Sometimes Key West surprises me and I saw these nicely painted trash cans and I thought nicely done!
These days I look at Residential Parking spots, the forbidden land to a county resident like me. My licence plate labeled "Monroe" marked me as a county resident in the good old days but that is no longer enough. The new permit system requires actual city residence (or a motorcycle) for easier parking. Cheyenne might have to learn to ride pillion.
Christmas is almost nigh and the absurd reminders of snow and Teutonic Yule start popping up all over town. Why would anyone want to be reminded of snow flakes?
The sidewalk obstacle course on Eaton Street got my attention away from Christmas decorations. It was a slalom.
Oops! No! There they are again, palm fronds, Christmas tree, wreath and spinning fans. All in one.
I used to work here on William Street. Cheyenne sniffed a shrub and I waxed nostalgic about this strange interim job I had in the receiving department for Fast Buck Freddie's. It was summer and we were air conditioning-free so we sat on packing crates and opened cases of weird dust catchers, unwrapped peculiar furniture and laughed at the collections of trifles people paid lots of good money for. One of my colleagues was an ex gang member from Southern California moved to Key West to be with his grandmother away from the hit squads. He was a funny kid with a huge afro that he seemed to hide behind if that were possible, until he got to know you. And the stories of gangland life came pouring out making my hair stand on end. He was half my age and seemed to have lived twice as much in a California I never saw when I lived in Santa Cruz, a middle class hippy university town far from Compton.
My other colleague was my boss who was about my age but smoked like a chimney and was so shriveled up he looked like he could be my father. He had a young child as I recall and his life seemed rather more hectic than I should have liked. We were a weirdly mis-matched trio but the life was rather fun and I felt like I was re-living my early years of employment when I held odd jobs in places I never expected to end up. I was about nineteen years old as I recall when I got a job sorting cheese supplies for a grocery chain. Later I was a truck driver's assistant delivering food to supermarkets across London before dawn. I got to see the sun come up over St Paul's Cathedral on many mornings, and drank huge mugs of tea with true Cockney stall holders. Looking back I have no idea how I ended up working for Cullen's grocery stores anymore than I do how I ended up at Fast Buck's. Strange interludes in a life that has wandered all over the map.
Cheyenne stalled on Lazy Way Lane sniffing something indelicate and fascinating and I overheard an animated conversation between two residentially challenged men.The one with the walking stick was telling the other guy about how hard it is to be homeless in Key West. He said his buddy gave up in despair and went home to Cleveland, which in December can be taken as a sign of true hopelessness.
Then, further down the man on the bicycle was telling the woman very earnestly that something in his life, possibly his rooming arrangement just had to change. Cheyenne was on her way so the true nature of the drama got away from me.
She managed, did my Yellow Labrador, to put herself in stationary poses in evocative places. I trailed along.
And there was another homeless dude at the bus stop on Caroline Street across from the Bull. No comment from him and Cheyenne brushed by quite rudely.