Friday, August 11, 2006

It never works, minding my own business.
Every few weeks I am reminded that I attract esoteric situations like bees to honey or a compass' arrow to due north. I am like the Venus' flytrap of other people's affairs. I am trying to learn to keep my mouth shut, but sometimes stuff just happens.
I am sitting at my favorite people-watching perch, Rick's on Duval Street. I am digging deeply into a basket of salted peanuts, sharing them with a squadron of mourning doves, the empty shells littering the floor around the seating area that fronts the street.
There is a couple seated next to me along the rail. They are in the middle of a heated argument. The woman is verbally shredding the man because of what she refers to as his ''insensitivity to our relationship,'' and he is equally adamant about her ``lack of consideration.''
They're shouting loud enough to cause the driver of a passing Conch Tour Train to announce over his loud speaker as they pass, ''Whoa, Nellie. What have we got going on over there?'' The train's passengers offer a few good laughs and then, with a ding-ding-ding, the train continues up the street.
The couple does not miss a beat, the acrid banter batted back and forth like a tennis ball in play.
Their sex life enters into the conversation, which carries way too much information. I know that it's only a matter of time before my expertise, the advice of a total stranger, is brought into play.
My Venus' flytrap is stirring.
The woman is the first to seek my wisdom. ''Whaddya think of this guy?'' she asks, poking her thumb over her shoulder.
''Mind your own business,'' the man cautions me, pointing a finger in my direction.
''Don't tell him what to do,'' she responds. Now she's pointing at him.
''You're defending a guy you don't even know,'' he says.
''He's nicer than you are,'' she counters.
YIELD TO TEMPTATION
The couple has several more exchanges. Their fingers slash like dueling foils, dotting the I's and crossing the T's, driving home their exclamation points.
I have not said a word.
They both look at me. The woman says, ``Well?''
Well? Well, it's not my fault, I think. It's akin to putting chocolate in front of a chocoholic.
I babble a minced portion of platitudes and adages that cumulatively make little sense and offer, ``Love is a many-splendored thing, as long as the heart is pure and you don't forget the flowers.''
They look at me, finish their beers and leave without a thank you, spewing a trail of expletives at each other, and me, in their wake.
The crowd on Duval Street is thin, the late afternoon heat and humidity packing a one-two combination that has sent people in search of air conditioning and swimming pools.
HIGH HORSE ON HEELS
A man walks by, looks at the recently vacated stools next to me and asks, ``Anyone sitting here?''
I point toward the seats, ``Not any more.''
He nods, pulls up one of the stools and waves to the bearded Hemingway look-alike who is tending bar and signals for a beer.
The man is tall, his blond hair cut short in a Marine buzz-cut style, and he's wearing a tropical-print shirt, khaki pants and spike-heeled designer shoes studded with rhinestones. I take a long appraising look at his footwear, thinking they are Manolo Blahniks or Prada, and try hard not to comment. Instead, I keep my mouth shut and shake my head.
But my Venus' flytrap is awake and opening its maw.
The man gets an instant attitude, probably thinking that I am making a silent wisecrack about a guy wearing high-heeled shoes.
''What's the problem?'' he demands, sounding nasty.
''Rhinestones. Before sunset?'' I say, arching my brow.
He looks down at his shoes and scrunches his face into a near scowl, but he does not disagree with me. He, too, finishes his beer and leaves.
What's the use? I'll never learn. The Venus' flytrap is always hungry.

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