by R. W. Jones
My first trip out was pretty uneventful. Most of the time I helped children bait their hooks when the parents didn’t want anything to do with it, or know how. Being a novice myself, I had many of the children laughing at my futile efforts, despite Tommy showing me how to do it properly more than once. Most of the bait, to me anyway, just seemed like smaller versions of the fish that the tourists were trying to catch. It was obvious to everyone on board, including Tommy, that I was ignorant to just about anything to do with fishing, but luckily they didn’t care that much.
About halfway through the trip, one of the father tourists on the trip brought up a decent-sized grouper. He had no desire to keep it, and was about to toss it back over board when I saw Tommy stop him. Tommy put the fish in a giant cooler located in the center of the boat, while explaining to the father tourist that groupers are one of the hardest fish to reel on board, and that it was a small miracle that he did it so easily by himself. Grouper, I learned from Tommy, and later watching others drag them in, dart around frantically, smacking against the boat repeatedly. It’s not uncommon for it to take 30 seconds to bring it to the side of the boat, but ten minutes to drag it in. This didn’t explain why Tommy wanted to keep the fish, but I didn’t think much of it.
In a lull in action, Captain Casper gave me a rundown of the best places to catch specific types of fish, most of which I forgot immediately. He said the grouper we caught was native to a group of reefs where not many of the other party boats go. He said he usually goes to this place because most people just want the thrill of catching a fish and having to fight a bit for it. For some of the afternoon partiers, those that are just treating this as a respite until they can get to Duval, he heads out into the ocean. The bites are fewer, but the partiers hardly notice, but when they catch one it can be one of many types of fish, delighting them. I was beginning to feel sorry I wouldn’t get to be a part of the rowdier groups that hunt for the more exciting types of fish, but was happy to learn a solid lesson from Casper.
When we got back to the dock, I helped the guys hose off the deck, and restock the bait for the next session, taking off in less than an hour from when we got back. When I was getting ready to head back to Jean’s, Tommy stopped me, holding the grouper he had saved.
“You know where O’Riley’s Place is, the restaurant around the corner?” he asked. I remembered this was the restaurant I had watched the family go to with their catch unintentionally.
“Yup, pass by it almost every day. Is this where this guy is heading?” I asked while pointing to the fish.
“You got it. Bring this over there, go in the back door, and give it to whomever the cook is today, probably Seymour. Tell him to cook it up for us and have it ready at 7; tell him we want his famous sandwiches. You’ll meet me there?”
“Yeah. See ya then.”
“You can bring your dog too. They have outside seating, plus I’m guessing she’ll like what we’re having.”
“Great, she’ll like that.”
I went over to O’Riley’s Place, handed the fish off to a large Samoan man with a bigger knife, giving him the specific directions from Tommy. Seymour smiled and said, “No problem,” and went back to work just as quickly.
When I got back to the room, Bahama gave me a curious face after she smelled me. She wasn’t used to me smelling like fish, but, like Tommy had said, I was guessing she’d like her meal later tonight. I showered, and threw my clothes into the hamper, realizing that I would have to do a lot more laundry if I didn’t want my room to smell like rotted fish. Unfortunately, Jean did all the laundry, so I would have to talk to her about maybe doing my laundry every day. After drying off, I went downstairs to find her, and asked about paying a little more per week in turn for more laundry service.
“You’re working on the fishing boat now right? I’m guessing you’ll have quite a few opportunities of bringing me some fresh fish?”
“You got it.” That was easy enough. For the duration of my stay she began adding some fish courses to the nightly dinner.
After taking care of Jean, or, more appropriately, Jean taking care of me, I went back to the room for a while and got some writing in before announcing to Bahama it was time to go. With a cocked head, she jumped on the bed and waited for me to put on her collar and leash.
I met Tommy at O’Riley’s, getting there just a few minutes before he did, smelling doubly as fishy as I had, having worked two shifts. The smell of fresh meats cooking inside the restaurant drowned out that smell, and any other smell that may have been dragged in off the city’s streets and boats.
We ordered beers and a bowl of water for Bahama. Bahama wasn’t as interested in the water as she was in Tommy, or more particularly his fishy smell. Tommy didn’t seem to mind Bahama jumping in his lap, but I thought Tommy would probably like to enjoy his meal without a hound under his chin. I picked up Bahama and sat her down on the other side of me.
He asked me how I thought my first day went, and other small talk, but it was clear we were both just waiting for food. After a long bout of silence, I asked if he knew the history of the restaurant or if he had met O’Riley himself. After laughing at that question, he told me nobody knew O’Riley, and it was most likely that this restaurant was originally opened as a drug front, saying they fudged the books for this place in order to make money at their real jobs. He explained that’s at least how it started, but the food here was so good that it became a must-eat for locals. Tommy told me that many restaurants in the Keys claim to have “The Best Grouper Sandwich in the Keys.” Tommy told me they are all lying, “The best one is here.” A few minutes later I got my first taste.
Having never eaten a grouper sandwich before I had nothing to compare it to, but it didn’t matter. By default then it was the best grouper sandwich I had ever eaten, but it was also one of the best meals I ever had. In addition to the sandwich, I had french-fries and a vegetable mix, though the latter hardly got touched.
When we were finishing up, Seymour came out of the back and put a pack, the rest of the grouper, in front of Tommy. Tommy thanked him, and asked him if he kept some for himself, which he had. Tommy handed the pack to me.
“I wasn’t joking when I said you would be paid in fish,” he said, chuckling. He wasn’t lying though—that was how I was paid my month I worked on the boat. That worked out just fine, as that is exactly how I paid Jean, in part, my last month there.
16
The fresh air on the boat restored me a great deal. I began writing again, and at a pretty good clip. The remaining weeks in Key West ran together, but at a perfect pace. I woke up, I fished, I wrote, I ate. I’m guessing that set-up would be perfect for most men, save the writing part. I truly loved it there, and could see myself spending many more days there – both then and in the future – but I was beginning to think it was time to go.
There was no situation or person, other than me, that had made the decision that it was time. A lot of times when I was sitting idly in the room, or walking around town, I started thinking that my time in the Keys was not unlike how I spent my time back home in Virginia. Sure, I had never worked on a fishing boat in Virginia, but the monotony of everyday began to remind me of how I reacted when my wife died, so in return it reminded me of her death. One of the worst things I figured I could do was to begin to associate such a wonderful place, with such a horrible thought as her demise. I had never been within 400 miles of the Florida Keys with my wife, but when a thought caught my mind, I had learned, it was pretty much there to stay.
Additionally, while I thought that I was beginning to be introduced with a story that I thought would make for a good read, I felt like on paper my story was starting to get a little boring. Don’t get me wrong, drinking where Hemingway drank, and writing where he wrote, however inconsistent, are memories I’ll never forget, and always be glad I have, but I originally sought out to have a grand adventure. I knew it would have been very easy for me to get into a long, perhaps lifelong, routine in the Keys, one
I would have enjoyed very much, but in my mind that wasn’t the point of this trip.
When I first decided I was leaving, I started thinking where could I go that was the exact opposite of the Keys. I didn’t mean somewhere 20 below zero; I meant the opposite of “keysey.” It didn’t take me long before I knew exactly where I was heading. It would be a long drive, but I believed I had a strong enough grasp on geography to think much of the drive would be rather easy. Also, unlike the Keys, I wouldn’t have to worry about rain.
A few days before I left, I went to tell Jean the news. She was in the kitchen preparing a dinner with some of the grouper I had brought her just a few hours before. The news wasn’t really surprising to her.
“I knew you were leaving here soon,” she told me.
“How’d you know that”?
“I could just tell you were getting a little restless is all.”
I knew she was a lot like my mother. “Well, you guys have been nothing but kind to me, and I’m really going to miss it here.”
“Just ‘cause you’re leaving doesn’t mean we don’t think you’ll come back. We’ll keep a bed turned for you,” she smiled.
“You know, Jean, you make it really hard to leave.”
When I told Tommy I was leaving soon, he told me he was getting ready to head back out on his own boat as well.
“Looks like old Casper here is going to have to find a couple more vagabonds in a few days,” he said nodding in the direction to Casper, during one of my last trips out to sea.
On my last outing, Tommy gave me two large grouper as my last payment, which I promptly deposited into Jean’s freezer. The circle of life.
When I began packing the night before we left, I began feeling sad I was leaving, but was ready to get to where I was getting. Bahama, who had learned to associate a suitcase with a ride the way she associated a leash with a walk, was also ready to go. The cat on the bed looked at me questioningly when I first got out the suitcase, then turned over and went back to sleep. I briefly entertained the idea of traveling with a cat and dog, but just as quickly dismissed it. Besides, Keysey would have no trouble making friends with the next occupants of my room. I hoped Jean would at least remind the next guests that Keysey may just decide 2 a.m. is a good time to introduce herself to the new guests.
The next morning I felt melancholy, but still felt my time in the Keys was done. Better to leave a day early than a day late my dad told me on the phone that morning.
I stuck around long enough to have another one of Jean’s breakfasts, spent a little time petting the cat while Bahama looked on jealously, and hit the road.
As I hit the door, Jean reminded me once more that I’d always have a room there, and for the first time questioned where I was going.
“Where are you heading anyway?” she asked.
I turned back into the house one more time, smiling.
“Vegas, baby!”
17
Despite never embarking on a journey this long, I followed the directions fairly easily. First it’s straight up the map for 400 miles, or so, and then left for 2,100 more. I considered heading 520 miles north instead of 400 just to get another BBQ sandwich from The GA Pig Shack, but Jean made me a few grouper sandwiches that would get me through the first few hundred miles of the trip.
Passing by Kona Kai, I briefly entertained the idea of stopping, but even coming close to creating another scene like we did on our initial visit was enough to keep me driving, regardless of how pretty Becky was.
I was going to take this drive pretty leisurely. I didn’t have any must-see places lined up, despite driving nearly the entire length of the country. It really didn’t matter to me if I made it in three days, or four days, or even five. But, for the sake of Bahama, and her little legs, I hoped to make decent time.
Driving had always been therapeutic for me, which made me wonder why I didn’t drive at all for nearly a year after my wife died. Some of it was me being against pretty much anything outside of my four walls, but I think a lot of it reminded me of when I first met my wife.
Throughout high school, Abby had consumed most of my life. She was what I considered my first love for the remainder of high school, despite breaking up prior to senior year. I went on what I guess would be described as dates with other girls during that time, but most were group affairs with friends, and looking back on it now, I can’t remember any of those girls names without really straining my brain. I went to a small school, too.
I was able to concentrate enough through my fogged mind to get decent grades and even earned a partial scholarship to a school in Virginia even farther south than where I already lived. New River University was known through the state of Virginia where you went when you couldn’t get into a better four-year university. In reality, the school ranked in the middle of the pack in terms of education, but its reputation as a party school outweighed the educational value any outsiders saw in it.
My guess to why it became a party school is because there isn’t anything else to do, unless you fancy cowtipping. But honestly, who does that more than once? Or twice?
The city was a simple one to master in about an hour. New River University made up 80 percent of the city’s confines. The university was right in the middle. On the left and right of the university buildings were neighborhoods. When school was in session the city reached a population of about 15,000, when it was summer vacation it dwindled to about 7,500. Also, on nearly all sides of the school were one or two convenient stores. My business teacher once told our class that the 7-Eleven to the left of campus sold more beer than any other store in Virginia, and ranked in the top 50 beer sales in the country. The Quick-E-Mart on the right side of campus wasn’t far behind, at fourth. Keep in mind only 7,500 residents were there year round.
In front of the campus was our modest main street, aptly named, “Main Street.” On the surface it looked like any Main Street in Small Town U.S.A., but our mile long street was lined with bars. The bars must have come upon an agreement a long time ago on who got dibs on what night each bar would have their special weekly promotion. For example, if you went to Billy’s on a Tuesday night you would be lucky if you got in the door, and if you did get in the door you would most likely be squished against a wall. Still, Billy’s held the monopoly on Tuesday nights in New River. However, if you went there on a Wednesday, you were likely to have the place to yourself. My friends and I eventually learned to choose Billy’s on Wednesday because of that reason.
My first day on campus, a few days before my freshman year started, I went with my friend Drew to get our books. There were two places we could get our books – the actual university bookstore or the used bookstore. I chose the university bookstore because my partial scholarship would render these books free. It also turned out to be the best decision I ever made.
We walked into the store, and like Billy’s on a Tuesday night, it was packed. Drew was talking to me about how much beer we were going to drink and how many chicks we were going to bag during our stay on campus, but when I saw her, he could have been telling me the most profound thing in the world and I still wouldn’t have heard a word he was saying. My future wife was looking overwhelmed in her university provided uniform as she attempted to keep up with the ever-growing crowd. In one instant she was helping someone at the register, and the very next she was running to help another student in an aisle across the store.
I thought she was beautiful. Her brownish-red hair was in a bun, and her shirt was partially untucked. Her jeans fit amazingly though. She always laughed when I told her I thought she was the most beautiful thing I ever saw the first time I saw her, reminding me that on that day she was sweaty, tired, and in a less than flattering university polo shirt, but I would ignore her argument and I asked instead if she still had those jeans.
I can remember to this day how Drew continuing to talk while I just stared at him as to ask him if he didn’t realize what was going on here. No, he was oblivious; Drew was still fantasi
zing about his future campus hi-jinks. At least I thought he was; I still wasn’t listening, fantasizing myself.
I must have run into a dozen people keeping an eye on her while I went around and gathered my books. I was hoping she would get called to cash register duty just so I could stand within a few feet of her. Even then I knew I wouldn’t talk to her, other than the please and thank you’s that take place during a typical customer-cashier exchange. I did indeed come up unlucky during that first trip to the bookstore, but before I even left that day I knew I would be looking for any excuse to come back, and as soon as possible.
Drew and I got back to our dorm room, and despite being an occupant of that dorm room for less than three hours, I already knew I hated dorm room living. First of all, the entire building smelled like it used to produce dog food. Secondly, it seemed that everyone in the building, on all six floors, was in a competition to see who could play their music the loudest. Coming from a house where I always had my own room, and a ruckus was considered our dog barking, I knew this would be tough. That first night I can still remember sipping on a beer from a case Drew had secured for us, not really drinking it because honestly how many 18 year olds really like beer by then? By the end of freshman year I liked beer just fine.
As I finally drifted off to sleep that night I was already having deep, intellectual conversations, with my future wife. The one I hadn’t even spoken to yet.
The next day I woke up, went to the dining hall and had some runny eggs, and made up some lie to Drew about forgetting a book at the store yesterday. I secretly hoped Drew would not want to join me, and he obliged. Drew was one of the few 18 year olds who genuinely liked beer, and drank early and often. Because of that habit, he lasted only a year on campus, but he was far from the first one to see his time at college cut short because of partying. Last I heard he was working at his father’s farm and feed store, but doing well.
While Drew went off for an early morning drink back in the room, while waiting for the bars to open, I went back to my future wife. As luck would have it, she was working and not nearly as busy as the day before, because it was still early. Totally unprepared, she walked up to me almost as soon as I walked in the store, smiling.