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.

Smiling In the Sunshine: A Drink With the Sheriff

A Drink With the Sheriff

“Is your car simple?”  Bob Judd, the county Sherriff, is leaning across the table staring hard into my eyes.  

“Holy shit, Bob, where the fuck did you come from?  Where are we?”  I look around.  Some kind of over-priced restaurant.  Gotta be Daytona.  There are scraps of steak on the plate in front of me.  There’s also a half empty bottle of Macallan Rare Cask on the table between us. Ruthie’s.

“Son, have you gone wet brain on me?  I just wanna know if your car is simple.  Can I just get in it and drive it home?”

“Well, yeah, but why?”

“I’m being indicted, boy, don’t you watch the news?  I gotta sell the Porsche or lose it and you’re the only other fucker I know with a whale-tail and the ability to appreciate the good stuff.  Not that you’ve been kickin’ that much ass lately.’  He grabs the bottle and takes a healthy swig.  He plants it back exactly between us, a little hard.  I grab it by the neck and do a shot myself.  That or maybe get shot.  I look over at the entrance and there they are, two beefy guys in Walmart plainclothes.  They are both looking at me.

“Bob, I know you’re having some political trouble but what’s that got to do with me?  And listen, sir, I’m broke.  Really broke.  I couldn’t afford the down payment on your 930 even if you gave it to me.”

“Too bad, ya little fucker, ‘cause that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.  She’s yours.  Just don’t wreck her before I come back for her, which will be five-to-twenty years, depending on how the Grand Jury turns out.  Ha!”  He grabs the bottle and slugs down a murderous amount of very expensive Scotch whiskey.

“Bob, you know Molly over at the Crooked Angel?”

“I wish I did, son.  That was you and Cromwell, I thought.”

“Once upon a time, sir.  But these keys go to a Jeep out back that is still in her name.”

“That old piece of shit we busted ya in five years ago?  Damn.  I guess some things never change.”

“Yeah.  Well, good luck with that Grand Jury deal. “  I take the keys to the Porsche and walk out the back entry.  The plainclothes guys stand up but I see Sherriff Bob call them off with a tired wave of his hand and for just a moment I am sorry for him;  sorry for Old Bob and all his misdeeds and somehow, like a distant echo from somewhere far away, I am also sorry for myself.  There have been misdeeds there, too.