Reinventing Mike Lake

by R. W. Jones

  The front steps creaked as I walked onto a porch that went the distance of the front of the building. A few people were scattered on rocking chairs, smoking cigarettes or pipes. As I went inside one of the smokers, a woman in her 50’s followed me in and went behind the counter. I ordered three sandwiches, two for me, and one for Bahama, and a large sweet tea.

  The woman washed her hands for about a total of two seconds before preparing my food, which I suppose was better than nothing. It’s my guess that she wouldn’t have even done that if a health inspector hadn’t been by in the last couple of weeks.

  Her cleanliness, or lack thereof, reminded me of a day when I worked at a pizza joint during college. We were honestly a pretty clean establishment, but one day my boss told me that a health inspector was coming by and we would have to wash our hands, with soap and water, between every pizza we took out of the oven and placed in the box. Thankfully they came during a mid-week afternoon, one of the slower times, but I still remember my hands being raw after my shift was up. The woman taking my order was washing her hands as if the inspector had been gone for at least a few days, and in a few more customers, they would be lucky if she gave her hands a wipe on her greasy jeans.

  While I waited for my order, I got a chance to look around the steamy restaurant that featured zero air-conditioning. To my surprise many celebrities had enjoyed the eatery, including the late Dale Earnhardt, his son Junior, and George W. Bush. Each of those three men, and a few others, had signed an autograph picture of themselves, adding a note about how good the food was. I chuckled to myself making a joke inside my head saying, “Of course they wrote they liked the food, they were probably no more than a few feet away from a man wielding a huge hatchet while cooking up the next batch of pork.”

  Just as I was done laughing at my own joke, they called my order. It was actually cooler outside than inside, and I wanted to get Bahama out of the car, so I looked for a spot to eat outside. About 50 yards in front of the building I noticed a few lawn chairs, so after scooping Bahama out of the car, I planted myself out in the field, and dug into my first sandwich.

  I don’t have the meat-eating resume that my uncle has, but it truly was the best barbeque I ever had. Between my first and second sandwich, I threw Bahama her sandwich, and without chewing, it was gone in two seconds. I was so engrossed in my sandwich that I didn’t realize the imminent thunderstorm approaching. Around my last bite the skies opened up, and I was drenched in a few seconds. Bahama, who doesn’t mind the rain, continued staring at me in hopes of the last bite. Anxious to get out of the rain, I made her dream come true, tossing the soggy bite into her waiting jaws. After running to the porch to throw away my trash, I ran to the car, Bahama enjoying the excitement every step of the way.

  My happy stomach must have caused me to doze off for a few minutes, because when I woke up the rain had all but stopped. A quick view of my GPS showed me that we were just over an hour away from Florida. It was still only late afternoon, and I felt fine thanks to my unplanned nap, so I thought heading into Florida was as good of a plan as any. Bahama gave a nodding approval, and we were off.

  7

  Apparently I had too much sweet tea at the “Baby Pig,” because by the time I hit Jacksonville, right over the state line, I had to stop at the first rest area. Bahama enjoys every stop of the car, whether you’ve been driving eight hours, or if you are in a traffic jam. Each stop is a potential new adventure for her, not to mention a new place to pee. This stop led to an adventure, but it was for me, not her.

  By habit, every time I get in and out of the car I check for my wallet, usually secure in my left front pocket. Not this time. After a frantic look inside the car for close to 20 minutes I realized I had lost it. I had a “last time you saw it moment” and was back in line at the GA Pig Shack. I may have left it on the counter, but I hadn’t pulled that move off in years, with the last time featuring me being drunk at a bar in college. That time I had maybe a few dollars in it, this time I had a few hundred dollars, plus credit cards and my social security card, but – most importantly – a picture of my wife and I from our first year in college. I found the number to the “Baby Pig” after an internet search on my phone.

  It was already a few minutes after seven, and they were only open to eight, so I knew I would have to hurry if I did indeed leave my wallet there. A woman who answered the phone named Karen said she hadn’t seen a wallet, but remembered me running for my car from the field when it started pouring. I took this as she remembered making fun of me when it started pouring, but it all but came back to me that the wallet probably popped out when I was running through the field. I didn’t make my obligatory wallet check at that point because I was just so happy to be back in the car and promptly dozed off.

  When I got back to the restaurant a few minutes after closing time, it was raining again, but not nearly as bad. I was happy to see that a few customers were still in the restaurant when I entered, so I didn’t have a guilty feeling that they had waited for me to come back, though I’m not entirely sure they would have waited for me.

  A few of the employees were sitting at one of the indoor picnic tables, and eye-balled me inquisitively as I walked through the door. It didn’t occur to me at the time that I was dripping wet, and was weary from a day of driving and thinking my wallet, and more importantly my picture with my wife, was missing.

  “Is Karen here?” I asked.

  “Who’s asking?” asked one of the women sitting down, in a gruffer tone than I was expecting.

  “Um, well” I stuttered slightly off put, “I lost my wallet…”

  “Ohhhh,” said the woman who just asked me who’s asking. “I’m Karen, I got your wallet right here.”

  Karen got up and went to the other side of the counter and handed me my drenched wallet, minus three hundred dollars, but credit cards, social security card, and thankfully the picture of my wife and I, still intact. “Someone found it in the field and brought it inside not long after you called.”

  That “someone” I thought was most likely “Karen” but if you got a look at some of the men and woman she was sitting with at that table behind me, all still staring at me, you probably wouldn’t have questioned the missing money either. I also remember having the thought that many of these employees wield cleavers for a living, so I quickly thanked her, and walked back outside, to freedom.

  Later on in the trip, when I wasn’t so upset about losing the money, realizing it was my own stupidity, I began to appreciate the culture of that part of the country. In the north, and where I live in Virginia is absolutely considered the north when you are in Georgia, everyone in the building would have pointed to “Karen” when I asked where she was. I don’t think that the people revealing who “Karen” was would do it with bad intentions, but when you find yourself in the position of “Karen” and some unsavory looking character was looking for you, you certainly hope everyone wouldn’t point you out. In the south, there is a sense of privacy, and it seems the residents there, at least the ones that work in the GA Pig Shack in Brunswick, protect each other a little better than their brethren up north.

  Back in the car, wallet in place, I weighed my options. Thankfully the money lost wouldn’t set me back that much but I still cursed myself for carrying that much on me to begin with, especially considering that my debit card did the same as the cash I had just lost. At that point more than ever, the feelings in the back of my head got louder, constantly asking me, “What is it you hope to accomplish with this trip?” All I had accomplished so far while I was along on the trip was being irresponsible with my valuables and putting my identity at risk.

  I considered driving back to Florida because it was only 8 p.m., but I had been driving about ten hours, including backtracking. After my wife died, I am not sure I drove ten hours the entire year. For the first four months I was only a passenger, as my parents came occasionally to pick me up for dinner at their house. Then when I started feeling a bit better, or at least doi
ng a bit more, I would drive to the library, and maybe to the video store, but both of these were just a couple miles from my house. After I purchased the movie streaming service through my video game system, I cut my already meager driving time in half.

  Here I was in Brunswick. There was a Comfort Inn across the street, which seemed promising, so I crossed the road, only to see the telltale signs of construction. As I was about to leave the lot, I did see a hand written note written on big letters on the front door that read, “Excuse the dust, but we are open!”

  I was able to secure a room for what I thought was an obscene $89.99 a night for this part of the country, but the front desk told me that the Emerald Princess II, a gambling boat that can operate once it hits international waters, had just reopened after a lengthy renovation, so the rooms were about twice the price they usually were to house the itchy gamblers.

  I now had information for the next time I found myself in Brunswick, GA. I could eat pork and gamble.

  8

  The next morning I woke up around 7 a.m. and was starving because I hadn’t eaten since my soggy sandwich early in the previous evening. I knew pretty clearly that the “Shack” wouldn’t be open that soon, but still I held out hope that they had a pork pancake special. Even before the ritual morning bathroom call, I wandered over to the window and peaked out just to confirm my thoughts. Closed.

  With no real reason to stay at a motel in Brunswick for any longer than one absolutely must, I threw myself, Bahama, and our belongings back in the car after a quick shower and a quicker walk. I gave the Pig one last longing look, and got back on the highway heading to Florida, wallet in place.

  A couple of exits down the interstate I had found some golden arches to suppress my hunger for the time being. It was around my second bite of this waffle, sausage, egg, and cheese contraption that I began thinking about my health so far on this trip. I had never been a health nut but I knew enough to know combining hours of driving with pork and red meat meal after meal wasn’t the greatest of ideas. As many vacationers know, it’s really hard to maintain a healthy diet for a week or two. I was planning on being out for a lot longer than a week or two.

  As I passed the Jacksonville rest area where I had discovered I was missing my wallet, I instinctively reached into my pocket. It was still there. Good, we will now be conquering new land, I thought. Well, not entirely new land, as I had been in Florida a few times, mostly in my youth, visiting the mouse with big ears and his fun land.

  I also have an uncle and aunt that live in a little beach resort called Treasure Island, not far from Tampa. It had been a couple years since I had talked to them, in fact I had never met his new wife, but I knew if I visited them they would still welcome me with open arms. My uncle is the most laid-back person I have ever met.

  Uncle Howard, my father’s brother, is the black sheep of our family. Most of my family lives within an hour of each other, but from the time my uncle could drive he was hardly ever that close to family again. My uncle has a way of life that I think more people should adopt. He’s a permanent vacationer. He lives in places that most of us only visit once or twice a year and think of as a getaway. Our getaways are his homes.

  I can’t recall all the places he has lived but I do know he’s lived on both coasts in Florida, a lot of the coastal cities in California, and even got married to his second wife in Jamaica. He and his first wife remain friends from what I’ve heard, but the constant moving during the marriage was getting to her, so they agreed, with literally no hard feelings, to separate.

  His second wife, Gail, is a bit more of a trooper, and seems to enjoy going along for the ride. Knowing she will never live in an undesirable destination, it’s hard to blame her.

  I knew that if I was going to be spending any amount of time with Uncle Howard that the idea I had of trying to eat healthy would be on hold. The main reason my uncle eats poorly, I suspect, is because he’s a stoner. I don’t think he does any other drugs, except drinking occasionally, but I was aware he was a stoner before I even knew what being a stoner entailed. If I had to guess, over the course of my life I have spent maybe 40 to 50 total days in his presence. Of all those meals we shared I can’t remember a time we ate a home cooked meal together. Unless toast counts as a home cooked meal – he does put peanut butter on it after all. He once told me that he doesn’t eat poorly because he’s a stoner. That’s what rookie stoners do. He told me he eats the way he does because that’s what he prefers to eat. I believe him, but you can be the judge on that.

  In each city he’s lived in he has a favorite sub, pizza, barbeque, Chinese, and Italian place. What’s remarkable is that my uncle is so friendly that I would suspect he gets about half of these carry-out meals for free. It could be that he is very generous, especially with money. Once, when he was living in another beach town in Florida called Vero Beach, I was with him as we went by four of his favorite eateries and dropped a bottle of Patron off to each of their owners.

  Because of his generosity, and his never asking for anything in return, the owners all love him and practically throw food at him. When we arrived back to his house after our Patron run, we could barely stuff ourselves through his doorway, holding two pizzas, a bag of Chinese food, my uncle’s favorite homemade tortilla chips with three kinds of salsa, and a massive heap of spaghetti featuring what must have been ten pounds of meatballs. It would make sense to expect that my uncle weighs about 500 pounds, but he is actually in pretty good shape because he prefers to live in cities where he can walk everywhere.

  Once I passed Jacksonville I knew from my GPS I was about three and a half hours to Treasure Island. I was beginning to get nervous about just showing up unannounced. Still, I had the strong desire to call my father to let him know I where I was headed, but then I remembered that there is a pretty good chance that nobody even knows Uncle Howard’s phone number, or if he even has a phone.

  I got into the beach town a little before noon after stopping for another gross lunch, and a few walks with Bahama. I ended up having to call my parents anyway because I couldn’t remember his exact address, despite remembering the Christmas card he sent my parents fairly well, a bunch of Santa’s sitting around a poker table smoking and drinking. Luckily my mother, who keeps almost everything, was able to locate the card and envelope within a couple minutes. Plus, if she hadn’t found the card, I’m sure she had already put his address in her handy dandy address book. After talking to my folks for a few minutes, and telling them about my trip to that point, including worrying my mother with the wallet story, I hung up right outside my uncle’s house.

  The huge house sat on stilts to protect it from flooding due to hurricanes causing some kind of impact on this little town every few years. Four parking spots were underneath the house, and then a wooden staircase went all the way up to the third floor. As soon as I parked the car Bahama got excited – more than usual.

  It was pretty dark underneath the house, but I could see well enough to know that we were being greeted by a huge dog. The mix breed dog appeared to come in at over 100 pounds. I felt Bahama and I had every right to be scared, but in demeanor the dog was calm, as it peaked into the driver’s side window. After giving us a curious look, he backed up and sat at the foot of the steps. I guess he was going to be our personal escort on our way to meet Howard and his wife. Judging by the size of his back, he would have had no trouble taking my luggage for me.

  Bahama and I got out of the car, Bahama making a bee-line directly to the beast of a dog for an introduction. This scared me a bit, but the dog hardly paid any attention to Bahama, other than a quick sniff back, and then looked back at me, as if to ask, “Are you coming?” Being that I had spent most of the time talking to a dog the last two days, I didn’t feel odd at all, answering, “We’re coming! We’re coming!”

  We marched up to the third floor, and around to the side of the house facing the Gulf of Mexico. As soon as we reached the final step, we were greeted by a hot tub with my naked uncle an
d his second wife, whom I had not yet met mind you – not that it would have made it any easier had I met her. My uncle barely moved, while his wife Gail looked around frantically weighing her decisions about running into the house stark naked or sinking further into the hot tub. At this point to her I was just a stranger, so she also had the concern of just exactly who was this guy standing in front of her and staring at her. Unintentionally. I was also worried that she would scream or squeal and that their dog would react by eating me for lunch. Luckily, after a few seconds of remembrance, my uncle said to his wife, “Relax, relax, this is my brother’s kid, Michael,” setting down a now-soggy joint on an elevated table next to the hot tub.

  I don’t think this helped Gail any, as she was still naked, and I was still a stranger. I finally got the hint and walked a few steps back down the stairs. I was used to back tracking this trip so this was natural. I waited until I could tell she had scampered back into the house.

  In the meantime, Howard had put on a pair of swimming trunks and was getting out of the tub.

  “Your dad said you were driving around the country. I had a feeling you might make it here,” slapping a wet hand on my back. “I see you met my wife,” he added, laughing, as she came back outside, this time with clothes on, but still wearing a red mask of embarrassment.

  While I had had the opportunity to get a full look at her I had diverted my eyes, until this point. She was a pretty woman, about my uncle’s age, mid 40’s. My first aunt, Howard’s first wife, had been a bit overweight due to their eating habits, but Gail was a pillar of health. She had a flat stomach, toned arms and legs, and beautiful skin. Just as I was surmising that she was not the type of eater that my uncle is, or maybe was, she asked me while extending her arm for a handshake, “Are you hungry can I make you something?” making that the first time I had ever heard the possibility of homemade food an option in my uncle’s presence.