by David Athey
VISIT CHRISTMAS WONDERLAND, the next sign said. Wonderland, I thought. Yes. But how can people celebrate Christmas without winter? What about the cycle of life? Without winter, how can you experience the magic of spring?
I recalled the thawing of the farm, the warm winds and dust clouds drifting over the resurrecting fields. And in the fallows, the greening shoots of grass, goldenrod, and bluestem. And by the rising river, the fluting meadowlark and the redwing gurgling water-music.
JESUS IS LORD AND SAVIOR AT THE CATFISH HOUSE.
So many signs, so many messages, yet I stayed on the road, only stopping for absolute necessities, such as when a thunderstorm forced me to pull over and raise the convert- ible's top. Flashing in the lightning was a sign for the Magic Kingdom, an impossible castle exploding with fireworks, but I sped through the glittering rain, avoiding Disney and all of its illusions.
Several hours south of Orlando, the sun showed itself again. I was just daydreaming and minding my own business, when a shiny mosquito appeared on my dashboard and gave me a funny look.
"So," I said. "Are you talented or what?"
The mosquito flew over to the passenger-side window. And sure enough, there was an exit.
"Hmm. Shouldn't we keep going to Key West?"
The mosquito buzzed loudly while I passed the exit, and she began to smash her little body against the window. She flew back a few inches and smashed the glass, again, and again.
With a big sigh, I turned the wheel at the next exit and drove into West Palm Beach.
ORCHID CITY, a sign proclaimed.
Flowers were everywhere, on fire with sunlight. I rolled down the window and breathed deeply. "Ahhh, that's wonderful."
The mosquito repositioned herself on the dashboard while the cars and trucks behind me blared their horns. I quit smelling the flowers and continued onward, driving past what looked like a glass opera house and an Italian-looking chapel. A towering stained-glass Jesus with golden-black skin greeted everyone going east.
The mosquito hummed happily, and I was pleased by how the Florida buildings had a Mediterranean flair, with archways and pillars and warm walls coated with bright colors. I came to a stoplight. It was red and I was glad, because it gave me some time to contemplate my options. To my left and right was a tropical road lined with palms. Running parallel to the road was a great river, smelling of sea salt. The river was as wide as the Mississippi or the Ohio. A sign said INTRACOASTAL WATERWAY.
Straight ahead was an old green bridge, and beyond that was a scene fit for a postcard or a mirage, a lush little town that seemed to be one large garden with a thousand mansions. I wasn't sure if I should cross over, so I looked to the mosquito for direction. She avoided eye contact and then buzzed out the window and disappeared over the water. The light turned green. Cars and trucks honked while I made up my mind where to go. Feeling both intimidated and beckoned, I guided the pink monstrosity over the bridge and across the waterway to a glittering island.
Paradise?
chapt, eight
THE CADILLAC RATTLED over the bridge to Palm Beach. Greeted by a giant corridor of palm trees, I entered another world, a place that seemed to have no sense of Iowa, and then I found myself facing one of the most beautiful dead ends imaginable: the ocean blue.
I steered the high-rider south and drove beside the beach. Swimmers and sunbathers, surfers and boaters were out enjoying the sunny November day. The ocean was so blue, but not sad, and my heart was lulled into a pleasant calmness. I pulled over near a white condo building, opened the roof of the Cadillac, and inhaled the sweet salt air.
A skinny boy carrying his surfboard across the street gave me a hand signal. "Nice ride, Pimp Daddy!"
Pimp Daddy is not something I'd been called before, and although it was said as a compliment, the words burned my ears. And I sped away.
Because of my haste, I pulled out in front of a silver Jaguar that sniffed my bumper, so I panicked and made a sharp turn away from the ocean and another sharp turn at the city fountain. The silver Jaguar kept sniffing my bumper until I pulled into a gas station. The jag paused and then roared away.
The station attendant approached my window. He was a clean-cut young man in a blue button-down shirt. "Gabe" was embroidered over his heart in red lettering.
"Hello, Gabriel. Fill 'er up."
Gabe gestured toward the mainland. "You better cross back over."
"Why?
He frowned at the pink high-rider. "If a cop sees you, you'll be pulled over. Maybe even jailed."
"Jailed? They have a jail here?"
"Yes. Full of people like you."
"Okay," I said, climbing out of the car. There was a newspaper dispenser by the sidewalk. "Just let me grab a paper and I'll be on my way."
After buying a copy of the Palm Beach Daily News, I drove around the block toward the old drawbridge. Reptilian green, its jaws were now open like a giant alligator trying to eat the sky. I was temporarily stuck on the island, so I drove over to the docks, where rows of yachts were tied in the waterway. The sun was setting and haloed pelicans and gulls dozed starboard and aft, gently bobbing on the glowing boats. A manatee and her calf lolled in the lapping waves, and a large gray-striped fish leapt and turned rainbow in the air.
Palm Beach is fabulous, I thought. Nobody's going to send me back over that bridge. I belong on this island.
Opening the newspaper, I checked the classifieds for rental prices on mobile homes, but there wasn't a listing, not even for double-wides. Well, I thought, how about a cottage? Let's see. Here's one for rent. Five thousand dollars! Per month! Man alive, who can afford to live in Paradise? Hmm, there must be something reasonable. All I need is basic shelter, an old shack. Okay, here's a studio apartment above a drugstore. Unfurnished. Some repairs needed. Two thousand dollars per month! For that much money, you should get a big farmhouse.
At the bottom of the page was a listing without a price. The advertisement merely said: DREAM TOWER APARTMENTS. RENTERS BEWARE.
No address or phone number was given. So I drove back to the gas station and asked Gabe if he knew anything about the Dream Tower.
"Sigh," he said. "We're not going to get rid of you, are we?"
"Not if God wants me to be here."
Gabe sighed again and then pointed above the treetops. "There's your Dream Tower, the tallest building in town. It was a brothel-casino back in the day. It's condemned now and scheduled for demolition, but the lady who mismanages the place allows some misfits to live there. She charges by the night."
"Sounds good," I said. "Thanks for the info, Gabriel. You're an angel."
The dusty doors at the bottom of the Dream Tower were unlocked, and I went inside. The old brothel was as quiet as a church, with green vines growing on the corridor walls, partially covering the paintings of naked gods and goddesses.
"Who on earth are you?" an old woman asked, appearing out of the vines. She wore a pink dress and pink hair. Even her hands were pink. She pointed a fat cigar at my face. "Well, speak up."
"Hi there. I'm from Iowa."
The old woman shook her head. "Never heard of it."
"I'm Danny," I said, extending my hand.
She slapped my wrist, then grabbed it and dragged me through the vines into her office. "My name is Mrs. Concher," she said, leading me to a pink loveseat. "I've lived in this Dream Tower most of my life. I could tell you a million stories about this place. Robber barons, gamblers, pirates, politicians, and monkeys. And the women who love 'em."
"Mrs. Concher, I'd like to rent a room here. If that's still possible. I heard this place is condemned."
The old lady brandished her long pink fingernails. "They better wait until I'm dead before they start tearing down this tower, or else I'll tear them to pieces."
Mrs. Concher puffed her cigar, cackled, and stared into my eyes. "Are you the living dead, sent to drag me down? That's okay if you are. Half the people in Hell owe me money."
I laughed. "No, ma'am. I
haven't been sent to torment you. I'm here to start over."
She nodded. "Everyone who comes to Florida is running away from something. Could be the weather, or a bad relationship, or something in your head that won't go away." She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a rusty key. "Your room is 1201. On the top floor."
"Thanks."
Mrs. Concher held out her hand. "Forty dollars and forty cents. Cash."
My room was surprisingly small and smelled like dead leaves, rotten roots, and stale incense, but the view was pure blue ocean and golden sky. Yes, I thought, gazing dreamily out the window. This is the place for me. Now I'd better find a job so I can stay here. Grease's money won't last forever.
Having burned my bridges at the post office, I thought about some other job possibilities. Gardener. Lifeguard. Limo driver. Interior decorator. I could do just about anything, I thought. And I wondered: how hard can it be to gather worldly possessions? Many idiots in the history of the world have gotten filthy rich. Why not me?
To enjoy the remaining light, I left my room and climbed the rickety stairs to the steaming roof. What a view! Out east, the waves, rolling in to shore. To the south, the castles, their towers and battlements sinking into the sweltering twilight. Out west, over the waterway, the busy streets of West Palm Beach, packed with commuters heading home after work. And to the north stood the giant rows of palms. The trees were skinny, except in their middles, which were swollen like the bellies of well-fed snakes.
My first night in Paradise, stretched out on the musty bed with moonlight washing over me, I sank into a deep sleep. Rachel was flying above a flock of gray birds, rising into a blue sky that was blazing with red-orange streaks of light. She was in the heavens, and there was a city with glass buildings higher in the sky, and the gray-winged birds became swirls of ashes and the red-orange streaks became fire. And through the New York smoke, Rachel's flying now seemed like falling.
"Danny!" someone shouted from the roof. "Come on up! We're having a party!"
Half awake for a moment, I heard other voices, too, and music and dancing, all tempting me to the roof. But I sank back into the dream to see if I could catch her. I held out my arms but she never came down.
In the morning, depressed, I crawled out of bed, stumbled into the bathroom, and was disappointed to see no towels. So I threw on a pair of shorts over my Speedo and took the long and shaky elevator down to Mrs. Concher's office. The door was open, and she was sitting on a redcushioned stool at a breakfast bar, drinking coffee, smoking a cigar, and reading the newspaper.
"Excuse me, ma'am," I said. "Could I please borrow a towel?"
She glanced up from her Wall Street Journal. "Borrow?"
"Yes, ma'am. There are no clean towels in the room. And I need to take a shower before going out for interviews."
She shook her head and tsked at my appearance. "Danny. If you want to look like a million bucks at your job interviews, you'll need the proper attire. I'll only charge you a hundred dollars and a hundred cents. And I'll throw in a towel and a shaving kit for free."
"Umm, okay."
Mrs. Concher snuffed out her cigar, slid off the stool, adjusted her pink robe, and then strode over to the wall and threw open a closet that was stuffed with men's clothing. "Oh, the stories I could tell," she said, cackling. "True tales of buccaneers, bureaucrats, and monkeys. And the clothes they left behind."
I stepped forward to take a closer look.
"Danny, let's get you fitted into a navy blazer, white button-down shirt, khaki pants, and brown loafers. That's what high-society men wear. Put on this blazer. Let's see if you can look like a Kennedy. Or a Trump."
"Oh, I don't know," I said while she began to dress me up. "This isn't my style. This blazer feels strange. It feels fake."
A minute later, I was admiring myself in the mirror. And Mrs. Concher was writing a bill of sale.
Back in my apartment, I shaved, took a good long shower, and found myself singing part of the song that I'd begun during my journey. For some reason, a recurrent word was "reverie," and I was almost feeling hopeful about my new life on Palm Beach. But after toweling off, I felt compelled to forego the high-society uniform and put on the gaudy peddler's clothes.
"I'm still a tourist," I said to the macaw man in the mirror. "And tourists don't have to work today."
I put on my shades and left the room and took another scary elevator ride. It was one of those elevator rides that reminds you to pray, and maybe take the stairs next time. I rushed out to the street and was welcomed by the Cadillac glowing in the morning sun. And away we flew to explore the island.
Palm Beach is a thin strip of land, and the beach was soon in view, with beautiful waves and swimmers everywhere. A woman hovered between the water and the air, her hair a scintillating cascade of changing colors while she body-surfed in to shore. From my perch in the convertible, I stared as the woman washed up and stood on the sand. She was dressed in a lily-white one-piece swimsuit. Showing off what God had given her without showing too much, she was perfectly lovely and reminded me of the one who had kissed me.
Out of the surf appeared a handsome boyfriend. He put his strong arm around the woman's waist and kissed her like he really meant business.
And I drove away to explore more of Paradise.
The road along the beach was flooded with light, palm trees dripping with gold and splashes of brightness bouncing off the windows of condos and mansions. My eyes were dazzled in this world of radiance. The road suddenly snaked left, and I almost missed the turn, barely avoiding a giant iron gate.
At the stoplight I turned right, and soon a great castle appeared with two towering towers. A sign said THE BREAKERS HOTEL and I wondered how anyone could stay at The Breakers without going broke.
And had the ocean been sold? God's blue water was nowhere to be seen in this part of Palm Beach. Fences, gates, hedges, and walls blocked all glimpses of infinity. The best use of money, I thought, would be to reveal God's glory, not hide it. The next stretch of road was almost a wilderness, with a dark tunnel of leafy trees that twisted in all directions. Large arches of roots plunged deeply into the earth as if sending a message to the next hurricane: go ahead and gust with all the power of the heavens; your little squalls have no power over us.
The whole island seemed to be one long boast. Farther up the road, out of the woods and into the light, I rounded a curve-and the ocean reappeared with wilder waves rolling in from the horizon. A minute later the view was again blocked by hedges, fences, walls, and iron gates.
Finally, after another mile or so, the road dead-ended at an inlet between Palm Beach and another island to the north. The view was spectacular, and I climbed out of the car, despite the warnings.
NO PARKING.
NO VIEWING.
VEHICLES WILL BE TOWED AT OWNER'S EXPENSE.
I walked to the end of the dock and gazed across the inlet. There were fishing boats, sailing boats, yachts, and pleasure craft of all kinds. The gray-aqua tide was rushing toward the ocean, and I tried to discern the change on the surface and in the depths where the divergent waters crashed and embraced. Shadows of large fish ebbed and flowed within my vision, and I was filled with an overwhelming desire to go fishing.
A door opened. A door closed. I turned, and there was a hefty cop standing between his squad car and the Cadillac. The officer glared at me. "You're trespassing."
"I am?"
"Come over here," he said. "Let me see your driver's license."
Reluctantly, I approached the cop and gave him my license.
He frowned. "You're from Iowa?"
"Yeah. I just moved here."
The cop grimaced at my gaudy clothes. "Who are you trying to be?"
"Just me."
"You live on Palm Beach?"
"Yes, sir."
"What street do you live on?"
My mind went blank.
"What street?" he repeated.
My mind raced but stayed blank. "I don
't know. I don't know where I live."
The officer smirked as if he'd caught me in a lie. "Open the trunk."
"Why?
"Because you handle a lot of fertilizer up there in Iowa, right? You know how to mix explosive chemicals."
"I know how. But I never did."
The officer touched his holster. "Open the trunk. Now."
"I'm not a terrorist."
The cop unbuttoned his holster. "Listen," he said, "you could be anyone. We aren't taking any chances here. Do you understand? Now open the trunk."
"Okay." I opened it.
The cop dug around and found nothing but coffee cups, water bottles, and empty oil containers.
I asked, in all seriousness, "Does Palm Beach recycle?"
"Get out of here," he said, flicking my license at my feet. "And don't let me see you again."
I picked up the license. "But I live here."
The officer snarled, "What street?"
"I don't know the name, but it's where the Dream Tower is. That's where I live."
"Not for long."
Mrs. Concher, in her pink bathrobe, sat in the lobby, huffing a huge cigar. Clouds of smoke billowed from her nostrils while I told her about my misadventure.
She said, "I should have warned you. The cops are on high alert."
"What are they worried about? The town is surrounded by a moat and an ocean."
"Some of the hijackers were on the island before the attack."
I felt my gut tighten, and made no response.
"Here, Danny. Take this."
She handed me a parking decal. "This symbolizes that you belong here, that you're one of the chosen few. The next time you go for a drive, stick it where the sun shines."
"Thanks, Mrs. Concher."
She held out her hand. "Twenty-five dollars and twentyfive cents."
After giving her the money, I glanced warily at the old elevator and went for the stairs.
When I reached the twelfth floor, I stepped out of the stairwell and paused to catch my breath. Down the hallway, a beautiful woman in a flowery dress caught my attention. She was probably in her early twenties, and she was shouting, "Angelo! Open up!"