On a Lee Shore 7 - On The Jetty

“Is she still here?”    

“Nope, she left.  Showered up and left.”   

“Was she singing?”  

“Yep.”  

Cara stood on the end of the jetty next to her father, her back to the inlet.  Her father remained in the pose that she had observed from the house, pulling on a big Cohiba, relishing the smoke in his mouth before blowing it out.   There are plenty more where that one came from.   Just ninety miles south, the coast of Cuba is dotted with wooden shacks filled with fat women who roll five hundred a day on their ample sweaty thighs.  Their shacks burn down occasionally and have to be rebuilt, but nobody cares, it’s just part of life.      Beside him sat a glass of Zacapa - straight up.  Playfully she backed up to the edge of the jetty until only the parts of her feet from her arch to her toes remained on the wooden planks; her heels out over the water.  She rose and fell as she straightened and bent her ankles, using up energy in meaningless ways as young people often do.  Her father sipped his rum.  

“What would you do if I knocked you off into the water?” he said.  

“I’d fall in, but… I’d make you pay.  If not now then later.”  

“But the point is… I could do it.  You’re powerless to stop me.”  

She rolled her eyes.  They were silent for a moment.  Then he broke the silence.  “Because she’s not complicated and I like to listen to her chatter.  And besides when she stays over she leaves such a nice scent on the pillow. ”

“What??”

“You were going to ask me why I like to spend time with Monica.”

“No I wasn’t.”  

“Yes, you were.”  

She turned around and the hot, salty breeze, tinged with the scent of dead fish and fermenting mud, hit her as it blew in off the water.   Looking south she could see down to the mouth of the inlet and out into the ocean flecked with early afternoon whitecaps.  A shrimp boat bobbed up and down as it churned its way west to east, from the Caribbean to the Atlantic and on into oblivion, as porpoises, like wraiths, rollicked in its wake.   

“Uncomplicated is a kind way of putting it.  Shallow and childish is more accurate.”

“Maybe…  though nobody’s ever accused me of being kind…” He paused.  “So if she were deep and mature… that would make you happy?  Or do you think it would it make me happy?”   

“Well, wouldn’t it?”  

“Are you sure that 'deep and mature' is a good thing?  I dunno.  It’s probably not a good idea to put too much thought into things.  Life‘ll punish you for looking too closely at it.”  

“Huh?”      

“Listen, I appreciate your concern, but really I’m okay… Shallow people are a hobby of mine.  They flock to me.  Some people collect fine cigars, scotches, bourbons, rums, wine, cars… you know...  She’s really quite exceptional.  Have you ever heard her talk?  She can talk about whatever… forever... I really don’t know where she gets all the material.”    

“She knows you’re not listening to her.”  

“That’s fine.  As long as she doesn’t get in my face about it I can pretend like I don’t know she knows.”  

Another pause.   He took a sip of the rum, pulled slowly on his cigar, then turned and looked directly into her eyes and asked,

“So how’s Miles?”  

“Are you comparing Miles to Monica?”

“Yes… yes I am.”  

“God, you’re exhausting. “

She stared into the reeds on the other side of the inlet for a minute, then said,  “Miles says his father knows you.”  

“Mike Mariposa.  Yeah…”  

“Jake says he’s connected…  Is he?”

She felt embarrassed.  Connected?!  What a cliché.  A friend of ours?   A member of the outfit?  She searched for a more sophisticated-sounding term but nothing came.  

“Connected?”  He laughed.  “I guess most people assume that because he‘s Colombian… you know, Pablo Escobar, the cartels and all that…  But… being Columbian doesn‘t necessarily make you a criminal any more than being Polish makes you stupid.”

She left it at that.    

“Listen Dad, when do you think we’ll get out sailing again?”  

“We just had the boat out last week.”  

“I don’t mean that.  I’m talking about a long trip.  Like the time we did the Leewards when I was a kid.”  

“You’re still a kid.”  

“Maybe across the Gulf to Mobile like we did all those times before I moved to New York.  Or over to Nassau or down to the Virgins.”

“The boat needs some work before it’d be ready for that.  That canvas has been reefed one too many times.”  

“So let’s get it done.  Nothing’s going on around here.  Let’s go.”  

He smiled.  “You’ve been here, what? Five, six months and you still you haven’t given in to the inertia.  I got too much writing to do.  Barry's expecting another few chapters this month.  It’s been a while since I’ve sent him anything and… I’ll tell you the truth, I’ve been tired lately, I’m not sure I’m up to a trip like that.”  

“You??  A few years ago you couldn’t go a few months without getting Caribbean fever, now you’re not ready for it?  What the hell?  What happened to the guy who was always talking about doing an ocean passage?”  

His eyes focused for a second, then, fending her off, he said, “Let’s go out and get something to eat.  Maybe head up to Layton and go to Breton’s?”  

“Okay Daddy.  I’m going to head over to the beach for a while.  We’ll go when I get back.  But Breton’s sucks, let’s go to the John Steven‘s.”

“Whatever you want.”

Football

What can trump a football Sunday?  Ready for some football Monday?
That's our game in all its glory, steeped in gladiator lore.
Ghost of Red Grange gallops slashing, James Brown into safeties smashing.
19 for the touchdown passing.  Ray attacks on third and four.
Legendary Vince Lombardi led The Pack in days of yore.
Raymond Berry for the score!

No sport suits its season better, jersey, jacket over sweater.
Boorish fans rant rash expletives o'er a ref's prepost'rous call.
Fullback blocks, the hits are graphic, QB sticks the ball in traffic.
Smell of beer is gently wafting, wafting 'round the frigid bowl.
"Beer Man, gimme two!!", I yell.  Their kicker shanks the tying goal.
I stay sober...  on the whole.

So at last it's football season, like we need another a reason
To spend hours yelling, dozing, sometimes cursing on the couch
Often times our sets haranguing, 'neath a team flag window hanging.
As the D-backs swarming, ganging, banging into Manning.  Ouch!
"Bad play calling!", we may mutter.  Slamming into Brady.  Ouch!
You can feel it on the couch.

In a blighted urban section, grills are tended with affection.
Block on block of tailgate parties, burgers, brats, and kegs of beer.
Children bloated to their gills, throw errant footballs into grills.
Yelling, laughing, eating, drinking, drinking ere they don their gear.
Stow away that pasta salad, crab dip, pickles, football's near!
"It's our year, so grab your gear!"

What could make a father prouder? Stalk the sidelines, holler louder.
Than the son who's now a player, catching passes from the slot.
Even though his son's no starter, sure he'll be the next Chris Carter.
Girlfriend cheering, mother cringing, cringing as he takes a shot.
Baby boy his mother cuddled, cringing as he takes a shot.
Football sometimes hurts a lot.

Av'rage Joes can find expression with a fantasy obsession.
Drafting, trading, crafting, perfect football teams in cyberspace.
In the office, smack talk making, jabs at last weeks' losers taking.
Sunday's here and soon their aching, waking ready for the race.
Lovingly their rosters making, every player in his place.
This week they're not losing face.

Sports are healthy for a marriage, often marriage shrinks disparage
Football's savage brand of play, for causing spousal turbulence.
But hanging with the kids and wife, can make us lead a closer life.
Common int'rests suppress strife, closeness is the best defense
Against such problems as distraction, boredom, quarrels, violence.
Sometimes doctors can be dense.

As for me, I'm living, dying with the Ravens losing, crying.
She and I await each season, for the game we both adore.
Racing home at churches' ending.  Dinner and the kickoff blending.
First blood in the game portending a glorious win in store.
Pummeling the hated Steelers, wanting that and nothing more.
Quoth the Ravens, "Nothing more..."

On a Lee Shore 6 - Two Salt-Encrusted Glasses

“One-a these mornings, you gonna rise up singin’.  Then you’ll spread your wings and you’ll take the sky.  But until that morning, there’s-a nuthin’ can harm you, with daddy and mammy standin’ by.” Billie seeped like smoke from the incandescent interior of the bungalow, framed in the darkness of the tropical night, as she approached.  Pink moon and swaying palms overhead.

“Digital formats retain the pop and hiss of the original 78s.  Thank God.  Otherwise, the place wouldn’t have that 1930s, Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammet look-and-feel Daddy was going for.  Who’s he think he is anyway?  Bogart?”

He’d wanted this place his whole life.  The words would come better, quicker in a place like this.   Not so many distractions.  Life distilled to its essential core.  Uncluttered.  She remembered the first time she’d read any of his stuff - poking around on his computer wondering what all the fuss was about.  The agents, the critics, the women and, of course, the money.  She was young then and she left still wondering.  Later on, she understood.    

The door creaked open and she stepped in onto the oak-planked floor under a ceiling fan rotating lanquidly overhead, cooling the bungalow's sultry interior.  Lights on, his laptop still open, the door to his bedroom closed, two salt-encrusted glasses, the smell of a woman in the room.  “Christ, he’s got someone in there again.  God, I hope it’s not Monica.  Whatever.  I’m too tired to think about it.”

She figured sleep should come easily as tired as she was.  She showered away the day’s wear and tear, turned out the lights, shut off the music and crawled into bed musing on Old Walter and an embryonic vision of an escape onto open water.  

A sweep of the hour hand later her eyes slowly opened to the full force of daylight trickling through her wide metal blinds.  She glanced over at the clock.  Noon.  There was no activity in the outer rooms.

“I hope this means Ms. Whoever-the-Hell is gone.”

She got up.  From her doorway she could see him at the end of the jetty, feet dangling, hunched over, scribbling into a notebook.  Writing down words and phrases as they popped into his mind - he did this almost constantly.  Later he’d sprinkle them in as he worked on his manuscript.

“It’s probably like 104 out there.  He likes the heat.  Sits out there all the time. The hotter the better.  Hot like the Sahara, hot like fucking Rangoon.  He must like to get dehydrated too, drinking the hard stuff outside in weather like this.  A form of self-punishment, self-denial.  Penance for a sinful life.  Daddy would do well in a medieval monastery.  He’d be the guy wearing the hair shirt.  He’d be the guy sitting in the middle of the swamp for days on end letting bugs eat him.”  

As she emerged from her bedroom, a tall blonde in a sleeveless t-shirt, short bike pants and running shoes came through the front door.  “Oh for God’s sake…  it’s Monica,” she muttered to herself.  

“Hey Monica.”  

“Geez Cara!  You scared the shit out of me.  What are you doing here?”  She paused to catch her breath.  “Did Jake figure he could run the Parrot for one day on his own?”  

“Yeah, I guess.  Gave me the day off anyway…”  

“Where’s your dad?  He wasn’t up when I went out.”

“Out there.  On the jetty writing.”  

“Well, then I’ll just clean up and get out of here - once that starts that there‘s no reaching him.  He‘ll sit there for hours - like a pelican on a pylon.  Doesn‘t even know I‘m here.”

She watched as Monica headed into the bathroom.  She started for the kitchen and a cup of coffee.

“My bathroom.  My Daddy’s bathroom.  Our bathroom.  Gross.  My towels!  Got to remember not to use used towels.  Might dry off with one that she’s used, after she’s been…   Stop right there.  Too disgusting to think about.  Is this the one that sings in the shower?  I think it is.”

A few minutes later, singing, soft but perceptible oozed from the bathroom and into Cara’s consciousness as Monica, naked and ensconced in steam, began her performance to an audience of unappreciative bathroom tiles.

“Nice!  We’re channeling Martina McBride today. ”  

“How old is Monica anyway?  Late 30s?  Younger than Daddy.  Not too bright.  Well, who can tell?  Attractive - in a well-seasoned, high-mileage way.  Hot body.  Must do a million crunches a day.  All girl.  Why does he hang out with these women?  Stupid question.  Shallow as hell.  Daddy never did care too much for smart women.  Says he does, but I know better.  He’ll like them for a while - until they start to challenge him or try to change him - then he’ll just shut down on them.  He’d never admit it, but he prefers that they have him up on a pedestal.  The brilliant writer.  None of them has even read any of his books.  Most of them don’t read books, period.  They just know he’s written books.  Books!  Whole books for Christ’s sake!  Know he knows things.  Ah, the aura of sophistication.  They like that he drinks too much too.  The brilliant man with feet of clay.  The flawed hero.  The recluse.  The little boy man.  There’s nothing a Monica loves better:  a famous man to be seen with and a sick little boy to mother.”

On a Lee Shore 5 - The Dark Beach

“By the time they got us off that god-forsaken strip of land, we’d been there three days…  three days! No water, no food, no nothing!  And all the while the lights of St. Thomas, 20 miles west, just mocking us, just fucking mocking us…”

Old Walter, ripped on Green Label, telling the story he always told at closing time in a vain attempt to delay his ejection.  Why couldn’t he change it up for once and give us a different story?  Just part of the atmosphere, she supposed.  No one could do an Ernest Hemingway impersonation like an old man in the Keys.  Manny, the bouncer pushed Walter toward the door, the old man’s heavy footsteps echoing across the broad planks of the emptied room.  Good Night Walter.  See you tomorrow.  If not, we’ll know you’re dead.  A half hour later, her key spun in the lock and The Boiled Parrot was closed for the night - nothing left inside but the smell of beer, grain and grape and the ghosts of drunken patrons.

A few quick steps round back, down the long cinder path, the rioting vegetation pawing at her beneath the sodden blanket of heavy night air, and onto the footbridge across the mangrove swamp.  Moving fast to outrun the mosquitoes, she made her way toward the patches of gray light between the scrub trees that marked the entrance to the dunes and the beach.  The elegant smell of rotting wood and earth and the buzz of cicadas gave sudden way to the salt spray, sand and lighter, cooler air and the pounding of the surf.  Myles was there.  The red beacon of his cigarette glowed and dimmed near his spectral form.

She moved up on him, then dropped down and crept the last few yards on her stomach in the sand, undetected, stopping just behind his head.  She paused and enjoyed the moment, her head only inches behind his, then blew her flowery breath onto the back of his ear.  He started, shuddered and spun around, wrapped her up tightly and gently dragged her alongside of him down into the sand still warm from the day‘s sun.   He shuddered again in anticipation.  One o’clock in the morning.  The dark beach.  A few small bungalows, some just white forms burrowed back into the trees, others with one last light on, muffled voices, barely audible.  Sunday night, no… Monday morning.  Her friends back in New York were sleeping fitfully awaiting their 6 AM alarms.  She was here.  They laughed.   Myles suited her purpose... for now.

An hour or so later, she left the beach, spent, and headed back up over the causeway to her father’s place.  Old Walter might be on to something, she thought.  His overwrought pirate tales of sailing the Caribbean still sustained him.  Well… being pickled in Green Label must have something to do with it. She remembered back a decade or so when she was just a teenager, before her father had gone so hard to the bottle.  She could remember him crouched on the bow of their sailboat adjusting the tide rigging, his skin darkened by his long-since merged freckles.  If he gave her anything, it was great memories.

Ode to the Mariner's Skye

Oh permit me to speak of this siren, the sky!
Her expansive and eloquent face
Looking down on the ocean she deigns to be known.
Her lavish gold tresses and blue-hued recesses,
By no lyric could ever be shown.


From aloft o'er the aft, at evening, the craft,
Stands exalted in rapturous red.
She dons in the twilight a sun-burnished cloak,
As the sky at her bound'ries, like fiery foundries
Sends out tendrils of vapor and smoke.


The sky's a lush mistress, a sensual seer
Fitted out to slake every thirst.
She is buxom in beauty, a sumptuous feast.
From the moon to the sun, a new day is begun
When she'll leaven your bread with her yeast.


The ship's galley crew's got no time for a roux
When surrounded by famished messmates.
Beef for the main course, a plum duff for a sweet.
The meat's served in slices, grease dripping suffices
To make sauce for both swabs and elite.


The sky is a sculptor, the sky is a maestro
And a muse to inspire your verse.
But her carvings with clouds and concertos of beams
Become slashes and dirges while seawater surges
And bilge floods your cabin in streams.


The first mate takes a spot by a seasoned plank's knot,
And assaulted by salt from the gale.
Taking care when it's said that the morning sky's red.
She will splinter his spar, keep his balls in a jar,
'Til the sea giveth up all her dead.


A furious foul-weather sky looms nigh
To my fleet frigate's top gallant sail.
A warning ye mortals, beware of the aire
She'll sing to your doom, drive you fast to your tomb.
She craves souls to provision her lair.


There's not much to be said for the quick and the dead
Simply sailors who no longer breathe.
Though the sky's expertise makes you weak in the knees,
Be ye slow and survive, persevere, stay alive.
Ride her out!  She'll soon leave you at peace.


Concluding, ye lubbers, so many fine phrases
Have not made it into this poem.
And so, gentle sailor sail out toward the blue.
While the stars in their courses and tiny seahorses
Testify what I've penned here is true.

Revery

Were I to go, my angel, who would care for you as I do?
Who would love you?
Who would lift you up?
Who would surround and protect you?
Who would build a bulwark before your tender, trusting soul 
And contend with those who wish you ill?

Thus, in my revery, I rise up at dusk.
I wander out amongst the brooding vapors 
Into the farthest reaches of the willows,
Partaking contentedly of the honeyed air,
Surveying all nature as my own,
I gaze blithely skyward through the verdant lattice,
And there an indignant moon, higher yet than I,
Glaring down upon me and no one else, my accuser.
In my vanity I fancied myself your guardian, your savior, your better.
But now search and find no lesser man than I,
No enemy save myself.

Abased, I return again to your side
To bask in your sweet love,
To receive your forgiveness
And resolve to be your adversary no longer.