by Neil Watson
After their long flight, father and son were both feeling tired, and the heat didn’t help. “Let’s go back to the house now, get settled and take a quick nap,” suggested his father. “Then we can go to the shop to pick up some things for dinner. How do you fancy if we barbecue some burgers by the pool?” His dad’s idea suited Oliver very well, and they left the beach to trudge in the heat back to the welcome lower air-conditioned temperature inside their temporary new home.
After unpacking cases and generally familiarizing themselves with their new surroundings, feeling refreshed after their short rest, it was time to venture out again to the shop, this time in the Mustang. After pulling into the Publix Supermarket car park, they headed to the shop’s entrance to buy provisions for the next few days. Oliver was in awe at the variety of food products in brightly-coloured packaging, many of which he never even knew existed. With Oliver grabbing items off the shelf in a mild frenzy, his father eventually urged him to control his enthusiasm, and they left the shop carrying only two bags full, although Oliver could easily have filled ten. He reached inside the brown paper sack and pulled out one of his purchases to try—a packet of Combos. “I’ll be coming back for more of these, Dad,” he said with a smile, after biting into the cheese-filled pretzel pieces. “Here—try one!”
While munching on Combos, they stood in front of an area outside where the supermarket trollies were stored, looking at a large community board on the wall, with various advertisements pinned to it informing patrons of upcoming local events. Oliver’s father, eager to explore the area in the days to come, noticed one particular sign. ‘FLEA-MARKET. THIS SUNDAY, 10AM. SKINNY’S PARKING LOT, 39TH ST’
“That’s tomorrow. What do you think, Oli?” asked his dad, keen to persuade his son to go with him, but knowing he was unlikely to be interested in looking through piles of other people’s junk.
“Hmm, I think I might rest in, Dad. You know, jet-lag and all that,” came the answer that his dad preferred not to hear.
Deciding not to push it for now, Oliver’s dad opted to just get home and start the barbecue—but not before saying a few words that he knew would get under Oliver’s skin. “Okay, son. But whatever Skinny’s is, it could be fun. And don’t forget the FOMO!”
CHAPTER 16
(SUNDAY, 7TH JUNE, 2015)
Key Bargain
O liver’s father had known exactly that any mention of FOMO, or the ‘Fear of Missing Out’ would render his son unable to resist joining him that Sunday morning. Having woken earlier than anticipated, they were both relieved. Thankfully, the different time zone they were now in appeared to have had little adverse effect on their personal body clocks. Being greeted by another beautiful, cloudless sky, over breakfast Oliver’s father was met with a very unusual request.
“Dad. I’ve been thinking . . .” Oliver began cautiously. “When we’re out, can I call you by your name, and not ‘Dad’? It would make me feel older than I am, and . . .” Although initially surprised by Oliver’s request, his father was positively flattered by what his son said next. “. . . and I’d feel like we were more, err, you know, kind of, sort of, mates!”
Not being able to come up with any off-the-cuff objections, Leslie Markland nodded slowly and agreed. “Okay son,” he said.
“Thanks, Dad,” Oliver replied, relieved that that small discussion had gone so well. He was already imagining chatting up those tanned girls on the beach, or anywhere else for that matter, and he hadn’t wanted to come across like the schoolboy that he actually still was.
“Right then,” Leslie prompted, clearing up the cereal bowls. “Let’s go and find where or what Skinny’s is. And also see what interesting things we might pick up from the flea-market.” Despite Oliver over-emphasising his false sigh, he was looking forward to going there, especially now that he’d satisfactorily resolved the little awkward question he’d been afraid of asking.
Checking the tourist map, they discovered that 39th Street was only a short walk from the house, almost opposite the bike shop. “Well, we may as well collect the bike while we’re out,” suggested Oliver, and off they went, dressed in shorts, t-shirts and trainers. Having completed all the necessary paperwork at the shop, Oliver was soon pushing his new machine along the pavement, hardly able to contain his urge to leap on it and ride off along the beachside path. Instead, he walked along with his dad until they reached Skinny’s.
There was a large wooden board outside a ramshackle house proclaiming its full name, ‘SKINNY’S PLACE’, serving their so-called ‘Number 1 Burgers’. Rough and ready tables and chairs, pots, umbrellas, palm trees and a menu blackboard were dotted around the bright blue-painted exterior. Leslie peeked inside. Huge ceiling fans whirred around slowly, hardly creating any draft, but nevertheless the interior provided welcome shade from the scorching sun. Even at this early hour, a number of sunglass-wearing men and women stood or sat at the bar counter, protectively holding their ice-cold beers, hands wrapped around the frosty glasses, as they chatted, laughed and generally passed their Sunday morning doing nothing too energetic.
Making a mental note that they should go there later for lunch, Leslie was still none the wiser about the location of the flea-market. He was informed by one of the waitresses that they needed only to continue a few yards past Skinny’s and they would see its location in the car park at the side of the building. So, they stepped outside and, sure enough, there it was, thronging with people busily setting up their stalls and preparing the displays of their many items for sale.
Curious passers-by mingled with the more serious collectors, as they browsed the bric-a-brac, posters, second-hand clothes, watches, coins, embroidered tablecloths, and a host of other handcrafted items. This was exactly what Leslie had been hoping for, and Oliver was surprised to find himself equally interested in having a good look at what was on offer. Whereas his dad was specifically seeking some presents to take home for friends, Oliver was more keen on finding something for himself—something American, maybe something historic, definitely something that would remind him of his visit.
Carefully locking his bike to a lamppost, using the long, heavy-duty chain provided by the shop, he began his search by meticulously leafing through every poster in the rack of one stall, before moving on to sift through the pre-worn t-shirts of another. Then he came to an area that specialised in old car parts, but as much as he’d like to own a grill from an old Chevy, or a tail-light cluster from an Oldsmobile, he had to bear in mind the practical implications of transporting any such purchase on the plane home.
Very happy just looking around and soaking up the pleasant atmosphere, Oliver moved along to another seller’s pitch where a lady had a number of flat glass cases spread out on her trestle tables. One of the cases housed thirty or forty medals, another contained hunting knives and a third had a collection of handguns. Oliver was fascinated—he’d never actually seen a real gun before, except the ones worn in the holsters of the policemen patrolling in and around Tampa Airport.
This was more like it, he thought. True to form, he began imagining the circumstances in which the medals, knives and guns had been used in their days of old. As he peered through the glass top, the lady stall-holder with silver hair and rimmed spectacles spotted his interest and came up to talk to the young man who looked intently at what she had on offer.
Apart from the bike-shop man, this was the first American that Oliver had engaged in conversation with, and he found himself drawn again to the accent. But the stallholder was equally fascinated to listen to Oliver speak. They began to chat, with Oliver explaining he was visiting the island on holiday from England. “Oh, gee!” said the lady, turning to her friend working at the next table. “Did you hear that, Jean? This young man is all the way from Engerland!” Then addressing Oliver again, she asked a question that made Oliver laugh. “Now tell me, is that anywhere near Scartland? I’ve always wan-ned to go there.”
Jean then came over to join them, and Oliver found he enjoyed being th
e centre of their attention. “Oh my, have you been to Bucking-haam Palace? Now that’s in London, isn’t that so?” asked Jean.
“Yes, it is. And yes, I have been there, but only to see the Changing of the Guard,” he admitted, although sorely tempted to say ‘yes’ to Jean’s next question about whether he’d met the Queen. As he continued lapping up the inquisition, he casually looked along the length of Jean’s table at the wooden boxes and more glass cases on it. One particular display cabinet caught his attention more than the others, and he moved over to it.
“You can open it, if you want,” said Jean. “Have a good look at them. They’ve all got a story to tell.”
That was exactly the same sentiment he’d been thinking himself, as Oliver delicately lifted the glass lid until it was resting back on its hinges. Inside were perhaps as many as a hundred different old keys of all shapes, colours and sizes. Some were in bunches, held together with wire rings, but most were singular, laying in a jumbled mess on top of each other. Oliver picked some up at random and examined each one in turn. Where were they from? What was behind the doors that they locked? Some of the largest appeared quite ancient, made of iron or other metal, now rusted and pitted, perhaps used on gates at some slave trader’s mansion, or maybe to secure bank vaults in the Wild West. Oliver was drifting into his imaginary world, thinking up any number of possible yarns to match each of the keys in his hand.
As he pondered more and more, he wondered if any keys had identifying letters or numbers on them. He rummaged through the entire collection, individually turning them to scrutinise further. Curiously, there was only one single key in the entire collection that had any identification markings, and Oliver began examining it with great curiosity. It was at least 15 centimetres in length, almost completely flat except for some grooves cut along the shaft, and the handle was almost as large as Oliver’s palm. Not only was it one of the largest keys in the cabinet, it was perhaps also the shiniest and, as if possessed by the key itself, Oliver felt a wave of euphoria flow through him. He knew immediately that he wanted to buy it, but he didn’t have a clue why. Maybe it was simply because it looked good, and would be a cool souvenir to take home with him back to Essex.
Oliver was also mildly curious to learn more about the key, its history and where it was from. As the journalistic, inquisitorial person in him came to the fore, his mind raced. What if he could actually discover which lock this key opened? Perhaps the key had an interesting story to tell. Maybe something he might write about, he pondered. An essay, a short story—or even a book? He was dancing cartwheels in his head!
Noticing the trance-like state the young man now appeared to be in, Jean brought her potential customer firmly back to the real world. “I’m not entirely sure what that one is, but you’re welcome to have it for only $35.” Oliver gulped, and reluctantly began returning it with the others. Observing the sad look on his face, Jean was nevertheless eager to make a sale, her first of the day. She rarely sold any of her keys ever, and had vowed never to buy a job lot of them again, as was the case with this load. To her it wasn’t a collection, it was an encumbrance.
“How much have you got? Why don’t you make me a sensible offer?” she suggested. Oliver was aware that he actually had $25 in notes in his right pocket, and a handful of coins in the other. He thought he’d try his luck, picking a number from the air less than twenty. “I’ve got $17,” he said, not actually telling a lie. Jean held the back of her hand to her forehead feigning a nervous attack, but with a friendly smile as well. “I wouldn’t normally do this, but as you’ve been so charming, it’s a deal!”
Oliver, extremely pleased with his excellent negotiating skill he never knew he possessed, paid up, and shook Jean’s hand. She certainly had a firm grasp. “I don’t suppose you can tell me anything about the key, can you?” he asked, somewhat timidly. It would take him a while, he thought, to become as forthright as people like Jean. “Anything at all would be really useful,” he went on, not overly expecting to obtain any further information from the lady.
But, keen to help her customer, Jean surprised him by calling across to her friend from the first memorabilia stall, as she retrieved the key from Oliver’s hand, and inspected it some more. “Pat, have you got any clue what these words might mean? Our young man here wants to know.”
Pat came over and took her turn at studying the flat, brass-coloured piece of metal. The rounded oval shape at the top contained a large letter ‘A’ in the centre, with the words ‘FOLGER ADAM CO.’ engraved above. “Well, let’s see,” said Pat, who seemed to know more about keys than Jean did. “I’m afraid I don’t have any inkling about ‘Folger Adam’,” she said, but went on.
Oliver was enthralled by what he heard next, and he had no doubt that he’d just spent the best $17 possible. Pat continued; “See this here?” she said, pointing at the engraving beneath the ‘A’. “I know this place—my cousin lived there when he worked as a guard before he passed. The letters ‘ILL’ are short for the state of ‘Illinois’, and ‘JOLIET’ is the name of the town. I think you’ve just bought yourself a prison key!”
CHAPTER 17
(SUNDAY, 7TH – WEDNESDAY, 10TH JUNE, 2015)
Beach Baby
L eslie and Oliver both agreed that the burger at Skinny’s really was ‘NUMBER 1’, as the sign outside had claimed. While Oliver was devouring his meal, he was unsure what he most wanted to do afterwards. He’d been eagerly waiting for what seemed like ages to take a ride on his Cannondale, but now he was also very keen to return to the unlimited broadband connection in the house, so that he could research his new acquisition. He settled on doing the ride first, then returning to his dad later, who he’d spend the remaining part of the day with at the poolside.
In some ways, the terrain along the coast road was similar to the one on the Wivenhoe track back home. Both were flat and straight, running parallel to water, and both were equally exhilarating. The big difference was the heat and humidity in Florida. In Wivenhoe, although often in its own pleasant microclimate, the temperature averaged 22 degrees in the summer. But here, it was a whole ten degrees higher. Even cycling at a steady ten miles an hour and creating his own breeze, within minutes, sweat would be covering him from head to toe. But who cares? thought Oliver, as he weaved his way along the beach paths. With incredible views of the sea, the sand, and wonderful bird-life, the excessive heat didn’t bother him.
After completing several miles and arriving back at the pool, he found that his dad had fallen asleep on one of the loungers, a contented and relaxed look on his face. Not wishing to disturb him from his nap, Oliver fetched his iPad, changed into his swimming shorts and quietly joined his dad on an adjacent sunbed. The only sound that could be heard was the trickle of the water cascade. Oliver began researching keys, and quickly disturbed the peace with a yell that instantly woke his father. “Huh? Uh? What’s going on? What’s the matter?” Sitting bolt upright, for an instant, Leslie didn’t know where he was, or what was happening.
Oliver didn’t answer at first, but just carried on scrolling through various web pages, engrossed in what he was reading. Eventually, he answered slowly while still taking in the details of his search for ‘Joliet prison’ on Google. “Sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to wake you up,” he apologised. “But I’m amazed about the old key I bought at the flea market. Coincidence or what?”
Not knowing what his son was talking about, Leslie asked him to at least give him a clue. “Dad, on the plane I watched three films, one of them was The Blues Brothers,” Oliver slowly began explaining, while continuing to read. “Well . . . you just wouldn’t believe it . . . hang on a minute . . . it’s incredible . . .”
“What? What’s incredible?” demanded Leslie, now slightly peeved at having his sleep interrupted by this blather, and listening to yet another very long drawn out pause. “Son. Spit it out!”
“Well. In the film, Elwood Blues comes out of prison, to be met by his brother Jake,” Oliver began thoughtfully. “
No, hang on, it was Jake that came out, and Elwood was waiting outside,” he paused, hesitating.
“Get on with it!” his dad demanded, half joking, half serious.
Oliver took the hint. “Okay, Dad, keep your hair on,” he laughed, before holding up his flea-market bargain as if it would explain all. “At the beginning of the story, Jake comes out of prison. It’s the very-same actual prison that this key comes from!” He’d finally managed to convey his discovery to his dad, who now paid greater attention.
“Let me see that thing,” Leslie said, stretching out his arm and beckoning for the key to be passed to him. Analysing it closely, he looked carefully at the top part of the key, now as curious as Oliver. Reading ‘JOLIET. ILL.’ and guessing ‘ILL.’ meant ‘Illinois’, he then looked further down the key’s blade. “I wonder what these markings mean. ‘410A’? Maybe it’s a cell number or something?” he said, with raised eyebrows.
“I don’t know, Dad,” taking back the key and screwing up his eyes to look at the tiny engraved markings. “But I’m going to do my best to find out,” he asserted.
“I’m sure you will, son. I’m sure you will,” replied Leslie, knowing fully well that once Oliver got the bit between his teeth, he rarely let go. He guessed that next his son would be requesting that they actually go to Joliet. Laying back to soak up some more rays, Leslie already knew what his answer was going to be. He hoped it wouldn’t cause a conflict between them, but aware that Illinois was such a long way from Florida, it would have to be a firm ‘No!’ The warm sun finally took control and he drifted back to the pleasant dream he was living in a few minutes earlier.