Saltwater in the Bluegrass (9 page)

Anything and everything was now for rent or for sale along the coast, this includes the many festival flea markets that run each and every Saturday.

As Jeff and I made our way into Jacksonville, closer to the water’s edge, we noticed several people sticking their heads out of their hotel rooms, several grabbing their surf bags, towels and gear, others heading towards the pool or to the beach to spend the day in the sun. Most likely, others were simply busy like us, just trying to wake up and find breakfast.

Along the shore, light breezes were making the water ripple. Several old sea-dwellers we had passed, still hanging on to life in this racially integrated town, were smartly in the shade near a congested corner watching pedestrians and mopeds and bicyclists and cars cruising down Ocean View Drive. By the time Jeff and I had stop for breakfast, most businesses in the area were open.

Heading north, along the beach, a cool five knots breeze whipped small whitecaps near the shore. We noticed several kids sticking their feet in the surf and looking for seashells. Two little boys, tidal wave explorers, were working together in unison, trying their best to scoop up the little one-inch crustacean sand crabs that come into shore with each set of waves. I remembered doing this many times myself as a youth, digging for the crabs as they desperately tried to dig their way back under the sand, disappearing as each wave receded again and again into the ocean.

Jeff and I had finished our breakfast at the Salt and Pepper Pancake Emporium. I had blackberry pancakes, orange juice, and coffee. By nine fifteen, with traffic getting heavy, I was dropped off in front of the Hadley Motors and Sport Car Sales Company at the corner of Destin and Marengo.

Jeff was a transplant. He had moved to Pompano during middle school, at the start of our seventh grade year. His father worked as a boat mechanic, and his mom worked in the school cafeteria as a server. He was heading on up to Macon, Georgia to meet his family and friends for their traditional yearly reunion and gorge fest. It was always a festive event. I had been lucky enough to attend on several occasions.

I grabbed my backpack out of the truck, threw it over my shoulder, and walked into Hadley Motors. It had been two long months since I had dropped off my Corvette, and it must have shown on my face when I walked in.

“Well, where is the little beauty?” I said.

Johnny Newman was the only body and paint specialist in these parts I would ever let touch my car, much less work on. Shirley, the pin up doll that old man Hadley had set by the front door for what he liked to call “atmosphere” was in the middle of polishing her nails. She stopped what she was doing as I walked up.

“Hey, Jimmy. Johnny is out back. He saw you pull up, and he’s bringing the car around as we speak. She looks great.”

“I bet she does. I can’t wait to see her.”

“Would you like something to drink while you wait, maybe some coffee, juice, beer, a bagel, or something?”

“No, I am fine, Shirley. Thanks anyway.”

“No problem. Are you sticking around town tonight?”

“No, I’m heading back to Pompano as soon as I leave here.”

“Too bad,” Shirley said with a blue-eyed wink, flirting, moving a finger to her lip, hoping I would somehow become woozy and reconsider.

“Maybe next time,” I said.

The new paint sparkled against the chrome. What a picture of classic design she was. I felt just like I did on my sixteenth birthday when I received my first car, a gold 1973 Dodge Dart with ten-inch, deep-dish Craggers and Pernillee Jones tires with a white Starsky and Hutch stripe that came across the top and down the sides ending on the dog house. To think about it now, it was gaudy as all get out, but in high school it was a real piece of mechanical challenge. Pulling out of the lot, I turned right and headed south back down along the coast. I hadn’t driven maybe ten minutes, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I pulled off the road, down along the Twelfth Street pier and parked. I had to get out and look at her one more time before I opened her up and headed home.

Fueled, cleaned, and a sunny day, it’s all I needed. I pulled my “go everywhere” collection of CDs out of my backpack: Jimmy Buffett, John Prine, Robert Earl Keen, Kenny Chesney, and Jack Johnson, along with a righteous helping of classic rock. I then settled in for an enjoyable, scenic drive back along the southern coast.

For a quick moment, I thought of driving down along the beach, the 23-mile hard-sand stretch from Ormond Beach through Daytona to Ponce de Leon Inlet, but I quickly decided against it. Driving near the waters edge might look cool in a movie, but the salt will destroy the undercarriage of any car. Driving on the beach is for out-oftowners who don’t know any better. I did, though, stop in Daytona for a bite to eat, a sandwich and a cold beer, and then a quick swim. After cleaning up, I drove over to the racetrack for a few pictures.

I arrived home at seven thirty Saturday evening, made a glass of sweet tea, turned on some music, and relaxed in the swing on deck, overlooking the marina that was still bustling with the weekend crowd. The sun was dropping on another beautiful day, the tropical breezes and temperature still ideal for doing nothing but lounging. Before dark I made my way down to the beach, took off my sandals, and stuck my feet in the water, sharing beach space with the evening birds that were running along the wet sand.

Out in the bay, several multicolored sailboats with running lights disappeared into the horizon. The sun was now low enough to give off an orange-yellowish glow atop the last of the silver ripples. I worked my way back up to the docks, said hello to several of the locals, climbed back on board the Brenda Kay II, grabbed an apple from the fridge, and then called it a night.

So, as I said, Sunday
morning I slept in, staying under the sheets, yawning and stretching, for as long as I could.

I finally got up around noon. I called a few friends and made plans for supper around six down at the Coral Docks Resort Grill, then, afterwards, having a few drinks over at the Parrot Head Pub and listening to the house band, Short Side of Barometer, before heading home. It had been a quick but picture-perfect weekend. I hated to see it coming to an end. Little did I know what was about to take place.

It was early Monday morning
around eight when I finally arrived at the office. A gentle breeze was stirring up the waves outside, a moderate chop in the bay and inland waters one to two feet offshore, giving little if any noticeable relief to the warmth of the morning. The forecast for the next few days was unseasonably warm, windy, a high pressure system out of the south, southwest, with hotter than usual temperatures; highs in the upper eighties, lows in the upper sixties. As for rain, the weathermen said there was little if any chance of precipitation.

My office space, or my island of self-containment as I often refer to it, is an eleven hundred square-foot second-floor flat located at 1872

Pier Walk Point on the 1st Avenue Boardwalk. For all intents and purposes, the space fits my needs adequately and the cost is not too overpriced. For directional purposes to clients needing my help or people looking to drop something off, my office is located above two highly overpriced tourist traps: T-shirts Are Us and a little seashell company call Shell Shocked.

As usual, feeling semi-okay with the world, its problems on a Monday morning, and the headache I was trying my best to ward off, I proceeded through the office and went straight to the coffee pot. Black coffee, strong with none of that added twenty-first-century decaf mocha latté crap.

While contemplating the thought of the day, I washed out several mugs that were sitting in the sink and placed them on a towel. I couldn’t decide whether to make a fresh pot of coffee and do some work or close the office and leave.

The thought of simply grabbing my rod and reel and heading out to some remote inlet or flat, in my sixteen-foot skiff made a lot more sense. This is the point when I noticed, by the flashing of the light on my receiver; that I was back in the real world, and that someone had left a message on the phone.

I figure, since I was here and I had already put coffee beans into the filter and poured the water, I might as well stick around the office and see who had called.

I pulled back the shades, unlocked several filing drawers, and then said good morning to Stay Put, my porcelain pooch who stands guard by the front door. I opened the window to the office, letting in some fresh air.

Everything was in its place.

The one thing my office has going for it is the view. Looking through the large picture window in the front of the office, I can see out over the boardwalk, across the parking lot to the sandy beach, and right into the blue bay that heads north and opens up into the Atlantic. The accents and colors always stand out. If I could only get paid for looking, I thought.

As for the office, it is not usual for me to open up. On this morning, though, my second in command, Texi Conover, my attractive, intelligent, and charming, but sometimes naïve office manager, was on personal leave. She was on vacation and would not be back for three weeks.

As for other employees, there are none. Texi is it. Texi had headed north, to Louisville, Kentucky, with a couple of her sorority sisters from Eastern Kentucky University. As she often states, the bluegrass is where horse lovers go this time of year, period, and as far as she was concerned, spring was in the air. And with spring comes the sound and beauty of horse racing in those parts. For Texi, Derby Fever had already begun up north in the Bluegrass State, and people from all parts of the world where heading in that direction. Those people with any real upbringing were migrating towards Louisville once again for the first Saturday in May. As for me, I didn’t really care. Horses and I had never really gotten along. I had been invited on several occasions by Texi and her friends to go to Louisville for the Derby, but I always found it hard leaving the beach, the salt, the sand, the peace and quiet, and especially this view for more then a couple days at a time. Besides, with her being gone and things being quiet around here, I could get away, neglect my duties, and get some fishing in before she got back.

I would often say when asked, “Sure, Texi; I will be happy to go with you to the derby, that is, when there’s salt water in the bluegrass.”

She would laugh, call me a bozo, and then I would find myself waving goodbye as she left. Then I would find myself counting the days until she came back. With that said, this is where I stand on the subject at this moment, and I have no future plans of rolling over on the issue.

I
was sure I could handle things around here just fine while she was back home, betting on horses, drinking mint juleps, and eating all that barbecue burgoo.

It is a Kentucky thing, a tradition.

I just kept thinking to myself, remember, this is paradise. It is written on a thousand different brochures you can pick up down here. Back to the story; it was Monday morning, and the wheels were in motion. I was in the process of opening the office, going through the incoming mail, the normal monthly bills, the you-just-won-a-milliondollars advertisements, and another pack of coupons that gives me twenty percent off on pizza I did not want in the first place. I remembered before Texi left on vacation she had given me an envelope to open. It was a letter from her brother. Inside was a demo tape of some songs he had written, another aspiring musician hoping to run off to an island and someday make a living from his music. On the tape the words “Outside the Wake” were written.

For some reason he had asked if I would take a listen. I guess he couldn’t get a hold of Jimmy Buffett or his agent. I was taking the tape out of the envelope when the phone began ringing. At first, I looked around the room. I realized I was waiting for Texi to walk over and pick up the phone. That was not going to happen. This is when it became apparent that she was gone, having fun at my expense, and that I was here in the office all by myself, working. So with her gone I walked over to her desk, set the tape back down on the packaging, and picked up the receiver.

“Hello, J.C. Stringer, may I help you?” My mom had taught me years back shorts, sandals, and an occasional beard she could live with, but being nice when answering the phone and respect for your elders was expected. I guess subconsciously I must have thought that it might be her on the other end.

It was the sign of a good upbringing, typical southern fashion.

“This is J.C.
Can I help you?” I asked.

“Jimmy is that you?” broke the silence of the morning. “Jimmy?”

I could tell that this was no ordinary phone call. I also, call it the family crisis mode that was now kicking in, immediately knew who it was on the other end of the phone line.

“Uncle Buddy, is that you?” My question was rhetorical. I already knew my answer to the question.

“Jimmy, I need you boy. I need you right now, right now. I need your help.” Then there was an abrupt silence on the other end of the phone.

“What seems to be the problem?” I asked.

“What isn’t? I can’t talk about it on the phone. I need your help. I need you to meet me. I need you to meet me in one hour down—downtown. You know right—right beside Spit’s place, where I hang out, down by the harbor over—over on Gentry? You know where it is? One hour. One hour, okay?”

“Okay, sure. One hour. I’ll be there.”

The phone went dead. In the back of my mind, Uncle Buddy and a quick recollection of past experiences began sending up all sorts of inner feelings. My only thought was, what now?

What was Buddy trying so hard not to tell me? I could only wonder. Uncle Buddy was my dad’s older brother. Seventy-seven years old if a day. Five foot ten in his day, but now he stooped with a back that curved at the shoulder blades. His face was dark with age, like an old grapefruit when it stays out in the sun too long. Uncle Buddy was great with one-liners, always drinking, and always up to no good, but still he was fun to be around. Two things always topped his list in banter and conversation: lowering taxes and killing bad guys. Other than that, he figured everything else in the world would fall into place.