May-September Love

It is humorous, when I think about it, the things that strangers will tell me without much prompting. I had just met a May-September couple from Palm Beach. The woman, Nicole, was many years younger than her companion Robert, and they were an attractive match. Her jet-black hair tied tight back like a Spanish aristocrat’s was in sharp contrast to Robert’s gray hair and salt-and-pepper beard. They looked like movie stars: he, Cary Grant with a beard and she an equally elegant Audrey Hepburn.

“Nice day,” I remarked, and that’s all it took. Like old friends, their story spilled out as if the little Dutch boy had removed his finger from the dike. First a trickle, and then a deluge.
Both, it unfolds, had experienced loveless and dissolving marriages. They had discovered each other when Robert was shopping in a Palm Beach department store, where Nicole worked.

“I walked into this store and looked at the most gorgeous woman that I had ever seen,” he told me. His guileless smile spoke as much about his feelings as his words. She smiled and the air rippled, they exchanged electricity and I think I saw the spark.

Some of their lovers’ tale was sketchy and incomplete but they both had children and Robert quipped that, “One of us has grandkids, too.”
He told me that his mother had called him earlier in the week to tell him that his wife and her boyfriend were in Israel on vacation, then he added that Nicole’s husband was in Nevada doing his own thing.
He and Nicole had traveled, first to Little Palm Island for a couple of days, and then found themselves on the “Afterdeck” at Louie’s Backyard, the ultimate Key West rendezvous for romantics.

Robert did most of the talking, while Nicole smiled agreeably, although I think that she might have been ready to place a strategically place kick if necessary. Then Robert mentioned that “she has a thing for older men.
“Lucky me,” he added.
More electricity sizzled.
“And the one time that she was involved with someone nearer her age, it ended badly.”

My thoughts ran through the spectrum of ways that relationships end, and naively, I lightly danced into a minefield.
“I went out with a younger man for three months and when I told him that it wasn’t working out…,” she paused and took a deep breath before continuing, then told me the rest of her story. The details are not pleasant, and suffice it to say that it did end badly, extremely so, the young man causing himself grave physical harm, in her presence.
No one smiled. A hand was squeezed.

They had a plane to catch and after we parted company I thought about how in the space of fifteen minutes I had traveled from stranger to confidante. I had shared in the joy, the sadness, the expectations and the hopes of this couple. I always hope to hear joyful endings to love stories, but in the real world that’s not always how it happens.

Some time later, an elderly couple sat down next to me at a table overlooking the ocean. The man was wearing a pale yellow bow tie, the real McCoy, not a clip-on. The woman’s crisp white hair was nearly silver against the blue horizon. They held hands and looked as if they truly appreciated each other’s company. When their eyes met, the ozone shifted. I could see another love story.
They looked in my direction. “Nice day,” I commented.

WHERE GOOGLE FALLS SHORT, MEMORIES STEP IN

The two people were locked in heavy conversation. Few kind words were being exchanged, and there was little attempt to temper the volume or antagonism of their argument. It was a good thing there were no weapons on the table, or it could have gotten really ugly.

I'm not sure how the fiasco began, but by the time I arrived at the waterfront Hogfish Bar on Stock Island and found my seat at a nearby table, they were going at it pretty strong.

The adjacent working marinas, filled with an eclectic array of live-aboards, commercial fishing vessels, sailboats and sports fisherman, usually offer up a ``close your eyes and you're in the 1950s'' ambience. The air is alive with the pungent bouquet of dead fish and diesel fuel and filled with the clang of halyards slapping at masts, the grinding of gears, the creaking of boat against dock, the chug-chug-chugging of ships' engines set to slow ahead.

TOUGH CROWD
It was not so this day. The pair's dispute was like chalk on a blackboard and a reminder of days past, prior to the gentrification of the Florida Keys, when this restaurant was an offshoot of the rough-and-tumble Red's, an infamous Key West watering hole on Caroline Street that sold cheap booze to drunken sailors and angry bikers. ``Red'' opened this bar after he had to vacate his downtown Key West location but has since moved along to the great biker bar in the sky.

MEET THE CONTESTANTS
The participants in this particular verbal prize-fight were not from the usual cast of Key West characters. Contestant No. 1, angry and unsightly, weighed in at approximately 200 pounds, wore plaid shorts and flip-flops and wagged his finger in the face of contestant No. 2.
She was a petite, well-dressed woman who couldn't weigh much more than 100 pounds dripping wet, an Audrey Hepburn look-alike who wore thick, black rhinestone-studded eyeglasses, her hair in a ponytail. She was angry, too, but cute, like a pixie up to some mischief.
They were fighting, hot and heavy, about who had more Google hits, each staking their claim to fame by the number of times their name appears on that Internet site, and the importance that that fact holds. The argument was beyond ludicrous even before she told him that his arrest record shouldn't count. They niggled back and forth and thankfully ran out of steam before a punch could be thrown.

After the couple left, I struck up a conversation with a tired-looking gentleman sitting nearby who had been shaking his head throughout the couple's fight.
``Pretty pathetic,'' the man said, pointing toward the parking lot where the couple, now holding hands, headed toward their car. ``They think they're so important.''
I assumed he thought the argument as silly as I did, but when he added, ``I've probably got more Google hits than the both of them put together,'' I kept my opinion to myself.

THE GOOGLE TEST
I had never thought about Google as a barometer of one's importance or worth. When I arrived home, I Googled several important people in my life, people I hold close in my heart and mind: my fourth-grade teacher, Doris Smith, who taught me humor. Not one Google hit. Then I tried my eighth-grade teacher, Paris Amico, who passed along reasoning and dignity. Not a line. Next, I entered my father, George Suib, who taught me to value each word as a prize, and who, while I was growing up, never gave me the answer to a question free of charge, instead pointing me in the right direction, allowing me to figure it out myself. Not one solitary hit. It's impossible, I thought. Google, with its vast and complex memory system of numbers and codes, hadn't the foggiest idea who these important people were.

I shut my computer down and switched to a far more accurate search engine, the search engine of my heart and mind. And the hits keep coming.

We have telephones that can take photos and transmit them anywhere in the world in nanoseconds. We have the technology to transport a person to the moon and back and medical techniques that can increase our life spans and our libidos. But just try to wend your way through a supermarket check-out counter using their latest modern advancement, the Automatic Electronic Cashier (AEC’s) and, excuse the 50’s vernacular, “yikes!” It’s as fast as a third trimester snail rushing to the delivery room.

These electronic cashiers were installed several months ago at my local Winn-Dixie, but today is the first time that I decide that I will jump into the pool and get my AEC feet wet. It has taken me months to try the new system because I liked the old method just fine. A real person to talk to is a good thing, I think.

“Hello. How are you today? You’re looking chipper.” All are little civilities that add to the texture of the day.

Curiosity and temptation finally got the best of me and after watching several people navigate their way through the area set up solely for AEC transactions, I felt ready for the adventure.

I would guess that the installation of the AEC’s is a cost savings method. Eliminating a person from standing in front of a cash register should equate to a lower payroll, right? But I also notice that there are a number of former cashiers who are now in a managerial position. Their underlings being the AEC”s. This reminds me of the attendants standing by each of the Automatic Toll Machines on many of our highways. It does not appear to be very cost effective.

I start sweating when the gray-haired man in front of me at the AEC check-out begins to run into some trouble. He has scanned a bottle of wine, and his machine makes a general announcement to the entire store that he is attempting to purchase an “age restricted item”.

“Whaddaya mean, age restricted,” he demands, but the machine merely repeats the message and then announces that an associate will soon appear to verify his date of birth. The man looks around puzzled.

The AEC holds its ground and repeats the message again. I think that I hear the machine chuckle, but it is one of the associates, who arrives and allows the AEC to continue.

The machine gets bolder. The same man places several apples on the scanning pad, which has a scale built into its sensors. The screen above it lights up with photos of two dozen different fruits and vegetables and asks the man to pick the proper item, which he does. But it is not a choice of the machine’s liking and it suggests that he, “Please choose again.” The man, feverishly punching screen buttons, finally pokes one that the AEC agrees with.

Now come the bananas. The man behind me, in the now backlogged check-out line, suggests that if the bananas don’t make it through the system, he is afraid that someone from Homeland Security might come out and shoot the guy.

“Order a strip search, or at least have him remove his shoes” I add. We discuss whether we will be ‘profiled’ by our purchases.
“Probably, will be,” we agree.

The man on the check-out hot seat is not having fun. The machine balks when he fails to put his purchased items into the plastic sack in the proper order, by advising him that “the weight of the item purchased does not correspond to the last item” being placed in his bag.
Then, the man does it. He hollers at the AEC.

Oh, c’mon,” he screeches, “what are you talking about”?
The area instantly becomes quiet. You can hear a lemon drop. But the running footfalls of several associates rushing to the man’s, or the AEC’s, assistance bring his trouble to an end. They are able to successfully complete his transaction, and rapidly usher him out the front door.
It’s my turn. The pressure is on. I inhale, a deep breath, and take the plunge. I have six items and nothing that needs weighing. This is going to be a walk in the park.

The machine greets me: “Welcome, please begin scanning.”
So far so good.
Then comes the warning about putting my purchases into the correct bag. Uh, Oh, I think, I forgot that part. But with a deft hands I shift an item from the scanner into a bag, and I am good to go, again.
When I have scanned all six items and poke the “CASH” button as my preferred method of payment, the AEC announces, “Now processing.” I allow myself a premature smile before the machine continues, “We are unable to complete your transaction. Please select another payment method.”
My smile disappears. And I can find no associate to help me.
Silence. The AEC is waiting for me to do something.
Now I am sure. This machine is electronically giving me the fickle finger. I do the only thing a reasonable person can do. I look directly into its 14-inch diagonal viewing screen and say, “Hello. How are you today? You’re looking chipper,” and then I push the “CASH” button again.
In seconds it’s over. My money is accepted, receipt tendered and I’m on my way.
Next time I shop, I’m going back to my dinosaur ways; I’m going share my civility with a person, not a machine.

I only hope that my computer isn’t reading this.

T he woman was standing on the corner of Duval and Caroline streets about 20 feet away from where I had just deposited my last fare, a besotted man from Brooklyn who thought he was trying out for the role of Tony Soprano.

One more ''bada-bing, bada-boom'' and the guy might have found himself sleeping with the fishes. After this character poured himself out of my taxi, the woman approached and asked if I was free.

And the angels sang . . .

Her voice was like a symphony, offering equal parts of the ecstasy that is the harp's song, the pathos of weeping violins, the staccato heartbeat of the timpani, the vibrant, life-affirming clash of cymbals.

Every word she said was poetry. It was Browning, Gibran, Dickinson flowing like nectar across her tongue.

She moved like a goddess. Her eyes were as blue as a mountaintop sky and sparkled like a pure bright star. She made the universe seem small.

I fell in love. Again.

Key West can do it to you. It can blend soft gossamer breezes and the tang of salted sea air, toss them with the steamy floral scents of night-blooming jasmine, then stir in the circus of Duval Street and its quirky characters and magically turn the mixture into love.

A BAD HABIT

Before you get the wrong impression, here's the gospel. It's a habit I have, falling in love. I am casually stricken like this at least a dozen times a year. Not quite the bane of my existence, but rather the cross that I bear (if that's the appropriate expression for a Jewish serial romantic). I infatuate easily. And I'm harmless. I am also grateful for the fact that my wife thinks it's a hoot.

Mae, the woman who stole my heart, asked me to drive her to Winn-Dixie; it came out ''Fly me to the moon.'' Obviously my imagination has a tendency to take wing.

She had never been to the Southernmost City before. ''I had to see what Key West has to offer.'' She added, ``It's a pretty neat little town.''

Brahms' Lullaby, I thought.

She was exuberant. ``Topless dancing, tattoo parlors, music everywhere. This is a very sexy town. The only thing I haven't found is gambling.''

Gershwin! Cole Porter!

I explained that the gambling boat that had operated out of Key West still sits in 18 inches of water in the mangroves a dozen miles north of town, where it was deposited by the storm surge that followed last year's Hurricane Wilma.

''Imagine that,'' she said.

Some John Lennon thrown in for good luck.

Mae and her husband had taken this vacation as a birthday gift to each other. She was elected to pick out the cake for their evening's celebration.

``Our birthdays are only a week apart so we celebrate both of them somewhere in between, but never on either exact date.''

Mae asked me to guess her age. This is always a delicate situation.

''Ageless,'' was my response, a wishy-washy, on the fence, safety-zone answer to this potentially explosive question.

She loved it, then told me that her husband was two years younger than she was. ''I snatched the cradle,'' she giggled.

A cherub laughed.

Her husband was 88 years old; Mae was celebrating her 90th birthday.

The nonagenarian looked decades younger and none the less beautiful, which I told her.

She patted my cheek, and despite my gray hair told me what a ''good boy'' I was.

I nodded, trying to wipe the silly schoolboy grin off my face.

Mae returned my smile. I melted like a pat of butter on a toasted English muffin.

HEAD OVER HEELS

When I got home and told my wife about the events of the day and how I had fallen head over heels for Mae, she laughed and responded with a ''good for you'' attitude. Her voice soft as velvet, her eyes intelligent and joyful, her beauty endless.

``I hear music and there's no one there . . . .''

There I go. I've fallen in love again.

Toby has lived on the streets for most of his adult life, other than for a short stint in the Army, when he served in Vietnam, and a couple of failed attempts at holding down a ``real job, living square.''
''No one wants to hire a drunk,'' he told me. ``I went home once, a long time ago. My father had Alzheimer's but was labeled senile. I couldn't take it. I hit the bottle hard and never stopped. Been in and out of hospitals and probably the local lockup in over 40 states. Usually for vagrancy. I guess I'm a lost cause.''
According to Toby, his service record was a good one that almost ended badly. His first year in Vietnam, he was in the thick of it, served with valor, saw a lot of blood and guts, held the hand of a couple of good friends while they died.
He had been wounded and later returned to the front lines, where he assaulted an officer.
''Big mistake,'' Toby admitted. ``I still feel bad about that. The day after I hit him, he got killed.''
I met Toby on a sparkling Key West morning near the chickee huts that border the one-block-long county-owned Higgs Beach, where a large number of homeless people congregate each day.
This beach and its environs are a microcosm of Key West, a diorama, explicit in its portrayal of the southernmost city.
It offers a sometimes acute, sad, joyful, eclectic, heartening and disheartening jambalaya of parallel universes aware of each other's existence yet totally self-centered in relation to each other.
From the beach you can see people playing volleyball, sunbathers slathered and shining, joggers, bikers and lovers holding hands.
By noon, the restaurant at the edge of the beach is serving cool drinks and colorful appetizers.
Fifty feet away is the ghost of the now-defunct mobile soup kitchen that at one time set up on Sunday mornings to serve nourishment for the body and a word of encouragement for the soul.
But Monroe County put a stop to that practice two years ago.
People stroll through the adjacent Civil War-era fort, ogling the best that the local garden club, now located there, has to offer. There is yoga on the beach, the White Street Pier for fishing or sightseeing.
The chickee huts are, for much of the day, a refuge for the homeless and their quest for relief from the unrelenting Key West sun. Several men, looking like discarded rags, curl fetus-like in the shade of a palm tree.
Toby told me about going home and visiting his hospitalized father in the weeks before he had died.
``I visited him every day. And each day he would sit staring into space with a puzzled look on his face. Never said a word. One day he snapped out of it. And he told me that his mind was spinning out of control, his life's story swirling around faster and faster like test tubes at the end of a centrifuge. And the faster his life sped by, the more confused he got. It became a blur of colors and sounds.''
Toby paused. A dog barked, a child shrieked and a seagull cried.
``My father told me that he couldn't sort it out and that it hurt trying to. He went to sleep and died the next day.''
Toby pointed to the dogs.
``That's the life. See that couple with the gray puppy? I come back, I wanna come back as their dog. Nice people. I can tell by looking at them. Those dogs over there all got a better life than me.''
Toby's sadness was palpable. And he shook his head and took a long swig from a bottle.
His father died trying to remember. Toby probably will die trying to forget.

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.