Night Shift

Next month marks fourteen years dispatching at Key West PD and that's a milestone inasmuch as I have never held down a job that long.  I never sought out a career, because I get bored when I figure out how to do something. And then I got the job with the pension and the manacles closed around my wrists. I have long said that a good job makes Key West one of the best places to work, which flies in the face of the commonly held belief that Key West is a good place to vacation. And yet, we have no snow days, traffic is never that bad even when it seems annoying and some of that hippy ethic that used to permeate life in the Southernmost City does still apply in small ways in parts of the town. In a well regulated world this is still Key Weird  sometimes. My work manacles are self inflicted and very softly applied. I am one of the lucky ones...

As nice as it can be to work in Key West it's hard at the moment to find workers all around the city including in police dispatch. So it happened that Nick and I only got help before midnight and we had to take our breaks early. I usually sleep on a cot close by in case I'm needed during my break because I enjoy closing my eyes for forty minutes in the later half of the shift. When lack of staff mans I have to take my break early I can't nap so I went for a ride on the scooter to walk the waterfront. First I paused at the dinghy docks behind Turtle Kraals, the dinghies resting where they used to corral turtles in the bad old days when turtles were live food for ship's crews.

Breathing the warm night air was a relief as I strolled the docks. 911 calls are not as frequent after midnight as they used to be and I blame the gentrification of Key West when most people go to bed early and those still up are far fewer than years past and apparently less driven to drink and fight in public. Its not a bad thing this change. Still the calls come in even if at a slower pace.  It was graduation night so that probably explained the many noise complaints we had to deal with.. A hotel guest wanted a police report for a missing shirt which was a first for me in 14 years call taking because usually angry guests blame housekeeping for stealing jewelry and heirlooms not articles of clothing. 

We got a call about a scooter accident and that hits home to me considering how much I ride. Then they called for a helicopter for an airlift to Miami's trauma center for the rider. And I pictured the scooter rider down in some horrific collision and I sat there and pondered my riding habits. Another night a liveaboard boater called to report her dinghy stolen. I could feel her pain after years spent living on boats myself. The human condition chips away at your soul night after night. Fresh sea air and quiet serenity helps. 

It's nice to get a  breath of air in the middle of a night of taking calls about incidents of drinking, of yelling, of getting hurt and of getting feelings hurt. Key West is not a hotbed of crime, this is by and large a peaceful town that just sometimes frays at the edges where the high cost of living and low wages cause some people to not become criminals, they just become vexed and they lash out and do silly things in the heat of the moment. Sometimes they get arrested. Their calls are often fueled by alcohol and I sit there all night glad its not malice but stupidity that creates work for me.  I have always felt lucky to have a regular year  round useful job in a town that employs  so many on a  seasonal  wing and a prayer. But a short walk in a dark marina helps me to get through it all as much as does walking my dog in the woods after I get home. It wears you out  listening to people be upset

Hazy Days

Half Shots

Old City Hall is getting a makeover if the sign is to be believed.  City Commissioners have new quarters on White Street so presumably only lesser city bodies will now meet in the ornate chambers here, I'm thinking commissions and boards and advisory groups. Meanwhile one of the clock faces is still showing damage from Hurricane Irma.

Walking down Ann Street I saw diving tanks being prepared which reminded me our canal has cleaned up a great deal which could mean it's finally time to go swimming, the first time since September. In fact my wife must have been thinking along the same lines as she brought it up and we did swim this past weekend. About time.

The heat is on and summer feels like it has arrived after lots of rain and cool breezes. Even Rusty loses energy in the great outdoors in the eraly afternoon. I hover in shade and he does the same. 

 I saw this lone shoe on the sidewalk, apparently looking for its mate:

 Scooter  gangs rolling around Duval and Front Streets.

I really liked this picture of the Bull but somehow it snuck into my phone and I really liked the effect. Paris 1936 or Key West 2018 complete with sea monsters. 

Then I must have got infected with an artistic bug as I walked Duval feeling vaguely out of place. I watched the visitors shop and window shop and I snapped random pictures.

 I rather liked how they came out too. Odd.

 I felt like there was a story behind each one though you can make your own.

 An umbrella vendor caught my eye, and her wares more so:

Then I went home to reality and a hot dog.

Suzuki Burgman 200

Why I ask myself am I the only rider in North America who thinks the Baby Burgman motor scooter is the ideal ride? Perhaps it is because of where I live, in a land of 55 mph speed limits and ample free scooter parking. The Burgman 200 copes very well with both:

 In the world of motorcycling the US stands apart, a place of vast distances connected by amazing freeways, huge mountainous amphitheaters and desert landscapes all contained in one country that uses the same language, the same currency and by-and-large the same habits and customs with modest regional variations. It is I suppose hardly surprising that the motorcycling community has adopted the mantra that there is "no substitute for cubic inches" which, in a nation that firmly rejects metrification is a way of saying big is best. My Burgman at 200 cubic centimeters rates a mere twelve  cubic inches, laughably small in the land of Harley Davidson! But change is in the wind.

Just this month one of the last traditionally styled paper motorcycling monthlies, Rider has a review of three small adventure bikes, under Japanese Indian and German labels but all built in factories in the Far East where these types of bikes are just now coming into their own as toys for the emerging middle classes. Funnily enough they are also starting to appeal to rider sin the US  which brings me right back to my 360 pound 18 horsepower scooter.

I think in the land that developed the above mentioned theory that there is no substitute for cubic inches a modest 200 cc engine doesn't rate for those bad ass bikers. Indeed my scooter was originally purchased by a wife who wanted to ride with her husband until she lost her nerve. Lucky for me she did as I got a $5,000 scooter for just three grand. As I grow older I find myself more and more intrigued by the miniaturization of our world. Technology makes it possible to compress machinery and tools that used to be vast into smaller and smaller packages. As much as that is true of the silicon chip it is also true for motorcycles. Look at me, I was very happy with a 500 pound 900 cc Triumph which I rode for a decade and a hundred thousand miles:

So perhaps I am on the cutting edge of the go small movement? I don't think it's that, I think the pool of riders is just getting smaller and older. Harley Davidson sales are plummeting and their attempts to attract younger riders aren't working real well. Motorcycling is viewed as dangerous and not enough of us make it sound fun adventurous and exciting. Young people aren't driving and they certainly aren't riding and as we old guys age smaller bikes keep us on the road so it seems like geezers are still powering the market. Rider a long time advocate of small bikes, makes a point of saying in the article that these are not beginner's bikes, the fatal label that makes strong men afraid to ride small capacity bikes, these are capable touring machines.

So for someone like me who cares not one jot for fashion or hipness the Burgman is a severely practical answer to the mobility issues I live with. I am 23 miles from work (and play) in a year round mild climate and 75 to 80 miles per gallon on a scooter that is easy to ride and fun makes too much sense. I don't miss shifting gears especially as my arthritis in my left wrist won't go away and using a motorcycle clutch just aggravated it. I wasn't even riding the Triumph Bonneville much before Irma flooded my downstairs at home and wrecked the bike.

While I appreciate the economy and ease of riding and the practical storage on the Burgman it is also a whole load of fun. It's fast enough to put me out of the misery of slow poke cock-blocking drivers who think you can't pass on US One. It keeps up with freeway traffic so I am looking to make some long mainland trips on it when I can tear myself away from Rusty (my wife is much more obliging and likes her space). It is secure and relatively comfortable in heavy rain and I enjoy riding the thing. Check out the underseat trunk, so huge I don't yet find a need for a bulky rear top case:

With this scooter there comes an identity crisis. Am I a motorcyclist any more? I think I am because unlike most Americans I am not a fair weather weekend warrior, I would rather be riding than driving any day of the week. The way you look for the car keys when transport is called for is how I check for the scooter keys when I have to go somewhere. The only time I drive is when Rusty or my wife are involved. Perhaps I'm not a motorcyclist exactly but a rider. I don't even know if I will ever go back to a traditional motorcycle with gears and everything. There are scooters that are every bit as powerful as big motorcycles and more useful. However the Burgman can never be as sexy and appealing as a traditional Vespa. I still have one of those!

Unlike American riders I grew up on a mixture of motorcycles and Vespas like most European riders. Scooters were just another riding choice and these days of immense traffic congestion European riders are as much frustrated car drivers as motorcyclists. It's only in the US that scooters are objects of derision.

Perhaps I should have joined the crowd and gone for a small capacity motorcycle and many of them appeal to me. But for me the ease of use the practicality and low maintenance of the Burgman 200 combined with a  top speed of 80 mph which I rarely feel the need to exceed, makes me a very happy camper. Former motorcyclists perhaps? Whatever!

Two In One

Robert and I had lunch together at the Bier Boutique on First Street. We talked of this and that, perhaps a new home, winters spent in the far west skiing in Utah, a plan much liked by his wife.  I have known Robert for almost 30 years and I am surprised by his embrace of things new and different. A tropical man apres-ski. Well, well.

My wife is the key to my retirement and fortunately for me she only occasionally expresses a longing for a her youth and ski trips to Lake Tahoe with her father. I think Rusty might like snow. He sat around watching the world as Robert and I ate burgers.

 We are boring old men and usually I just take the easy route and do the special. Robert frequently branches out and seeks a bison burger of his own but we both settled for (!) the sriracha burger this time.

 Being a  temporary widower with a wife off at a conference my wife decided she should get to spend some time with Robert so in a rather unusual move we had dinner out with him in Big Pine Key.

It's a miracle, that's the name of the restaurant -Milagro - and the miracle is it might well flourish in Big Pine Key. The food was excellent, the ambiance was more romantic than I needed it to be for dinner with Robert.

 Pozole, which is a Mexican hominy and beef soup.

The fish too was superb. This place rocks.

I want to go back. Big Pine has  a great place to eat.

Getting The Wind Up

A dog has 300 million smell receptors up his nostrils and according to an interview I heard on NPR from a scientist who explained the way Rusty smells the world around him and it is unimaginably complex, varied and layered compared to a human's six million receptors that give us a very two dimensional view of the smells around us. When the wind is howling Rusty goes intoa  delirium of smelling.

I found the interview fascinating actually and I see my dog through a  whole new lense of experience. Dogs rate smells by freshness and can identify smells by direction very accurately as their nostrils work independently and in stereo. It's amazing stuff. So Rusty can smell bacon cooking at the state park campground and he knows how long ago it was cooked. He can smell dog shit too and it doesn't disgust him because, as the scientist put it smells to dogs are like colors to people. Rusty is no more revolted bya  "bad smell" than you or I are revolted by a  "bad color." Strange stuff indeed.

So it was I spent a lot of time sittig giving my buddy time to sort our all the smells flying across his nostrils at 25 miles per hour. When he wants to move on Rusty lets me know by staring hard at me and if that doesn't work he starts to whine. Otherwise I respect his desire to wait.

I drive Rusty to a his walks so he gets to enjoy a variety of destinations and variety is  as important to dogs as it is to us, in my opinion. However after we drive  we walk. I couldn't figure out why this guy felt the need to drive across a perfectly walkable open space to walk in a  small circle and then drive away again. He seemed so young and fit I was surprised he didn't walk.

It was a glorious day and I was put in mind of a saying I used to hear when out sailing. "Better to be in here wishing you were out there than to be out there wishing you were in here." It looked rather energizing from up here, as long as you were sailing downwind.

Back at the parking lot I opened the door for Rusty to get in. I called him to no effect. Grr. I walked around the car and found him being fondled by a  busty blonde woman with a  streak of pink hair. "I gave him some water, is that okay?" I shrugged my indifference. "He's thirsty," she said looking at me. Aren't we all I replied thinking of my teapot back at home. "I thought he was a stray," she said. He was I replied. The former stray hopped onto his bed in the back of the car. The last she saw of him as she climbed back into her Jeep was Rusty between the front seats covering me in kisses. Fooled her he seemed to be cackling.

It's odd how people think I am abusing Rusty by giving him his freedom. I let him run because he will come back to me. He's never had it so good: why would he not come back? I carry water in the car but on a cool day like that he wasn't that thirsty and he prefers for some reason to drink out of the watering can at home which I keep full mainly for him. Fifteen minutes later he had access to all the water he wanted in bowls and garden implements. The worried lady with the pink streak can choose to save any of the two and a half million dogs euthanized every year as "unwanted." Rusty is mine.

Not always does Rusty cooperate with technology just to prove he has a mind of his own. I swear he hates me playing with my phone for instance. Sometimes I pause during our walks and read something and he just walks away. At home if we are on the bed together he will get off and go to his own bed if I pick up the phone. He is far too human for his own good. Brat. And the way he avoids the camera is positively unsettling.