Geezer Paradise

by Robert Gannon

  I picked up a two quart plastic bottle of milk, a loaf of bread, and a quarter pound of sliced turkey. Then I headed for the checkout.

  "It's cold in here," I said to the cashier, a middle aged woman with a red beehive hairdo.

  "Wait until you go back outside," she said. "Then the heat will really hit you." "I'll bet." I paid the cashier and left with the jug of milk in one hand and a plastic bag with the turkey and the bread in the other. The cashier was right, the minute I stepped outside, the heat hit me like a brick wall. I pushed the button to change the traffic light so I could cross. I waited while an older couple in a tan Lexus came to a stop in the far lane, then I stepped off the curb. I gave the couple a wave with my bag and smiled. The old man behind the wheel responded by giving me a look of horror.

  As his window came down he yelled. "Look out." It was only then that I heard the roar of the engine--a large, black car was racing toward me, going about forty miles an hour. He wouldn't be able to stop in time even if he tried-- and he wasn't trying. I dropped the milk and the bag and tried to outrun it. It seemed like the black car was being aimed at me. I made it to the Lexus and tried to jump onto the hood, but I couldn't make it. The speeding black car whipped past me so close that the wind from it pushed me against the Lexus' fender. The woman inside the Lexus screamed--or maybe it was me.

  We watched as the black car lost control, went up on the sidewalk, then dropped back down onto the road and sped away. I stood there in a daze, my legs giving out. The driver of the Lexus got out and held me up. His wife was picking up my lunch.

  "Are you hurt?" the man asked.

  "I don't think so."

  The wife handed me the bag and the milk jug. "It looked like that man was trying to kill you," she said.

  "Damn right," the husband added.

  "John," the wife scolded. "Don't use that kind of language."

  "Well, either that or he was mighty drunk," John said. I finally composed myself enough to thank them for their help. I put the bag in my hand that was already holding the milk jug and shook his hand. I nodded my thanks to the wife.

  "Please be careful," she said. "Maybe you should stay indoors for a while."

  "That sounds like a good idea," I said, and waved them goodbye. I watched them drive off, and then I wobbled to the sidewalk and headed home on unsteady legs. It did seem to me that the driver of that black car knew what he was doing, but he also could have been drunk, or on drugs. I hadn't seen the driver, the windows all had that dark tint on them. If he was drunk it was just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But if he wasn't drunk, he was trying to kill me! Could it be linked to Flaherty? Did he send someone to kill me? Was I paranoid--or was it just bad luck? I would know soon enough, if they were trying to kill me they would try again. I decided not to tell Willey about it. He would go overboard and demand that we both arm ourselves with Uzi's. Time would tell. I'd just be more careful crossing the streets for a while.

  After lunch I was sitting in my Florida room. On the table next to the couch was the latest novel by Randy Wayne White. I'd had to wait two weeks for it to come through the library. I decided to lose myself in the perils of South Florida crime, and leave fighting the bad guys to Doc Ford, Sanibel Island's erstwhile detective. I picked the book up and started patting my pockets looking for my glasses. Then I remembered I had left them on the kitchen counter. I went into the kitchen and picked them up--and then I dropped them. I picked them up again--and dropped them again. It's a game old people play. It's called, Pick it up and Drop it. When I sat down to read and put my glasses on I discovered I was missing the left lens. It must have fallen out when I dropped them. No problem. The last time I was in the drugstore I picked up an eyeglass repair kit. I found the missing lens and the kit and sat down at the kitchen table.

  I opened the plastic case and took out the screwdriver, which was the size of a paper match, and the screws, which were the size of fruit flies. I soon discovered why fix it yourself kits for eyeglasses don't work. In order to fix your glasses you have to take them off--and then you can't see those tiny screws. But I refused to give up. Eventually, after much cursing and angst, I managed to get the lens in and tighten the frame around it. I was proud of myself. I took the glasses over to the kitchen sink and gently washed away my thumb prints. I dried them off with a dish towel--and then I dropped them. The left lens popped out and rolled around on the floor. I guess I didn’t tighten the screw enough.

  Then I did what I should have done in the first place, I got into my Wrangler and drove to the eyeglass store at the mall. The Wrangler rattles and groans a lot, but it keeps running. That's what's important. Traffic was light and I made good time getting to the mall. I went inside and found the eyeglass store on the first floor. That worked out well because if it was on the second floor I would have to walk by Clarkson's Furniture Store. I walked into the eyeglass store and smiled at the pretty little brunette girl behind the counter, I put the parts of my glasses down on the counter-top in front of her.

  "Could you please put the lens back in for me?" I pleaded.

  "Of course," she said, and she smiled at me like I was her very own grandfather--the one who has lost his marbles and drinks too much, and they hide him in a closet when company calls. In no time at all she had my glasses back together. I thanked her profusely and picked up my glasses--and then I dropped them. The girl took them and put them into a case.

  "That way they won't come apart when you drop them," she said. I noticed she didn't say, if you drop them, but when you drop them. She must see a lot of old geezers like me. She didn't even charge me for the eyeglass case.

  That afternoon Willey came over with a message from Eduardo. "Barney, Eduardo says his grandmother runs a halfway-house and one of her charges, a guy named, Darryl, is giving her a bad time. He says he can't get free to go and help her with this guy and he wants to know if we'll go to Tarpon Springs to help her."

  "Do you have directions to Sofie's house?" I asked. Willey held up a piece of paper with the instructions written on it. I put the book down. "I'm ready to go now," I said. I jumped up and grabbed my car keys. The thought of that guy giving Eduardo's pretty grandmother a hard time made my blood boil. When we got into the Wrangler Willey was smirking and said, "I figured you wouldn't need much convincing to ride to Sofie's rescue, judging by the way you looked at her the other day."

  "No woman should have to put up with that kind of abuse," I said. "By the way, just what kind of abuse is Eduardo talking about?"

  "Eduardo says Darryl eats constantly and keeps Sofie cooking for him all day. That isn't bad enough, but then he shouts orders at her to hurry up and get his food, and he acts like she's his personal servant. He calls her, 'Hey you.' The guy sounds like a real jackass."

  "Sofie's not in any danger from this guy, is she?"

  "The only one in danger is Darryl. Eduardo is afraid Sofie will lose it and shoot the bugger."

  As we drove up 19A to Tarpon Springs I noticed the roads weren't crowded. That was one of the good things about the Florida summers, the tourists go home. We pulled into Sofie's driveway and looked the house over. It was a red brick cottage sitting right on the water. There was a deck on the back with a small dock for boats.

  "Nice setup she's got here," Willey said. "I'd love to live on the water."

  "Everybody wants to live on the water," I said. "Let's get in and rescue Sofie." We walked to the front door and rang the bell. When Sofie opened the door she looked a little frazzled but she looked even prettier than I remembered. She came outside and closed the door behind her so we could talk in private. I guessed Darryl was nearby.

  "Oh, Barney and Willey, thank you for coming," she said. "I don't think I can put up with much more from this guy. He's scheduled to testify against organized crime next week but I don't think I can last that long. I'm on the verge of killing him."

  So Sofie didn't run a half-way house, it was a safe-house. No wonder she carried a gun. "Please come in,"
she said, and we trouped into the kitchen. Darryl, a very round man, sat at the table stuffing his face.

  "What's dis?" Darryl demanded of Sofie. "Don't ya know better than ta bring strangers inna da house. Did ya frisk em for guns?"

  I could see Sofie's jaw getting tight, and she seemed to be reaching into her apron pocket where the telltale bulge of a gun resided. I knew just how to keep Darrell in line--he was a man who lived to eat. I stepped in front of Sofie and said, "Hello, Darryl. Good to see you."

  "Well it ain't good ta see you two bums, get outta here." Sofie tried to step past me but I held her back by putting out my arm out.

  "That won't be possible, Darryl," I said. "Willey and I were sent here to give Sofie a couple of weeks off. Seems like somebody has been giving her a bad time. Until she returns we'll be protecting you."

  Darryl's jaw dropped. "Kin you guys cook?"

  "No, but I saw Willey here boil water once. He was pretty proud of that." I heard Willey snort behind me.

  Darryl started to sweat. "You can't do dat ta me!" he protested. "How am I gonna' live if none a you guys kin cook?"

  Then I threw Darryl the sucker punch. "You'll have to eat what Willey and I will eat."

  "You gonna' get take-out from a restaurant?" Darryl asked, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

  "No, that’s too expensive. You know everybody's cutting back these days. We'll just paper bag it from a burger joint."

  Darryl went pale. "You can't do dat ta me," Darryl sputtered. "I'll die eatin' dat stuff."

  "Well, you can always go out to eat in a restaurant," I said. I thought Darryl was going to cry. We all knew if he went out in public it wouldn't be long before he met a hail of bullets. We had him just where we wanted him.

  Darryl plastered a phony smile on his face and spread his hands, "Hey, you guys knew I was just jokin' around wit the lady, din't ya. I was just teasin' her a little, dat's all. Makin' like I'm a tough guy or somethin', ya know? She's a real sweetheart, takin' care a me an all. I really appreciate her, an I'll be on my very best behavior from now on. Honest, I swear on my mudder's grave."

  I looked at Sofie. "If he behaves himself I'll stay," she said.

  "Honest I will lady, I give ya my word."

  I didn't think Darryl's word was worth much, but I knew he would do anything to keep Sofie cooking for him. We all looked at Sofie. "I'll stay as long as you keep your word, Darryl," she said.

  "Honest I will, I promise." Darrell gave her his choirboy smile.

  "In that case I won't need a vacation after all," Sofie said. We all smiled at that. On the way out Sofie gave Willey and me a big hug. "Thank you guys, you saved my life." I figured it was Darryl's life we saved.

  I gave Sofie my telephone number. "If he acts up again call me right away. I'll be here in less than an hour."

  "Thanks guys, you're the best," Sofie said, and blew us a kiss at us, but I thought the kiss was directed more at me than at Willey.

  "Goodnight, Sofie," we said, and let ourselves out. As we walked to the Wrangler Willey said, "I think she has her eye on you, Barney. You better be careful or you'll end up a married man.

  "Ha," was all I had to say to that.

  The next morning I decided to make another attempt at making some money to pay overdue bills. Spying on Stevens would have to keep for another day. Besides, we had no idea how to go about spying. We couldn't just walk into Flaherty's office and announce that we were there to spy on Stevens, and would you please tell us his whereabouts?

  Instead, I decided to use the morning to research an article for the Tampa Sun. I have a good friend at the Sun, John Goodman. I met him at a convention we attended many years ago when we were both cub reporters. Now he's an editor with a big fancy office. He agreed to publish any articles I sent him as long as they were worth being published. Since then I've been sending him my work and getting about half of it published--and getting paid. That helps me get by. I grabbed my camera and notebook and Called Willey on the phone.

  "I'm going to Clearwater Beach to research an article." I said. "Want to come along for the ride, or do you have something else to do?"

  "I was going to spend the day answering my fan mail," Willey said. "But I'll go along just to make sure you don't get lost."

  "You're too good to me. Meet me at the Wrangler."

  We jumped into the Wrangler and drove down 19A to Clearwater, turned onto 60 West, and headed for the causeway to Clearwater Beach. Clearwater Beach is a barrier island in the Gulf of Mexico. The causeway that runs to it from the mainland starts off as a raised bridge that lets the boat traffic on the Intracoastal Waterway pass through underneath. Then it comes back down to the water and continues as a man made causeway over to the island of Clearwater Beach. There are turnoffs along the causeway that let you pull over and park on the grass under the palm trees. A strip of sand serves as a beach on both sides of the causeway. You can park there for free and fish or launch your kayak, or just sit and enjoy the view. Since it's the Intracoastal, it's shallow and the bottom is too mucky for swimming. I like to go there sometimes and just watch the people.

  As we came off the causeway we passed the marina where some expensive boats sat idly at dock. "I've never seen any of those boats move," I said to Willey. "I guess the people who own them are so busy working to pay for them that they don't have time to sail them."

  We hit the traffic circle on the island and passed a large hole in the ground that used to be a hotel that my late wife and I stayed at while on vacation many years ago. They had torn down the hotel and were going to build high rise condos there. A lot of coastal Florida was being torn down to make room for more condos. I guess it's progress. We went off the rotary onto to Gulfview Boulevard, the beach road bordering the Gulf. We drove down Gulfview a few blocks and then I took a left onto the back streets. I wasn't going to pay those exaggerated parking fees on the main drag.

  We found a place to park on a street that ran parallel to Gulfview, and were walking back to the beach road when I spotted a homeless woman sitting on the ground on the shady side of a dumpster. She had her back against a wall and was talking to herself in the manner of most of the homeless . . . and myself. It's difficult to wrap our minds around being homeless, even though the best of us are only a misstep away from it. It's especially disturbing when we come upon a woman in that situation. I always try to help those less fortunate than I am, but lately it's been hard to find people less fortunate than I am. She qualified.

  She wore her long, gray hair in a ponytail, which gave her the odd effect of looking like a wrinkled young girl. But the ponytail went well with her bicycle shorts. I figured I'd do my civic duty and drop a fiver on her. She looked up as I came near her with the five in my hand.

  "I don't do that anymore," she said.

  I told her I was glad to hear it, and held out the five. She reached out and grabbed it faster than any frog's tongue ever zapped a mosquito. I waited a beat but there was no thanks coming. Then she slapped herself in the face!

  "Are you alright?" I asked.

  "'Course I'm alright," she said. Then she slapped herself in the face again.

  "Well," I said, "it's just . . ." She mumbled something I couldn't understand. I put my hand up and cupped my ear to let her know I couldn't hear her. She motioned me closer with her finger. I leaned in close to hear what she wanted to tell me. "You're a dufus," she said, and then she slapped me! Willey doubled up laughing. The old lady cackled like a hen laying an egg--then she slapped herself. I tried to look indignant but I couldn't pull it off. I had to smile.

  "She sure got you good," Willey said as we walked away.

  We walked up to Gulfview Boulevard where I could get some good pictures of the beach and its royal blue cabanas. I took a half-dozen shots, and then we walked down to the boat-ride docks. There I got some good shots of the new pirate ship, The Bluebeard. A pirate wearing a three cornered hat and an eye patch lumbered up to us. "Avast ye matees," he roared. "Will ye be going out to sea wi
th us today?"

  "Not today," I said. "Maybe tomorrow."

  "We might all be dead tomorrow," the pirate countered.

  Willey said, "In that case, don't wait for us." I wondered if the pirate knew something we didn't.

  "Arrrrg," the one-eyed pirate growled, "I'll be keepin' me good eye peeled for ye. I don't like waitin' round fer me crew when it's time to shove off." Then he lumbered over to a young couple on the dock. "Arrrrg," he roared at them.

  I think he was a real pirate because I could smell rum on his breath.

  We walked around a bit and I took more pictures. I asked Willey to remind me to stop at the Chamber of Commerce to pick up some of their leaflets. They're always good for information about an area. On the way back to the Wrangler I noticed the homeless woman had gone. She was probably off slapping someone-- probably herself. We swung by the Chamber of Commerce to pick up the literature about the Beach. I parked, and Willey and I went in. It was just like any other Chamber of Commerce office, very neat--and empty. An older woman went behind the counter as asked what she could do for us. I told her I was writing a newspaper article about the Beach, and I needed information. She was impressed and gave me several brochures about Clearwater Beach's history, going back to the Seminole Indians.

  We left there and drove over the high bridge to Sand Key Island. Sand Key has a State Park on it, but the rest of the long, narrow island is covered with expensive homes and condos. The beach at Sand Key Park isn't as crowded as Clearwater Beach, and it's cheaper to park there. I got some good beach shots there, too, and then we headed home. I was ready to write the article.