Fry Bread, Slurpees & CrAzy PaY

 

I have been writing about Martians for the last few days, and it seems more plausible Martians planted the seed of humanity on Earth than all of the funny business about the hand of God in the Book of Genesis. 

The Martian bit was too technical though, it gave me a headache. 

When writing on scientific work it's difficult to avoid plagiarizing because you're writing about others' theories, not yours. Shit like— Doctor Popov revealed this and that, and he wrote the law of, blah, blah, blah.

I never in my life, not for a moment understood or appreciated science. Sure there's a big need for it, but the only thing I can think of, worse than writing scientifically, is going to church— which is like an hour in jail.

Hail Ceasar, give me the arts, there are seven forms.

Painting— is way too expensive and messy.

Sculpture— too much physical work, like working construction.

Architecture— a nine to five job, and, and if you fuck up your technical drawings, thousands will die when your creation collapses.

Cinema— I wouldn’t know where to begin.

Music— It takes too much eye and hand coordination to read music and finger the keyboard at the same time. 

Theater— If you’re not gay, forget it. 

Literature— The prince of the arts. Cheap, and clean, no worries about punctuation, grammar, and spelling, thanks to word processors.

After my first wife, Lucia, left me, a month later I married  Martha Graham—  the daughter of Bob Graham the Governor of Florida. 

We married the day we met, blinded by booze and sex.

A few days into the marriage we woke in our hotel room, feeling like strangers. It was little more than a brief tryst, which she bankrolled thank God.

For the last six months, Winona Swiftwater and I have been living in my Key West bungalow. She’s a Calusa Indian— we're pals and lovers, laughing our asses off at peculiar shit only the weird appreciate.

Surely we're the only people in the world beating the magic tom-tom to reruns of the Lawrence Welk Show.

Winona quit her job when we shacked up, the system chaps her ass. Skins are psychically different from White people.

Well, I’m a Paleface who doesn’t get it, the system that is. I’ve never punched a clock, I’m self-employed, and the bulk of my income comes from selling kilos of marijuana to a couple of street dealers. 

I don’t make money writing, regardless, I write most the time— when I'm not being hassled.

I connect with the characters in my stories— as far as real people go, initially, the upfront stuff is fine, but after twenty minutes, I find an excuse to escape and make for the door. 

Lucia, my one-time Cuban wife, was an extrovert, I hung out with her friends because I was with her.

She didn’t get it, why I preferred being alone in my study writing— writers are loners. 

Luck saved me from Lucia, I escaped her when she ran away. I never got her drift, sussing her was like looking into the sun. 

Now she lives in my head and nothing short of a lobotomy is going to get her out. 

Christians say if you hate someone pray for them and it will absolve your hate— thus freeing you from the hold that person has on you. 

Rarely, but occasionally, I despise a person enough to pray for them, even though I’m an atheist. 

The prayers go nowhere—  it's a huge effort for me to pray but I try, what the fuck? 

A serious atheist would no more pray than jump into a pit of Copperheads. I'm a half-ass atheist.

Winona cooks brunch at noon— fry bread, corn, beans and squash, fresh salmon, and wild rice. 

It's morning in our house, I make Mexican coffee, freshly brewed with a dash of tequila, some Kailua, and hot milk.

I have an appointment with a social worker at Monroe County Social Clinic in downtown Key West a two. I get SSA payments monthly— I fake being psycho to get the check, the act is half the fun.

Winona and I  shower and braid our hair, double braids, dressing casually. Winona can wear my clothes— we wear white and pink Ts, khaki shorts, and mismatched flip-flops.

Winona drives the Vespa— she goes north on Flagger Ave. to 11th, in Newtown, parking in the lot of the state clinic. We walk the steps to the 3rd floor. The tallest building in the city is La Concha Key West, built by Cubans before the revolution in 1922.

There's a slew of ragged-looking people waiting to see a social worker, some playing with their cell phones, and others staring blankly at the wall. Some are actually ill and others are faking it. The social workers and shrinks are there to weed out the frauds and help those who need it. 

I check in with the receptionist, showing her my Social Security card, she assigns me a number, 003 saying,

Mr. Lucowski you’ll be seeing Miss Betty Bootlick in room 411. Listen for your number. 

Winona and I sit on plastic chairs, bolted to the glossy grey-painted floor. 

You can hear a dime drop, there are two Black security guards ready to pounce on anybody who gets out of line. Everyone in the waiting room except the truly insane is scared shitless of them. 

The room feels like a factory, and it smells like disinfectant. Winona says softly, 

this is awful Henry, and he whispers back, 

the bullshit is worth the extra two grand a month, and I enjoy the show. 

In forty minutes 003 is called and I walk to room 411, the door is open, and I go inside, sitting in front of Miss Bootlick who’s at her desk. She gets right down to business. 

Henry, how are things going on a daily basis? 

Ma’am, up and down, some days I can’t get out of bed. When I'm depressed I can't get my thing up. 

Your thing? 

Yeah, my penis.

Have you been taking your Escitalopram?

Oh yeah, religiously,

Henry's lying, he'd give the pills to the bums who hung around outside the clinic.

How bout your social life Henry? 

I’m different, I don’t fit in with people.

Can you focus on a task? 

If I look at something too closely I get blackouts and migraines,

You'll have to talk to Doctor Dick, he can give you something for that. How's your temperament?

The other day I was in  Wiki Wiki, and I brought a super lime Slurpee to the counter, it was $2.45, I only had $2.25, I asked the witch if she'd let me slide for the rest and she says, 

we don’t give charity to bums pal, take a hike.

So I lobbed the Slurpee at her and ran for it. 

I see Henry, I’m going to recommend another six months of SSA payments, and, and I think you should see Doctor Dick.

Finishing, he signs something without looking at it, trying to maintain a low profile. The Black security guards are eyeballing him, they eyeball everyone to generate the fear vibe in the waiting room.

Henry and Winona, walk downstairs to the parking lot. He drives directly to the finest steak house in town— Viva Argentina,  they order the best of everything, knowing two grand of SSA funny money is on the way.

Big Pine Key, Peyote & Budwieser Bombers

Maybe I shouldn’t drink— last night I drank four Budweiser bombers and I’m hungover this morning.

I make a Mexican breakfast, fried eggs, refried beans, and tortillas. After breakfast, I smoke a joint and the world balances out some. 

My Cuban wife left me for another woman of all things, a Nigerian ballet dancer, they ran off to New York. We didn’t get a divorce, why bother? I'm gonna shack up next time.

We haven’t talked for months, therapists say you should break it off, friendly-like, slow and easy— Lucia and I were finished in a flash and that was it, no contact, nothing, zip.

We were married eight years, all the bullshit we went through and money spent on things— is ashes in the wind.

It’s noon, I gotta get out of the house, I can't get Lucia the louse out of my mind.

I walk to Sonny’s place in an alley near Bohemian Village. A dive, a hole for Key West bums and alcoholics. 

Ducking around the corner, I step into the bar, it's dark and half full. Sonny’s a fat man with a full head of curly red hair, wearing a white apron, I sit at the bar and he says, 

how’s it goin Tony? Whataya have? 

Call me Henry, make it a Boiler Maker, Jack and Bud. 

I drop the shot of Jack into a large mug, taking a pull, feeling thankful and embracing my wee bit of a life. 

A raven-haired angel's sitting alone at a table, drinking beer, looking forlorn with her head down. Her hair is in double-braids, Native Indian style. 

I go to her table and ask, 

may I join you? 

Sure, paleface, 

we laugh, and she tells me a little about herself.

I’m Winona, it means only daughter, I’m a skin, Calusa tribe. I’m from Cypress Reservation, on Big Pine Key. I’m 35, never married, no kids. 

Well, I’m Henry, a freelance writer, I sell ganja to make ends meet. I met my one-time wife, Lucia, in Havana. She was a hooker and I was editing an X-Pat rag, The Gringo Times. She left me, taking off with a Nigerian woman. She's Latino, bi, and devilishly sexual.

As Skins go Winona talks up a storm. 

I want to transcend the hackneyed Indian stereotypes. At the University of Florida, as I learned more paleface history Indian lore became less important.

I’m a social worker at Key West Medical Center. Henry says chuckling, 

So you're in this dive looking for patients. 

Why are you here Henry? 

I think I’m Charles Bukowski.

Winona let's go for lunch at my place, it’s a few blocks away. 

Can I trust you, Henry?

No, 

right answer paleface. 

After a short walk, they reach his bungalow, the front door is unlocked. Winona says, 

Why don’t you lock your door? 

It keeps the evil spirits away.  

You think like a Skin, Paleface. 

Are you hungry? 

I’m starving, 

I got some leftovers, refried beans, and tortillas, I can heat them up, 

fine. 

They go to the living room, Winona sits on the sofa, and Henry turns on his old Grundig radio to 101 Jazz in Miami, Pharaoh Sander's Love Will Find a Way moans spiritually through the radio speaker. 

In the kitchen, eating tortillas and beans, Henry takes a couple  Budweiser bombers from the refrigerator. 

They eat some and finish off the bombers. 

Winona says, 

darling, I see you have a Chevy Wagon, let’s take a drive to my reservation on Big Pine Key. It’s isolated. I want to do peyote with you.

Great idea, let's go.

Carrying Henry’s Coleman cooler to his 68 Chevy wagon, they open the tailgate and place it in. 

He backs out, Winona sits in the back seat behind him, braiding his long hair in double braids. She's wearing short jeans and a flannel shirt cut off at the sleeves. He has on khaki shorts and a ripped white T-shirt. 

Taking White Street to Flagger, parking, going into Lost Weekend Liquor Store, they get five bags of ice, six Bud Bombers, and a few bags of fish jerky. Opening the tailgate filling the Coleman Cooler. 

It’s an hour's drive to Big Pine Key. North on Highway 1, he exits the highway and Winona directs him to the reservation, 

turn left, take Key Deer Road to the end, you'll pass a tiny village with food, liquor, and fishing supply stores, then a mini housing complex. 

They reach the end of Key Deer Road, there are some dirt roads, big enough for one car.

Winona points saying, 

take that one.

They drive through the big pine forest. The pine trees need fresh water to survive. The island is made of limestone, which holds rainwater like a sponge, so the mighty pines can drink.  

At Cyprus reservation, there are twenty two-room houses, made conventionally, with aluminum siding and tiled roofs. 

They’re all the colors of the rainbow, built in the pine forest off the shore to cool them from the sun's rays. 

On the white sand beach, there are a number of small single-engine aluminum fishing boats covered with canvas.

Some of the Calusa tribe tidy cleaned and deboned Butterfish, Bass, and Chub— sun drying them on woven mats. 

Others are net fishing from single-engine aluminum boats out in the gulf. 

The Calusa are busy and productive, no one cares that Henry's a paleface, Winona says, 

let’s go see Elk.

They walk into the pine forest, reaching a lime green house with blue roof tiles. Winona knocks on the door, a younger, thin Skin, with long black hair parted in the middle opens the door. It’s Elk, they go inside and sit on the sofa. Motörhead is blasting from two large speakers in each corner of the living room. 

He rolls a joint of Purple veined bush, saying, 

Winona, heard you got a big job in Key West, I couldn’t do it, gotta be free sister, the Calusa way.  

Elk you holding any buttons? And how bout a quarter ounce of that purple weed?

Sure do, a hundred for the buttons, and the same for the bush.

Henry says, 

No problem. Winona tells Elk, 

we're going to Bow Channel, we want to trip at the Sacred Mound,

that's cool sister. 

Henry hands over the scratch, Elk goes to the refrigerator and comes back with the OZ of buttons and the quarter of purple bush.

They leave Elks, go to the car, pick up the Coleman cooler, carrying it in tandem, one on each side.

Winona knows the way, she grew up on the reservation. They walk a dirt path through the pine forest.

When they reach the Sacred Mound, they are at the edge of the shore facing Bow Channel.

The Sacred Mound is one story high, composed of crustacean shells that are decomposed and bleached from being in the sun for thousands of years. 

Henry and Winona open the cooler taking out a couple of Bud bombers and the OZ of peyote buttons, then roll a joint, knowing they will need it.  

They each take a handful of oily buttons, filling their mouths, chewing the buttons, feeling seasick. They wash them down with cold beer.

Hitting on the joint relieves their queasiness. 

As they come on to the peyote the Sacred Mound of crustaceans ripples then inflates to the size of a dirigible, persistently expanding. Eventually engulfing Henry and Winona, undulating their bodies. They feel ecstatic, like two babies being rocked in a hammock.

Ten minutes later, the paranormal dirigible pops, rupturing and opening, dusting everything with what looks like dry snow or chalk dust

The couple sees material matter in a purely energetic state, they can make out shapes covered in the white dust. 

Testing the alternate environment they walk inside and through chalk-covered trees. Then wading into the white channel fifty meters out. The sea's rough with breaking waves, but they progress to shore as though they are passing through fluff, effortlessly.

The peyote has chemically altered their consciousness— but the materiality is real, it's a higher level of mindfulness.

As they begin to come down, Henry and Winona walk on the dirt trail back to the Calusa reservation with the Coleman cooler in hand, in silence, they load the Chevy Wagon and drive east on Key Deer Road, to Highway 1, then go south to Key West.

An hour later Henry parks the Chevy in the drive of his bungalow, saying, 

let's shower and get in the sauna. They shower together, Winona has a fabulous shape, natural breast with nipples pointing up, a cello-shaped body, with olive-toned skin. 

In the sauna, on the patio, they drink Bud Bombers, as the sun sets at Man of War Harbor. 

They laugh at nothing for some time and then hug one other firmly, with loving intent.

Winona says, 

Henry, I live in a small room in the nurse's quarters behind Key West Medical Center, would you like some company here? Let's shack up. 

He smiles, a genuine smile saying,

I would love it, babe.

Henry & Martha

 

It’s 2 in the afternoon, Henry's in Rico’s bar, a local Key West dive, drinking boilermakers, a mug of beer with a shot of whiskey dropped in. 

A Mexican man, middle-aged with an unkempt white goatee, wearing a straw Stetson and overalls sits a few barstools away. He orders a Corona, taking a long pull— it relaxes him. He says to Henry,

howdy amigo, they call me Pedro, I work at Anderson’s Banana Plantation. It's one big outfit alright, the bananas are harvested by two-man teams. We use a machete to cut the bunch from the stem, then the bunch is lowered on the back of the runners and they load em on the truck.

Sounds like hard work, plenty hot.

Sí señor, I’m a circus clown by trade, when summer comes, I travel round the country with the Ringling Brothers Circus, on the long train. 

I bet you're funny Pedro, best of luck, gotta go, adios.

It’s a hot South Florida day, in the upper 90s, Henry hustles ten blocks, walking briskly to his appointment.

Dr. Doodle’s office is in Sears Town, a single-level building constructed in the sixties, art deco style and painted pink.

He puts his shoulder into the double glass door, pushes it open, and walks to the nurse's station.

A big nurse, a no-nonsense type says, 

Mr. Lucowski did you shower this morning, you smell like a P I G pig. 

I can spell pig Nurse Oberman every first grader can. 

In the clinic's small washroom he locks the door, strips, splashes water on his body, then fills booth hands with liquid soap from the dispenser, rubbing it all over.

Then, rinsing the soap off with handfuls of water. Drying himself with paper towels, and washing his T in the sink, removing the sweat smell, putting it back on— he's dripping wet.

Leaving the clinic restroom, he mutely walks to the orange plastic chairs, bolted to the floor in rows. Nurse Oberman asks, 

What happened to you, Henry? 

I fell into the toilet.

Oh, I see, Mr. Lucowski, I’m sure Doctor Doodle will have something to say about that. 

A sultry young lady, in her late twenties, sitting two plastic chairs away, wearing a flower print dress and flip flops, opens her shapely legs a little, Henry notices her skin is smooth and tanned. He asks,

What's your name?  

Martha, what’s yours?  

I'm Henry, what are you doing here? 

I’m a sex addict, then he says, 

I went to AA, but I crave the smell and taste of beer, It doesn't make you drunk, so I drink. Have you been to Sex Addicts Anonymous Martha? 

Yeah, but I stopped going because too many guys were hitting on me.

you're sexy,

yes, I suppose I am.

Nurse Oberman calls Martha to Doctor Doodle's office. 

She opens the office door, sitting on the sofa, The walls are hung with pictures of Doodle's boat, The Magic Pill. It appears he's holding a Swordfish on chains, but the sea-going fish weigh 500 to 1000 pounds. Martha comments, 

Doctor those fish selfies on the wall are really cool.

Fish selfies, that's a new one on me.

Miss Graham, may I ask about your sex life? Do you think you're an addict?

Yes, I guess so.

Have you had sex or masterbated since our last session?  

Yeah, I play with myself whenever I feel like it.

As a sex addict, you need to resist the temptation of sex and masterbation.  

I’m going to give you some medication that will help control your sex drive. 

Salt Peter?

No, Salt Peter is a food preservative, it’s a myth that it lowers the carnal drive. 

Doodle writes a script for Benzodiazepine. Martha walks out of his office, sitting next to Henry, handing him the script asking, 

what's this? 

It’s diazepam, like Xanax, it's good stuff, it relaxes you.  

Will I lose my sexual desires? 

No, Doodle is off his nut. Let's get outta here, how bout some diner, Martha? 

Sure, 

While walking around Sears Town, Henry says,

I’m a mess, I need to buy something fit to wear. 

OK, darling,

she’s calling him darling, they’re beginning to click. 

Henry buys a pair of thin man khakis and a blue pinstriped Polo shirt, then picks up a pair of low-top Converse All-Stars, goes to the fitting room, throws away his soggy clothes, and changes into his new array. Forgetting to pay, nobody notices. 

Martha’s breathtaking in her flower print dress and pink flip-flops she looks like Playboy Bunny from head to toe. 

In the parking lot, he asks,

do you mind taking a bus? My Harley's in the shop. 

Darling, I have a car. 

He follows her and she opens the door of her white 1955 Porsche 356. Getting inside she unlatches the black convertible top and opens it, Henry buckles it down from the outside, then gets in.

Martha pulls out of the parking lot and he says,

this car must have cost you a fortune.

oh, Daddy bought it, he’s the Governor of Florida, Bob Graham. Henry chuckles saying 

so you’re Martha Graham the modern dancer. 

Well, I majored in dance at the University of

Florida. 

I should have known, you have legs like Julia Prouse 

As the sun lumbers into the Gulf of Mexico they drive to Dantes Lobster House on Highway 1, known as the Overseas Highway. 

Martha drives carefully, not exceeding the speed limit. Henry teases her saying, 

Put the peddle to the metal girlfriend, the governor can fix your tickets. 

They laugh raucously. 

When they reach Sugarloaf Key Henry gives her directions to Dantes, it's on Turkey Basin Beach. She parks in the restaurant's crushed stone parking lot.

Dantes is built on rows of five-meter-high cement posts, like a wharf. The building is quaint, with red brick walls on three sides, open on the seaside annexing the patio.

The floor is made of wood, the chairs are made of straw, and the tables and the bar are wooden.

On the walls, there are framed pictures of Ernest Hemingway, Tennesee Williams, William Faulker, Humphrey Bogart, Eleanor Roosevelt, replicas of Blue marlins and Sailfish, and even a picture of Martha's dad, Florida Governor Bob Graham. It's a classy place.

The paramours sit on the patio under an umbrella They feel encircled by the ocean, listening to the waves break, and smelling the briny scent of the salty air and seaweed. 

When the waitress shows, Henry orders,

two dozen fresh oysters, a strip steak well done, grilled grouper, wild rice, and martinis very dry. 

The food and drinks are perfect, they eat and drink to excess — a dozen martinis between them.

Martha pays in cash. 

They’re gin-soaked, laughing, holding hands as they walk down the steps of the seaside restaurant— feeling as good as a rolling drunk man and woman in love can. Over the moon.

The couple rambles barefoot in the sand, a few hundred meters from Dantes in the dark. They strip, then go for a swim. When they reach shoulder-high water they ball in the stand and carry position. A madcap sex position, but the seawater coddles them like a hammock.  

Onshore they dress, wet, not having towels. Sitting in the Porsche 356 they look at the sea. Henry musters his courage and asks,

I love you, Martha, do you love me? 

Yes, 

will you marry me? 

Yes.

Driving south to Key West on Highway 1 they notice a blue neon sign that reads, 

                   Reverend Saint John’s Casual Wedding Chapel

It’s 4 AM, Martha rings the doorbell, and the Reverend and his wife open the double door, smiling and welcoming the soon-to-be newlyweds. 

The Reverend and his wife Thelma are wearing pajamas and cotton bathrobes. 

Henry asks, 

Can you marry us Reverend?

Sure can son, I will need to see some ID, and you'll have to fill out some paperwork, then we'll go to the altar. My wife, Thelma will be the witness and I will officiate.  

After filling in and signing the paperwork, the lovers move to the altar standing with their backs to it. They take off their shoes Zen style for no reason. Their hair is wet. Henry can't stay dry.

The altar is purple with an abstract wooden sculpture of a Cross, the Star of David, and a Crescent and Star set on top. Good for any religion service except a few maybe—  Zoroasterism and Hinduism

Martha reads from the Christian script. 

I, Martha Graham take thee, Henry (she doesn’t know his last name) to be my wedded husband, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, to love and cherish till death do us part. This is my solemn vow. 

Henry then reads the wedding script, using his full name so Martha knows it, Henry Lucowski. When he finishes the Reverend says,

Lord, You guided them to each other, now guide them in their new journey as husband and wife.

Thelma hands Henry a tin ring straight out of a bubblegum machine. He wraps it on Martha’s fourth finger. They kiss, deep-tonguing a few seconds. 

Martha pays Thelma with a Visa card. The Reverend hands over a diploma-like certificate saying, 

your marriage certificate is valid at any courthouse in America.

Henry drives the Porsche 356 to the Hyatt Resort in Key West, on the sea.  

Inside Martha gives the receptionist her credit card. They book a luxury suite for a week. 

After tipping the busboy five bucks, Henry asks Martha, 

Are you going to tell your parents? 

Yes, I'll call eventually, I don't give a shit what they think. Will you tell your parents?

My parents are dead, so they don't have nothin to say, I like it that way. 

The next day the newlyweds wake at noon. After a quicky, Martha calls room service ordering a couple of bottles of Brut champagne, and salmon eggs Benedict. Asking Henry,

darling, remember the part in our wedding vow—

to love and cherish till death?  

Sure dear,

well, I hope I don’t fuck you to death.

They laugh and hug, two outsiders — desperately in love.