Self Control, Traffic Control, And A Flat Tire

Driving up Flagler Avenue a few minutes before six in the morning yesterday I was congratulating myself on getting off work a few minutes early, thanks to prompt day shift relief, when I saw a bundle of scrap in my lane. The trash moved and there was a cyclist revealed, lying in the right hand lane of Flagler, his helmeted head about to be run down by my car. I figured I should stop and help so I did. The State of Florida considers me a First Responder, even though I don't, so I figured I should see what I could do. At least I know how to make a 911 call properly. I answer dozens every night at work.

The beauty of my job is that while I work in a police station, with police officers, I aren't one. I am a civilian and as such all the work I do in dispatch is directed by sworn police officers who are on the streets dealing hands on with the issues that are called in to us by people in the city. All my authority to make phone calls representing the Key West Police Department, all the talk on the police radio and all the access I have to citizens' private information databases comes through the authority of working police officers. They ask me to check a vehicle tag or a driver's license or to verify an arrest warrant on a person, I find the answers and they make the arrest, or write the ticket or issue the warning. When I leave the police station at six in the morning, or thereabouts, I revert to civilian status and I have no business minding anyone's police business. It is much better, believe me, than being a sworn officer. They make half a dozen more dollars an hour than me but they are technically never off duty.

The other little understood part of my job is how limited it is. People think that I know what's going on all night long. What we get in dispatch is a phone call, frequently incoherent, from someone whose life just went down the shitter in some form or another and the caller may be inebriated, incoherent through pain or illness or debilitation, angry beyond belief or shocked by sudden overwhelming disaster. The conversation frequently isn't very enlightening or may not be too accurate much of the time, and what happens after we send help is never revealed to us. The callers who are calm and precise and have a clear understanding of what they need from us are rare at two o'clock in the morning. Night shift brings its own challenges in dispatch. After help is sent we pretty much forget what we just heard as, especially in busy winter tourist season calls pile up and there are more crises to control. And the officers who did respond rarely fill us in on the details of what we sent them to sort out. Most of what I know comes from the crime report in the newspaper, just like everyone else. That's my job so yesterday morning when I found myself actually at an incident I was a bit surprised. I like the distance dispatching puts between me and the noxious reality of lives gone wrong.

I covered the cyclist with my car's emergency flashers and illuminated his prone body with my headlights. His bicycle was of course on it's side with a couple of red tail lights flashing monotonously. He was dressed in those ridiculous spandex suits with a brightly colored helmet on his head, every inch a committed rider. He looked to be close to thirty and even seen upside down his clean shaven face reminded me strongly of my nephew in Asheville, himself a keen and competitve rider. He was lying on his back clutching his shoulder, wincing, but there was no blood or anything gruesome. Thank the gods for small mercies. He spoke to me so at least I didn't have to grovel on the rough roadway and apply my CPR training. I usually do CPR over the phone when I do it at all and it's a much better way, with no physical contact, having a friend or family member deal with the mucus blood and vomit. Doing it in person is a trial, though either way getting someone to breathe again is rewarding.

A couple of sentences, breathlessly delivered by the prone athlete, explained the situation and it appeared he was the victim of a hit-and-run. I called the office after I confirmed my location on Flagler, just as a breathless young woman ran up, tearful and said she hadn't seen him, looking hopefully at me as though I had a real badge. Not a hit and run I told the office, simply a Signal Four with injuries. It was a short call as I knew what to say and they knew who I was. The cyclist was trying to get up so I reassured him he wasn't going to get run over and told him to wait for the paramedics. He lay back and we listened to the unfortunate driver utter apologies to anyone who would listen. I felt bad for her but shit happens. Especially in the dark even though he had plenty of visible lights on his expensive roadster.

 

Normally I'd hang up at this point, send a fire truck and an ambulance while Nick or Fred sent a cop and we could get back to wondering where the answers to life's persistent questions are to be found. Here on the street there was no getting away and once again I thanked the gods I was a dispatcher in real life, working in an air conditioned office behind two locked doors. Somebody else should be the cop, not me! I am not a hands on kind of guy, nor do I like handguns Tazers or handcuffs. Well, handcuffs maybe...

So there I stood incandescent in the light of passing cars wearing my uniform of tan pants and a dark blue polo shirt with a large silver police badge sewn on the chest directing cars and reassuring the cyclist still lying on his back staring at the stars waiting for the ambulance, I was never so relieved as when I saw the blue lights approaching and the arrival of real police officers left me free to go home and hug my patient dog, who awaits my return every morning on the deck listening for the sound of the softly rumbling motorcycle. However my Triumph is in the shop getting maintained so now she has to listen for the ultra quiet scooter or the silent car. But my focus when I leave work is getting 27 miles home whatever I'm riding, not futzing around with fallen cyclists.

I thought my broken routine was repaired when I got home 15 minutes "late" and Cheyenne came bounding down to greet me. We pile into the car every morning after work and drive a short distance to Big Pine Key or North Ramrod and take a meandering walk in the cool of the dawn. Cheyenne sets the direction and pace when I park the car and we will be gone usually sixty to ninety minutes until her tongue is dangling and her pace slows. It is very relaxing for me to watch the sun come up while Cheyenne sticks her head in some improbable place looking for reeking treats.

My wife called me while we were walking the "Ramrod Pool," a failed housing development that left a deep accidental swimming hole cut into the coral rock. Cheyenne was trotting back and forth checking the progress of dogs who had visited this popular spot the previous day, I was reading the newspaper and all was right with the world. I try to take Cheyenne on a different walk each day to keep her interested and happy but this was the wrong day to worry about my dog. "I need you here" came the cry for help, " I've got a flat."

I have to confess, and I write this by way of apology to my wife, but I was pretty graceless as I groveled in the pearock and dirt, the very maneuver I had managed to avoid while dealing with the cyclist down an hour earlier, and got sandy spots on my trousers and pebbles pressing my knees as I fought the flat tire on her Sebring, inflated the spare doughnut with my portable pump I carry for just such emergencies and emptied the trunk of all her teaching aids and crap to find the jack buried deep in the bowels of her convertible. I swore a bit, in fact I swore enough to make a parrot blush but I got her on the road fast enough to not be late for the little dears in her classroom. My dog looked depressed so we went home, our walk ruined, me to a shower and bed, and she to a delicious piece of industrial strength Chinese jerky.

What a morning. It could have been a lot worse but that is what I generally say any day when I leave work with a trail of death, drunkeness, property destruction and arrests in my wake. Being a dispatcher is a powerful reminder every time I answer the phone that someone, indeed a lot of someones have it a lot worse than a delayed commute home, a broken walk or a stupid smelly dirty flat tire at an inconvenient hour.

 

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Fort Zachary Without Words

I have a state parks pass which allows me to visit any Florida state park for no charge. It costs $135 a year if it includes access to parks in the Florida Keys, and though it may end up saving you money it also carries the benefit of encouraging you to visit the parks on a whim. Which was what I did on a lovely sunny afternoon last week. Cheyenne walked all properly leashed and I ambled with camera in hand.

A perfect day for a pleasant walk in good company.

 

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Changes On The Waterfront

Wandering along Truman Waterfront pondering the future of these thirty four acres deeded to the city by the retreating Navy I noticed some changes already taking place.

The city has decided to make a park out of the land though the exact terms are somewhat obscure, as is the way. There is a possibility of a marina which has been offered up and roundly criticized by some vociferous city residents as excessively ostentatious and aimed at the luxury set. Meanwhile the formerly open space now has fencing all around. I wondered if it might have been installed for the power boat races but such was not done previously and the purpose defies logic. I expect it is the first step on the path to transformation of the land.

The newspaper also reported the Navy might be seeking to relinquish control of the outer mole, the long cement arm that forms the basin and separates it from the open waters of the harbor. There is an agreement between the city and the Navy that came about when Truman Waterfront was ceded to the city. That took place around September 2011 and the attack on the Twin Towers prompted the Navy to reserve the docking facilities for themselves, and simply allowed the city use of the pier to dock cruise ships as needed. The beauty of the arrangement is that the city gets the full docking fee there instead of sharing the fee with the Westin at the neighboring Pier B. Now the Navy may be seeking bids to take over the Pier and the city is pissed inasmuch as it may lose the cozy relationship.

Nothing stays the same in this busy evolving little town. Except the sea.

 

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The End Of An Election

One of the loudest complaints heard echoing around the community after an election relates to campaign signs. no one seems to know exactly what effect the ubiquitous billboards have on voters' decisions but every candidate studiously pays for and posts this annoying and ugly signs everywhere. After the election they are frequently forgotten in situ much tI the irritation of neighbors. Ironically now the election is over the offenders cannot be threatened wit retaliation as the votes are cast.

These reflections were prompted by the sight of the smiling face of outgoing state representative Ron Saunders' legislative aide who has won the seat in her own right as her boss was term-limited out of office. That she is a Republican taking the place of a Democrat is only slightly less odd than the fact that her victorious visage was unceremoniously dumped in the trash after the vote. Would that every candidate had followers as efficient. Truth to tell almost all signs have evaporated in fact. I did notice the day after the election that Sheriff-elect Rick Ramsey had a big Thank You added to his billboards before they disappeared. Now it is time for all the newly elected office holders to get ready for the start of their new jobs next year. Out with the old and in with the new in the next few weeks.

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Beating The Key West Schedule

It is an inconvenience to live twenty five miles outside Key West when your dentist is in the city. Perhaps but another way to look at it is that living outside the city gives me the opportunity to go for a ride on my motorcycle. Which can be an inconvenience as there is only one road between islands and those of us with places to go have to share the highway with people who think "island time" is an invitation to force everyone to slow down to their vacation languor. As it happens the Triumph needs a valve adjustment so I am borrowing my patient wife's Vespa 150 which I actually enjoy riding. Soon I hope my own refurbished Vespa will arrive from Iowa, but that's another story. This is an essay about living the dream - ahead of schedule.

I had an easy ride into town behind some rather slow cars so much so I arrived early for lunch with my wife on Stock Island. The Vespa's top speed is around 65mph on level ground and while that makes passing an iffy proposition unless cars are excessively slow, it also means riding the Vespa doesn't take any longer than driving a car. Buzzing along on a 70mpg 150cc scooter alongside full sized trucks and huge SUVs puts the cry for "energy independence" into perspective! Home Depot did not have the peculiar lightbulb I was looking for, nor did Keys Electric, nor did ACE Hardware on Summerland. Check the Internet was the best advice I got. I tried to shop locally.

Had I been riding my wife's Vespa last October 16th I might not have got a $131 speeding ticket for doing 64 in a 55 and thoroughly pissing off Deputy Gorzen whose Slavic sense of propriety I managed to offend by passing him at a speed he suggested "blew him off." Oh well I paid the fine and promised to do four hours of traffic school to avoid the points on my license. I am not a procrastinator by nature and even though I had until mid January to complete the traffic school I turned the paperwork in yesterday to clear my record. I cannot do traffic school again for a year so I shall have to be more careful in the future. What a drag! I needed coffee after my brush with the courts in the courthouse so I went across the street and ordered a con leché the Courthouse Deli formerly Jeana's where they sell massive bags of popped popcorn. In Publix the other day I came across a box of ready made pancakes, ready made just like the popcorn. Hell even I can mix and pour batter and fry my own pancakes or pop my own corn. I am astonished by these helplessness innovations for the harried middle classes. Look at those huge bags of "lite" popped corn.

However I can't brew my own con leché on the road so I bought a two dollar non-recyclable styrofoam cup of coffee and picked up the Blue Paper to read Rick Boettger's reflections on the elections. You can read them online http://www.kwtn.com/ if you have the patience for the download. Republicans are out of touch he says and have become so by bowing to the radicals on the right who have dumbed down their message to persuade unlikely allies to get together to vote Republican and exclude the majority who don't like radicalism.. Jolly good and next week we find out how Republicans can claw their way back to power. Now why would I want to read that?

My whole day was running ahead of schedule so I decided to try a barber's shop/hair styling salon on Southard Street just around the corner. I had an hour and I expected I might need half that to get my shaggy head shorn.

I walked onto a room that reminded me of my teenage years in an English boarding school when I was senior enough to get my own room. There was a stars and stripes pinned to the far wall with 45rpm album covers pinned next to it. A TV screen on the far wall played inconsequential images to a room that was busy ignoring the message. A tall thin blonde dressed in black was wrapping a seated woman's hair in tin foil while two languid men, possibly employees, studiously ignored me. I sat. "Haircut?" the older man asked as though I might have wandered in to buy a loaf of bread. He approached me with a pair of sheep shears and attacked my excessively long hair with a ferocity that actually made me nervous. Usually I figure the hairdresser is the expert and I tell them simply "not too short, please," and let them get on with it. I worried this guy might have misunderstood and I braced myself to appear in public shorn like a sheep. Bald is fashionable I am told.

Even after a helmet-free ride across town I thought the new look was quite good. All I had to do now was find my dentist and get the old tooth scrubbed. Still ahead of schedule I took a ride around and about chasing Waldo. The Vespa is a lot of fun in town, light and handy and with lots of pep it squirts through everywhere. Truck blocking the lane? No problem! Traffic jam at a four way stop? A quick squirt of the gas and leave the zombies to figure out their own mess. The 150 rides the way the uninitiated expect a 50cc scooter to ride. Seen here on little known Calais Lane, a short cut behind First State Bank on Simonton.

A small cluster of badly parked scooters marks the guest house across the street from my dentist's office. My scooter is the one parked properly with rear tire facing the sidewalk. Sniff.

I breezed in expecting to see the same receptionist I've seen for years at the office. Boy, was I surprised by the frigid reception from a total stranger, and instead of the cheerful young Conch I met the steely gaze of an irritated middle aged wo,an. Oops. My tooth cleaner was the same as usual, a cheerful Mom looking forward to Thanksgiving. We passed a pleasant twenty minutes as she cleaned my ivories. My genes gave me good health and strong teeth so I left ahead of schedule once again.

A nice ride home under the sun over the water on the Overseas Highway. Cheyenne was glad to see me and I took advantage of my early return home to give her a long second walk of the day. No better way to use the time saved than to walk my Labrador.

A happy dog, enjoying life ahead of schedule.

 

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Ducks Quacking Through Key West

The streets of Key West really don't need any more congestion but nothing deterred here's another tour through town and it's not a bunch of Eco-cyclists. It's a duck, and it's bloody enormous.

These contraptions drive through Old Town starting at the Conch Tour Train stop at Front and Duval and they launch at the ramp next to the Eco Discovery Center on Truman Waterfront. The idea is to take an amphibious bus and see some of Key West on land and a whole bunch more from the water.

There is a history with these contraptions that makes their appearance on the streets not just controversial for some but positively ironic for anyone who knows. It happened about a decade ago that a dude figured an amphibious tour of Key West was just the ticket offered by no one and thus unique. Well, it was a little too much for the established tour company in Key West, Historic Tours of America whose principal ("principle" for the grammatically challenged) is the ubiquitous Ed Swift. He used a monopoly clause in his contract with the city to have the Duck Tours eliminated. They were shut down and sued the city for damages.

It took about a decade but finally the city lost the suit and had to pay damages totalling as I recall eight million dollars. The tour operator said his amphibious tour only took place on the water and while on land the duck was simply transporting the passengers to the water where the tour itself began. No one disputed this statement and thus he was not violating an already dubious monopoly granted to HTA. In the picture below you will see, ironically enough HTA's "First Mate" giving a tour speech as the duck trundled down Fleming Street from Whitehead to Simonton.

Indeed because this is the city that has different rules for different businesses, it means the on land portion of this trip can certainly be a tour these days. The duck suit not only cost the city (HTA got out in some settlement whose details I cannot recall) but also opened the door for Swift's disgruntled son-in-law and former employee to open a rival tour group using gray colored trolleys to challenge the HTA orange colored tour monopoly. Thus we get even more tour vehicles in a never ending spiral!

I found the picture above on the Internet of the original Duck Tour which used an original WW II DUKW built by GMC. As a point of interest the word DUKW stood for the year the vehicle was built (D= 1942) U is For Utility, K means front wheel drive and W for two rear driving axles. Weird huh? And this is a designation dreamed up by corporate America, not the much maligned government. The new machines are much more vast and imposing, naturally ideal for the narrow streets of Old Town.

I don't know what to think of these contraptions on the water but following one on my motorcycle (on the street) was a noisy protracted experience. The exhaust goes straight up the back, you can see it in the second picture where it appears as a silver cylinder, which is good but it is a slow lumbering vehicle to trail around behind. There is no mercy in this town for any opinion that suggests perhaps enough is enough. Channel widening is on the agenda as a way to get more cruise ship passengers into Old Town and apparently the pace of tours around the city isn't letting up either. I am amused by all this as I reall the dreadful fuss made about some guy and his group of bicycle tours around Old Town. He was considered so disruptive they put limits on his groups of a dozen cyclists, pedaling. Weird but true once again. What is it the Good Book says about removing the splinter in your own eye before trying to remove the log from your neighbor's? Bicycles no, but amphibious tanks yes?

 

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