being,” said Tim, “or did I waste all those wishes living a shitbird’s existence?”
“As pilots say, that’s the runway behind you.”
He nodded. “And life is a long series of drag races and siestas. I know you’ve got this ledger in your mind where you owe guilt debt to the world or Mom or your friends on the island. But your debt just grows as you get older, gets heavier and never goes away. All I want is a balance sheet that zeroes out to a guilt-free ride. Anything wrong with that?”
Out of Tim’s mouth, that assessment amounted to towering optimism. Maybe my kid brother was starting to grow up.
“A zero balance sheet.” I laughed. “The old man died owing me money.”
“He died owing me more than that.”
“Like there’s a written guarantee?” I said. “I won’t argue that he started the wound. Maybe you need to get over it before you dig yourself a deeper hole.”
Tim drained the beer. “I suppose we all exist for a reason, pieces in the cosmic puzzle. I’m through digging my own holes, Alex. On top of that, I’m convinced it’s easier to be a decent human being instead of the alternative. I like easy.”
“And it’s nice not to always be looking over your shoulder,” I said.
“You bet. But, as great men have said before me, fuck it all. How fast will that boat go?”
“That hull, that motor, I expect forty-five, maybe fifty with the wind on your butt.”
“You need some kind of license to take people for rides?” he said. “Maybe that’d be the job for me.”
“They call it a six-pack license. You take a course, take a test, get the Coast Guard’s approval. I’ve heard a few captains bitch that their income’s dependent on the weather.”
Tim shook his head. “I smell insurance and permits and sales tax, too. They don’t make a damned thing easy these days. It’s all stacked against little guys like me.”
The Caprice rolled in with a honk and a shut-down blat from its hollow mufflers. Tim didn’t move from where we sat. “Five-point-seven liters, 260 horsepower, and twenty-three miles per gallon. I paid two large and I should’ve paid less.”
“Still sounds like a bargain.”
“I never make good deals,” he said. “I might get lucky every few years, but one way or the other, even the good ones nail me in the ass. That station wagon’ll break down one day and leave me stranded when I need it least, you can count on it.”
He pitched his empty behind him. It rose in a perfect arc but missed the trash barrel by a foot and landed in the grass. He stood, looked away, and made no effort to pick up the bottle.
“All that anger inside you,” I said.
“I think some of it’s drained out.”
“It’s a good thing you’re not violent.”
He grinned but it turned into a sneer. He picked up the bottle and flung it downward. It shattered in the trash. Brown glass flew and sprinkled his forearm. He brushed it off, unconcerned about imbedding shards in his skin, then stared into the trash can as if searching for truth. “I’m not violent? Who ever told you that, brother?”
9
Tanker Branigan presented me with two of the four dozen antique Cuban postcards he had bought at the Big Pine flea market. One was a hundred-year-old lithograph card with a picture of Key West’s Havana American Cigar Factory. The other had no photograph but read, “The Cosmopolitan Bakery, Obispo Street 101, Splendid Restaurant and Bar, We Employ English Speaking Waiters.”
“Some boy in hitch-up overalls thought he bent me over for these,” said Tanker. “I was the better actor, and I knew what they were worth. Join me in my mercenary happiness.”
“You could frame them,” I said. “Sell them as art.”
“He’d need a thousand damned frames,” said Francie. “His walls would look better, but his party budget would go straight to hell.”
Before she drove—insisted on driving—her two bad boys back to town, Francie pulled me aside, but not too far. “If you
“As pilots say, that’s the runway behind you.”
He nodded. “And life is a long series of drag races and siestas. I know you’ve got this ledger in your mind where you owe guilt debt to the world or Mom or your friends on the island. But your debt just grows as you get older, gets heavier and never goes away. All I want is a balance sheet that zeroes out to a guilt-free ride. Anything wrong with that?”
Out of Tim’s mouth, that assessment amounted to towering optimism. Maybe my kid brother was starting to grow up.
“A zero balance sheet.” I laughed. “The old man died owing me money.”
“He died owing me more than that.”
“Like there’s a written guarantee?” I said. “I won’t argue that he started the wound. Maybe you need to get over it before you dig yourself a deeper hole.”
Tim drained the beer. “I suppose we all exist for a reason, pieces in the cosmic puzzle. I’m through digging my own holes, Alex. On top of that, I’m convinced it’s easier to be a decent human being instead of the alternative. I like easy.”
“And it’s nice not to always be looking over your shoulder,” I said.
“You bet. But, as great men have said before me, fuck it all. How fast will that boat go?”
“That hull, that motor, I expect forty-five, maybe fifty with the wind on your butt.”
“You need some kind of license to take people for rides?” he said. “Maybe that’d be the job for me.”
“They call it a six-pack license. You take a course, take a test, get the Coast Guard’s approval. I’ve heard a few captains bitch that their income’s dependent on the weather.”
Tim shook his head. “I smell insurance and permits and sales tax, too. They don’t make a damned thing easy these days. It’s all stacked against little guys like me.”
The Caprice rolled in with a honk and a shut-down blat from its hollow mufflers. Tim didn’t move from where we sat. “Five-point-seven liters, 260 horsepower, and twenty-three miles per gallon. I paid two large and I should’ve paid less.”
“Still sounds like a bargain.”
“I never make good deals,” he said. “I might get lucky every few years, but one way or the other, even the good ones nail me in the ass. That station wagon’ll break down one day and leave me stranded when I need it least, you can count on it.”
He pitched his empty behind him. It rose in a perfect arc but missed the trash barrel by a foot and landed in the grass. He stood, looked away, and made no effort to pick up the bottle.
“All that anger inside you,” I said.
“I think some of it’s drained out.”
“It’s a good thing you’re not violent.”
He grinned but it turned into a sneer. He picked up the bottle and flung it downward. It shattered in the trash. Brown glass flew and sprinkled his forearm. He brushed it off, unconcerned about imbedding shards in his skin, then stared into the trash can as if searching for truth. “I’m not violent? Who ever told you that, brother?”
9
Tanker Branigan presented me with two of the four dozen antique Cuban postcards he had bought at the Big Pine flea market. One was a hundred-year-old lithograph card with a picture of Key West’s Havana American Cigar Factory. The other had no photograph but read, “The Cosmopolitan Bakery, Obispo Street 101, Splendid Restaurant and Bar, We Employ English Speaking Waiters.”
“Some boy in hitch-up overalls thought he bent me over for these,” said Tanker. “I was the better actor, and I knew what they were worth. Join me in my mercenary happiness.”
“You could frame them,” I said. “Sell them as art.”
“He’d need a thousand damned frames,” said Francie. “His walls would look better, but his party budget would go straight to hell.”
Before she drove—insisted on driving—her two bad boys back to town, Francie pulled me aside, but not too far. “If you
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