mount, eyes on the near horizon. Inside the cabin, there was a clear image on the Sat-screen of their destination: a seventy-foot trimaran anchored in 100 feet of water. This was unusual, a private yacht of this type anchoring so far out, out here in the waters typically roamed by commercial fishing vessels; such an anomaly bore investigation. Drugs, perhaps, or perhaps the boat was disabled. Whatever the case, it was the job of the Coast Guard to look into such matters.

     Meanwhile, below deck on the trimaran in question, Juan Ponce sat fondling the big laser and thinking dark thoughts; dark and amusing (to a Conquistador) thoughts that were tinged with regret at not being able to do battle, this time. Not yet, anyway. He punched the code into the keypad on the stock of the alloy weapon and it transformed, clicking and folding and telescoping in on itself until it resembled something else, something not familiar, but nothing that resembled a firearm. Reaching overhead, he placed it into its niche in the cabin roof and the panel slid shut. He glanced around the cabin, then shut down the reactor. Only a thorough search by NASA technicians in a dry dock would be able to find any of the many things hidden on this odd vessel. The titanium alloy panels could not be opened with any manner of crowbar or ax. This boat was a spaceship, of sorts, not something routine, by any means.

     He could hear the motors now, on the Coast Guard boat. He pulled on a loose cotton shirt and went on deck to await the inevitable boarding. They would be young, the approaching crew, and they would banter with him in that jocular but serious way of cops everywhere, presenting a friendly face but cautious and ready inside. No matter. His papers were in order and there was no contraband on board the El Condor Pasa; at least nothing they would find and even if they did, they would have no idea what they were seeing. He took his satellite phone out and typed in a number. A phone rang in the pocket of a lean, shaggy haired man sitting in the boughs of a giant oak tree only a couple dozen or so miles away.

     “The boarding crew is here,” said Ponce.

 
      “Don't kill anyone,” said Old Phil Stine. Ponce laughed, his dark, humorless laugh that sometimes was the last thing his victim ever heard, in this world. He switched off, replacing the phone in it's holster just inside the companionway. Meanwhile, Phil Stine dialed a number and a phone rang at the local Coast Guard Station. There would be other calls, confirmations and a certain amount of frustration on the part of the Station Commander, currently having brunch as a special guest at the Ruby Beach Yacht Club.

     “How the hell am I supposed to do my job if Washington insists on tying my hands like this?” He asked no one in particular. The big group of civic leaders and rich men at the table nodded and grunted in a knowing way. The waiter came through the door to the kitchen with an overflowing tray of shrimp and lobster. Behind him was a cute waitress with a tray full of the third round of drinks.

     “What's your name, sweetheart? You must be new here.” The Commander was a regular at the Yacht Club.

      “I am new, sir. My friends call me Summer.”

Smiling In the Sunshine: Old Phil In Town

     I was sitting at the bar at the Crooked Angel. It was late. I should have staggered home, across the back parking lot, a couple hours ago. Home to my shack. The saloon had been roaring along just fine a bit ago, but the band had stopped and the crowd had dwindled and I was sitting here on my usual stool, waiting for my ass to take root, waiting for the Voice of God, waiting for the clean up crew. Molly had long ago given up on me. She said she would rather I fall off a bar stool in her place than down the street. She didn't like it though.

     A couple of guys just slightly less drunk than me came in the back door. Orange County wise-asses. They were the frat boys of Ruby Beach, the ones who lived in Orlando where the money was and came slumming over here on the weekends. They liked to play tough and some of them were. I had given up on that challenge many years ago, but every time...whatever. Much to my dismal delight, they took the stools next to me. Molly's Number Two, Little Missy, came over to take their orders. All of Molly's bartenders were ex-dancers. Survivors.

     “What's up, boys? What can I get ya?'

     “Two Bud drafts. And there's a dead dog tied up to the bicycle rack out back.”

     “What's that, sweetheart?” She started filling the beers from the tap marked Budweiser. It was Busch.

     “Yeah, as we were coming in we saw this dog on a leash laying on its side with its legs stuck out stiff and there was a little drool coming out of its mouth. It was gross. Karl nudged it with his toe but it didn't move. It was gross.”

     Little Missy finished topping up their glasses and said “I'll get somebody to go see. Here ya go. Last call is only a minute or so. Want me to pull you a couple more?” Molly was gonna be rich as hell someday.

     I heard the whole thing and as soon as I heard 'dead dog' I raised my head and looked around the more or less empty bar.

     Missy said, “Blix, could you go see what that dead dog is all about?”

     "Yeah baby, no problem.” There he was. My Uncle Phil. He was back in the corner by the pool tables. He saw me looking, winked, and ran out the rest of the table with one hand while he carried on a conversation on his cell phone. Yet another pair of Orlando frat boys were watching, stunned. I knew from long experience how this was going to go. Missy took a little ceramic bowl from under the bar and filled it from the tap in front of me. The Red Stripe. I was wobbly as I carried it out but I made it to the back door well enough, without spilling much of Tuesday's beer. As I passed by the pool tables a couple of beefy Orange County college boys slid off their stools.

     “That's bullshit!” the one who looked like his name might be Biff said. “You're a fucking hustler!”

     “Either way, you have to pay,” said Phil. I went on out the door. Those assholes had no idea what 'either way ' meant. They were about to learn the meaning of 'pay'. Ruby Tuesday was laying on her back, legs stiff and straight up in the air at the bike rack. Phil's old stripped down mountain bike was behind her, unlocked. I heard shouting inside the bar.

     “Here ya go girl, here ya go, a little Red Stripe.” When she heard my voice and 'Red Stripe” she immediately flipped onto her feet, magically gaining weight and vitality in one split second and laughing her dog laugh.  I untied the leash.  “Let's move a little away from the door, girl.” I set down the terra cotta bowl and Ruby took a tentative first taste and then slurped away with abandon. I sat down on the bike rack, wondering how I had forgotten to bring a beer for myself, when the back door of the bar busted open with a violent kick from inside and the two Biffs came storming out, rolling their shoulders and steaming and getting themselves psyched up. They were obviously fans of those bloody fight contests on TV. It always looked like violent man-sex to me and I am not into that kind of thing. I have worked construction my whole life, but at school I studied philosophy and literature and while war may have symbolic merit for some, I myself would rather walk away. I don't always do that, but it is my preference. The two Biffs saw me.

     "Watcha lookin' at, homo?”

     “Ambulance meat,” I said. I looked at Ruby. She couldn't stop smiling.

     “What's that supposed to mean?” He looked at his buddy. “I thought that fucking queer hustler was coming out to fight. Where the fuck is he?”

     “You little rascals could just get in your Hummer and leave. Why do you guys drive all the way over here to start trouble? We're just a bunch of surfers and sailors and fishermen. All that he-man stuff is for you tourists.”

     “Maybe we'll just kick your ass instead!” said the previously unheard from Biff. They were getting themselves thoroughly worked up. It was sad, really.

     “Well, good luck, then.”

     There was a barely perceptible trilling from somewhere overhead. Ruby Tuesday transformed into a snarling hell hound and leaped at the throat of the nearest Biff. She could be very convincing for a recently risen dead dog. I don't think she has ever actually ripped out anyone's throat, but if you ever caught her act you would be certain that she could. Not that it mattered. Old Phil Stine leaped from the roof of the bar and was on Biff number two before he had any idea what was happening. That was it. It was over. One Biff pissing his pants, a wild wolf ripping his throat out, apparently, while some kind of flying man was crouched over a fallen Biff, holding him by the front of his shirt, speaking with fierce danger directly into his face.

     “That man you beat... Ruby!” His dog stopped slavering and growling at the throat of the unharmed bully. She backed off, stiff, every hair on her hide standing, quivering. Phil turned back to the guy he was holding by the shirt front. He banged the guy's head on the ground. Hard. “That homeless man you beat is still alive. That's the only reason you will live. For now. Change your story. Tell the truth. Or I'll find you and you won't get a second chance.” Both Biffs were crying now. They knew the truth, finally, that we all must one day learn: no matter how bad-ass you think you are, there's always gonna be somebody bad-asser. The trick is to not encounter that one, and if you do, don't cross him.

Hopefully, these college guys learned something. Probably not.

     Old Phil Stine stood erect in the parking lot, watching the two fallen varmints stumble to their SUV and get inside and pull out, quietly, humbly, as though afraid to disturb the fabric of the universe and thus encounter yet more god-like wrath and vengeance. Beside him, his dog Tuesday was standing, only a little scary now, but still possibly a rabid animal and dangerous. He turned to me, stern and serious.

     “We should talk, nephew. I need a favor”

Ruby Tuesday smiled.

The Shack Out Back

     Even when I was living in our big fine home on the river, I never liked it. It just wasn't me. I'm a carpenter. We live in simple dwellings, we nail-slingers, spaces often unfinished, as we like to continually shape and mold our dwellings to reflect the next bounty of found materials and time off. Not my shack behind the Crooked Angel. This is a place on the waiting list of destruction and there will be no reprieve.

My home with Mona had been a place of, if not joy, (or reprieve) at least it was suitable for entertaining and influence, two tools that suited my ex-wife to a (stop...I was going to say “to a tee” but I have no idea what that means) So here is what happens next: My Uncle Old Phil Stine and his beloved dog Ruby followed me across the parking lot behind the Crooked Angel Saloon over to the old surf shack where I was currently crashing. Ruby Tuesday ran ahead and kicked the door open with her front paws. She knew just how to do it; there was no lock on the door and a few hundred feet away, the waves, calm just a little bit before, were picking up.

The Moon, hanging there doing nothing, had a mind of its own, laughing and joking around as the Moon is known to do, and as for me, I knew the plot was about to thicken. My head hurt and also: here was Old Fucking Phil Stine.

“Uh, Uncle, I don't think I have anything to offer to drink.” I shuffled a little (a lot) drunkenly towards the refrigerator at the back of the shotgun shack. It was a symbolic dance, I wasn't even sure if the damned refrigerator was plugged in. Opening the door (carrying my lame act all the way) I was a bit stunned to see a light come on (inside the icebox) and also, there were a couple dozen Red Stripe beers (cans) in there along with some kind of a pretty luscious-looking sushi tray and one of those pseudo-caterer cold cuts and vegetable trays from the Publix Deli.

“ I took the liberty of stocking some provisions, Blix.”

“Like for a journey, Uncle?”

“Let's call it a small voyage.” I underhand tossed him a beer, a little hard. Maybe another guy would have thought I was trying to hit him in the head with a full can of beer but Old Phil Stine snatched it so fast it looked natural, popped it open with one hand and drained half the can in one motion. It looked like one of those videos of astronauts that we see from the Space Station in slow stop action...except this was all so quick that if I didn't already know what was going to happen I might not have noticed it at all.

“Do I have anything to say about this?”

“Of course you do, as long as it is yes.” I cracked a Red Stripe for myself and another for Miss Ruby. I put my best bowl down on the floor and poured the beer in fast, making a lot of foam. That's how she likes it. Here at my shack she will snuff and snort through the foam and guzzle her beer like a wild hog. This is the only place she is allowed to be a pig. Me and her go back a ways.

“OK, then, yes. Let's hook up in the morning after I get a little sleep and I'll do it, you already knew that.”

“Oh, it has to be tonight, Blix. I need you and the Bitch to take me out to the hundred foot line to meet a boat.”

What a big surprise. Me and Uncle Phil...

“I don't do that anymore, Phil. You know that.”

“This ain't that, lad. I have to have a quick conversation with a man on a boat and we come back in. No contraband, no nothing.”

“Why don't you take the Shadow?”

“Because the people I'm dodging know about the Shadow. They also know Blix Dixon likes to get wasted and launch his boat on big-moon nights and wander aimlessly around out there.” Well, that much was true. I didn't inherit this damned failing enterprise called my life; I fucked it up methodically, one step at a time. Some of it involved moonlight boat trips. And trouble.

I looked at Ruby Tuesday. She must be mostly yellow lab, because she has that shape and that friendly-goofy smile of the labs; and yet, those dogs can also show a noble demeanor that gives pause, and makes us glad that dogs are our friends. Not Ruby Tuesday. If Ruby were a human she would be a pawn broker or a bounty hunter.

“Will you keep an eye on the house, Ruby?” I asked. “Me and your buddy are going for a night sail.”

More smiles from the yellow dog.

On the Beach

On the Beach

Blix wakes up to an all too familiar dream...

     There are seagulls making a racket all around me. I am wrapped in a bright green shroud and I know what this means: I passed out on the boat again. The heat and the brightness of the sun filtering through my jib sail also tells me that it is late, probably nine o'clock. There are voices around the boat, elderly voices. That would be the morning beach walkers. I might be a beach walker myself, this morning, if I came ashore too far from the Coronado Avenue beach ramp. But I am not quite ready to pull the sail off my face and face the day.

“I think there's a body on there, Edna.” Sixty, maybe older.

“Should we call somebody, you think?” Yeah, at least sixty. Still strong, but entering the timid phase of life.

“Where am I?” I ask from beneath my shroud. My morning voice is a pleasant croak, followed by some choking and coughing.

“Yikes!” shouted one of the old girls. The one named Edna was calmer.

“This is America, sir, the USA.” She said this in a firm voice, letting whatever riff-raff has washed ashore on this hallowed ground know that she might be old, but she is still ready to defend her homeland.

I pull the jib away from my face, then quickly put it back. I definitely am not ready for the harsh light of another Florida morning.

Two upside-down white-haired heads jerk back,. Where do they buy those giant sunglasses?

“I'm a good American like yourselves, ladies. I meant to ask where I am on the beach. Do you see any saloons around here?”

“Well, I think it's a little early for that, young man.” It was helpless. I knew better than to ask what day it was. In fact, what day was it? Tuesday. Maybe it was Tuesday morning.

I feel around on the trampoline of my beach cat, the Bitch, for a stray warm beer. Anything to clear the pipes. No luck...maybe in the cooler...

“Oh good, here's the Beach Patrol! Over here, sir, here he is under this big green sheet!” These old bimbos ain't helping much. I glance down to make sure that I at least have my trunks on and there it is, a gift from heaven or somewhere, a stray Red Stripe. I grab it and crack the can, sitting up under the custom -cut jib sail I paid six hundred bucks for a year ago. I pray: “Please, dear God, let it be Butch. Please God don't let it be...

“Step away from the sailboat, ladies, please.” Great. Thanks for nothing, God. Short Round. It's a bad Tuesday morning and I draw Short Round first damn thing. I chug the beer fast because it might be the last of the day, if Officer Short Round gets his way.

“Sir, please come out from under that sail, hands first.”

“It's just me, Marcus, you jackass.” Oh good lord, did I just say that out loud?

“Step away from the boat, ladies, now!”

“ He was looking for a saloon, officer!”

“Ladies, you go right over there and let me handle this.” I wonder if there is any rum left. What day is this? There was something weird last night, some kind of boat...Ruby Tuesday...Phil! Oh great. This could go wrong a thousand different ways. First I have to get clear of my ex-wife's brother. He was a great gymnast in high school and college, a maybe contender for the Olympics. But like all great gymnasts, he was a petite man, not very big, and he never liked me. And it wasn't me that put the name Short Round on him. That's an old Army term that got slapped on him after he entered the Police Academy. I was never in the Army. I was in a different branch. But I slipped up one day at Mona's folks and said something in his defense about how the little guys got picked on unfairly but he overheard just the bad parts and pretty much has hated me ever since. And actually, he really is pretty short.

“Look, Marcus, I'm coming out now and if you have your hand anywhere near your holster I'm going to tell your mom. I'm hung-over and lost and late for work and I damn sure don't have time for any nonsense.” I take the sail away from my face. I don't know how I always manage to lower the jib and make a nest on the tramp. I only do it when I am in full blackout. One of these days I am going to wake up on the beach in Cuba. The sun ain't smiling, it is glaring hard into my face. Edna and her sidekick are over by the four-wheel drive Beach Patrol pickup that Junior drives. Marcus is named after his father. Yeah, I married into the local royalty.

“This is it for you this time, Blix Dixon. Public intoxication, sleeping in a public place, open container, who knows what else after I search your boat. You've really done it this time.” God, it was hot for March. The sun comes up out of the east and is pretty nonchalant and easy-going at first, but it will fry your ass by ten o'clock, which I was guessing it was. I turned to the two old gals who were taking all this in with an avid interest and a little bit of growing fun at this display of local intrigue.

“How's my hair look, Edna? I haven't had time for a proper brush-up.” She was startled to hear her name but delighted to become an active part of the tableau.

“Not bad for waking up drunk on a sailboat.” She had a hand on her hip and was now being quite saucy. The seagulls were raising some kind of hell now. I slid over to the starboard rail of the tramp, opposite Short Round. I slid down onto the sand. Not too bad.

'I'm taking a rinse, Marcus. Don't shoot.” I walked down to the water's edge and waded out to the three foot cut that runs about ten yards off the beach. There was a small crowd gathering, nothing new for me and Marcus or his boss, Butch, whose truck I could see about a half mile down the strand. A quick dunk and a quick interview with Butch and this would pass.

“Stop right there, Dixon!” Fuck you, Short Round. I dove into the cool water of the rapidly flowing channel. I could just stay under and maybe this would all go away. What was that; that boat? There was something about a boat...I come up out of the water, shake off the spray and stride back to the Bitch and the ridiculosity. I've been putting on some padding, lately, but I'm still pretty fit and I knew the audience was sizing up the big dude coming out of the surf and the nervous little man with the gun and I knew, sadly, which way the wind would blow on this one. Captain Butch was coming up the beach now, with his lights flashing. Most of the time I am up and gone before the cops notice or care, but not today. Old Phil Stine was in it last night and he has a way of befuddling you. He has ways but I knew that because Uncle Phil was in it my ass was covered; but still, I didn't like it; I didn't like it and I wanted to get my boat up above the tide line and the sails stowed and I wanted to get over to my shack and take a shower and grab some coffee (a lot of coffee) and check on the crew and then I was heading out to Phil's place outside of town.

Something about a boat...

The Farm

The Farm

Blix seeks clarity concerning a dream

Sitting here on the porch of my Uncle Phil’s old trailer out at the Farm (the family holdings for more years than I can remember) I always feel a certain warmth of spirit, a kind of home-sense, a feeling of this is where I am meant to be...and yet, Phil has always lived here alone, mostly, with his old dog Tuesday.  

I can hear Phil inside the trailer kitchen fumbling around with his antique tea kettle, humming an indiscernible tune punctuated by a brief interlude of whistling, followed by low key chuckling.  Old Phil Stine is a strange dude.  In town he is sardonic, humorous and as vital as a 25 year old.  But out here when I drop by the Farm, I often find what appears to be a thousand year old zen sage sitting in the lotus position greeting the morning sun.  Or, just as often, he will be at the porch table, typing rapidly into his small laptop.  On such occasions when I pull up in the old jeep he will hold up one finger to signal for silence and Ruby Tuesday will trot over to the jeep, smiling and growling at the same time.  I have never tested her seriousness at such times.  Ruby Tuesday is a very strange dog.  Now Phil comes through the screen door, carrying an old silver tray with an equally old tea service.  Old Phil Stine takes his tea quite seriously.

“So, nephew what brings you home this afternoon?”  He places my cup and saucer on the table.  There’s a dragon on my cup, some kind of chinese art.  His bears a smiling buddha image.  Tea time in the country.

“Why do you ask?  Do I need a reason to visit my old uncle for tea on such a fine day?”

“Ho ho, of course not.  I only ask as a courtesy.  I put a little something extra in your tea to help with those circles under your eyes.  Been sleeping on the boat again?”

“Why, yes, yes I was. I was sleeping on the boat and having a very strange dream.  In fact you were in the dream.”

“Me? Really?  I am honored.  What was the dream about, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“It’s all very vague.  Some kind of big sailboat, a trimaran, maybe;  I remember getting a sense that it was some kind of replica, a museum copy of some old native outrigger.  But then at the same time, I have these images of some kind of alien spacecraft.  It’s all really odd.”

“Not really, considering the fact you were probably asleep at sea, bobbing about on the Bitch out there in the full moon.  And you say that I was in this dream?”  Old Ruby Dog comes over and lays her golden head on my lap.  As I scratch her ears she looks up into my eyes, giving me a deep, mournful look of love.  The warm feeling returns and I take another sip of tea.  

“Yeah, you were in the dream.  I can’t see you in the dream, but you were there.  And some other guy.  He knew me and I was really glad to see him, for some reason, but I couldn’t see his face.  He pointed at the Moon and when I looked up, it was the biggest full moon I have ever seen...then I woke up on the beach.  By the way, did you have something to do with getting me out of trouble when Short Round showed up?  Butch more or less drove up and told him to go away.”

“Little sargeant Short Round.  No, Butch is looking out for you on his own.  You were a hero of his in high school, you know.  Before...well, always remember that Captain Butch is your friend.”

“Yeah, of course.  But anyway, this dream was so vivid and all it almost seemed real.  Like it really happened.  Know what I mean?”

Old Phil put on his inscrutable face.  He poured a little splash of tea into his saucer and put it on the porch floor.  Ruby lifted her head from my lap and went over to the saucer.  She put the tip of her tongue into the tea, very lady-like.  Then she looked at us each in turn, first Phil, then me.  She sighed and went over to the porch steps.  She turned and looked at us both once again, then carefully picked her way down the three steps to the ground.  She trotted off, disappearing down the trail that leads to the swamp, the giant wetlands of our family and our beloved Florida.  

There was another quiet chuckle.  I turned to look at Phil but he wasn’t there.  A vast chorus of cicadas began their evening song and I realized it was much later than I had thought.

“Uncle Phil?” I got up and went to the screen door.  Peering in, I saw him at his kitchen table, typing furiously.  He briefly held up one finger and far off, deep in the swamp, I heard a dog bark twice, two sharp rifle-like reports that signaled for silence.

I turned and headed down the steps.  Walking to the jeep, the cicadas were incredibly loud and for a moment, there was another sound.  Like a voice inside my head, deep, resonant, but outside, audible,  maybe like Moses (or Jonah) heard.  I couldn’t make out what the voice was saying.

I got into the jeep and started her up.  It would be dark by the time I got back to the beach.