#davidlaughinstudio

[theidofdav]

Tramping, part 14. Art by measwell.

I was in Key West now for days doing who knows what, and enjoying it. Making friends, singing with Pedro at Mallory Square while everyone watched the sunset. Many businesses downtown would close for this, makeshift signs on the doors that said “See you at sunset!” and most took that daily break. A lot of tourists were confused by this routine pause of the industry they supported but we didn’t care. The customer can be right later.

Dad would be gone now and then, too, often with Cheri. If they were away together on business I'd stay home, tending to Captain and Farfel or other peripheral help. I remember once a coded phone call had me getting cash out of the safe and driving to meet them briefly in Miami, handing it off, and going right back home to wait for further developments should they arise. No details asked or given, just glad when they made it back.

The Ponderosa was our refuge. We'd hang out mostly at their place or, with our separate houses, not. Cheri and I got along better as time passed. Honestly, I wasn't part of the program at all when they got together and at first she really didn't know what they were dealing with, especially after my Ohio episode. She was an attractive woman who seemed used to men giving her lots of attention. I was, as my standard, courteous and considerate, but something of my naivety and indifference to impress seemed to also baffle her.

She may also have been less comfortable at times with a feeling of isolation on the property, especially when Dad was gone too long which could add to that anxiety. I think she was used to a much more social setting but hadn't established a lot of friends here yet. They were doing a lot of drugs, especially coke, which can be isolating too. It can add to thinking of what may seem like great ideas for the moment, but often not great in retrospect, and too often the idea was chopping up another line. Not something I did a lot of, but they… okay, I did a lot too but didn’t like downers. Had my share of nosebleeds, but this is a minor and major league comparison.

I should be clear, I don't advocate recreational drugs for anyone. There are so many factors to consider and everyone is different in many ways, metabolically and otherwise. Some people are allergic to peanuts, some eat them a lot and some can't get enough.

We may have had enough. Dad returned one night so I left them alone but while sitting on my porch balcony later I heard a loud argument, getting louder, coming from their place. After quite a bit of this Dad came storming out and quickly drives away, tires spewing rocks from the driveway, very uncommon.

I go back downstairs and she opens the door. I'm asking what has happened and she says kind of nonchalantly that he took the gun and going somewhere to kill himself but I shouldn't be alarmed, it's divine providence. Come in, and she'll explain. We'll do a line. There's no use chasing him because he is probably off the island soon, possibly going to Islamorada, or somewhere, she doesn't care.

She begins by saying their argument concerned recent relationship difficulties and she felt it was time to end their time together, which is news to me and from what I had just witnessed, news to him too. She soon elaborated that it felt like she and I might be a better union. She began citing divine providence that led to her outlook on this, and if that wasn't bizarre enough she began referring to biblical references, the Rose of Sharon and King David in particular. Really odd because this religious talk had not really come up before as part of our general conversation. She started undressing while talking about the Song of Solomon which had been one of my favorite poetic dialogues until then. I knew she was high, but thought she had gone mad at this point.

I walk out. This was very confusing to say the least. Dad drives back as I'm walking to my place and walks into his house to see Cheri standing naked by the open door. He walks in, she runs in. The door slams shut and a great row begins inside with both of them yelling with turmoil soon added and articles being broken. I run back down at this and they stop when I come in, both of them broken up and down and torn. She slumps on the floor with a broken nose and he walks away with some heavy scratches on his face and arms. I help her get dressed quickly and tell Dad I'm driving her to the closest hospital over the seven mile bridge in Marathon, but I'm coming back. Stay here. On the way, she's not talking. I stay to see that she is taken care of and go back to the house. He is drinking and distraught from the situation and his actions, as well he should be, but that he's not going to be killing himself over this. Frankly I am not assured, and wonder what the hell just happened. No information is given except she's a stupid bitch.

All three of us were already scheduled to fly to the Caymans the next day, business. As usual, I don't know the particulars. Early that morning I drove back to the hospital to check on Cheri but she had gone. Back to the house, no one is home. I find Dad at the airport waiting on the flight, stoic, so we fly with an empty seat between us. We don't talk much at all. It was supposed to be a week and he stayed in his room mostly, coming out the third day to talk with the Colombians and keeping up appearances, and privately seemed to be coming out of his funk to a degree by the fourth day, when he flew home early. I stayed the rest of the week, getting some peace and my own shit together.

When I return, he seemed to be, well, not okay but out of the danger zone. He had a lot of paperwork and money laid out on the kitchen table and was getting some of his affairs in order, likely preparing for any backlash from their brawl situation. He seemed vehemently indifferent and closed to me. There was nothing I could do and thought it best to leave him alone. I went to Key West for a couple of days wondering what was next. These are completely uncharted waters. Overall, not a good time.

I came back the next night and found my place had been quite trashed in my brief absence. Hm. That’s odd. Downstairs I knock on their back door and Cheri opens it, spits in my face and pleasantly but without smiling tells me to come in. Dad must have been doing some work because he was standing in the front room with a hammer, raising it over my head saying that he's killed better men than I, and I have ten minutes to get my shit and myself off of his property, and out of their lives. I'm not sticking around to debate. No freaking clue what has happened here but this was serious and I took the chance to leave and live.

I didn't stay in town long, wondering what will happen when we meet again here, whether this can be resolved or should I be concerned about being dropped off in the ocean at night. I finally decided to just leave and go back to Ohio to sleep in my old spot in the barn. What the fuck did she tell him? How high were these people?

This was quite the upheaval but we keep moving forward, yes? Back in the homeland winter was on. I stayed a few days on the farm and played with my old dog, Stupid, then set up with Bones again. Jan and the kids had left, so the spiritual malaise had spread up here too. I see. Dark times for all, then.

One of Bones’ frequent visitors, Yahoo, suggested I help work on a house that he was buying. He wanted the downstairs to be his new tattoo shop and I could start a stained glass shop. We would teach each other our skills.

The house was in Houston, a nearby small town in the same county, pronounced Haus-tõn. Two stories, with two bedrooms upstairs. Downstairs, the center front door opened into the small foyer. Inside on the right was a door with my new stained glass design interspersed with crystal pendants for those decorative interests, operating in the daytime, and on the left a door that looked like it may have been kicked in, broken and set on fire at least once. This was the tattooing area, often open at night. Yin and Yahoo.

This was the early 1980s in northwestern Ohio so skin art was not a popular fashion statement as it later became. The clients were a rough crowd and occasionally those who wanted to be daring, mostly young guys from nearby towns and farms. The room for this was in the back with a pool table, weightlifting equipment and a punching bag for clients and their guests. They almost always brought onlookers. I also brought in one of my prize antiques, a white porcelain barber chair with black leather from the 1920s, according to the manufacturer name and date on the fancy metal footrest. Growing up, Mom took us to auctions and barn sales a lot, I had a few items. Our farmhouse looked like part of an overstuffed museum.

I practiced tattooing on potatoes. Cut one in half and needled at it, cut that in half to gauge the depth. It was odd because I have a deep aversion to needles. Blood isn't the problem, but needles… ew. Don't know why. However, this was just decorative work and I could overlook it.

I did help on our farm for planting season and in Houston tattooed about 20 clients that spring and part of the summer but really wasn't enjoying it. A young farmboy came in with his friends and I overheard him talking about how pissed off his Mom was going to be but he'd just turned 18 so she couldn't stop him now, he always wanted a tat. The image he had in mind was his car with the words “I love my Chevy” on his right bicep. I suggested something else, because this is permanent, dude, and believe it or not, you might not love this car forever. Also, I heard you talking about your Mom being mad about this so instead, how about “I love Mom” in traditional form like an old sailor style. This way she'd be pissed that you got tattooed but would love the message. It's a mindfuck. He liked that idea, then asked that I add a picture of a pig which I did with a heavy sigh.

I missed the Keys. I was thinking of a visit to Key West and seeing some friends there for my birthday but not stopping at Dad's this time. A unique opportunity for this arose with Yahoo. He had an old car, a Mustang, maybe, I forget, that he'd put a lot of money into but he couldn't sell it at the asking price. He surmised that if it was stolen and wrecked, he would collect insurance and be done with it. I could drive halfway to the Keys and fly back from there later. It's a plan.

A solar cigarette lighter is a slightly concave shiny metal disc with two tiny prongs pointing up from the middle that vertically holds the cigarette above. Combustion develops when the sun's reflection from the disc centers on the end of the cigarette. If placed on a car dashboard with flammable liquid spread about on the cigarette and car interior in the early early morning hours of a rural field in South Carolina, this allows time for walking offroad several miles through dark dense forests where demons must exist to a truck stop on the highway, and hitching a ride with a commercial truck to Savannah, GA, before conflagration develops from the sunshine before noon.

Savannah is a beautiful place with huge ships going by on the river. I did enjoy taking some time walking around and seeing the architecture, spanish moss, oak trees next to palm trees, plus there are railroad tracks going through downtown which I follow out a few miles to a nearby train yard but this wasn't promising. A lot of fuel cars, no open box cars and now it's getting dark.

I keep following the sets of tracks, I don't know exactly where I am but decide it will be hitchhiking time, wherever a good spot to start that is. The train yard area here is now fenced in but I see a lit road nearby. Parked just inside an opening is a police car, idling in the dark. Hey, maybe they can provide directions.

Approaching it from behind in an isolated train yard in the early evening with a backpack and an umbrella wasn't a good idea, I thought later. When I said hello it seemed to startle the officer and she jumps out of the car, hand on her holster, and told me to wait there while calling for backup. The tracks are private property, you shouldn't be here. They ask the standard questions of who, what, where and why am I carrying an umbrella (because I'm traveling and it might rain) and took me to a nearby guard shack to sit down to wait for another officer, who questioned me and sat with the first two to wait for another. Who did the same. When the fifth one came in to ask the same questions, I suggested he ask the others sitting there, the first two at least should have these answers memorized by now. After a small bit of conferring I was taken to the City Mission to stay for the night, aware that this could have turned out worse.

I left in the morning via the major highway and was lucky. Only one day and three rides later with a layover at a gas station in Port Orange and I was back in Key West with no other memorable instances. I went to Mallory Square to watch the sunset and sing.

[theidofdav]

Tramping, part thirteen. Art by measwell.

After Mariel, and the new set of wider bridges opened, things started changing a bit and got a little rougher for the trades. The DEA began sending serious agents down for a time to infiltrate various chains and succeeded to a degree, but that wasn't easy for them either. For one thing, island living was pretty tight. We are in a remote Caribbean location, closer to Cuba than Miami, everyone knew and relied on each other during trouble like hurricanes or other activities. Fresh faces stood out.

Personally, around that time, I was at a local gulfside restaurant waiting for a friend to get off of work when two clean cut fellows at the bar began a conversation with me leading to inquiries about acquiring some ‘grass’. They had nice shoes. I suggested they could find some at Scotty's, and told them where Scotty's place was. I didn't elaborate that it was our local hardware/lawn care supply store, but assured them that they could say I referred them.

The agency must have thought everyone was just using all of those drugs and were blasted most of the time. Easy to get that impression from some, especially the tourists, but overall not true if you wanted to stay in business and for many it was just business.

Some major busts did occur, and the fallout was reported for a week in the Miami Herald. Part of the reporting involved sending secondary agents down to find the first set who had stopped reporting back. Nothing nefarious, the first guys just got lost on the island. One was found washing dishes at a restaurant. See, they tried to be cool and buddy up to some locals who could see the chicanery and wouldn't sell to them. Instead, the interlopers were given many manners of dope they asked for, for free. Here, have some more, and more, and they weren't prepared for that. It was funny. In the newspaper articles a memorable quote from one of them, after being extricated back, concerned their job diversion, “It's hard to pretend you're snorting coke”.

Around that time we be good at the Ponderosa but for a sad event. Their little cockatiel, Coca, died in a tragic accident involving Dad leaving the room in a huff after some argument. Coca was flying after him yet had very unfortunate timing with a slammed door. We all grieved and they swore not to get another bird, the sudden loss was too great, laying heavy on their hearts. Until the next week when they brought home a baby parrot who ate solid food for the first time from Cheri's hand, at a pet store downtown, while they were tripping.

They named him Captain. He was a blue macaw and one of the ugliest birds I had ever seen. His feathers hadn't come in yet so he was just a scrawny, squawky, naked little thing with claws and a big beak. We put together a vertical driftwood labyrinth on a wall in the front room for him to live and scramble around on and eventually his plumage grew out, looking much better every day. Like Coca, he was allowed to fly around the house when he finally could, but he talked a lot more.

About three weeks after his arrival I bought a bird, too. Mine was bigger. A rhea, a South American ostrich. I was passing that same pet store and spotted it, thinking that we may as well continue the size escalation of our pets which soon turned out to be not a good idea. It terrorized the dog and us and tore up the yard for about two weeks before being rheaturned. Not sorry.

Captain got with the program much better. He stayed in the house for many months before having his wings clipped and Dad would take him to bars nearby on Big Pine Key and Little Torch. He developed a great personality with no fear of humans, and a fondness for walking up and down the bar stealing drinks.

Dennis had left earlier, pursuing his life, so I was living in his old place pursuing mine, discovering and enjoying Key West and the lower keys and frankly, finding out that there were ladies who sincerely desired to spend time with me being desired. I must say a lot of that happened because I wasn't pursuing it, and still naive enough to not even understand when I was being pursued. They would have to be pretty clear and overt before I could believe they were serious. I was breaking out of my shell and, learning can be fun.

As I've said, while growing up Mom had convinced me that I could not be accepted in an amorous fashion by anyone, and it was a nasty, filthy activity. As a teenager I considered that the few schoolmates I knew in our little farm community were like sisters or cousins to me and I directed my interests elsewhere, like art, literature, science, etc. My sex drive was parked.

This outlook probably helped later when I was finally getting the hang of human interaction in that regard. I did and do think of everyone as persons first, worthy of courtesy and consideration unless they show me otherwise, and I hear them, either way. I also gained much compassion for many women because part of Key West was a quite open gay community and as a tall, strikingly handsome, blonde, robust, strapping, virile young man I would get hit on a lot by some guys and they could be real creeps. Usually tourists. Again, I found locals would have consideration for each other no matter what your proclivities may be. Just be yourself, whatever that is, and don't touch me.

Side note; while hanging out with some bikers in Ohio I was comparing their dogma of following their passions and being their outrageous selves to a similar life outlook conveyed to me by drag queens I had come to know. This comparison did not go over well with the bikers.

The second Fantasy Fest was coming up and I began a tradition of not preparing for it. I've had some great costumes but usually something thrown together a day or two ahead. One year I found a bolt of cloth on the beach which became sort of a kimono and added a shiny orange tie with a wide brim straw hat from somewhere. This year one of my new friends asked me to stop by to paint her face before she left work. Marilyn was watching the Frond Lady's shoplet in front of Rick's bar, across from Sloppy Joe's, on Duval St. downtown in the heart of the Fest. It was parade night but she was closing early, changing to her costume and I would paint her there before her escape into the night, she had brought the materials to work with. She sat on a tall stool while I worked and before it was finished she started smiling and told me to turn around. There was a line of people waiting for me to paint them too. Okay, I guess we're doing this now. She said to keep the paints and the stool out, she had to go. I don't mean to be a bore but she became renowned in local lore, riding her bike and selling cookies, not a rookie, rhyming maybe, the Cookie Lady.

Since she changed outfits and I had none, I wore her dress for the night, painting faces and other parts of people there on the sidewalk until the paints ran out. At one point Dad and Cheri walk by while I am dancing on the stool, and wave, laughing. That year there were only three people face painting for the entire town, the next year there were about thirty, and the year after that even more. People began asking me for estimates. Dude. We are surrounded by mass revelry on a beautiful island and I just chased a practically naked lovely girl up a tree while painting her because we both thought it would be fun, and you want pricing data? Someone down the block can help you.

Around this time, the repercussions from the boatlift were still being felt in the waning tourism industry and our local officials decided an answer to that was something simple, throwing off the yoke of oppressive tyranny from the mainland and establishing their own government. This was later declared at an official public ceremony downtown with city council members, the new Prime Minister, and a US representative, some guy from the Coast Guard. Upon reading the proclamation of secession and declaring war on the US, a loaf of Cuban bread was brought forth and struck on the Coast Guard captain's head. They then surrendered and applied for foreign aid. This was the birth of the Conch Republic. "We seceded where others failed". There was a flag and everything, later passports, which also provided more items to sell to tourists so that made it legitimate.

Many, many years later Peter Anderson put out the passports, another cool idea with pomp and ceremony provided with purchase if you wanted it. I heard they were sometimes used as legitimate sources of verification now and then in foreign lands, or at least it was attempted. I had no desire for one until one day a newly arrived local that I was getting to be friends with told me about acquiring his for free with his powers of charm and persuasion and I don't know why, but it bugged me. By that time I had been well established and thought, what the hell, I should get one too. I walked over to Peter's office nearby and pointed out to him that he knew me, I had contributed to the Republic in many forms over the years and if you're giving some away free to local dignitaries, I deserved one too. He seemed a little hesitant but then agreed. When someone receives a passport they often add a title, like countess or duke or some such nonsense, and we decided that I should henceforth be the designated court jester of the republic. I thanked him and left, to show my new friend who gave me the impetus to get this erstwhile official document. It turns out that he was a pathological liar and made up the story about getting one, much less for free. This explained the concern on Peter's face when I stormed into his office and demanded mine. Oh well. I still have it, if I ever need to visit Freedonia.

[theidofdav]

Tramping, part 12. Art by measwell.

Making room upstairs was a Sisyphean task. Why did I bring that boulder? The room was full of another man's treasure because it looked like junk to me. Bones and Jan’s youngest child, Harley, came up with me to help assess the situation when we both spotted the dog turd at the top of the stairs. He sprung into action, ran downstairs, and brought back a can of Lysol to spray on it, beaming at me because he had helped. I very much cleaned up a spot and stacked a bunch of pillows and bags of clothes to sleep on. It will do for the month. The roof seemed intact.

I thought that a lot of my old school friends may not want to see me as I had become a criminal there. I knew a few that knew me better but I just wanted to get this mess over with, however it turns out, so I read, write, and draw. The park and library are both great there. Hang with Bones. Walk the dogs, they were happy. I let Mom know where I was going to be and she did come to see me per arrangement. She drove up front but wouldn't get out of the car, didn't want to talk to Bones or Jan. Jan tried but later told me Mom didn't seem to want a conversation and practically hissed at her. Some of my friends don't get along with some of my friends, I'm used to that.

Dad and Cheri flew up and drove a rental from the airport just to bolster my spirits which was surprising and deeply appreciated. They only stayed a day but the thought was enough, I gave them a tour of the farmland, stopped at Caven's, even buzzed through the very little town of Tawawa where I used to drive the tractor or walk to and splurge on a treat at the only business there, Stoker's Grocery, a very little store with a creek running by. They had to see the farm and as we passed by, Mom was riding the lawn mower outside. Of course she waved without really looking to see who it was, there were generally six cars a day on that road, all neighbors. I sunk down in the back seat. We didn't stop.

I think my visitors were in awe or shock at the remoteness of our community, I couldn't really tell. I pointed out our neighbors’ places, these raised chickens, down the road was a dairy farm, the black angus here, there's sheep. We had pigs. It was quite idyllic in many regards. Dad asked if I could get them some acid before they left to explore his hometown, as one does, I guess. The timing was right and surprisingly I could, I dropped by an old friend's place in town who happened to be the brother of the fellow that abandoned me in Oklahoma. Who was also there at the house that day.

For the sake of this story let's call him asshole. He did say that he was sorry about Oklahoma, didn't want to take a chance going back to prison, and we talked a bit. This may sound unusual but I don't hold grudges, years of abuse and neglect had conditioned me to move on quickly I guess. Though I'm not overlooking his actions and do not trust him, I'm not going to dwell on asshole especially if he gives me a good bit of free product for this mission and I will be on my way.

Dad and Cheri leave shortly thereafter to give her his home tour. That night I went downtown to some little bar while utilizing one hit of the stuff I got for Dad, and had a beer. Rough day. Asshole shows up while I'm playing geometry with the pool table but I don't want to talk. I'm living on an island now. Fuck you. Go away.

A little later that night I start walking back to my vacation rental, not far away, and while strolling through a dark, quiet area, get hit in the back of the head with something hard. It's not enough to knock me down but it was as surprising as when I turned around to see asshole, with a standard 2x4 in his hands and another fellow, both obviously caught off guard that I didn't fall down. My instincts kick in and I immediately sprint away as they are still standing there looking confused. Not sure how I did it, but glad I made it to Bones’ shed, stumbling in and bleeding from the blow.

Injuries are not really common at his place but enough so that they are prepared for such eventualities. After examining me, Jan gets her first aid and sewing kit to close my head with eight stitches, then we pack some ice on.

Asshole left town right after this, I think that night, never saw him again but I did look the next day and brought a strong metal rod. His brother was alarmed and confused as the departure was sudden and unexplained and asshole owed him money. I explained what occurred during our brief night-time meeting and went to recover. Fine. I have a court date coming up, that's all I'm here for.

Dad and Cheri were in Dayton that night and went back to the Keys the next day. I told them not to worry about this, I was in good hands. A few days before court here, Dad is taken to the hospital for a bit of an emergency there but also recovers quickly. He did too much coke. When I am finally before the judge, my lawyer explains that I am most sorry for my criminal actions, that I previously had a clean record, and would like to return to Florida to help my father -who recently had serious medical issues- with the family business.

Yes, I had to keep a straight face when the lawyer says this. The judge allows my return and I fly back south. I didn't tell Mom or many people really about my ambush until much later after I left. It wasn't a concern, and was just added to the other scars.

When I return I have to start this probation business in the Keys system and ironically I get Dad's old parole officer. I see him about three times and he says the paperwork from Ohio hasn't arrived yet, they'll call me when it does. Stop bugging them. I go back to his office a couple of more times demonstrating good faith for procedure but still nothing, and we decide to just let it ride until it shows up.

A few years later I do go back to Ohio and do not want to be looking over my shoulder for legal trouble while visiting. I stop in at the courthouse and the officer in charge finds that the paperwork was sent but never answered and was forgotten. I could see this was confusing to him. Finally he asks, and I quote, “Well. Have you been good?” I do not hesitate saying yes. “Well. Okay then.” and that was it. I love my rural homeland.

Meanwhile in the Keys, things were changing. Across the water in Cuba, ninety miles away, the Mariel boatlift occurred with naive farmboy President Carter and Fidel Castro agreeing on a window of opportunity for Cuban Americans to come retrieve relatives still on the island who want to go. Ideally it was a great humanitarian gesture. I saw some old Conchs at the docks crying at such a great thing this was to be, helping friends and family on both sides. One of our guys, also a good friend, was going. Louie was a blue eyed Cuban lobster fisherman who helped the business with not looking like Spanish was his first language, among other things. Some of his cousins and aunts were still down there so he was taking his lobster boat down. Dennis was going too and I was invited but declined the invite for some reason, possibly concerned about my legal limbo but later was glad I stayed behind.

Hundreds of people were going in many forms of water vessels for this operation and more came back, but a great many more than intended and much later than anticipated because on the way there Castro changed the rules. When the US retrievers arrived they were told to wait in Mariel harbor while the prisons and asylums were emptied and those denizens were brought to the harbor. If you want to take people back, you have to take these too, said the Cuban soldiers with guns. Louie only thought to carry eight people back but two months later returned with about fifty on board. It was a similar story for everyone. Just to really fuck things up, when the US caught on to what was happening, as a dissuasion they were now going to fine the boat owners for everyone brought back that were not accounted for in the beginning. Louie and many others ended up forfeiting their boats, which then sat at Garrison Bight for months, with red tags on them. There were also rumors of some boats returning empty but were full when leaving Mariel. A lot can happen in ninety miles at sea.

Another element to this situation was our border patrol began to set up right at the mainland as people were driving north from the islands, first at intermittent times so no one knew when. The border patrol was really thorough, too, they would look everywhere for illegal immigrants, including under the vehicles and in your glove box. Traffic going out would be backed up for miles. The news about this Mariel boatlift travesty also stopped a lot of tourists from coming down. There was the impression that wild gangs were landing here and running amok. In reality, almost all of the refugees were immediately loaded onto buses here and taken to a facility near Miami. I'm surprised sometimes that people don't know about this whole boatlift thing, but more are familiar if I tell them it was the basis for the opening segment of the movie Scarface starring Al Pacino. Yes, that was practically a documentary. Say hello to my little history.

That event also made it rough for the illicit import/export trade in several ways and we weren't the only ones to feel it. A lot of that was going on then, it may have been the major part of the local economy. Everyone seemed involved somehow and it was pretty blatant before and a little while after Mariel happened.

It was common for bales to be found floating in different areas, one reason being that when a load came in, some were jettisoned for the Coast Guard to file a successful report on while the main load went somewhere else. On sparsely populated Cudjoe Key there was a tethered blimp purportedly used for weather radar scanning but it did not work directly below for a three mile radius, with no public access as the blimp base was in part of the wildlife refuge. Some of my favorite isolated lagoons were on that island with a small network of vehicle paths left from the abandoned coconut plantation there, which had operated in the 1920s I think.

Next to a popular gulfside bar downtown I saw a shrimp boat unloaded quickly one morning during brunch. I have seen a bale brought downstairs from a downtown Key West bar covered in a tablecloth and put into a car trunk outside. It was windy outside and revealed as they stepped off of the sidewalk. If anyone else noticed these things, no one seemed to care, and I guess the tourists wouldn't glean that such activities would be happening in broad daylight. I walk into a restaurant one night, and the two owners were sitting at a table to the side with scales weighing out grams of coke, even sharing with some of the guests. Walking down the length of Duval Street one morning after a big holiday, two of us found enough discarded buds, joints, and roaches to fill a small baggie that was stuck in the crux of a tree and also had a little left in it. Of course we smoked with the police too, but usually when they were off duty a few times. Hell, I've smoked pot in jail there. A couple of years before I arrived the fire chief, Bum Farto, was busted by some federalés for selling out of his red official city vehicle and disappeared before court, never to be seen again. There were rumors of him coming back for visits, sometimes dressed as a woman. So many stories. Everyone had them, but if you didn't live there you probably wouldn't believe them, which was another reason not to talk about it. In that business, advertising makes bad things happen.

[theidofdav]

Lunch. Penandink by me.

[theidofdav]

My picture of José Marti speaking to the workers at the Eduardo Gato Cigar Factory, Key West, FL.

[theidofdav]

[theidofdav]

  Tramping, part one, by David Laughlin. Art bymeaswell. An exit could be a good beginning. I was nineteen, uncomfortable, unprepared, uncouth, and unsafe when I left my home territory, escaped my family, and said goodbye to a very few friends. I had developed the conditions which propelled this departure, part of it being arrested with my older brother for two recent unheralded burglaries. Honestly, I had talked him into it. 

  These were done at our little country school where we had graduated from, recently for me. They had some new media equipment and we also picked up some musical instruments there late one night after opening a window in the back of the building. It was in a remote area, seven miles from the nearest town and it was easy. We also successfully reburglarized it the next week to retrieve some necessary cables to make the previous stolen goods operable.

  I didn't need this equipment. I had a good job as a butcher at a small family business, where I was arrested later while getting ready to leave work. I remember very well. Howard, the owner whom I had ridden on a tractor with as part of a job interview, came back to the locker room while I was getting out of my work duds (it was kill day) and saying, quite concerned and confused, that the sheriff was up front to see me.

  I have often followed a regimen of timing recreational drugs like the acid I had just taken. I planned to leave for a party nearby and it should be hitting when I got there but, unfortunately, the deputy had other plans. They wanted to talk to me at their offices and jail in the next county where we lived and the school burglaries had taken place. I had more acid on me, gift tabs for friends, and shoved those seven hits up my nose while getting in the back of the deputy's cruiser. 

   They had already picked up my brother Tim where he and I lived, at our rental trailer on someone's farm. When another deputy arrived there, the door was wide open and Tim was blaring some rock/roll while weighing out bags of pot, sitting on the couch in his underwear. He told them everything. When they brought me in, however, no matter how dilated my pupils got, I was not helping them. After about an hour of questioning me (I may have started singing) they brought Tim in, who told me to give it up, they got us. I think that's when I thought that my overall situation could be improved upon and maybe some travel was in order, something I had been speculating on recently. It could do me some good. Get out, enjoy some fresh new perspectives on life.

  I was so high.

  We had no prior criminal activities and were released soon after. In our farm community there aren't many who even leave the township so we weren't a flight risk.

  My folks were furious, mainly that I had besmirched their reputations but had also brought my brother, the golden child, into my schemes. Yeah, it was like that. I was not favored. Actually, it was much worse than that and something that I had lived with for many, many years from my Mom and stepfather, Butch. I dreaded going back to our farm. I left as soon as possible before and I would do it again.

  There are too many who have been through hardships worse than mine but these were mine. I don't want to dwell on this, I already have, and feel that the hurtful issues surrounding me then have been resolved or dissolved. I'll relay some of these quickly, to clarify what I felt was so necessary to run from. One lesson learned was that it's better to move towards something than to run from it.

#art by me. Top is pen and ink, bottom, #painting, "Refugees"

[theidofdav]

I was asked if I ever smoked weed with my Dad. Maybe. By the time I caught up with him again after many years he didn't smoke weed but he was running a good multi-state smuggling operation, and one of my jobs became testing batches before procuring the prohibited provisions. The following years involved with that family business we may have shared some pot, surely, but occasions so rare as to not be noteworthy. We did snort a lot of coke and dropped acid occasionally, though, after business was done. Does that count?

Sometimes I tell these stories without thinking about them because they're just memories to me. Occasionally though I notice peoples' expressions of disbelief and/or alarm when I relay them. Like when my dog got sued for slander. Or about my first wife, who was a mermaid. These are factual occurrences I have taken for granted which seem to interest some, so I shall attempt to relay some of these tales.

Meanwhile, here's a picture of me painting a chicken.