Haunted Fort Zachary, The Adult Version.

Halloween 2013 is history and we are sliding fast into the end of the year and the holidays and fattening foods and all the rest of it. But before we go I have to thank my wife for dragging me to see the haunting at Fort Zachary Taylor State Park. As silly as it sounds I have to confess it frightened the shit out of me.

At the entrance we were directed to the motorcycles and bicycles lane which was staffed by some really charming I'm sure volunteer who had no facility with money and no ability to get a bloody move on. Eventually the ditz fumbled enough of our change and stopped losing the tickets long enough to let us in. I had plenty of time to take a picture and frankly it was the last decent picture I think I snapped all evening, but eventually we got in and at $13 apiece I was wondering what this foolishness was about. I think my wife was wondering too because she made a point of saying how fun it was to be in the park after dark and I confess it really was even though I wasn't expecting much else. We should have gone for a walk after we staggered out of the haunting, but I had to get to work and my nerves were in no shape to enjoy the darkened woods around the fort.

The fort lends itself to a scene of the macabre, let's face it with its 19th century brick walls and dark shadows.

There was a line to get into the haunted part and some bright spark had the inspired idea to play old scary movies on a projector screen...great fun. We were in line with some kids in front of us, two Heidi lookalikes with long blond hair and apparently sweet dispositions, possibly ten years of age though I am hopeless at guessing children's ages. They were really excited and chattering away and despite what people will tell you I find Key West kids, even teenagers to be polite and respectful in a way that surprises me. Perhaps I scare them into compliance but I think children around here somehow learn old fashioned manners. I have no idea what parents are doing right.

Anyway they were telling us they weren't going to go in because it was too scary and I sort of stood there stolidly pretending to be my father who never got scared by anything (except death, the closer he got to it I found out later), little did I know I was going to have the bejesus freaked out of me. Anyway in we went as the usher wished us a good time...and I was not really expecting much. The first chamber had a tableau with a madwoman cutting off a dude's head and his neck was double jointed such that he could sink his head forward on his chest as though indeed she had sliced it. It was gross and I got a kind of picture...so far so good. We followed the twists and turns of wooden partitions set up along one entire side of the fort, among the cannon and the arched brick walkways....very eerie!

I suppose I should point out I do have a bit of a weakness and though I don't believe in ghosts and the supernatural and all that stuff I have a deep abiding aversion to being in a place like the woods after dark. Put me on a wooded trail alone with the sounds of the night and I will curl up in a ball and wish to the god I don't believe in that I were dead. I have trained myself to walk Cheyenne on my street late at night; a very dark, street-lamp-free mile with palm fronds rattling and shadows closing in all around me. Put me around town or in suburban agglomerations I have no problems, but a wood alone at night would flip me the fuck out. I have no idea why. I love sailing alone at night and I can be alone at sea and have no fear of the dark at all. I remember once motorcycling down a long dark road through the middle of Florida one moonless night on my way to a friend in Ocala and the night closed in on me like a cold deathly grip around my throat as I pelted through the blackness alone, me and my Suzuki. What if I get a flat? Or the engine conks out? I asked myself those questions instead of enjoying a fabulous ride, which when taken by the light of day revealed miles of pasture, lonely farm houses and absolutely nothing to fear at all. Duh!

Well, the walk through the fort was far more intense than I'd have imagined, they blew fog, faces sprang at you from trap doors, statues came to life and strands of fishing line grasped you invisibly around the face. It went on and on and on and pretty soon I was ready to call it quits but there was only one way out and I had to press on. My wife had great fun watching me succumb and I tried to regain my equilibrium hiding behind my camera. I got a ghoul in my view finder just as...some other horror brushed past me with a clap of thunder in the dark and this was the result:

I was wet with sweat by the time we got out and I took deep refreshing gulps of the cool night air. The ten year old was waiting on the parade ground and asked if we were scared; she had in fact ducked out after the first bloody tableau, smart kid. My wife answered for me laughing uproariously: "He is!" she chortled. "Scared stiff." Very funny I'm sure.

I am definitely going back next year only this time I promise I won't ever shout out "Fuck!" At the top of my lungs no matter how close the boogie man gets to me. And to the mothers of the children in the vicinity I hope it wasn't too difficult to explain to your kids that even the bravest of adults sometimes expose the chink in their armor and swear words are all they can find to seal the gap. Sorry.

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Meeting Of The Minds

It is a very odd thing but there are people who dip into this blog from time to time and excoriate me for not knowing stuff they think is important - plant names for instance, this despite the fact that I admit freely and publicly I am useless as a botanist among my many other failings. Just because I live here doesn't mean that magically I will become well versed in the details of life that interest other people. I can't fish, no actually I won't fish, nor will I kite surf or scuba dive (though I am qualified oddly enough). Nor will I ever become a parrot head. Apologies all round but I have but one life to live and the path I stumbled down led me in a different direction.

Bob is a parrot head and he lives in Montana where he is a third generation Conch. His grandfather jumped a German ship in the late 19th century and for reasons known only to himself made a beeline for the most mountainous least hospitable climate he could find. Well, as Bob says at least he didn't choose North Dakota or Minnesota whose winters make Montana's look positively tropical by comparison. That's his story and he's sticking to it.

He bought me a fish sandwich (special) at Buddy Owen's Fish Wagon and regaled me with stories of the frozen north. Livingston has been discovered apparently and Hollywood decamps there for the summer. Like Key West winter is for locals. Bob told me about his winter chore of leaving work at lunch to cross the street to his parked car where he ran the engine long enough to warm it up to prevent it freezing solid before it was time to go home in the evening. Of course he could have walked the five blocks to his house but the first time he tried that it took half an hour of King Wenceslas style trail breaking through enormous snow drifts. I find these sorts of conversations rather startling as I wonder how I plan to cope with the first severe cold front of winter. The one that drops temperatures below sixty degrees...

Luckily I wasn't alone in my parrot head incomprehension. Gene and Nancy had been having lunch at the table next door and came over to say hello. Well bugger, I was trapped. Gene said he thought it was me glancing down at my racy Croc footwear (half price sale on unmanly colors in extra large sizes) and he summoned up the nerve to introduce himself. He put me well in my place noting I was rather sarkywheel he dropped a comment five years ago and he never bothered to again. I herewith publicly flagellate myself and beg forgiveness and encourage commenting. I just don't know what to say back (my wife hits me over the head repeating "just say thank you, dolt!").

His wife Nancy was very sweet putting up with the duffers in the corner chuntering on without her. They're in town for a month so God knows what mischief they will get up to. It turns out Gene isn't actually a parrot head though he was delighted to learn from Bob that the Duval Street gathering tonight is a free street concert. It's a crappy picture but meeting people gives me nerves... What can I say?

We took a walk along the waterfront as Bob reveled in the October sunshine. His journey from Livingston took twelve hours such is the miracle of flight, transporting him from a full Montana blizzard to this:

It turns out that being a parrot head has nothing much to do with Jimmy Buffett these days according to Bob, so I asked him to pose in front of the former guru's last little piece of old Key West, Shrimp Sound recording studio. Bob's conversation was peppered with far more references to Howard Livingston and other bands that hold the interest these days of the parrot heads. Supporting up and coming talent and raising money for charity is the name of the game. Jimmy Buffett's rather condescending attitude seems to have driven him out of their camp. Personally I've never understood the fascination with him but like so many things Key West my tastes tend to run wide of the local mark.

At least on that score I could be a parrot head apparently. However my natural shyness precludes me from the notion that traveling to distant places to meet a roomful of strangers and thus turning them into friends could ever be at all appealing. Indeed it holds about the same appeal for me as having an amateur appendectomy on my kitchen counter. Yet for Bob the extrovert, his label, parrot head gatherings are a chance for him to leave his beloved Montana for a few days and get together with his widely scattered friends. Brave man.

He recently retired from a life working as a political aide and campaign worker in his home state and he looks forward to more of the same kinds of gatherings on his terms now. Look out New Orleans, Bob has you in his sights...Meanwhile he will live it up for a few days in Key West, "I'm not much of a drinker," he mentioned in passing, thus neatly skewering another parrot head myth, before going home to a snow drift, several cords of wood and a crate full of books which have been waiting patiently for his retirement. Have you thought about renting a room here for a couple of months? I asked appalled at the image in my mind of some kind of Jack London survival experience in the ironically named Paradise Valley outside Livingston where bears hibernate and snow gets so deep four wheel drive Subarus can't travel. Oh no he said I want to keep an eye on my parents and I'll get into town every couple of weeks. He really did say that. You can imagine what I was thinking. I mean really, people think I am rugged because I like living at Mile Marker 27 and I have a forty minute commute to my job and the fleshpots of Key West. I am about as likely to get hypothermia on my Bonneville even in a rain storm as I am likely to encounter a bear. Never mind snow.

Bob would have it no other way. He has friends in Livingston and they must be magnetic people indeed. I have never had such a sense of place and it makes my attachment to the Lower Keys feel rather fraudulent honestly. I'd flee this joint if things were a tenth as rugged as life in Livingston. All Bob says is they have it a lot worse in North Dakota. I can hardly imagine. I drove from Fargo to Bismark once in a blizzard with my crazy sister in law for someone's grossly mis-timed wedding, and the next day the sun was out and it was twenty degrees. I was under dressed (of course) in everything I owned, but the locals, I swear this is true, were out and about in t shirts enjoying the break in the weather. For the first time in my life I was actually looking forward to getting on a plane to escape the lunatic asylum. And I still married her sister, in Santa Cruz California, in August, in shirtsleeves, outdoors thank you very much.

Lauren is from San Francisco where he works with electrons and plays with a guitar. He and Bob are friends in this weird and wonderful network from hither and yon. For them Key West is a myth, a dream, not a place at all. It's a wonderful thing and I admit there is a wistfulness lurking somewhere that I can't let myself in. Unfortunately I live here in reality and like a television show set in a place you know, the writer's imagination keeps butting up against the hard reality that kicks you in the posterior daily, the reality of high rents low wages, drunks, overcrowding and lack of amenity. Hmm...

 

Shit, let's be honest here for a minute, I'd much rather live here with all the daily nuisances of reality than live in a place where I have to plug my car into a socket to keep it alive and only dream of Key West from inside an igloo. Forget that, I'm just not tough enough, though I am entirely tough enough to ride 27 glorious miles each way to work on a road that went to sea, in a way unlike any other.

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A Key West Speck Of Light In Endless Darkness

I'm fifty six today which gives me the duty or perhaps the obligation to reflect on the passage of time. Which is a perfectly pointless use of a ticking clock hand. Time passes, if it exists at all and we have to spend it on this little blue ball suspended in the darkness of space. Which is a rather portentous way of thinking about how serene and peaceful the night sky can be, especially when close to the ocean.

I took a lunch break at White Street Pier, where the cool night air was blowing and everything felt contaminated by salty dampness at three o'clock in the morning... Fall is upon us but in Key West that means something a little different compared to places where leaves change and frost kills plants and dogs chained outside grow winter coats and howl at the demons of the night. In the Keys humidity drops away, lips chap and one's Labrador starts to perk up after a summer of avoiding direct sunlight. "It's cold outside," Shannon said cheerfully when she got back from her lunch break at ten in the evening. By the time I took a Vespa ride to the beach four hours later it was in the mid seventies and decidedly parky. Just like people Up North who look forward to the first snows and loathe the last, I like the first signs of a break in the weather though by January I will be waiting for the return of summer, a time when sixty degrees is nowhere to be seen outside an ice box.

I drank a large ice cold can of Coke Zero while I watched the half moon move across the sky, ducking in and out among the clouds, and I felt pretty good. We got through Fantasy Fest in good order at work. I spent the night of the parade dispatching ambulances and taking calls from severely intoxicated people who had lost, it seemed, all the appurtenances of their complex modern lives; the city was adrift in a sea of missing cars, bicycles, cell phones, wallets purses and family members. Through it all I managed to keep above the fray and stay cheerful such that Shannon, new to 911 call taking, asked me how I managed that. Nine years of Fantasy Fest in dispatch I said, and in saying it I was surprised how long I have worked at the police department. It's the human condition, you get used to anything. One caller got mad at me because I didn't get all in a lather when he reported a man passed out at Higgs Beach. I got all the information to make sure the officer could find him with minimal effort and the caller was acting like I was supposed to get myself worked up as he was. "Oh I don't want to get involved." the caller said when I asked him if he wanted to meet the officer. Of course he didn't,but I noted his request for anonimity as I calmly did my job, because thats what we do in the modern world. We aren't our brothers keepers anymore, unless we extend ourselves to call the government for help, and I am grateful for that; its my job security, other people's fear, and that makes my job weird. It always amazes me how people can drink themselves insensible in the streets of our fair city, and leave themselves to be picked up by perfect strangers. I wonder what they think when they wake up next day in the drunk tank at the jail. Mostly they call the police department all angry as though its our fault they got pick pocketted while passed out. By then I'm home asleep with my dog and their loss of dignity is long forgotten.

Most of the time I have worked nights because I like night shift and I have been out to the White Street Pier before now in the middle of my lunch break. It sticks out south of Higgs Beach like a finger pointing at Havana and the tour guides like to joke it is the stump of the former road bridge to Cuba closed by the embargo. It is in point of fact just a fishing pier, a nice one, but nothing more. And I like to come here from time to time and contemplate the night time mysteries of the universe and the pleasure of being alive and intact. This time I was impressed by the utter blackness of the night surrounding the tiny specks of light I caught in my camera lense. I hope that in the event my body fails one piece at a time before my demise i shall still be able to take pleasure in the vastness of the unvierse around me.

While buying my coke I met the sergeant in charge of our shift at the convenience store and we chatted for a while. He is enjoying a new relationship which is helping him overcome the unhappiness of a recent divorce, and the new relationship makes for a much happier shift. When the sergeant ain't happy ain't nobody happy, believe me. We talked about the subtle pleasures of working nights, and he showed me a video of his latest high speed track driving exploit and we laughed at the prospect of one day being retired and not having a reason to stand around at the Circle K shooting the breeze. The best is to have lived with no regrets he said. Or as few as possible, as he admired his new companion pictured riding in the race car next to him at the Homestead Race Track.

The landward end of the pier is an area dedicated to the AIDS memorial, a remembrance of the time when people were dying all over the island in droves. And from time to time a new name still gets added. At three in the morning ruffled by that cool autumnal breeze the memorial gains in strength as the black shiny memorial slabs reflect the infinite darkness overhead, the place where those memorialized have gone and where we are bound to follow. No regrets.

It strikes me as telling that these kinds of thoughts only seem to be permitted in the dark of night in this town, which is a place dedicated to having fun, and that diversion is held as the highest ideal. Sun sea sand and music and restaurants and costumes and parties and all that stuff pushes thoughts of age and the darkness of eternity to one side. Just as well I suppose, but I am content and I feel lucky, in the face of decay. At the Big Pine dog park I met an old white guy radiating contentment along with his cheerful Collie, so happy Cheyenne got tired of him in a hurry. We were sitting there in the dawn's early grayness and he talked about a fellow he knew, a computer repair wizard who rescued a Ridgeback dog from South Africa and flew it home to Key West. They are inseparable and if you want your computer fixed you have to welcome the Rhodesian right alongside the tech into your home.

It kind of surprised me, my conventional interlocutor remarked, suggesting love of dog could cut business prospects. Cool I said, tired as I am of being nice on command, as necessary as it is in our overcrowded world. Lose some work (gasp!) love your dog. Nice indeed. He's a good dog the dude in the garden chair across from me went on, idling ruffling his Collie's coat. They live for 25 years, Rhodesian Ridgebacks. Hell I said its too late for me, the bloody dog would outlive me! He started chuckling, you'd be 80 as I told him my age, claiming 55 for the last time. Yes I said, if I get that far. I figure I've got maybe two more Labradors in me yet.

It's not possible for normally engaged Westerners to be constantly aware, as the Bhuddists would like us to be, of our status as a small speck of stardust suspended in Carl Sagan's dark and lonely cosmos. But from time to time it's nice to remember our main obligation is just to get through it and do as little harm as possible while being as kind as one can manage. Growing older I am finding it easier to be a human being rather than a human doing, and that can't be all bad. Living, working and having a life in Key West is icing on this very temporary cake.

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The Things I See In Key West

The re-elected mayor of Key West is in hot water for his plans announced without much of a by-your-leave to build a homeless rehab facility on Stock Island, on the northern half of the island previously annexed by the city. It's not a real popular plan not least with the homeowners on the golf course nearby and a swath of city residents who argue that a 24 hour center for the homeless will not solve the problem and may just make it worse. Worse than this?

I continue to be astounded by the numbers of people who drink themselves insensible night after night on city streets. Not all of them are residentially challenged but they sure don't hold back when it comes to quaffing cheap alcohol. While the bigwigs argue about the size of cruise ships the streets present this spectacle to paying tourists. Let me tell you the police are doing what is permitted night after night, taking names, arresting and moving along. What the real solution is I don't know but shooting down proposals like the mayor's isn't the path to productive discussion. The city has had a falling out with Reverend Braddock one of the leading homeless activists and his expertise seems to have been sidelined. I can't imagine how that helps.

Meanwhile we all muddle along. It's not all homeless and cruise ships in town. Life goes on as usual and this time of year is lovely with time and space for those that live here, or visit and appreciate quiet times. What better than local freshly baked pastries for breakfast, to go...

Hydration is all the rage and this couple luckily had a plastic recyclable bottle of filtered tap water bough at great expense to keep them from expiring on the hot city streets. They were at least one block from Harpoon Harry's and the New Market (Maun's) where refreshment is sometimes available as rumor has it. And non alcoholic too. I learned when living on a boat that water is terribly heavy so perhaps I am simply justifying my laziness.

I make it through an entire walk without so much as a sip of water. I astonish myself. This dude in the picture below went a long way to surprising me too. It's illegal finally to text and drive in Florida, as of the first of the month, so he couldn't have been texting but he crawled up Fleming onto White Street at ten miles per hour (giving me the opportunity to take the next picture below as he dawdled after a red light went green) then suddenly he got galvanized and started racing down White Street as though a firecracker had gone off up his fundament. Then at the light in front of Sandy's he flicked a cigarette butt into the street. His pest control company had the green seal of Eco-awareness on the back or some such nonsense. Irony where is they sting?

I really liked the 15 minute parking zone in front of the dentist's office. I've never had a fifteen minute appointment at Doctor Claude's office on South Street. Even to clean my teeth takes half an hour.

Someone got quite enthusiastic already about my birthday tomorrow. If anyone would like to swap a Halloween birthday with me let me know how we can do it and I am ready to get through All Hallow's Eve with absolutely no celebration at all. My wife is promising cup cakes from the shop in Marathon near where she works. I asked for pineapple upside down cake and she groaned I always want the most complicated cakes, so my evil plan to get cupcakes worked. Might as well get something for turning fifty six.

I keep seeing these painted faces around Key West. They were a sensation for a time but like everything in Key West they ended up being rather evanescent though the weather can't wipe their remains out completely. Cheyenne was not at all fascinated by the decal.

This weird loading dock next to Finnegan's Wake has been abandoned for ages, as long as I can remember which may not technically be an age but it has sat there like this for a very long time. Suddenly it looked like construction was about to happen. Not so fast! There's fencing in front of it but here it sits as always:

The Boulevard has been turned into two way traffic to help out the struggling businesses along its length, and the relief for all side and alternative streets has been enormous. Meanwhile plans are afoot to beautify Caroline Street where Pritam Singh is preparing to build a fancy new hotel behind the old West Marine store, and that building will require planters and bike paths and all that sort of urban renewal. Flooding certainly is a problem, seen here in front of Pepe's Cafe.

As much as government gets blamed for all the ills of the Western world business manages not to get too worked up sometimes about the details. A new gutter perhaps?

Here's the old West Marine at 725 Caroline...

...and here is the new boater's supermarket stretching from the corner of Grinnell Street. I think the building is quite attractive with its built in sliding hurricane shutters in a natty shade of blue.

 

And then of course there is a huge segment of Key West voters who told the people in charge that enough is enough and dredging is off he table. The city commission is telling the Feds to back off, the people don't want change, and they mean to hold their leaders accountable. Oddly enough many of the city commissioners supported the dredging study while their voters told them no by 75 to 25 percent.

I wonder if they will pay attention over the long term to the will of the people in this small corner of a tone deaf country?

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A New Bohemian In Old Key West

The lure of Key West refuses to dim for some people and often they ask me what to do about it. It's a question that perplexes me, not least because my cold logical Asperger's brain says if you want to do it, do it. But it's not that simple they say and it never is. When I was a kid learning to plough fields that I owned but that I had no money to maintain hence my ride on the tractor, I was in the habit of wondering out loud where would be a good place to live if one day my family could ever get its shit together and make some money from this biblically stony ground that held no appeal to me as a home. The old hand on the other tractor looked at me stonily and noted that with enough money anywhere is good enough to live. It's a lesson that has got away from me over the years but in Key West it has come home to roost.

George like me never even knew about Key West until he had an accidental brush with it. He flew over the town and throught the situation looked interesting, a town surrounded by turquoise waters. I rode there on my Vespa looking for a ferry out that wasn't there. Beorge became an accident two European ad spent a productive lifetime in Prague city of monuments and spires and writers and acommunism and bloody cold winters. Five minutes after arriving in Key West and abandoning his rental car for a walk George and his missus decided Key West was a lot better than Belize, the other short listed place with winter sun that looked better than Prague as a place to retire.

So here was my chance over tapas at Santiago's Bodega to find out why Key West. Weather? Of course. Fishing? Nope. Boating? Nope. Family ties? Nope, not at all. The literary scene? A big fat Yes for this literature major who first identified Prague decades ago by its Kadka/Kundera fame and only later discovered he could earn a living there. There was no unbearable lightness of beans in Prague for George who landed a volunteer gig there just as capitalism started to rear it's busy head behind the former Iron Curtain. By the time the chance for foreigners to get established in Prague had passed George was ensconced with local partners playing with money and learning to be happy working eighty hours a week in his adopted land speaking an adopted language with a cellphone glued to his head. Meanwhile back in Gotham City... I was living on a boat in California reporting news and making absolutely no money whatsoever. I met women though and learned the old adage they won't lie down in a cabin they can't stand up in.

So now George who grew up shuffling between DC and New York, his wife and their one year old live in Old Town a few months of the year scattered throughout the year, scattered enough for George to reject vehemently the snowbird label...

George has catapulted himself into a Key West that is alien for me, and thus that much more interesting. To me learning a language then learning to live that language is much more interesting than choosing to live in Key West which is a default position for a lot of incomers myself included, yet for George life is now beginning to flesh itself out for him. The monochrome world of finance in a country that is as exotic as it is distant has blossomed into the overly saturated colors of a primitive artwork that is Key West's fame and reputation. On the one hand it makes me a bit nervous because I am not terribly colorful. I don't pick fights in bars or solicit strippers, I don't commune with street people or lead impromptu jamborees on penny whistles and kazoos. I work overtime, pay most of my bills and fret about global warming, peak oil and bone spurs in my neck.

Yet here I am living in the Keys, living the dream as it were, unable to explain how I even got here except I showed up on my boat after years of flirting with Key West and finding it wanting, when suddenly the fog of San Francisco Bay was no longer tolerable and enough of the outside world had penetrated Key West to make it at last comfortable for me. I find tolerance to be a precious commodity as I grow older and tolerance in California is draining away under the pressure of too many people and too many golden dreams crowded into a state no longer large enough, or golden enough to give them room. Key West's reputation for tolerance may be somewhat overstated nowadays as traditionally not tolerated issues like homosexuality and unconventional relationships generally are tolerated far more widely across the country. It's tough to be a Bohemian nowadays, an irony that I quite enjoy considering George's many decades of actual residence in Bohemia....our neighbors at Santiago's were from somewhere else recording their visit for posterity. Perhaps they felt the bohemian vibe?

George wants to soak up life now he is here, smart phone free, unemployed, and ready to live. I find it flattering he wants to do it in Key West, and it seems to me he gets what he wants. My wife and I wandered around Eastern Europe for three weeks in 1995, driving through Czech, Poland, Slovakia, Hungary and Austria and it seemed like the land of opportunity as change was sweeping the drudgery of Communism away. But I had no conception of how, or why one might choose to make a home there. Nothing daunted George did and did it well. Settling in Key West, resuming his literary ambitions, mixing it up with colorful locals (there are some, just not me) and reveling in joie de vivre should be a piece of cake for the Bohemian re-born. My dog tends to reflect my Key West ambitions on a sunny afternoon off:

George will make a much better gauge of what happens when one moves one's life to a Key West of which so many dream and not everyone attains. You should ask him how it's done the next time he greets your cheerfully on the street and asks how you are doing. He really means it, he wants to know. It was a privilege to meet a nice guy and he will be very gentle with you. He was with me. Must be those European manners.

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