tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91252973011068545482024-03-08T07:40:17.014-05:00Goodbye SocksSell furniture, get rid of real estate, take sailing classes, give away clothes, buy a boat, leave the job, get on the boat, go out on the ocean.Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-19838697418097736232011-11-15T12:34:00.001-05:002011-11-16T12:33:46.142-05:00Running pastWhen I ask the man standing outside the McDonalds somewhere in Paris I'm breathing heavy as I say, "Bonsior monsieur, ou est Montemarte?" And he looks at me, pausing for a second trying to figure out what he's seeing and what he's hearing because not only is my French humorously atrocious, I'm wearing only my long sleeve Superman blue Under Armor shirt, running shorts, my iPhone strapped to my arm and the Nikes with laces so bright green that they're even blinding as the sun disappears over Paris. As he speaks quickly I focus on the steam of his breath and while I'm not sure what he's saying it's clear by the way he's speaking that I'm not even close. All I can do is run the direction he pointed and ask another person once I feel significantly disoriented which is why my five mile run today ended up being eight miles.<br />
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I've seen the Louvre, Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower but only at a pace of around 8.35 minutes/mile. I'm sure the men and women standing in line to see the sites as I run by would tell me "Hey, stop, this is what you come to Paris to see, take a minute, take a photo."But I just wind my way around the line and turn down the next block embracing the feeling that something is creeping up behind me. Headed straight for me and imminently about to run me over and it feels good because unlike going blind, getting old, losing a love or having cancer this thing is big and it's spewing black exhaust and just before the impact, as I feel the vibration, as it nears I feel the heat from it's engine and slide on to the sidewalk and watch it grind it's way past me.<br />
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I run past everything beautiful and significant all the while having no idea what it is or where I am. Each run I become more lost than I already am in this city. I stride past statues and fountains that most likely have a plaque and a spot in a guidebook. I look at them for a moment and say, "wow, beautiful" or , "no idea what that is but sure looks cool." And I just keep running, winding my way down streets with no apparent direction in mind. Allowing the only thing that dictates where I turn is if I don't have to stop for traffic. My runs look like the movement of a pinball. I revel in running straight through the middle of the roundabout while the cars make circles and the statue of the man and the horse look down and say, "don't you want to know why we're here hanging out in the middle of this roundabout?" But I don't want to know. I want run right past all of the history and the present. I run in the street with scooters weaving around me bouce back to the sidewalk when it's clear for a moment bounce back to the road through the middle of stopped traffic at the Rue de-something-I-don't-know. I whisper, "Bonsior mademosoille" to the beautiful women in their scarves and their boots. I nod at the old ladies with their fur hats as they shuffle to the side of the crosswalk. </div>
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Inevitabley somehow I find my way to the Seine. A mild wake sloshes in between the ancient walls. I'm not sure why I get there but the part of me that reads into things thinks it's something to do with finding my way back to the sea but the part of me that says the part of me that reads into things is an idiot knows that the reality is it's a big river and it's hard to miss. I run along each side crossing back and forth over the bridges. This is where I see the other few people in Paris who like to run. They're here because you don't have to dodge the city, risk collision with motor vehicle or human being and it's relaxing. I watch the water that one day will make it's way to the ocean and one day even farther away will find it's way into another river or into a lake or ice. And while for the other runners it's relaxing for me it's more comfortable dodging the city. There is a comfort in running lost, there are no wrong turns because there isn't any destination. And here my mind can't even catch up with me, it can't direct me where to go or where to turn so I head back into the city and say to the Seine, "Au revoir."<br />
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On the way back I pass every cafe in Paris that looks positively Parisan and here the same young women sit at these cafes and smoke skinny cigarettes and look at me as I pass. The guy with the oysters that smell like St. George Island watches me from his post selling "Fruits de Mer." The woman in one of the boulangeries stops rearranging shiny croissants for a moment and lifts an eyebrow. I sense that I'm lost and I keep running. The sun is going down but only my hands realize how cold I am. I can only stop from time to time to ask someone I don't understand to give me directions I won't understand. Eventually I find my way to the only street I know, Boulevard de Clichy, home of the Moulin Rouge, La Chat Noir and once home to Picasso and Edgar Degas. From here it's only two blocks and even though I know where I am I run right past my turn.<br />
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</div>Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-59209513496379019162011-10-03T22:01:00.002-04:002011-10-03T22:42:42.145-04:00You know what I'm talking about if...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">If you’ve ever imagined all of the moles on your skin coming together to form one giant mole.</span><br />
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if you've ever felt guilty for blaming the weather and in return let the weather use you as an excuse, like "I can't make it cooler, Jeff's bad." said the weather.<br />
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if you've ever told your kitchen utensils goodnight stories as you remove them from the dishwasher and tuck them into their drawer. "And you little spatula, sweet dreams."<br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">if you've ever bought yourself a trophy in honor of your mistakes. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">if you've ever challenged your conscience to an arm wrestling match.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">if you've ever punished your shadow by avoiding light.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">if you've ever smiled at someone who is yelling at you because you were thinking of midgets sleeping on shelves.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">if you've ever sold your identity at a pawn a shop.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">if you've ever felt an emotional attachment to dust.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
if you've ever organized your memories using the dewey decimal system.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">if you've ever replaced yourself with a stunt double.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">if you've ever been frustrated by the absence of</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">if you've ever hired a scientist to study the community of really small penguins that lives in your freezer that survive off leftovers. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">if you've ever imagined putting all of the things you never said into a paragraph to see if they'd still mean anything.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">if you've ever been curious about what happened to all of the Soviet passports once it split up.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">if you've ever taken the leash for a walk.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">if you've ever sat inside convinced the images through your windows are just backdrops for a movie they were making about your twin brother.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">if you've ever bitten your tongue and said "that was for all the times you said the wrong thing."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">if you've ever reassured your spare tire that one day it'd get it's chance.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">if you've ever lost an imaginary court case because of an imaginary crime.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">if you've ever used the red CLASSIFIED stamp on the letter you sent to your grandmother to make her feel important again.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">if you've ever confessed your sins inside of a photo booth.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">if you've ever held a funeral service for your appetite.</span><br />
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if you've ever been bothered by a house that was turned into an office because houses are for living.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">if you've ever replaced the milk jug labels at the grocery store with a sticker that says, "pig milk," </span><br />
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</span><br />
if you've ever traveled the world in search of the dimmer switch that operates the sun so that you have the final say over sunsets.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> well...then you might know what I'm talking about.</span><br />
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</span>Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-39589902925901909212011-10-01T19:54:00.003-04:002011-10-02T03:33:27.934-04:00Mr. Wonderful<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><i><span style="font-family: Times;">You are a bent wheel. </span></i><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><i><span style="font-family: Times;">I can't draw circles</span></i><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><i><span style="font-family: Times;">they look like eggs</span></i><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><i><span style="font-family: Times;">I can't make the ends connect</span></i><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><i><span style="font-family: Times;">You are my cliché</span></i><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><i><span style="font-family: Times;">on the windowsill of my mind<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><i><span style="font-family: Times;">the microwave blinks with spare seconds </span></i><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><i><span style="font-family: Times;">You said the atom bomb should only be as a last resort </span></i><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><i><span style="font-family: Times;">I thought of resort as in pool-room service-fruit drinks </span></i><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><i><span style="font-family: Times;">Not resort as in no more options</span></i><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><i><span style="font-family: Times;">and when the bomb goes off we die knowing we still haven’t invented a more sophisticated way of bobbing for apples. </span></i><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">When my cousin asks me if the bracelet on my arm is a Lance Armstrong bracelet it doesn’t occur to me that I’m in Austin, Texas where Armstrong lives. It also doesn’t occur to me that I’m traveling from Austin to France, home to a bicycle race where Lance had a bit of success. I’m feeling unsettled that there is a connection. A clue I haven’t yet understood. I answer “no” to my cousin, an unintentional lie because I never associate the yellow bracelet on my arm with Lance Armstrong. I’m trying to put the clues together and for a moment I wonder if I’m thinking out loud and look at my cousin to see if he heard me when he asks “What kind of music are you listening to?” which is right when Robert Johnson says, "oooh baby"and I say "oooh baby, I hear you Robert." while thumbing the bracelet where LIVESTRONG is imprinted.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I always interpreted the LIVESTRONG as living boldly, living quickly and outrageously and I'm thinking Robert Johnson would have thought about it the same way, even would have had a LIVESTRONG bracelet of his own. Which makes me think maybe it's not just Lance, that Robert is part of the puzzle as well because he wrote a lot of blues for a guy who died when he was 27. And since you can't have blues without experiences, the kind of experiences that come with a LIVESTRONG way of life, the kind that make you say "oooh baby." But because his life was so poorly documented no one knows exactly what happened that made him sing to Willie Mae “All my loves in vain.” Which is why, dear reader, I'm writing to you to now to let you know I've been married, divorced, then engaged and then unengaged, the owner of a million and a half dollars of real estate, the loser of a million and a half in real estate. I've been in jail. I've been a teacher, a management consultant and a real pirate of the Caribbean all by age twenty-nine. So I'm being brief when I say to my cousin, “It’s LIVESTRONG-Bracelet-Music.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I was surprised when I became Mr. Wonderful because I’ve never liked the word checkup. It reminds me of the first time I ever heard it. It came out of the mouth of my fifty-year old Mormon baby sitter. She’d said something about going for a checkup and at the time, for whatever reason, I thought this had something to do with someone looking up her skirt. And the image of what a person would encounter looking up Mrs. Bigler's skirt still bothers me. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And when I was sitting in a chair in the waiting room of the dentist office, filling out the new patient form which asks about your allergies and dental history but also does the job of asking introductory questions like “How Would You Like to Be Addressed?” In case you’re name is Robert and you go by Ert but without the form they might accidentally just call you Bob. Or if you’re like me and your name is Jeff Brainard and you suddenly decide it’d be nice to be called Mr. Wonderful which is what I wrote in the blank. I'm surprised at my playfulness while chewing on the pen thinking about the word "checkup." I realize it isn’t my pen but the dentists’ and I think it’s kind of funny to leave my impressions on it. For a moment I imagine becoming wealthy by selling promotional pens that look like they’ve been chewed and say something clever about dentistry. Which is what I was thinking about when the receptions picked up her clipboard and said "Mr. Wonderful you can come on back." And the hygienist greeted me, "Have a seat Mr. Wonderful." And after she cleaned my teeth and the dentist came to inspect her work she said, "All set Mr. Wonderful." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The name stuck for a while when Anna, who coached the Junior Varsity Volleyball team told her girls, "His name is Mr. Wonderful" so anytime one of them walked by they'd wave and say "Heyyyyy Mr. Wonderful." A couple days later I even I found a baseball style t-shirt at a thrift store that said "Mr Wonderful" across the front. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">When we left Florida Anna stopped coaching volleyball and I never went back to that dentist. We got rid of everything when we left cars, houses, couches, everything except for bathing suits, few t-shirts and each other. And for a while I kept the name, Mr. Wonderful. “Good morning Mr. Wonderful,” Anna would say with one whale sized eye open. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">At one point in our relationship the name faded and fell into the list of things we used to say to each other. And then, a few weeks ago we did with each other what we did with the rest of our stuff before we left. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The only luggage I'm carrying is a green duffel bag. The total of all I own is small enough to fit into the overhead storage compartment of an economy airline. Earlier the security agent at the airport in Panama sifted through my faded bathing suits. I always watch this process closely because I always wonder if they’re as uncomfortable looking through other peoples baggage as people are having their baggage looked through. I notice the Mr. Wonderful t-shirt as he stuffs my clothes back in the duffel and I suddenly realize why baggage also means the kind of things Robet Johnson says, “ooooooh baby about.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> <!--EndFragment--> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I'm on way to Orlando, the first time I've returned to the U.S. in two years. It's a red eye flight and everyone is asleep. The plane is steady and it's dark outside so it's hard to determine if we're even moving or if it's just simulation, a virtual unreality and part of me wishes it was. The flight attendant wakes everyone up as she passes out immigration forms. The questions are basic but still I'm struggling.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Address?</i> I don't know. I've lived on my sailboat for the last two years in different locations throughout the Caribbean. I decided to fill in the name of the boat S/V Desdemona.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br />
Reason for your visit?</i> Why am I visiting? I don't know. I don't think seeing family is the most complete answer. I sit there chewing on the top of a stranger’s pen trying to come up with something satisfactory. And I look at the form trying to activate a zoom out function but all I can see are my teeth marks on the pen and where it says, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Address?”</i> on the form and it reminds me of the dentist where I became Mr. Wonderful and for a moment I wonder if going back to the waiting room, to the place that it began would help me regain my title like Simba did in the Lion King. So I take a second to peer out the window but didn’t notice any clouds in the shape of a lion’s head or the voice of James Earl Jones ready to offer advice so I set the form down and just leave the question blank.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">As I become accustomed to the new scenery. Life sans Anna sans sailing, sans ocean, here in Austin driving around I start to notice the details like the road signs that are hanging diagonally off the highways and the extremely wide bike lanes. I wonder if the bike lanes are an “everything is bigger in Texas” sort of thing or if it’s a result of having Lance Armstrong as a resident. It’s then that I remember an article I’d read about Lance’s heart being bigger than the normal person’s heart, not a "everything is bigger in Texas" sort of thing but one reason he is such a tremendous athlete. Even considered by many to be the greatest athlete of all time. I wonder if Lance’s girlfriend, also named Anna calls him Mr. Wonderful and I hope she does because a guy with an oversized heart and an Anna should never sing “oooh baby.” </span></div>Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-9499279698441129102011-09-28T20:34:00.000-04:002011-09-28T20:34:17.070-04:00Gravitational Force<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">I want to swim back to the earth because I am not an astronaut</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">and while I fight the tide</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">the moon says no don't, ok, yes</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">the moon doesn't know about the tide it just does</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">things beyond what it understands because, well it's the moon and no one blames it</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">If the world whispered I am not your world I would hear it but I'd still keep swimming and the moon could say “go away, I'm not your moon I'd smile and say “You are my earth's moon.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">The thing that makes me want to mush chip bags</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">Is the same thing that makes us climb Everest and run marathons</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">Like hating your name but loving who you are.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">the only thing on our resume we have no control over is our name</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">And so we mush chips</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">I once saw a whole forest burn. Every thing was black and grey except for the highest of trees</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">My dad said it was supposed to</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">It's part of the cycle.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">They did it on purpose to make a new forest, a healthier one</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">But I see the burnt stalks of pine and wonder if they know it's gonna be okay</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">They don't.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">They looked like soldiers limping and bloody</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">Some day they'll be green and lime like again the scars will build up in the shape of knots,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">The knot will be filled with sap</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">A tree says to his friend, “Do you remember the fire back in 98?”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">“Yeah, look at my thigh, I think about it everyday.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">“But at least we're still here.” says the first tree</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">The other tree just sighs.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">Perhaps the rangers will start another fire soon</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">or maybe it'll just happen like a wild fire that sings with destruction.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">I remember hearing "We all have a certain amount of gravitational force.” Not a force we can control, a force like our name. And yours is wrapping its arms around me.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">It looks me in the eyes and says, “come with me, lets go back to earth, we don't belong here.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">It wants to pull me from across the atmosphere, over mountains across the sea up through the gulf from where I sit in Florida on the balcony staring at the moon thinking I am not an astronaut</span>Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-77082314300331125282011-09-22T18:23:00.002-04:002011-09-22T18:46:07.453-04:00Stethoscope<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">She had a habit of taking photos of the moon even though they never came out. Even though when she took them the moon was big and close and you could see it's dimples. But in the photo it only looked like a small light in the distance. He had a habit of saying things like, "It would be easier if we broke the animal kingdom down into two groups those that eat with their mouth and those that eat with their hands." </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">***</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I remember the day I saw the brown snake lying in the grass with a toad halfway hanging out of its mouth. The snake looked uncomfortable but the toad looked pretty relaxed. It's legs are limp but once and a while it will kick and the snake will say, "Where do you think you're going?" and wiggle the toad a little farther down the snakes throat. (Do snakes have throats? Could they be just one big long throat that ends in an asshole)? And each time the toad struggles to avoid the inevitable it moves a little closer to it. And still it looks like the one who is feeling the majority of the pain here is the snake. And like a parent says to their kid just before spanking them he whispers to the toad, "This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you." But the toad and the child think, "bullshit, if that were true you'd have me giving you the spankings." </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Which is what I said to the cat I found dying on the side of the road when I was in high school. I saw it struggling to get off the street towards the shade of camphor tree. It's black and white fur was bloody and matted near it's head and pieces of bone were sticking out of it's left leg. It was crying when I approached. As I got closer it started to hiss at me but shortly gave up in the idea that it could defend itself from anything. Initially I considered calling Animal Control. I assumed they'd put it to sleep immediately but I also wondered, would they show up in their truck and scamper around with a stethoscopes around their necks, quickly take the cat's vitals and wheel it on a gurney into the back of the truck. Would they nurse it back to health first? Put its broken cat bones back together, give it a bath and sew up the wounds. Then in a very systematic way schedule a date to put it to sleep. Feed it a last meal, maybe salmon and milk, the cat would then ask to be forgiven for it's sins. "I'm sorry for eating the parakeet and blaming the dog." Then someone like Tom Hanks would walk it towards the electric chair and he'd be comforting and tell the cat it was going to a better place. And the cat would look back and smile, the kind of smile that says, "I don't really believe that but it's nice of you to say so." </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I couldn't decide which was worse so I asked the cat "Hey cat, do you want to get better before you get worse? Because you can die now or you can die later, which will it be?" The cat just lay there, it's eyes slowly blinking as if he was thinking about it. I looked around and noticed a group of cinder blocks that were used to keep a garbage can from sitting directly on the grass. And just before I dropped the cinder block on the cat's head I whispered, "this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you." Afterwards it stopped breathing. I felt around on the cat to try and to check its pulse but I don't know where cat pulses are located. I put the block back under the can and put the cat inside. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">***</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Today in the paper was a story about a woman who has her own robot. It all started when her heart fell asleep the same way your foot might after you've been sitting a while, that type of thing. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"I can't feel anything." she explained. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"How do you feel about that?" the doctor asked. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"I don't know, I guess I don't mind, I don't feel anything so I don't know."</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">When her doctor placed the stethoscope against her chest he could hear her heart. It beat regularly. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"It's numb and feels all pins and needles." she said as she made a worried smile. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The doctor sighed the way doctors do when they have bad news. He told her he'd seen these kind of cases before, that the outlook was iffy. Then he wrote, clipboard in hand, a prescription for a personal robot.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"Can I name the robot?" she asked</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"You can but I don't recommend it." </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"I think I'll call it Cheese."</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"As long as your heart is asleep you won't be able to feel or express anything. That is why I've prescribed you the robot. The robot will objectively determine how you would be feeling. On his display board you will see an emoticon. It's very straight forward. If you are happy your robot will let you know that you are happy. If you are sad he will let you know that you are sad. Of course you won't feel any of this but at least you'll get a sense of would feel if you could feel."</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"What if it's a feeling of sad-happy or happy-sad?"</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"Don't worry we have an emoticon for that too."</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">In the article the woman explained what it's been like to take care of a robot "Rust is an issue, you must always think about rust but still I'd never go back to a life without my robot."</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"What's it like not having any feeling?" asked the reporter</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"It's like when it's been raining and it lightens up a bit and you go outside but it's raining so lightly you don't even feel the rain. And if someone we're to ask you "Is it still raining?" you'd answer no even though it is.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">And when the reporter asked "So you're happier today than before you had this heart condition." </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The woman turned, looked at her personal robot, and the robot shuffled uncomfortably and it's display said, : /</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">***</div><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">At least the snake memory I know is real, meaning I remember the toad twitching as well as when I got spanked for making my brother deaf that afternoon. By real I mean, not the kind of memory one thinks was real but only remembers a photo of it, not the actual event itself. Like the memory I have of when I was around three and I'm wearing overalls (why do parents love to dress their kids in overalls when they themselves would never wear overalls?) sitting on green outdoor carpeting playing with a plastic ambulance, which is actually only a memory of the photo.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The day the snake ate the toad I was playing with my plastic stethoscope. It came with one of those doctor kits that are standard issue for all kids. The one with the knee tapping hammer and the look up your ear and nose thing. Aside from the stethoscope the rest of the kit was pretty worthless, how many times can you hit yourself with a plastic hammer until that gets old? The stethoscope was fun because it could be worn as a fashion accessory and it really worked. What I mean by saying that it worked was that if you put the part meant for listening into your brother's ears and put the part meant to pick up the sound of a heart beating to your mouth and screamed "Can you hear my heart beat?" as loud as your eight year old voice could go then it works. You're brother may not hear your heart beat, he may not hear anything for a while after this, but it's a lot more amusing than tapping his knee with a plastic hammer. But not amusing to your mom who now has you over her knee and isn't tapping but beating you and whispering, ""This hurts me more than it hurts you."</div><br />
<br />
***<br />
When she said to him, "Why do you make that face when you look in the mirror?" he was embarrassed but thought it was funny because he knew exactly what she was talking about.<br />
Still he said, "What face?"<br />
"The one you make every time you look in the mirror, your mirror-face." she said and then made her face like his mirror-face and they both laughed.Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-31670255199293537692011-09-21T14:02:00.004-04:002011-09-21T14:08:03.037-04:00Pass the MSG<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As a kid I remember driving through a state park in West Florida with my father and seeing charred remains of forest. Behind the barb wire fence the earth was post-apocalyptic, mostly grey sand and ash. Small specks of green poked through the ground here and there, a stem with a leaf or two only. The pines displayed black scars along their trunks, evidence of what had happened, but their upper branches and green needles paid no attention and went on with life, for them, just another day hanging out in the woods. <br />
<br />
"Was there a fire?" I asked my dad. <br />
He told me it was called a controlled burn, the forest rangers start fires, they control them, when the brush and ground cover gets to thick they do it. It helps prevent wild fires that can start when lightening strikes and get out of control. It's good for the forest. Some of the trees even need it to help stimulate growth and so even though it seems like it destroys the forest it actually helps renew it. Soon everything will grow back new and green. It seemed like a crazy idea, burning everything down to make everything better. I watched out the window as the burned area quickly transitioned to the thick unburned forest where the bright green palmettos surround the pines with their jazz-hand fronds and cover the forest floor making it nearly impenetrable except to the rodents and snakes that live beneath. The pine trunks are anorexic skinny, some trunks toppled, leaning at a thirty degree angle, supported only by the trunks of other survivors. <br />
<br />
***<br />
Two years ago when Anna and I performed a controlled burn on our lives and decided to leave the States to go sailing we sold our life on Craigslist. We thought we planned everything on the brown drawing pad Anna brought with her to the cafe where this all began with two stick figures representing us. Initially she'd written across the top "How to escape Tallahassee." After a few minutes we crossed through Tallahassee and replaced it with the USA. Buying a sailboat became the answer to the question. But when I left my job and she left her interior design business neither of us knew anything about umami or MSG. People asked us what are you going to do if you don't like it? "Do something else, we'd say." But the truth is we were George Bush in our thinking.<br />
<br />
We did like it, for a while. We just wanted to have fun and be with each other and we did. We woke up on the ocean, speaking new languages, our life was infused with the beautiful flavors of doing whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted. The flavor of bird peppers, mahi, the Caribbean, curry and freedom. We had nothing to do, no responsibilities, no deadlines, conference calls, meetings, appointments or obligations. We didn't know the day of the week, the time or where we were going next.<br />
<br />
At one point, about half way through a lifestyle that makes Charlie Sheen look wholesome Anna researched some yoga courses on what she'd need to get instructor certification. It sounded like a great idea but was soon forgotten. And more recently, she walked around Cartegena, just to walk and came back with a stack of interior design catalogs. But what neither of us fully put together was that this was all about the umami and that the palmettos had gotten too thick.<br />
<br />
***<br />
I never thought about MSG until a month ago when I was at dinner in Colombia with a guy we'd just met, Max. I knew nothing about it aside from a sign in the drive-thru of a Chinese restaurant we used to go to as a kid that read "MSG" in a circle with a do-not-enter style line through it. I just assumed "MSG" was short for messages and for whatever reason their answering machine must be full. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
We'd gone to an Australian Fusion Cafe which sounds both repetitive (isn't all Australian food aside from bush meat fusion?) and an odd choice for Cartegena but the place was air-conditioned and just a block down the street. As we looked at the menu Anna mentioned the high abundance of cilantro on the menu, a concern because for Anna cilantro tastes like soap. In the beginning of our relationship I just thought Anna was being difficult about the cilantro but after some internet research discovered that her problem with cilantro had more to do with having an enhanced sense of taste. Scientists refer to people who have a heightened sense of taste as Supertasters. Supertasters often compare the flavor of cilantro to soap. <br />
<br />
Anna was immediately in love with the idea that she had a superpower and I enjoyed transferring the idea to her reason for being with me and our relationship. She dealt with showering in the ocean because she was a Supertaster. She didn't need air-conditioning because she was a Supertaster. Because what we were experiencing had so much more flavor than a traditional American lifestyle and Anna was special because she could taste it with an intensity greater than the average individual where all the inconveniences of sailing weren't effecting her or us. But after two years on the boat, living what most people would call a dream we both still felt something missing.<br />
<br />
As we waited for our meal Max revealed to us his in depth knowledge of all things related to taste. He knew about the amount and location of receptors on the tongue and why Heinz ketchup tastes so much better than regular ketchup. He didn't know why he knew so much about taste but he did. Most of all I remember what he said about MSG. Apparently MSG, which stands for Monosodiumumami. Umami is the hidden taste that we all want and love which is why foods with MSG taste so great. The Japanese word umami essentially translates as "meatiness." So add a little MSG to your vegetables, cereal, chocolate cake and it'll suddenly taste meaty. Add a little MSG to anything and it will be more meaty.<br />
<br />
***<br />
Once I got back to Florida and my sister is telling me about her new job which she doesn't really like but doesn't entirely hate. Being on an expressway is a sensory explosion after being at sea for two years. The stands of pine trees near the overpass , the buildings of downtown Orlando appear to be zooming by even though were the ones zooming as we drive east along the expressway. She tells me about the unhappy millionaires she works for while I half listen and half think what went wrong with my relationship with my fiancee. As we drive east down Colonial towards Central where all the businesses are Asian owned and the restaurants are called Phun-Ho and Lin-Hun and have neon blue and red signs that hum against the window and read "Best Vietnamese" or "Real Chinese" or just simply "Thai Cuisine." <br />
Eventually, Emily says something like "It just isn't very gratifying I need to do something with a purpose." and I look at her and she can tell I'm looking at her and she'll laugh and say<br />
"What?" and start laughing harder and say<br />
"What is it Jeff?" and laugh even harder. <br />
And even though I'm big brother and I'm supposed to be full of all types of advice the only thing I can suggest is grabbing some take-out.</span> </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><div><br />
</div></span></span>Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-967345133616294412011-06-01T19:12:00.001-04:002011-06-01T19:21:01.516-04:00It is their customer, not my customerWhen I have nothing to do or I'm avoiding something to do I like to crane my neck around like an owl, slide my shoulder forward and pull out my mutant hairs. I have mutant hairs. They may not be mutants. They might be super hairs, I don't know. Maybe they're regular hairs and all the rest of my hair is mutant. I know other men have them because I was standing in a 7-11 a block off Deerfield Beach, FL waiting in line to buy a Slurpee when I noticed the shirtless man in front of me also had mutant hairs. I considered asking "You pluck mine I'll pluck yours?" While imagining his potential response I let the opportunity slip away. <br />
<br />
In fact I know very little about them. What I do know is that they are dark, they will not go blond in the sun as will the rest of my hair yet they prefer lots of sun as they'll only grown on my upper bank and shoulder area. Don't be confused these are not Siamese twin hairs where two hairs come out of one follicle. They're thicker than the rest of my hair and a bit more brittle. They're individualistic where as the rest of my hairs seem to work as a team. They like to play hide and seek. Most amazing of all of their features is the aggressive speed at which they grow. They grow at one hundred times the speed of a normal hair. I can have zero within visible range today and tomorrow I could have a two inch mutant hair. <br />
<br />
Okay, I admit it, I pluck them because I don't like the way they look. I hate them. I can't stand them. I'd rather smell or have bad breath than have these fucking hairs. The thing is I'll never win, they can relocate to parts of my body I can't even see. The problem is once I see them, I have to get rid of it immediately. Even if I'm in an elevator, at the doctor's office or eating sushi. Once one is identified it has to be eliminated. I know I should just accept them, they're a part of me, I should just let them flourish. I should learn to love them but I just can't get to that level of enlightenment. Like this morning, I was making coffee and glanced to the side and saw one lurking around on my shoulder. So I forget that I'm making coffee and run for the tweezers. While I'm sitting there for an hour trying to manipulate my arm in a way that will allow me to grab this mutant, I can't help but think of my friend David.<br />
<br />
David is a Kuna guy, which means he's short, the Kuna's are the second shortest peoples after the pygmies. But if smiles were in proportion to our size David would be the tallest man in the world. He paddles up in his Ulu {a Kuna canoe} with his smile, his tan skin, indigenous face and before you realize it you're smiling back. David lives on an island called Isle Pinos. As I mentioned he's Kuna which means he is a member of the Kuna tribe, a tribe that has more autonomy than any other indigenous group in the world. Kuna's run their own show, though they're a part of Panama, they make their own laws, they have their own land, some of the most beautiful islands in the world as well as a good chunk of mainland on the east coast of Panama all the way down to the Colombian border. And since they make their own laws they've done a lot to preserve their culture. There isn't much electricity in Kuna Yala {also known as San Blas} which has done a lot to help. David's island has a couple of huts that have a solar panels but mostly they live as they have for hundreds of years. They survive off of a little fish that they get from the ocean around them, rice, plantains and a pineapple here and there. <br />
<br />
David's island, Isle Pinos, is significant to Anna and I because it was the first island we came to in Kuna Yala. David and his family were also the first Kunas we met. Since we've been making trips with backpackers between Panama and Columbia we've made David's island one of our regular stops. Isle Pinos has about two hundred Kunas living in the village. In a region that gets little tourism David's village is probably one of the least visited of all. It isn't postcard beautiful like the others and it happens to be a bit out of the way. It's muddy without the white sand beaches of the other islands. The water is murky as a result of the nearby rivers unlike the islands to the north. What makes it worth visiting is the people. Since it receives little tourism the Kunas here are very traditional. As you walk through the village they don't try to sell you anything, they just go about their living. And when you're there you're as much of a spectacle to them as they are to you. Then of course there is David whose personality is so wonderful, you can't help but love him, there is something special about David.<br />
<br />
Since we've been returning to Pinos I pay him to make a traditional Kuna dinner for the backpackers It's prepared by his wife and mother and served in his hut. They don't have electricity and everything is cooked over a wood fire. We've had fish and a cold plantain soup, another time we bought octopus for $1.15 a pound which he said was very expensive. They cooked the octopus with coconut rice. Another time was a variety of salt pork, land crabs, lobster, rice, cold plantain soup, lentils, and a tomato and avocado salad. Isle Pinos is so remote, you never know what's going to be available. The first time we ate dinner in his hut I asked him about the wooden spirit dolls his wife was cleaning in preparation for a ceremony. David waved his hand and said, "It is customer, it is their customer, not my customer." {custom} "Yeah but what are they for?" I pressed. "They are for customer, but not my customer."<br />
<br />
Whenever we've stop in Isle Pinos with our backpackers I've hired David to take everyone on a hike around the island. Unlike the other Kuna islands, Isle Pinos is mountainous. The tour guiding hasn't been perfect. Once because it was rainy and the trail was too muddy he took them to the garbage burn pit and then held them hostage for the three hours when they wanted to come back to the boat. Whenever I've tried to speak to David about what I'd like him to do it's a bit difficult. He speaks some English, language isn't the problem. The problem is he doesn't listen. He wants me to be happy so he says, "No problem, I take for hike, people for now. I know people. I know things for people like to see." But what he thinks they like to see is the cell phone tower at the top of the mountain. He likes to show them his cell phone and talk about all the people he knows from different countries. He tells them he wants his kids to speak English, French, Spanish and not Kuna. But what he doesn't like to talk about is anything that they're wondering about like, "Why are the women dressed like that?" and "Why do only women wear nose rings?, "What is the purpose of the make up that men and women wear?, "How do you make your Ulus?" and "How the hell do you live here?" The reason we go there is to share the Kuna culture with the travelers and yet our tour guide doesn't really like the Kuna culture himself.<br />
<br />
On our second to last trip the island was closed for a religious ceremony David wasn't taking part in. When I asked David about the ceremony he said, "It is their customer, not my customer." They were mourning a chief that had died by closing off the islands and smoking and building fires around the island. When I asked him more about it he wasn't interested in explaining. Later on I tried again, all he said was "It is their customer, not my customer." <br />
<br />
On this same trip David also asked if I'd invest in his restaurant. To understand the feasibility of his idea of a restaurant you need to understand this is a place with only two hundred people half of which are children, a place that may see thirty tourists a year aside from me and my backpackers. David felt like an influx of tourism was about to take place and the first thing that these people were going to need was a restaurant. Not one to kill a dream...<br />
<br />
<i>"Well David I don't think it's such a bad idea but it would need to be traditional or at least seem traditional Kuna, that is why people come here, that is why I come here." <br />
<br />
"Yes we have traditional, we are traditional in our customers {he meant customs}. My wife and me we have can cook, you no worry. We make Italian we make Chinese cooking. <br />
<br />
"David, no, it needs to be traditional Kuna food prepared in a style that is traditional. No one who comes here wants to eat Chinese or Italian." <br />
<br />
"Yes we have traditional food and we have Chinese and Italian. You no worry we cook all for restaurant. Maybe some Chinese. Maybe some Italian. If people want Kuna we make Kuna but for me Italian and Chinese. Maybe you have money for me for restaurant. I can pay you each time come, each time pay you, each time.<br />
<br />
"How much do you need?" <br />
<br />
"I need maybe I don't know $5OO for building hut and roof and having people help for building roof."<br />
<br />
"Okay let me ask Anna." </i>was where I left it which was a good place since in Kuna-land the women control the finances so I think he understood that and told him we would talk about it later.<br />
<br />
This afternoon walking around Portobelo it all made sense as I was trying to buy gasoline as a large tour bus stopped in town. As they do once a month, the door folded open and fifty American tourists disembarked. They looked hot and uncomfortable the sweat building on their neck and on their lower back where their t-shirts tucked into their khakis, their white tube socks approaching their knees accompanied by white tennis shoes. They walked around looking confused as to why any tour company would bring them here to this destination, confusion that slowly turned to disgust when they saw the trash and the dogs. Eventually one stepped in dog shit and lifted his leg to examine it. He wore a camera and a shirt that said, "PANAMA!" A group of local kids walked by laughing at the tourists and me, as I was surrounded by them. All I could do was nothing so I screamed, "It's their customer not my customer! Then I ran straight back to the boat and started plucking.Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-8721273750049141942011-05-31T16:13:00.001-04:002011-05-31T16:39:50.587-04:00Portobelo: For an Aluminum TuboWaking up on Sunday morning to the church bells from the Iglesia de Cristo Negro ringing in a Congo rhythm doesn't allow you to forget where you are. It's the kind of pleasant accompaniment to the monotony of making coffee on a stove that Mary Poppins could appreciate. Except that it was Monday and I wasn't sure why the bells were ringing. Looking at the church from the boat a large green mountain with a shaved head rises sharply behind it. The trees on the hilltop are cutaway and the lighter green of the grass provides a nice contrast to the darkness of the surrounding jungle. Of course there is a large antennae at the peak which is why the trees are cutaway, it's not perfect but it's still nice to look at on a sunny Sunday or Monday morning.<br />
<br />
It's around 8 am so I'm on my way to the Italian Panaderia for a fresh sandwich and if I'm lucky a jugo de maracuya {fresh passion fruit juice}. When I first get off the dock I see Dave Waller. Dave is an American from Texas and salvages boats in the area. Dave loves stuff, junk really, if he had a yard it'd be filled with old cars, engines and pieces of metal but since he lives on his boat he has a shack down by the water where he keeps used boat parts. Dave's shop is a microcosm of Portobelo, once nice but now mostly run down and rusty with a few unexpected treasures here and there. He runs his shop like a consignment shop so boaters can bring in their used or spare parts and unload them and hopefully sell them. Most people who love junk, enjoy the history of their junk as does Dave. He loves to talk and tell stories as much as he loves junk. And his stories are as filled with old time southern expressions as his shack is with old boat parts. Expressions like, <br />
"Man I tell you what, I'm like a bull in a china shop. " or "He doesn't know shit from shinola."<br />
When he makes a point it's emphasized with his Texas accent and as he finishes he makes his eyes big, bobs his head a little bit and then purses his lips. He wears khaki shorts with a belt, no shirt but lots of sweat and chest hair. He loves to take you through his shack and say, <br />
<i><br />
"You know what this is? I got it off a big ol' steeeeammmmm ship that sank. You wouldn't believe it. But this is a radiator cap. Can you believe that? A damn radiator cap from a steeeeeammmm ship. Look here you know what that is? That is some kind of VHF microphone adapter kit, you know for the VHF radio, come off the boat that washed out of the Chagres. Can you believe that, it's as good as damn new {chuckling to himself}. Finer than a frogs hair. Damn microphone adapter can you believe it? </i><br />
<i>"What does it do?" I ask uninterested</i><br />
<i>Hell I don't know. Some way of adapting different kind of microphones to your VHF. Can you believe that?"</i><br />
<br />
He'll take you through the shop and show you all the things he has that you don't need. And then if you tell him what you do need he'll say, <br />
"You know, I did have one of those, I've seen it around here, shoot you know what, a guy came in here just the other day and bought it. " <br />
Doesn't matter what it is, he had one just the other day.<br />
So when I see Dave I'm careful to just say , "Heyya Dave." and keep on walking because there are no short conversations with Dave Waller.<br />
<br />
The Panaderia is located at a fork where the main road that runs though Portobelo diverts, one road running between the square in the center of town and the Royal Custom House Museum while the main road runs a block up, between the square and the bus station. The road that runs to the Custom House is made of old beautiful pavers while the one on the main road is asphalt. The Panaderia is in a small Caribbean Pink building, with a patio with two plastic tables, red and green plastic chairs overlooked by a large open window. Inside there is only room for standing at the counter across which a young Latin Panamanian works everyday. She's short, a bit chubby, not fat, with large soft cheeks and large eyes. <br />
<br />
The Italian flag waving at the entrance could be saying "You're no longer in Panama" because nothing about the Panaderia lets you know it is Panamanian. It isn't what they do, it's how they do things, well. The sanitation is not Panamanian, it's clean and the employees are consistently washing their hands. The menu isn't Panamanian, the speciality is the baguettes but they serve a variety of crepes and pressed sandwiches, croissants and on the weekend pizzas. They serve their food on colorful ceramic plates that have a unique design which is unusual, as Panama is a place where utility is more often valued than aesthetic. The only thing Panamanian is the girl behind the counter. She's friendly enough but not overtly. I see her everyday and she's never chatty but lately she has started to smile at me which I like to pretend is a sign of progress. Some days like today, I splurge and spend $2.5O for the jamon con queso sandwich. But if it wasn't for the Congo bells from the church making me do it I might limit my purchase to sixty cents and only leave with two giant baguettes, fresh enough where I feel their warmth through the paper bag. They were out of maracuya so I buy a large glass of fresh squeezed jugo de naranja {orange juice} for $1.5O. And as I was about to leave I was startled when the young lady asked about Anna returning. The awareness that Anna was absent and the curiosity to ask about it made me feel like I was a member of the community. I told her she'd return in about week, that she went to the States for her mother's birthday and best friend's wedding. The girl smiled and said "ahhh matrimonio bueno' and I left the Italian embassy at the Panaderia to wait in the square for a bus to Sabanitas.<br />
<br />
The local buses in Panama are twenty to thirty year old school buses from the U.S. They're brought here repaired and painted extravagantly with murals of women, unicorns, Beauty and the Beast and Jesus. They're adorned with hot pink, chrome everything, plastic shark fins attached to the roof, plastic bubble tops on the roof and rope lighting on the hood and around the windshield. Inside they're pretty much a school bus except the driver's area is often adorned with shiny hot pink plastic and several feather boas surrounding the windshield in order to minimize the driver's vision. Each bus has a different name, always a woman's name. They play loud Latin music as they move the majority of Panamanians from one place to another. <br />
<br />
Papeeta walked by with a beer in hand and yelled "todo bien?" and thrust his arm in the air as I climbed aboard Princess Jessica. The entire bus was filled with kids in school uniforms. I find a seat near the back next to a ten year old school girl in a long navy skirt and bleach whitened shirt. There are no school buses so the kids all ride the same buses that serve for public transportation. The girl in the seat across the aisle was leaning forward whispering something to the girl in my seat about the boys behind her. Then she turned around and slapped one of the boys in the head. I looked at the boy, smiled and he started to laugh. The kids are much better behaved on the buses than we ever were. The flirtatious play continued between the girls and the boys. Paper balls were being thrown as we wove around the hillside over looking the Caribbean sea. One part of me felt good about the familiarity, reminded of being a kid on a bus back home, the other part of me couldn't find any commonality with the drastic scenery outdoors, the Latin Music pumping through the speakers and the bank employee on her way to work in her pant suit sitting two seats up who got hit in the head by a pencil thrown by one of the kids. The plaque above the driver's head that read, <i>Registered to Allen County Schools, Indiana, USA</i> only emphasized the difference. When I'm on the buses here I like to imagine the two lives of the particular bus. What was life like for Princess Jessica before she was Princess Jessica? Sometimes I look for evidence, old American graffiti, things like, <i>Guns & Roses Rulez, or Tammy is a bitch</i> scrawled into the old vinyl seats but since Princess Jessica had her seats recovered with a cheap velvet material none was visible.<br />
<br />
After an hour on the bus, a few kilometers passed Sabanitas, I missed my stop and yelled "parada" {stop}. I was looking for an aluminum pole for our wind generator and Dennis had told me about a place half way to Colon. I got off the bus and immediately got in a taxi back to the place I'd missed. I'd prepared myself for the conversation I was about to have with the aluminum man. I had a list of words I'd written down that morning to explain what I needed. I need a one and half inch schedule forty aluminum pole. I wrote down five Spanish synonyms for pole {polo, poste, polaco, palo, mastil}. I may as well have been asking for an aluminum bathing suit. They had no idea what I needed. It took thirty minutes of them showing me things in the warehouse when I learned what we call a pole they call a tube or "tubo." We all celebrated realizing what I needed was a "tubo" but that quickly ended when he told me they don't sell aluminum tubos. He suggested a place up the road but I was confident now that I had the word "tubo" with me. After four more taxis and four more stops at places that didn't have any tubos I decided to walk to the fifth place thirty minutes up the road. On the way I buy a half of pollo carbon {roasted chicken} for $2.5O. I eat it on the side of the road and wipe the grease on the inside of my t-shirt and keep walking. The large trucks driving by flung gravel and bits of asphalt at my back and neck but I still enjoyed the walk. At my final stop I found the tubo I needed. I bought the tubo and have to return on Thursday for the other parts I need. Then I walk the thirty minutes back to the intersection where I can get a bus back to Portobelo. <br />
<br />
The bus ride back to Portobelo is always different than the ride leaving Portobelo. The reason is the buses back to Portobelo are packed with one hundred people on a sixty person school bus, people standing from the front to the back like cattle, hanging out the door and nearly sitting on the driver's lap. You're sweating on yourself and other people but it's okay, they're sweating is getting on you. Every possible place to hold onto has a hand on it so you just have to balance really well as the bus driver takes curves at speeds better than Richard Petty. The bus back to Portobelo will ruin any image you have of Latin men being gentleman. When the bus arrives for Portobelo they will push over old women, women with children, children on their own it doesn't matter. If you're fortunate enough to make it onto the bus the young men who are sitting down will not give you there seat if you are an woman with one leg, if you are nursing a baby on each breast or if you're having a stroke. It is pure individual survival. The area between Portobelo and Sabanitas is lightly populated. Most of the people know each other. It's not like being ruthless to a a total stranger, it's being ruthless to someone you might have over for a bbq. <br />
<br />
As we get farther from Sabinitas the bus slowly empties out and it's possible to sit down. It starts raining which makes the bus steamy as everyone closes the windows but the sound of the air brakes fools me into considering if the bus is steam powered. Along the way the driver honks and yells out the window to everyone he knows. He knows everyone we pass. <br />
<br />
When we arrive in Portobelo it's five o'clock, I'm sweaty and tired when I realize all I did was buy an aluminum tubo. As I pass Dave on my way through town he says, <br />
"Shit man you look like tired."<br />
"I know I just got back from Sabinatas, I went to buy an aluminum tubo, I mean pole for my wind generator and had to go to five places."<br />
"What kind of pole did you need? Aluminum like ten foot long? You know what I think I have one of those. Where did I see that pole? You know what? I just sold it the other day, this guy from uhh what's that boat, I don't know a big dutch guy came and bought it, uhh-uh yep sure enough did, just sold it the other day."<br />
"Alright. well thanks Dave."<br />
<br />
I see Papeeta walking down the road and he sees me, possibly realizes I'm tired and says, "todo bien?"<br />
"Si, Papeeta, necesito una cerveza y tu." <br />
"Si, tambien necesito una cerveza." <span style="font-size: small;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">My "y tu" was to ask if everything with him was good, not if he needed a beer but his cleverness made me smile so </span>I bought Papeeta and I a beer, we sit in the square and drink and it feels good to be home in Portobelo.Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-46904281845637450462011-05-28T16:26:00.004-04:002011-05-28T17:00:43.942-04:00The People of PortobeloWhat kind of people would live in a town I described in the <a href="http://goodbyesocks.blogspot.com/2011/05/beautiful-port-introduction.html">introduction</a>?<br />
<br />
<i>Cast of Characters </i><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">The Chinese girl-We're you expecting the first person to be a Chinese girl?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">The people who do not stand in line-everyone in Portobelo </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">The boy at the dock-a boy</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">The scowling lady-a lady</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Jack-Co-owner of Captain Jacks/Captain of S/V Fantasy</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Dennis-Co-owner of Captain Jacks</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Negrita-Dennis' wife/Cooks at Captain Jacks</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Lorraina-Jack's girlfriend/Cook at Captain Jacks/Mate on Fantasy</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Penguin-Dennis and Negrita's daughter real name Jacklyn</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Vern-Dennis's adopted drunk</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> <br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Steve-Bartender /Manager of Captain Jacks</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Papeeta-Dogwatcher/Crackhead/Drunk</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Palo-Owns a place called Restaurant, it's a restaurant</span> <br />
<div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">***</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">As I mentioned the majority of the people of Portobelo are black. They descend from Africa, Trinidad and Jamaica. Additionally, there are a large number of people that look like what you'd expect Latin Americans to look like tan caramel colored skin with dark hair. There are many Juan Valdez-ish men wearing brown slacks, a white button up shirt, open at the chest and a Panama Hat. There are Chinese, they run all the supermarkets. There are indigenous people Kuna, Guaymi or Ngawbe, Embera, and Waunan. There are even a few whites.Then of course there are some people who have features that appear Chinese mixed with Latin, indigenous mixed with black, Latin and black, Chinese black and Latin. Sometimes I'm on a bus sitting next to a black guy, he looks just like a black guy from home. I look at him and think this guy speaks English."</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I look back at him again, he doesn't look like he speaks Spanish.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Eventually I'll decide he definitely speaks English and then I'll say, "what up bro?"</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">He'll look at me and smile and say "Que? </span><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es" style="font-size: small;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">No entiendo</span><span title="Click for alternate translations">.</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">No</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">hablo</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">ingles</span><span class="" title="Click for alternate translations">.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">If you're from the States black people don't speak Spanish, it's a rule, they just don't. I've been around a lot of black people, they never ever spoke Spanish. The other people who do not speak Spanish according to my narrow and limited experience in the world is Chinese people. Chinese people speak Chinese and English minus the letter "L," that is it, no Spanish. But since the grocery stores are all owned and operated by Chinese and since most Panamanians don't speak Chinese the Chinese speak Spanish. It's a nice experience to be an American speaking Spanish to a Chinese woman in Panama. There is a young Chinese girl, probably eighteen years old. She works at one of the Chinese markets at the register from 7:</span><span class="login" style="font-size: small;">0</span><span class="login" style="font-size: small;">0 in the morning until they close at 9:</span><span class="login" style="font-size: small;">0</span><span class="login" style="font-size: small;">0 in the evening, every day. She </span><span style="font-size: small;">wears her hair in a messy pony tail, the sides tucked behind her ears. She wears eyeglasses and </span><span class="login" style="font-size: small;"> is always friendly but often tired. At her market and all of the other supermarkets like it the people don't stand in line. Everyone approaches the checkout as if they're the only one at the counter, drops their stuff in front of her and shoves money at her. If you're patient and orderly and try to form a line it's pointless because no one will follow suit. You might be asking how much for the pineapple and while she's answering you a Juan Valdez-ish guy puts fifty cents on the counter for a Balboa, an older Latin looking woman approaches with maize and two eggs and puts $1.15 on the counter and while she's handing ten cents in change to the man with the beer, ten cents in change for the woman with the maize, adding up your total and a twelve year old black girl in a school uniform walks in and says, "Chino, chino, hola chino, thirty cents for a cookie." and throws the money on the counter. <br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">***</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">The dock where you tie your dinghy up when coming ashore is at the </span><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es" style="font-size: small;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">Escuelita</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"> del Ritmo {Little School of Rhythm} which is adorned nicely with paintings of bongo drums and musical notes. The kids in the town have learned to ask if they can watch your dinghy in exchange for a dollar. If anyone ever felt a sense of security from the vigilance of a ten year old I couldn't say. Three or four kids will crowd the dock trying to take your line but since they are standing where you need to step you end up looking like an awkward gringo that can't get out of his own boat. </span><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es" style="font-size: small;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">The boy and his family who live inside the school building at the dock are always friendly and polite. The boy is soft spoken and has a saddish face. That was until the boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, decided he has a thing for Anna. One day when I was loading the boat with groceries Anna was stuck at the dock with him. It was only fifteen minutes but from then on he was in love. When I returned to a fill water jug later in the day sans Anna he told me,</span></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es" style="font-size: small;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">"</span></span><span class="long_text short_text" id="result_box" lang="es" style="font-size: small;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">Tu</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">chica</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">es</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">muy</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">bonita</span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es" style="font-size: small;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">." {Your girl is very beautiful} he said, and raised his eyebrows slightly and smiled<br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es" style="font-size: small;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">"Si." </span></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="long_text short_text" id="result_box" lang="es" style="font-size: small;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">"Muy</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">linda" he said, {Very pretty} this time with a bit bigger smile.<br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="long_text short_text" id="result_box" lang="es" style="font-size: small;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">"Si."</span></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="long_text short_text" id="result_box" lang="es" style="font-size: small;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">"</span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box" style="font-size: small;"><span onmouseout="this.style.backgroundColor='#fff'" onmouseover="this.style.backgroundColor='#ebeff9'" style="background-color: white;" title="very sexy">Muy sexy,"{horny little bastard} and now I can see his teeth.<br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es" style="font-size: small;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations"> From then on, anytime I'm at the dock without her he asks, </span></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es" style="font-size: small;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">"Donde es tu chica?" {Where is your girl?}</span></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es" style="font-size: small;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations"> To which I always reply with a very large smile,<br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es" style="font-size: small;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">"</span></span><span class="long_text short_text" id="result_box" lang="es" style="font-size: small;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">Mi</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">chica</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">se</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">desnuda</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">en</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">el velero" {</span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es" style="font-size: small;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">My girl is naked on the sailboat.}</span></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">***</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">There is a woman I see almost everyday when I'm in Portobelo. I see her as she walks down the hill near Captain Jack's where she lives or waiting for the bus to Colon. She wears dark solid color dresses, typically green or blue without any frills, her appearance is nun-like and she always carries an umbrella. Along with her conservative dress she always wears a scowl. When I pass her I smile oafishly and say "bwaaaaynos." She nods her head solemnly, very faintly her scowl eases to a pained smile and she says, "bwaynos." Once I tried not saying anything, we passed each other without acknowledgement. After a few steps I turned and looked back at her and she turned to look back at me. We didn't nod our heads or say anything, we just kept walking. Since then I've gone back to saying "bwaaaaynos."</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">***</span></div></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Captain Jack, has a hostel he recently opened in Portobelo with his friend Dennis. Initially they were here to build a yacht club but realized they needed a bar to hang out at so they opened one. The black and white sign reads <i>Captain Jacks: Beds, Beers and Burgers</i> it directs you up a hill to the establishment. Jack takes backpackers to Columbia in the same, </span><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">50' Vagabond ketch, Fantasy, he circumnavigated in. A boat which looks as pirate-esque as you'd expect from someone so appropriately named Captain Jack. Jack has long brown hair to the middle of his back, hoop earrings and even his laugh sounds a little pirate-ish. Jack plays the role of the responsible but fun loving, pirate, bar owner, sailor, Motown singer and even Wyatt Earp style law enforcer. I once saw Jack go through town with a baseball bat to find kids who were causing trouble with an American and Australian couple. He cares about Portobelo being a safe place and since it's Panama, but really since it's Portobelo, that means you can't sit around and wait for the police to deal with it.<br />
<br />
Dennis his partner is sweaty, short, stalky with fluffy white and grey hair and a general disheveled appearance. He's from Connecticut and something about the shape of his head reminds me of Ted Kennedy although it could be just his drinking. He drinks heavily, but then, so does everyone else. But because Dennis will say anything that enters his mind and since what enters his mind is often offensive he is a great source of entertainment.Dennis' wife is a black Dominican woman named Negrita who works in the kitchen at the restaurant along with Lorraina, Jack's Columbian girlfriend. Negrita is always sweet and smiles and waves real big and says, "HOLLLLLLLAAAA Jeff" as if you haven't seen her months, though I may have seen her just a few hours before. Though she doesn't speak much English, if Dennis gets to worked up she likes to say, "easssssssy peasssy Dennis, easssssy peassssy."<br />
<br />
A month ago an American man, new in town, walked up to the bar and said, </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">"Who's the head nigger around here." </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">Dennis, without hesitation smiled and said "She's in the kitchen, shall I get her."</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> Dennis likes to refer to his mixed race baby, Jacklyn as Penguin and announces she table dances for $1. He is highly intelligent and adept at playing the role of someone who doesn't always know what's going on or doesn't care. He knows. Dennis, who speaks excellent Spanish will purposely speak as if he's sounding out the words from a textbook, "COOMOO EEEEEEESTAAAAA YOUSTEAD" he'll say. His attitude being, "you're going to treat me like a dumb gringo I'm going to be a dumb gringo." I'm not saying Dennis isn't crazy, he is. But he's also brilliant. <br />
<br />
Our first time at Captain Jack's we met a deeply tanned middle aged man with a Tom Selleck moustche and a deep American voice. He introduced himself as Vernon. Anna asked if he was on a boat and had we met. He said, no I just live here, at the hostel. Anna swore she'd met him some where and a few hours later we realized he was a guy our friends helped rescue. A month or so previous we were in the West Lemon Cays of San Blas, one of the only places in San Blas that has internet. He'd used Anna's computer to send an email but had also been drinking glorious amounts of rum. When the Captain of Vern's boat, also gloriously drunk, attempted to row back to the boat against a twenty knot wind, Vern for one reason or another decided he could breath underwater. He literally passed out, with his head underwater being dragged behind the dinghy. Our friends alerted the Captain that Vern likely did not have gills and the correct place for humans to breath is above the water.<br />
<br />
Vern does a little work for Dennis and Jack but overall he mostly drinks. Dennis assigns him to fill propane tanks and gasoline for people on sailboats so he spends a good part of his timw drinking and smoking in a non-air conditioned unventilated building inhaling fumes. I can't say this has effected him in any way. Vern's trademark is to tell people to go fuck themselves and so accordingly Dennis has given him the title of Director of Hospitality. Lately Vernon has begun the annoying habit of imitating a cack cack cack sound he attributes to Popeye. In between every other sentence he'll insert a cack cack cack, everyone has just accepted that it's part of having a conversation with Vern, I don't think people even notice it anymore.<br />
<br />
Steve is the bartender/manager of Captain Jacks. He has reddish hair and since he's English he's incredibly white skinned and has a habit of pulling his shirt away from his body. Steve works from 8 am until the bar closes at midnight, every day. He goes through periods of exhaustion but when he's chipper, there is nothing like a chipper English accent to greet you at the bar. Before Steve was the bartender Vernon was the original bartender, that lasted for a day, when Dennis and Jack realized it would never work. Steve was at the hostel as a guest when Dennis told him you, alright, Vernon's out, you cover the bar. Steve wasn't looking for a job, he was just a guest, Dennis just decided it was assigned to him. It stuck....something stuck. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">***</span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Palo is an Argentinian man who recently partially opened a restaurant in Portobelo. He's also a face contortionist. His restaurant is meant to be a tapas bar though he's often out of food with the exception of chicken and potato chips. It's located on a street of ancient pavers that are potholed and ruptured but in a way that is endearing. Indoors he's done a nice job refurbishing an ancient building, he sanded down the walls to the mortar and brick and hung a painting of Henry Morgan over a bar way to elegant for Portobelo. He also created a nice atmosphere outdoors amid partially standing five hundred year old walls, he sets up square silver tables on a dirt floor in between the two narrow walls and has hung art on them which adds a nice touch. It's lighted with a few tiki torches. The reason it's partially open is because he's often not around. I'm not sure where he is but the restaurant is closed as much as it is open. When he's there he's on a serious amount of cocaine and he smiles like he may eat you and grinds his teeth. He gestures manically as he speaks and winks every few seconds and gives a naught laugh. His face is partially made of putty and it contorts in sync with his manic hands for emphasis.Once he offered to let me and Anna stay at his house but because of his excessive winking and his decadent laugh I'm afraid of what he might have been implying. </span></div></div></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">***</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Papeeta is our only local friend. When I see him on the street he raises one arm in the air and shouts across the street to me "Todo Bien?" {Everything good?}. He is our dog watcher when we have to stay over night in Panama City. Frexi no longer barks at him and they seem to enjoy walking each other around. He is tall with greying hair and large pouty lips. He is an alcoholic skinny black man and occasional crack user. He is such a drunk that in a town of drunks everyone considers him an alcoholic. When I catch the bus at 7:</span><span class="login" style="font-size: small;">0</span><span class="login" style="font-size: small;">0 am he has a beer in his hand. When I go to buy a baguette from the Panaderia at 8:</span><span class="login" style="font-size: small;">0</span><span class="login" style="font-size: small;">0 </span><span class="login" style="font-size: small;">he has a beer in his hand. </span><span style="font-size: small;">If he's awake there is a beer in his hand. Even when he's sleeping there is often a beer in his hand. One morning on the way to the bakery with Frexi she literally walked on top of his body which was strewn across a stairway. He didn't budge. He is partially homeless which means he only occasionally passes out in the streets. When he hasn't passed out in the street he finds shelter in Portobelo's many buildings that are missing chunks of walls or doors in the way you'd expect if a bomb went off. Despite his slurring Papeeta is a nice guy, very polite, and totally harmless. Sometimes he washes cars or the local buses for beer money. Occasionally he helps Dennis out with projects, sometimes his job is just to go back to the store and buy beer for everyone. He always returns with the proper amount of change and beers, todo bien.</span></div>Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-49702886624657710062011-05-27T15:54:00.003-04:002011-05-27T16:17:35.798-04:00Beautiful Port: An Introduction<i> Don't go to Portobelo</i><br />
<br />
"Did a storm hit here?" My friend Philip asked shortly after arriving in Portobelo.<br />
<br />
"No. What do you mean?" I asked knowing exactly what he meant but just wanting him to say it.<br />
<br />
"I don't know, I just thought the way all of the buildings looked maybe a storm hit here."<br />
<br />
"No, that is just the look."<br />
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The truth is I love this place. For me it's perfect. But for you, you shouldn't come to Portobelo. You won't like it. It's hot. The moisture from the surrounding mountains sinks down into the town and the equatorial sun cooks the moisture into what amounts to a thoroughly unpleasant steam. It's dirty. If you were to take all possible meanings of the word "dirt" Portobelo can find a way to represent them all. Exhaust from the old school buses that take people to Colon buries itself anywhere your skin comes together: neck, elbows, knees. I love walking through town and feeling like I'm marinating in trash. Shit from the worm ravaged dogs that roam the streets in search of food and shade decorates the sidewalks. I love the worm ravaged dogs. And when I walk my dog around town I don't have to carry a bag and clean up after her, she just contributes to the decor. It's charmingly dirty. Like I said it's perfect.<br />
<br />
I love the people here. Overall the people are unattractive, lazy, drunks that aren't overly friendly. Why do I like them? Unattractive people make me feel good about myself, lazy people make me feel productive, drunks make me feel okay about my personal consumption rate. And the people here are black. Really black. African black. And they're experienced with racism so unless you're black, they may not warm up to you immediately. I know what you're thinking, "drunk blacks, is it safe?" It's completely safe. Crime takes effort and these people are just to laid back for crime. You can do whatever you like in Portobelo. No one cares. You can do nothing as well, no cares if you do that either because that is what everyone is doing, nothing. In Portobelo unlike the rest of Panama you can buy booze on religious holidays. You can walk down the street with a beer unlike the rest of Panama. In Portobelo you do what you want.<br />
<br />
Even the buzzards here are a special breed of extra ugly buzzards. They like to hang out on the bridges that cross the few canals that drain the rain from the surrounding mountains. These rivers of trash are filled with diapers, plastic wrappers of Festival Cookies and Balboa cans and the buzzards like to pick through the watery waste for scraps. The town has no trash cans and even if it did the residents wouldn't care to use them it's they're way of saying "fuck you Columbus, for naming it Portobelo {"beautiful port"}. If Henry Morgan came back from the dead and returned to Portobelo he'd be content that nothing he and his men could do to the town would make it any worse off than it is and he'd simply move on. <br />
<br />
How can I say this? After all, Portobelo is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. When you come to Portobelo you will realize that being a UNESCO World Heritage Site comes with one benefit, you get a sign that says, "UNESCO World Heritage Site." What you won't see when you get to Portobelo is any hint of the $77,<span class="login">0</span><span class="login">0</span><span class="login">0 that UNESCO approved for the historical site. You won't get a sense </span>that it was once the most important city in the Spanish Main. You won't see any evidence of the massive riches that flowed from Peru and the rest of South America to be loaded onto ships in Portobelo. You won't see any green or khaki wearing tour guides at the ruins. There are no animatronic pirates. There is no entrance fee and no pamphlets for reading. Like I said it's perfect. You can walk right into a five hundred year old fort and allow your dog to take a shit and no one will even notice. I've done it.<br />
<br />
What you really shouldn't do is clean it up. I say, "leave Portobelo dirty!" If you aren't immediately repulsed by the entire aura of Portobelo you may be inclined to walk around the town and imagine it through your Westernized/Disney-esque idea of what it should or could look like "Well if they cleaned up the trash, with a little paint and landscaping...." Don't do it. If that is what you're looking for go back to your planned community with your New Urbanism garages hidden in the back and your desire to make everything quaint. Like I said you shouldn't come here. You won't like it. <br />
<br />
<i>Portobelo at a Glance<br />
</i><br />
A blue sky breaks into the sleeping eye, a sky that will turn gray for an hour a few times a day as the quick moving rain showers push off the surrounding mountains. From my boat I hear howler monkeys and the air brakes from the local buses as they round the bend which lead into the town. When you're in the bus as it rounds the bend overlooking the bay you may be inclined to think you're somewhere perfect if at that time the sun happens to be putting on a light show with the water in the bay, the greens on the surrounding mountains are singing Bob Marley and the sixty something sailboats lightly dancing on their anchor. What you'll realize when you get off the bus is that you'll wish you were back on the bus.<br />
<br />
Foreshadowing the town to perfection, if you're approaching the town by sea, is a sailboat on it's side, partially submerged, it's mast points towards 1<span class="login">0:</span><span class="login">0</span><span class="login">0 </span>as it deteriorates in rhythm with the town. Accompanying it, in the bay, are the remains of a few ideally dilapidated structures, poking above the water line. Caribbean Pink, Green, Yellow and Blue shacks perch on ancient coral stone walls carpeted with patches of green moss. Small satellite dishes atop the rusty tin roofs receive HGTV and Fox News.<br />
<br />
In town the streets of old coral pavers are breaking apart in a way that looks artistic and charming and run parallel to open drainage canals that serve a supplementary function of carrying trash into the bay. Many of the walls of the buildings of crumbling concrete block and wood are painted with murals of a devil with a muppet like face, his mouth a grapefruit halved, with flames painted around his head. Some of the murals have worshippers, represented by drawing the same man over and over again, moving toward the devil with a cross. The walls that aren't painted with devils are mostly painted with advertising for Atlas Beer and Moviestar or Claro phone service. Moviestar seems to be the most predominant which is unfortunate as their colors features a bile green accompanied by an unattractive blue as if part of their marketing strategy is to gain your attention by revolting you with color. And juxtaposed among these walls of devils and advertising are bits and pieces of walls that are ruins from the fort and town dating back to the 15<span class="login">0</span><span class="login">0s. You won't even notice them at first or even the first few times, the ugliness of the rest of the surroundings are too blinding. It isn't until your vision has acclimated to the ugliness that you can see the beauty among it.</span><br />
<br />
In the center of town, across from the bus stop is a large square in front of the scenic Royal Custom House Museum which dates from 1597. The square is a nicely covered in coral pavers and one must step up two steps to cross it. The added elevation would suit a concert nicely if one were so inclined but no one is inclined and thus there are never concerts here. Amid the square are four large square landscaping planters displaying unmanicured grass, palm trees and trash. It's common to spot a dog wandering in the planter, it's nose to the ground, he will take three turns and then squat and take a dump. Last week I noticed an enterprising man had taken his trash and dumped it in the planter and set it on fire. No one cared or noticed. Beautiful. Around the planters are many concrete benches painted in Moviestar colors all of which are broken and collapsing with the exception of two or three. At the Royal Customs House Museum there is no evidence of any employees or formal volunteers of this museum, only men who sit in it's shade in metal folding chairs drinking Balboas and staring a their charmingly ugly town. I say Bwwwaaaaaenos to the men as I pass through the museum and the men smile and say "Bwaaaaaaanos" back.<br />
<br />
If you were reading a guide book it'd probably tell you about Festival El Diablo in Portobelo and Feast day of the Cristo Negro which is the Festival of the Black Christ where for some reason unknown to even the participants the Black Christ is honored as a miracle and sixty thousand people walk from as far as Costa Rica to honor it. What the guide book won't tell you about Portobelo is that all these people do is have festivals. They have a festival almost every week, it is the only thing they do. Near the church are sad looking booths, most of which are never open, others which are always open. The open ones are worked by fat women and skinny girls who will be fat soon enough. All of them dress in the kind of cheap slutty clothes common among poor blacks in the States like awkwardly tight fitting jeans adorned with excessive golds and silvers and overly accessorized matching gold and silver body and hair decorations. At the booths you'll find Black Jesus statues of varying sizes, Black Jesus necklaces, Black Jesus hats, Black Jesus coffee mugs, Black Jesus shirts, Black Jesus pins even a Black Jesus USB stick.<br />
<br />
If you google Portobelo all the pictures you'll see are beautiful panoramas, photos of the fort overlooking the bay. If that is what you're looking for print out the photos and leave it at that. But if you're like me and you like your ugliness right out front where you can keep an eye on it, examine it, interact with it and play with it well then you might say this place is portobelo.<br />
<br />
<i><br />
Still to come are the following People of Portobelo and Life in Portobelo....<br />
</i>Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-78915883511693513482010-10-26T18:08:00.007-04:002010-10-26T18:12:30.579-04:00Screwed"Philip, just think, how many men can say they slept with a lesbian, orchestra conductor nearly twice their size and age?" I said to Philip for the second time that day when what we assumed was Karen's Cessna flew over our boat as it took her to try to identify land that didn't exist. Which is also what I was thinking about as I watched Karen; dressed in her pajamas, play Brick House on her flute the morning after sleeping with Philip. Maybe three or four at the most, I thought. Which led to me wondering how many men got to listen to a renowned lesbian conductor play the hit from The Commodores on the flute after just getting shagged by their friend and boat mate. In that category I have to assume there is only one, me. And while Anna and Bren were there neither knew about the liaison between Philip and Karen and since they were both women were not eligible for my survey anyways. But the thought that rang in my ears more than Karen's flute was what she'd said to us the first day we met her, "I just need to fall in love first."<br />
<br />
Karen came to Long Island, Bahamas in part as a vacation but specifically there because she'd purchased two parcels of ocean front property she'd discovered online. With the stock market eating away at her savings she felt the land to be a better investment. Ocean front property in the Bahamas with its stable government and proximity to the U.S. seemed like a better idea than Central America. Staying at Chez Pierre known more for it's food than accommodations Karen told us she was determined to befriend the fussy French Canadian proprietor Pierre. Trip Advisor warned guests Pierre was temperamental.” I decided before I left I was going to win this man over, make him like me." she'd said. It sounded strange to want to win someone over you didn't even know, especially someone known for being an asshole. Who cares what he thinks of you? I thought. But Karen, accustomed to dealing with artists, decided attitude was something that came with the territory for those who sought perfection. <span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
The way she was eating her shrimp you could tell she was interested in what we were saying. Either that or the shrimp weren't that good. Karen was the conductor for the Illinois Symphony. And though I didn't know any maestros something about her looked the part, in certain ways reminding me of other women I knew in the arts. She wore a face that reminds you of Emma Thompson but larger. At over six foot tall, it's fair to say she was big boned; she'd have been quite fat if it weren't for her height. We were talking sailing with our friend Gary when Anna invited her to join us at our table. <span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We'd made the thirty plus mile day sail from Georgetown, Great Exuma to Salt Pond, Long Island specifically for the Long Island Regatta. In the Bahamas the racing boats are made of wood with large masts that support a massive sheet of canvas. Many are built in Nassau but a few come from the out islands. Traditionally, the boats had to be sailed to wherever the race was to be held. Not an easy thing to do when you consider the size of boats and the hundreds of nautical miles of ocean that the Bahamian Islands are spread across. These days the boats are brought to the race on larger boats. The Regatta boats are small but carry ten to fifteen men, most acting as ballasts hanging off the windward side to prevent the boat for toppling over. And since being ballast isn't a high enough honors to prevent crew from going out the night before a race and getting shit canned it isn't uncommon to find your way onto boat the day of the race. </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Upon hearing about our limited experience as sailors Karen started to consider the idea for herself if her contract with the symphony wasn't renewed the following year. Her most significant concern was the availability of pharmaceuticals as she kept referring to "my condition" and after pressing insinuated it was heart related. And indeed she had issues that were heart related because when asking Gary about his opinion on catamarans she said, "I just need to fall in love first.” Before we left the restaurant, Long Island Breeze, Gary invited Karen and the rest of us over for drinks on his boat that evening. </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When Karen climbed in the dinghy it was clear she hadn't spent anytime on the water. She lumbered awkwardly, her feet unable to anticipate the movement of the boat she nearly toppled forward. She gave an embarrassed smile. I noticed her pale ankles freckled with mosquito bites. They were nearly the same diameter as her upper calf, more tree trunks than leg. Aboard his boat Cool Change, Gary served Rum with Coconut Milk garnished with a cherry. We shared stories about being on the water. Philip told Karen about being in marching band in highschool. During an awkward silence Anna asked Karen to share a funny moment from the symphony. Karen shared a story about a famous violinist who was giving a performance with her. Not only was the guest of honor a great violinist he was also wheel chair bound and before the show, as Karen was wheeling him through the theater the wheel jammed and she nearly dumped him from his chair. Karen blushed and laughed as she told the story and everyone else joined in to make her feel comfortable. I said, "that's really funny" which is what I do when someone tells me something that isn't but I'm not up to fake laugh. </span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was after 9:00 when we left Gary's boat to go back to Long Island Breeze for the Regatta Party and the live Rake and Scrape Band. The band was charging $10 cover but since we arrived from the back via our dinghies, we hoped to go unnoticed. After ten or so minutes of doing our best job to blend in with the patio furniture we were busted. Karen paid cover for Gary, Philip, Anna and I. In return we bought her a five-dollar rum cocktail. As we sat on the patio, only a few other people had arrived but the main restaurant was still mostly filled with diners. Karen decided to enjoy her cocktail in the pool and proceeded to remove her clothes, revealing a one piece she wore underneath, shortly, after which a staff member instructed her to put her clothes back on and remove herself from the water. Not too long afterwards a couple of younger women in small bathing suits jumped in but not one said anything to them. Now wet and slightly intoxicated she sat on the patio chairs with us drinking a rum punch looking sad. I felt like sitting down next to her, putting my arm over her shoulder and saying, “Sweetie some people are just mean. It’s not about who you are on the outside.” But in reality it is about who you are on the outside and since Karen was in her fifties I figured she knew that by now. </span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The next few days we didn't see or hear from Karen. We spent each day at The Regatta only slightly watching the race. With barely enough wind to fill their sails the race wasn't as exciting as it might have been were the weather different. The stalls at the Regatta Park were filled with vendors. Bahamian fair food, conch fried or ceviche style, hamburgers, jerk chicken, Kalik and the surprisingly tasty Sky Juice which is gin, coconut milk and coconut water over ice. I bought conch fritters from a woman wearing a Publix apron. Each evening they had music at the park. One night Gary, Anna and I watched a once famous Bahamian musician named Jay Mitchell. He performed soul music in a Bahamian-Blue outfit studded with rhinestones and glitter, the shirt entirely open exposing his sweaty chest. As he sang local strung out drunken Rastas, some of who were passed out earlier during the race awoke from their stupor to sway around him. My favorite was his new song Gotta Keep My Belly Full which made the Rastas rub their bellies in circles as he sang<br />
“Gotta keep my belly full Gotta keep my belly full<br />
Like a Rasta I don’t eat no pork<br />
But I’ll eat a lobster <br />
without a knife and a fork<br />
Gotta keep my belly full”<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The day after the Regatta, Gary returned to Great Exuma. Philip, Anna and I decided to hitchhike south to see what we'd see. Unlike the other Bahamian islands no one was quick to give us a ride. Eventually a white pick up pulled over with two British guys. Curly and John were developers building a marina in Stella Maris, on the north side of the island. They were from Andorra, a country that none of us had heard of and sounded more like a region in Narnia than 181 sq miles of land between Spain and France. However they had wheels so we hopped in. They gave us a lift to Max's Famous Conch Bar. We had a few beers, used the wifi and chatted with John and Curly. At Max's Anna received an email from Karen. She was at a restaurant nearby with her friend Bren, who'd flown in a couple days before. We got a ride from a guy leaving Max's and he took us down a dirt road that led to the coast. He left us at the tiny restaurant where Karen's rental car was the only one occupying the parking lot. Outside a baby white goat clip clopped around the wooden patio. Inside Karen, wearing pajamas gave us warm hugs introduced us to her friend Bren and insisted that we share their lunch of fresh lobster and salad with them. Karen told us she still hadn't found her parcels of land and was beginning to worry if they even existed. Unable to reach the person who'd sold them to her things were looking sketchy.<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bren was the kind of person you met and were suddenly old friends. She said whatever came to her mind, which was often inappropriate but funny. She was Karen's antithesis peppy and exuberant in contrast to Karen's exhausted aura. Bren was large but somehow more demur than Karen. An accurate personal ad would describe her as voluptuous. She wore make up. Karen wore pajamas. It was obvious she spent time getting ready in the morning. She also made Karen switch accommodations from Chez Pierre to a rental house on the southern end of the island near Clarence Town because she needed air conditioning. Bren and Karen were lesbian friends who'd met online and hung out two or three times before. <br />
</span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As lunch concluded Curly and John wandered into the restaurant on their Sunday ritual Bar Beer Hop. I mentioned to Karen that they were developers and might have information related to her property. Karen interrogated Curly on what he knew. After hearing the details Curly told Karen she'd likely been taken. Curly also informed Karen that there wasn't much legal recourse she could pursue, that the modern day pirates of the Bahamas were in the business of selling titles to land that didn't exist. Karen maintained a positive self-depreciating sense of humor on finding out she'd probably lost $40,00 she held up her glass and said, "here's to me getting screwed in the Bahamas." She laughed but you could tell it hurt. <br />
</span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After lunch we went with Karen and Bren to Dean's Blue Hole, the world's largest. Anna and I chatted with Bren and floated 663 feet above the bottom of the hole while Karen and Philip snorkeled. As we were leaving Karen received a call on her cell. It was a reporter from Illinois calling for her reaction to the symphony opting to not renew her contract. The newspaper must have read "Symphony Conductor Startled." Karen, unaware of the decision until the reporter called was in shock. She asked more questions of the reporter than he did of her. <br />
</span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">While Karen drove, Bren in the passenger seat and the three of us in the back Philip made implications as to his sexual prowess. The fact that Karen and Bren were lesbians on a vacation together didn't inhibit Philip from overtly flirting with Bren. Bren, the playful type, flirted back. A lot of it involved talk about sticking things in butts, spankings and putting things in one another’s mouths. Thinking of her friend's day Bren suggested we get wine, quick. We stopped at a restaurant (liquor stores in the Bahamas are closed Sundays) and Bren bought us dinner and wine to go. While we waited for our food Karen went for a swim in the restaurant pool. I hoped no one kicked her out this time. <br />
<br />
At the rental house Bren and Philip, still flirting, unpacked the to go boxes and plated dinner for everyone. Conversation at dinner became overtly sexual. Bren was winking and whispering to Anna. Philip was winking at Bren and Karen looked strung out. She made a comment I can’t quite recall, likely because I was startled when she began to remove her shirt. I had the bad feeling everyone was about to get naked and since I was only interested in seeing one person at the table naked I was thankful when Karen put her shirt back down and with that the conversation changed directions. But after dinner the conversation moved back towards sex when Karen sat on the floor while Bren, Anna and I sat on one couch and Philip on the other. Karen became hyper-talkative. Karen and Bren talked about vibrators, shapes, designs, wattage. She made Bren out to be a sort of wishy washy lesbian because she used to be married. Karen only had sex with a man once, when she was in her mid twenties and described it as awful and completely unsatisfying. Her entire life her Christian family made her afraid of sex with men. It was treated as something bad and dirty; to be avoided and so not to disappoint them family she became a lesbian. “Maybe I need to give men another chance, just for the hell of It.,” she said. Eventually Bren went to bed and Anna and I did shortly after. As I was getting a glass of water Philip and Karen were looking out the window at the lightning.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The next morning on the way into the kitchen I didn’t notice anyone awake. When I turned around Philip crept in and whispered<br />
“Dude I have to tell you something.” <br />
“What?” I whispered back<br />
“I had sex with Karen.”<br />
“Really? What? Oh my god Philip. Not uh. Really? She’s a lesbian.”<br />
“Yea. I know. She came out of her room and was like Philip I want to have sex with you.”<br />
“If anything I thought you’d have sex with Bren or both of them.”<br />
“I know me too. How old do you think she is?”<br />
“Old. But it doesn’t matter. You did the right thing. She was having a bad day. Philip, just think, how many men can say they slept with a lesbian, orchestra conductor nearly twice their size and age?"</span></div>Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-4565996346138236862010-10-14T15:25:00.001-04:002010-10-14T15:27:49.324-04:00No One In Harbour Island Likes UsIf you ask Anna, Philip and I which place we enjoyed the most out of the 30+ we stopped in through The Bahamas we all agree Harbour Island was one of the best. <br />
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Harbour Island lies just east of the Eleutheran main land in what would be described as the Central Bahamas. It''s known as a luxury destination and isn't as regularly frequented by cruising sailboats. It likes to promote it's pink sand beaches, which is a result of the extensive coral that skirts the shore being crushed by the waves. While Harbour Island has some cars the main method of transportation is golf carts. The town is cute with lots of flowers but not too cute where it feels sterile. There are beautiful houses and ones that are barely standing, both adding to the character. We arrived in Harbour Island from Little Harbor, about fifty nautical miles north in the Abacos.<br />
<br />
On the sail from Little Harbor to Harbour Island the sea was becalmed but the storm clouds weaved around us. Each time I put on my foul weather gear the clouds would clear out of our way. When stripped back to my bathing suit the clouds reappeared, looking dark and ominous. Again I changed back and the clouds disappeared which made me impressed me and I thought, "Is this what they meant by rain proof?" Along the way we hooked a massive Bull Dolphin upwards of 60lbs. It flashed metallic blues and greens each time it leapt from the water. Once aboard we filled its gills with vodka. It sounds strange but through other sailors we learned that this is the best way to subdue a fish that is thrashing about deck and beating you with its tail. Chris then filleted a weeks worth of fish.<br />
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The entrance to Harbour Island from the north is named The Devils Backbone and sounds like something from a Pirate's of the Caribbean. Our charts and guides highly recommended using a pilot to navigate The Backbone as it was a combination of dangerous reef and shoals only navigable by eye and experience. Our pilot, John Roberts met us less than a mile from The Backbone. He tied his boat to our stern, climbed aboard and took the helm. He was from Spanish Wells and sounded half British. He smoked Viceroys and worked as a chef aboard a Lobster boat during the season. In the off-season he worked as a pilot and a fishing guide. True to it's name the backbone was sprinkled with coral patches, at times we were less than 10 yards from the crashing waves at the beach and others, as the backbone zagged we were more than 150 yards from shore. On the way to Harbour Island he pointed out Man Island. He said Man Island had wild goats and was a pleasant anchorage. The possibility of capturing a wild goat filled my mind. I'd place it's horns on the bowsprit, I thought.John deposited us at a nice anchorage in between Valentine's Marina and Ramora Bay Marina. <br />
<br />
A few days after leaving Hopetown in the Abacos my back went out. Not out, as in, it was partying and having a good time, out, as in severe pain and completely not working. After a few days it cleared up but I needed to get some muscle relaxers at some point in case it happened again. Aboard a boat, in the middle of the ocean, the pharmaceuticals you carry are important, you can't simply run down to the corner CVS. So in Harbour Island I went to the government clinic to visit the doctor. We'd done this before in the Abacos. The Bahamas has great subsidized medicine. A doctor visit is $30 and a prescription somewhere between two to five dollars. Anna and I made an appointment to come back and see the doctor on our way out to dinner. When we arrived we each had two beers in hand to prevent us from buying them at the restaurant where they were more expensive. The doctor asked me about my back and then wrote me a prescription for fifty muscle relaxers. He then counseled us on abusing alcohol. Afterward he said we owed him $100. I told him he was confused that the cost was written on the wall, right above the price for having a baby (free). Eventually, after a little whining he accepted the $30. <br />
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Our anchorage off the Ramora Bay Club was perfect for us because the marina had showers that were unlocked which meant we didn't have to shower in the ocean. It also meant we didn't have to shower in the outdoor shower of stranger's vacation homes as we did in Hopetown. We had free, hot freshwater showers only a short dinghy ride away. Chris and Amber had left to go back to the States for a Jimmy Buffet concert and Philip, Anna and I decided to go snorkeling. The sun was set to broil, the most intense it had been yet and we welcomed the heat. On the way back to the boat we stopped to pickup my prescription. At the food stand next door I asked the young Bahamian behind the counter if he had any old food to give us. He gave us a large tray of french fries and invited us out with him. Shawn had a nice smile and told us he was excited to party. We agreed to meet up with him later that night. <br />
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Early that evening at the marina, while we waited for Anna to finish showering Philip and I walked up to the bar at Ramora Bay. There we met two older men, Chuck and Brian, both wasted. Brian was nice and strongly resembled Brian Dennehy. He looked like someone who'd been told by his doctor to lay off red meat. Chuck was a bit younger and much louder. Both had Boston accents. Chuck asked us if we liked Jimmy Buffet. We said, yeah of course. Chuck's daughter was the first mate of Buffet's ship, The Continental Drifter, her fiancee the captain. He told us if we got him wasted he'd tell us it was going to be off Andros Island from May 3-10. Philip and I looked at each other confused because he'd just told us exactly where and when to find Jimmy. He then went on to boast about how he'd been fishing with Buffet, got high with him, what a nice guy he was and so forth. He even called him Jim which irritated me. I hate when people try to act like they know celebrities like "oh me and Brad (as in Pitt) were going to meet Angie as in (Angelina)." I find it humiliating to everyone involved.<br />
<br />
Chuck and Brian were in Harbour Island to fish on Chuck's 38ft. Bertram. Brian came down yesterday and tomorrow was their first day out but it was clear that tonight was to be spent getting hammered.. Anna who had now found us at the bar asked if we could go fishing with them tomorrow. They happily agreed with Chuck's condition that Philip bring a few joints and then offered to give us a lift into town on the golf cart they'd rented. As we had our dirty clothes, shampoo, soap and loofahs we asked for a few minutes to take everything back to the boat. They assured us they'd be waiting and we agreed to be back in ten minutes.<br />
<br />
Ten minutes later the Ramora Bay Marina Bar was empty. We climbed back into the dinghy and tied up about a quarter mile north at Valentine's Marina in the center of town. After two blocks of walking we saw Chuck stumbling towards a restaurant from the other side of the street coughing and hacking heavily.<br />
"Hey Chuck! You left us. Are you okay?" Philip asked.<br />
"Yeah I just had a sneeze attack and had to go outside."<br />
"You mean you just had a vomit attack and had to go puke." Philip retorted as Chuck walked back into the restaurant.<br />
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The three of us continued walking in an attempt to find something cheap and fun. We carried with us bottle of vodka stuffed in a sock. On the boat all bottles are stowed in socks so they don't break at sea. Approaching a hill we saw two bicycles coming towards us, as they got closer we saw it was a young couple. I'm unsure if we initiated it or they did but we began chatting with Paige, a blond fair skinned Alabamian and his cheerful new bride Jessica. They lived in California but had just gotten married and were on their honeymoon. We learned they were staying at Ramora Bay and informed them that is where we shower. After a few minutes of discussing what there was two do three golf carts pulled up and Jessica and Paige smiled and said, "Hey Duke!" Two of the men got off the golf carts, took the bikes from Jessica and Paige and insisted they ride in cart. "We're going to Vic-Hums" someone said. Quickly, Anna and I jumped in the back of a cart and Philip in the front seat next to Duke.<br />
"Where are you headed." said Duke as if to say, he didn't know us and certainly didn't invite us to go anywhere with him<br />
"Wherever this carts going, we're going." said Philip<br />
Duke was from Michigan, middle aged, with gray hair and matching stubble. His parents owned a home on Harbour Island and he and his buddies, the guys on the other carts were down for a visit.<br />
"What's in the sock" said Duke<br />
"Vodka." said Philip "You want a pull?"<br />
"A pull?"<br />
"Yeah a pull-a -vodka"<br />
"A pullavodka?<br />
"Yes. Want one?"<br />
"What the hell uh a pullavodka?"<br />
"What do you mean? A pull you know like you put it to your lips and take a pull-a-vodka."<br />
"I have no idea what you're talking about"<br />
"You guys, this joker has no idea what a pull-a-vodka is." Philip said to Anna and I as if Duke wasn't there. We laughed but also hoped not to lose our ride.<br />
"I've heard of a tractor pull, a shot of vodka, but never head of a pull-a-vodka.<br />
"It's just putting it to your lips, it's not that big of deal. I'm just offering you a drink."<br />
"No thanks." mumbled Duke, irritated he'd let us in his cart.<br />
<br />
At Vic-Hums we ordered water with lime to go with our sock of vodka. Vic-Hums was a large club and though it wasn't a place tourists would hang out it featured what they claimed was the world's largest coconut behind the bar. At the back was a large dance floor and a basketball court that was fully enclosed except for the roof and surrounded by tables. Philip came out of the bathroom looking startled.<br />
"You okay Philip?" I asked <br />
"Some guy just closed the door on me and put an eight ball in my hand. When I tried to hand it back to him he didn't want to take it." <br />
"What'd you say?"<br />
"Well, I said, it's cool man but I don't really need any of this and then handed it back to him." <br />
<br />
Outside we ran into the skinny Bahamian with little teeth who sold Philip pot the day before. He gave us half his blunt and left. Back inside for more water someone said "everybody come outside, quick." <br />
What we couldn't hear from inside was a marching Junkannoo band. Twenty or so Bahamians dressed in yellow feathers and white t-shirts marched down the street with tubas, trombones, cow bells, maracas and every drum you could imagine, even giant oil drums converted to drums. They danced and shook violently, to the beat of Junkannoo, a mixture of Caribbean and African rhythms. Philip, Anna and I joined the band. We spilled our drinks as we danced with them in the street and played on their drums. When the band moved on down the road everyone climbed back on the carts and headed to Gusty's.<br />
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Gusty's was a small bar but what was unique about it was the floor inside was entirely sand. The bar was on a hill which allowed the patio off the back some elevation and a nice clear view of the sea. I drank and talked to Paige and Duke's friends. There we met up with Shawn who was happy to see us. Anna danced with Shawn and Jessica until Philip started dancing with Jessica. What was initially innocent hey we're having fun dancing quickly morphed into Philip and Jessica having sex with their clothes on. Anna grabbed my arm and asked me if i saw what was happening. She then asked if Paige had seen and told me to distract him so he wouldn't get upset. However conversation with Paige was quite dull and since I really didn't enjoy talking to him I suggested he go find his wife. Philip and Jessica had finished and Philip was now playing pool, barefoot with an old Bahamian.<br />
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Shawn then encouraged us to go with him to Daddy-D's, a regular club packed with large black women. Philip quickly found the comfort of three giant black women that ate more for lunch that day than his entire body weight. He danced and sweated all over them, which means a lot when you consider how much of them there was. Anna and I argued about something stupid outside on the patio. When I went to get Philip to see if he was ready to leave, which he clearly was not Anna had taken off. From the patio I could see her far down the street. I grabbed Philip and we went chasing her. The roads on Harbour Island are somewhat confusing, especially at night. Everything looked the same. We yelled "Anna." repeatedly which only scared the stray chickens. I found a golf cart in someone's driveway and decided to borrow it. It started immediately and Philip jumped in.<br />
"Do you see her?"<br />
"I can't see anything." said Philip<br />
"Why?"<br />
"This stupid windshield." as Philip started to push on the windshield trying to force it open.<br />
"Yes but it's clear."<br />
"It's very hazy to me."<br />
I stopped the cart and opened the windshield for Philip. <br />
<br />
We drove to Valentine's the most logical place to meet since that was where our dinghy was tied. While Philip was in the bathroom Anna wandered up the dock. I left the golf cart in front of Valentine's and we returned to the boat.<br />
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The next morning at 8:00, all of us severely hungover, Philip said, "Hey Jeff, let's go see if those guys are going fishing." We dinghied over to Ramora Bay and found Brian drinking a Gatorade and smoking a cigarette on the stern of their boat. He looked at us strangely as if seeing someone he couldn't quite place. When we asked him about going fishing his memory jogged he invited us aboard. He told us Chuck was still sleeping. We sat and he offered us Gatorade and told us he was living in Boca Raton. When him and Chuck lived in Boston they started a big tuna fishing club and they used to bring in giants and sell them and split the earnings. Chuck then stumbled out of the sliding glass door of the Bertram, a large gash ran the length of his femur. He looked at us like he'd never seen us. Philip started laughing and said, "Chuck what the hell, you're bleeding all over the place, dude you need to do something about that. What did you do to yourself?"<br />
Chuck looked down, clearly unaware of the large gash and blew it off as if it was nothing.<br />
Brian told Chuck we came over to see if they were going and that we wanted to join them. Philip and I looked at each other confused, we knew we discussed this last night. Chuck grabbed a Gatorade and said yeah we'll leave in a bit. It was clear neither of them intended to go fishing, that they didn't really care for us but we'd pinned them into going anyways.<br />
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Philip and I dinghied back to get Anna and a couple joints. We quickly made breakfast and arrived back at the Bertram. Aboard the fishing boat Chuck handled all the fishing lines. He carefully baited the ballyhoo and selected lures to ride in front of each one. He placed two lines on each outrigger and ran four lines off the back. Anna, Philip and I drank Budweiser from their cooler as Chuck worked. We offered to help but only half meaning it because he seemed to know how he wanted things done more than he wanted to explain anything. Chuck and Brian barely spoke to each other the entire day. Philip passed around the joints and everyone smoked except Brian. Chuck talked a lot about Jimmy Buffet. He'd forgotten everything he told us the night before and went through the same old "me and Jim stories." He also talked about his daughter and working for the Buffet's. He seemed happier with the life his daughter had made than his own. Philip caught a Barracuda and Anna a medium sized mahi mahi. Up on the fly bridge I told Brian about plans Philip, Anna and I had made to sail over to Man Island and catch a wild goat. He became instantly appalled. "Why would you want to kill a goat." he asked disgusted.<br />
"To eat it. Why do you fish?"<br />
"Hey Chuck, these guys are planning to kill a goat." he hollered to Chuck.<br />
"What? Is that true? Why would you want to kill a goat" echoed Chuck with the same disgust of Brian.<br />
"For goat meat." answered Philip<br />
Brian shook his head with irritation. It amazed me that men who flew from Boca to Harbour Island, who invested thousands in gasoline, bait, lures, rods and reels and boat to load up a freezer full fish couldn't understand capturing one wild goat. Back at the dock Chuck filleted the mahi and bagged it for us. We thanked the two of them for taking us out and they hoped to never see us again.<br />
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That evening Jessica and Paige came over for fish tacos. After dinner we put on a clothes one step up from a bathing suit in hopes of crashing a wedding at the Pink Sands. Earlier in the week we discovered it was "The Cohen" wedding. We stopped with Jessica and Paige in their room and smoked a joint which made Anna and I giddy. Like two teenagers we couldn't stop laughing. At the Pink Sands we were approached by the concierge and never stopped walking but said, "Cohen wedding" as we passed, He directed us to the beach restaurant where the reception was being held. Approaching the wedding we heard the familiar sound of Hava-Nagila. The five of us stood there and watched men in suits and women in evening gowns celebrate. The couple was older, probably in their mid forties. We clearly did not fit in both because of our attire and age. After the song someone announced for everyone to take their seats. Everyone scrambled like a game of musical chairs except for us. We stood their clearly out of place, with every seat occupied until one of the waiters said, "You cannot be here. This is not for you." We quietly left through the back. Outside the Junkanoo band from the night before was waiting to perform. Some of the guys from last night remembered us with their smiles.<br />
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Walking the streets of Harbour Island looking for somewhere to party we heard music and saw lights from a large building. As we approached it appeared to be a house. Through the door I saw people dancing. When the five of us approached the doorway a woman came running, probably to invite us inside I thought. Instead, she closed the door after saying "private party."<br />
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A few days later, after we did our laundry in the showers at the Ramora Bay Marina the dockmaster locked the showers and gave each registered boat a key. I imagine him going to Chuck and Brian handing them a key and saying, "Sorry to do this but it's because of <i>those kids</i> on the sailboat anchored just over there." Brian and Chuck would nod, knowing exactly what he meant by "<i>those kids</i>."Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-58031670916743968292010-10-12T15:49:00.000-04:002010-10-12T15:49:24.377-04:00Surviving on Bread and ChickenFrom the harbor in Hopetown the tops of Palm trees look like Dandelions. I imagine the fronds coming off and scattering across the island. A rooster, with his clock set on Greenwich time cock-a-doodles hours to early. <br />
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<br />
Chris wanted to bake bread. He tried in Tallahassee before we left. Amber, Chris, Anna and I stood in the kitchen, we all held a broken piece in our hand, our mouths chewing looking at each other waiting for someone to react. Eventually someone decided it was terrible which allowed the rest of us to agree. Before we left Ft. Lauderdale we stocked up on just-add-water brownies, muffins and biscuits. Chris tried a few more times to make bread but the problem with bread is it requires attention. Let it rise too long, don't kneed it enough you're going to have bad bread. Since watching bread rise isn't one of Chris's strengths, it never came out right. So for the first month on board Desdemona we settled for generic label white bread. Low in nutritional value, nearly tasteless and filled with preservatives that are great aboard the humid environment of a sailboat. <br />
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When Philip arrived he'd brought with him a handheld compass, a magnesium strip for starting fires, a poncho and a two tape set narrated by Burt Reynolds titled <i>"Worst Case Scenario Survival Handbook." </i>The front cover read, "HOW TO: Escape from quicksand, Wrestle an Alligator, Break down a door, Land a plane...." The tapes featured Burt explaining how to survive a bear attack, a shark attack, how to leap from a motorcycle to a car and how to escape from killer bees. When anyone questioned Philip on why this was important information his response was "Ya never know bro. Anything could happen." We also had on board two machetes and a hatchet. Obviously what we thought we were going to experience was misaligned with reality. Bahamian life and cultures, because of it's proximity to America, is basically American culture. While they fish and eat conch, they buy their chicken from Tyson. <br />
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The streets and homes of Hopetown are what guidebooks would describe as quaint. The houses have an artificially sweet feel and feature annoying names like Sanddollar or Crows Nest written on planks of driftwood painted pastel pink, green or blue. The only redeeming feature are the five or six stray chickens that reside in the town. Walking down a back street in Hopetown the unmistakable smell of cinnamon alerted us to the bakery. It was coming from a grocery store named Vernon's. As we entered the store just past the cashier was a wall of freshly baked breads, pastries and pies. I picked up a banana bread and put it back after noticing it was $12. I walked around and noticed brie and asparagus which I hadn't seen since leaving the States. Chris purchased a baguette. Next to the cash register was a door to Vernon's bakery. Were the store more sophisticated the door would read employee only but since it didn't the four of us wandered into the bakery. Here we found an old frail man with the body language and voice of an effeminate Droopy. He seemed like he'd be easy to offend and you could picture him saying, "oh my." His hair was thin and white matching the apron he wore. He introduced himself as Vernon. Philip made a comment about the irony of the store also being named Vernon. He informed us it was his store and he was the baker. Chris explained how he'd been trying to make bread but that it wasn't working out so well. Chris asked if it be possible for him to teach us and Vernon agreed. He told us he starts baking at 7:000 am and we were welcome to join him.<br />
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The four of us walked down the street laughing about our bread baking lesson and enjoying the baguette Chris bought. At the end of the street were two benches along the water that overlooked the harbor entrance. It was low tide and the darker blue narrow strip of the channel contrasted starkly with the light green of the shoals and shallows that surrounded it. Boats entering the harbor ignored the No Wake sign. Anna had a photo shoot with a stray cat. We could see a sailboat aground across the bay, laying on it's side as if it was just taking a short nap. <br />
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On the way back to the boat, in front of the church near Vernon's grocery a group of stray chickens, a rooster, a large hen and two adolescents pecked at the ground. They clucked and scratched all the while looking really stupid, hardly aware of our presence. I picked up a rock expecting an easy kill but not looking forward to the work that would ensue i.e. feathers, innards and blood. Most people are unaware but the Bahamian Chicken is the most intelligent creature in all of the Bahamas. My target chicken, the large female, with spider-man like awareness sensed the impending danger and just as the rock was about to pummel it's stupid bird head it quickly side-stepped the rock. Then in a split second all the chickens made a permanent imprint of what I looked like, smelled like and sounded like and quickly scattered clucking with fear. Okay, well, maybe next time, I thought.<br />
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<br />
Vernon had been baking for over 45 years. His favorite thing to make was pie and throughout the day several people stopped by to find out when the pies would be done. Vernon was the minister at the church where I tried to murder the chickens. It was a Methodist church which was good because he didn't seem the fire and brimstone type. He told us he liked to start all his sermons off with a joke. Vernon was nice but I couldn't imagine him trying to make a joke, rather I couldn't imagine anyone laughing. Vernon liked to talk about politics. After his neighbor across the street, a black Bahamian who ran a fast food joint popped his head in he told me we have different opinions but we like to chat and talk issues. Whatever his politics it was clear he valued rules. When a man walked out a door labeled "entrance" he got huffy and started to whine about the way things are supposed to be done. Vernon pulled out several trays of cinnamon buns that were ready to be glazed. When he popped over into the market for a second we each tried the glaze on our fingers. Anna noticed that it tasted like he added lime to it. He'd made a dozen for us and invited us to enjoy them.We did. After they cooled he asked for help packing them up.<br />
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<br />
When Philip, Anna and I were walking by Vernon's church the chickens were back. A Bahamian woman had told us how they use to trap chickens on Mayaguana as a child. Philip and I asked Vernon if we could borrow a milk crate and some string while Anna kept an eye on our prey. A Bahamian woman at the snack shop across from Vernon's gave us some bread to use as bait. "Why you want to catch those chickens anyways," she asked? "Because they're made out of chicken." Philip answered. We set a trap on the sidewalk to the church, breadcrumbs leading to the crate which was propped up with a small stick attached to the string.. Philip waited on the other end of the string while I spooked the chickens towards Philip. Locals and tourist walked by as if we didn't exist. The chickens immediately remembered me and headed towards Philip clucking at a higher tempo than before. One of the adolescent chickens pecked at the bread almost completely underneath the trap. Eventually the large female pecked her way underneath the milk crate and as Philip pulled the string the chickens outwitted us again, escaping while the trap fells backwards.<br />
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We tried two more times to catch the Hopetown chickens. On Philip's birthday, our final hunt, I made contact with one when I tried to swat it with a piece of wood but lost it in the brush. Eventually the chickens knew us so well they'd move into the brush before we could even get them in sight. We'd just here them racing down the street, their high tempo clucking that says, "I am afraid bok bok bok someone is after me bok bok bok." We'd I ordered the cake from Vernon for Philip's birthday he like he'd never seen me before. I tried to tell him, "It's for Philip, it's his birthday, you remember Philip?" He mumbled something and left. The cake was dry but Philip ate it anyway.<br />
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After Hopetown we wouldn't see a grocery store until we reached Eluethera, more than a week away. Before we left we stocked up on Tyson chicken leg quarters and five loaves of bread.Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-89201300744204701142010-10-11T15:16:00.001-04:002010-10-11T15:17:23.567-04:00Knowing Where You AreI'm not sure why a horizontally growing palm tree evokes the idea of paradise more than a normal upright palm tree but it does. It's just like teriyaki. Nobody knows what teriyaki really is or where it comes from but everybody eats it. Which is why I assume it's a terayaki thing, something I wasn't meant to understand, when the man at the Supermercado in the Dominican Republic gives me three pieces of hard candy instead of my change. I tilt my head down towards my hand and walk out the door reminding myself it's not good to think too much about these type of things like why horseback riding isn't just called horse riding which is what we did the next day in the mountains. <br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I like to think my horse, Indecent Proposal and I had at least one of the same genes. Whenever Anna and I go for a walk or a hike I subconsciously prevent her from getting ahead of me, for some reason my brain thinks that I have to be ahead. She'd complain and I'd wait for her but soon I'd be thirty yards up ahead. Indecent Proposal had the same issue, whenever she sensed any other horse close to overtaking her she'd giddy giddy giddy up on ahead. It's nice to think we have something in common, that if our brains were laid out on a surgical table and examined a scientist could pin point the problem we have, "See it's right there, that frayed nerve, it's what causes them to think they're being left behind." But it's probably that Indecent Proposal just didn't care to stare at other horse's asses. </span></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><o:p>At our first bar in Aruba the bartender served me what I assumed to be a free sample of a beer in a green bottle that read "Balashi." It was in a bottle of what a woman would describe as "cute", because it's exactly the same as a regular beer bottle but half the size which makes me wonder why no one thinks midgets are cute. I ordered a Polar next and it came in the same 8oz bottle. Even Budweiser had been shrunk which seemed very un-American. We don't make things smaller, I thought. Clearly there was a mistake. I then asked the waiter if perhaps these beers were for children and he informed me that all beer in Aruba is this size. "Anything bigger would get warm before you could drink it." At first I thought this response funny but then it simply started to piss me off. Their Cokes were the same size. I knew I wasn't going to let this go with the unacceptable answer I received. Staring at this baby bottle of beer was especially annoying as the beer in DR was served in 40oz bottles. Meaning, five beers in Aruba is equal to one Dominican beer. At the next five bars I asked why the beer here was so small and they all echoed the first answer I received about it getting warm. It was as if every citizen had been given beer propaganda. What I've discovered is nobody knows why the beer is smaller, it just is or at least if they know they're not telling. <br />
<br />
</o:p></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Last night I watched an old documentary narrated by smarmy Richard Dreyfus called <i>The Search for Longitutde</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. The reason they were searching was before the hero of the documentary, John Harrison invented a marine chronometer, ships were unable to determine their east to west location (longitude). And until his invention which is really just a watch that can survive the conditions of ocean travel no one really knew where they were exactly. The other scientists of the 1700's including Newton believed the answer to the problem was in astronomy, that they could map certain stars and the angle from which they appeared to a mariner would determine the location of the ship. Everyone agreed that if you knew the time you could determine longitude it was just that no one believed a timekeeper could be built that would remain precise during ocean travel. Harrison, after a lifetime of working on a solution finally was able to build a watch that worked at sea.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Later when I'm lying in bed, awake, the waves slapping the side of the boat as it dances back and forth with the wind I keep repeating the line "Knowing where you are is simply a matter of knowing the time." As the waves have their way with the boat I'm reassured by knowing this because whatever it means it's true and it reminds me of being five years old and telling my mom with absolute confidence, "one million times zero equals zero." I reach my hand up to grab the phone, look at the the time, it was 1:17 in the morning. Then I turned to Anna who is sleeping and say, "one million time zero equals zero." </span></div>Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-41228795610085257472010-10-07T14:39:00.001-04:002010-10-07T14:41:06.678-04:00Peed on her faceIf you've ever tried to pee on your lovers foot while they stand on one leg, the other in the air hovering over a toilet, while trying not to pee on anything else then you've probably spent some time in the ocean. Playing at Tahiti Beach on Elbow Cay, Chris and Anna both stepped on something sharp that left stinging brown bits in their feet. This is when Anna, with tears in the pockets of her eyes said, "Will you pee on me? And I look her in the eyes and in my best soap opera actor impression say, "Anna, I will pee on your foot." Sometimes you need someone to pee on your foot.<br />
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Which is why I found it beautiful when I saw the old Colombian couple sitting in Starbucks enjoying something I heard described as "frapalicious," a drink more closely resembling a milkshake than coffee; and as they leaned over the small cafe table, the woman looked into the eyes of the man she loves as he popped pimples on his darling's face. I wondered if she ever said, "<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span title="">pis en mi pie mi amor" and surely he'd pee on her foot to relieve her pain. </span></span><br />
<br />
Or maybe it's less about love and more like the produce farmers in the Dominican Republic. The farmers harvest beautiful organic pineapples, avocados, carrots and cucumbers but rather than setup a small stand they take to the road. They drive around with megaphones, a PA system attached to the roof of their pickups, the back of which is loaded with produce and cruise up and down the streets of the town announcing, <span style="background-color: white;">"<span closure_uid_k1ix8n="126" se="Beautiful pineapples." style="color: black;" te="Hermosa piña. " title="">Hermosa piña. A</span><span closure_uid_k1ix8n="127" se="Delicious avacado." te="aguacate Delicious. " title="">guacate Delicious.</span></span><span closure_uid_k1ix8n="128" se="Fresh vegetables today." te="Hortalizas frescas en la actualidad." title=""><span style="background-color: white;"> Hortalizas frescas en la actualidad."</span> In otherwords, we really need to sell some vegetables so please come buy some because they are delicious. And though the natural result of growing vegetables is not to drive around like it's wartime, trying to spread propaganda. But sometimes you have to do what you have to do. And as I'm adding the period to that last sentence I think that sounds a lot like war even though it's not, it's just trying to unload some avocados and driving around blasting the streets with a loudspeaker is the best they've come up with. <br />
<br />
In the case of the sea biscuit Anna stepped on it was war, when suddenly her foot came crashing through the water and the only way it had to defend itself was releasing hundreds of little brown painful spines into her foot. While my the chemical reaction of my urine neutralized the stinging it was the spines still in her foot that posed the threat of infection and required removal. I sat poking at her foot with a small sewing needle trying to remove the spines amused by the irony of digging out small needles with larger needles. When a Bahamian woman suggested we use hot water and baking soda, that if we did the spines would fall right out; I thought anything is better than digging holes in my girlfriend's foot. Ideas like this surprise you when they work, the ones that sound crazy, like driving around trying to sell vegetables over a PA system.<br />
<br />
It was yesterday when I came across another way to get the pain out, a totally hot water and baking soda, yelling into a PA system to sell veggies kind of way. When Anna picked up her bag to throw it in the back of the car she swung it around and 1.5 liter of vodka she had in it punched her in the face. Tears started to drip down her cheeks and since it was raining outside I thought of her face as a windshield. When I said, "Usually vodka only knocks you out when you drink it." and she started to laugh and all the warm swelling she was feeling in her jaw diminished. And she said to me, "I love you because you make me laugh when I'm upset." and I realize I've just peed on her face. I start to think of all the times she's peed on me. All the times we've peed on each other and I wonder if this is what they mean when they say that love is chemical.</span>Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-63793949732328282942010-10-06T10:44:00.001-04:002010-10-06T10:44:24.826-04:00Bill GatesIn Aruba the entrance to the Renaissance Marina a small red helicopter sits on a jetty waiting to take tourist on island tours. The rotors slowly spinning, the engine at idle and everyone can sense what is about to happen. On the opposite side of the entrance the cruiseships loaded with passengers from America climb off the boat to attack the shops that line the waterfront. Each morning when we go to shore and pass the helicopter on one side and the cruiseships on the other I can't help but think of Bill Gates.<br />
We were in Hopetown, it was April and Anna spent the morning doing her taxes. Feeling productive, we decided to go for a walk, hoping to see the rest of Elbow Cay. On the way out of town a man in a flatbed truck pulled over and gave us a ride out of town. The truck pulled into a hardware store and we hopped out. On the ride we saw a couple hand painted signs in the shape of an ice cream cone with the words "Sugar Shack." painted in script. We decided to walk back towards the signs and see where they'd take us. Following the signs we turned off the main road and walked a few hundred yards. I began to smell basil and rosemary. On the right hand side of the road was a driveway where a golf cart was parked with two men in it. Walking past we waved and admired the garden in the yard where they sat. The size of three or four basketball courts, it was filled with greens, tomatoes, squash, cucumbers and more herbs than I can remember. In front of each group of plants was a marker that was finely printed that said, "I am Mexican Parsley" or "I am cabbage." The garden was designed not in the familiar rows you'd expect but in a way much more beautiful, the way Disney would design a garden, incorporating, rocks, arbors, shells, with twists and curves along the path. I admired the cayenne peppers dancing in the breeze, their smooth glossy skin shimmered in the sun making them look deceptively juicy and sweet and not my-mouth-is-a-volcano hot. Just past the garden was a small liquor store. Anna and I went in and purchased two Sands Light and wandered back to the garden out of curiosity.<br />
<br />
The two men waved us over to their golf cart and introduced themselves. Marcel was tan and alcoholic skinny, with large ears and eyes. He said he just turned 83. His Dick Van Dyke's smile combined with the name Marcel made him look French. He spoke with the wild enthusiasm of someone working a crowd, like he expected you to leave was trying to tell you everything he could before that happened. He leaned in when he told stories like he was about to reveal a big secret which made me think he had a lot of them, stories, not secrets. He introduced Bill Gates, the man sitting next to him as Crocodile Dundee. Billy Gates was 46, blond and could have passed for Paul Hogan in a dark room. He wore his hair back in a ponytail and owned a construction company on Elbow Cay. The garden was Billy's and the house behind which it sat his girlfriend's. She'd left that morning for New York where she worked coordinating fashion shows. As the four of us drank and smoked on the golfcart and tried to get to know each other Marcel would sidetrack the conversation by announcing one of Billy's gifts.<br />
<br />
"What's your name again?" asked Marcel for the third time.<br />
"Jeff."<br />
"Jeff, do you know this, I am 71 years old and this is my good friend the Crocodile Dundee? Like I told you this is Crocodile Dundee, you know the movie that this here is him, right here in the flesh." He goes right out there in the blue water and man I'll tell you...."and then he'd pause as if he'd suddenly run out of batteries and then suddenly start back up..."I'll tell you he goes right out and sees a shark he wrestles it."<br />
"I thought you just turned 83?" Anna said.<br />
Marcel said, "No I am 71, just turned 71."<br />
<br />
Billy was a free diving spearfisherman and dealt with sharks not by retreating but by being the aggressor and spearing them too. "I just see the sharks and I don't like to run so I go for them with my spear." echoed Billy. "Tiger sharks, bull sharks it doesn't matter, you see them all here in the Bahamas." Marcel satisfied to be the friend of such a man put on a smile so big it doesn't fit his head and nods.<br />
<br />
Billy encourages us to walk through the garden and pick anything we like and leaves to grab a few plastic bags.<br />
<br />
"What's your name?" Marcel asks pointing his finger at me like a gun and looking at me with one eye shut.<br />
"Jeff"<br />
"Jeff, you don't have to worry about me. I am as harmless as an unborn kitten. Do you know I used to build fixed and rotor wing aircraft? I even built myself a gyrocopter but crashed it in the ocean."<br />
"Really? <br />
He held up his hand and said, "Honest, to god. I am not a liar and would never tolerate myself if I were. And I'll tell you something else. What's your name?<br />
"Jeff"<br />
"Jeff, me and Billy have been building a cruise ship, it's almost done too, we've been building it for two years."<br />
"Really?"<br />
"If I'm lying you can cut my lips off."<br />
<br />
Billy returned and took us on a tour through his garden. As we walked he'd stop and hold each plant and say, "Do you like dill?" and cut large swaths of it. Eggplants, fennel, marjoram, spinach, tomatoes, Billy gave us some of everything. As he was taking us through the garden a neighbor came over and asked Billy for a few tomatoes. He gladly obliged. The mangoes, guavas and bananas were not ripe but he loaded us up with vegetables and herbs.<br />
<br />
Back on the golf cart Billy suggested we drive up to the liquor store (literally the next property over) and refill on beer. Anna and I suggested we go see their cruise ship. Marcel excitedly agreed as long as we didn't reveal it's whereabouts to anyone. One the way over Marcel told us he'd just turned 73 and asked my name twice more. <br />
<br />
The cruisehip they appropriately named Driftwood lay resting in Marcel's backyard in front of an old green lazyboy recliner. They found a twenty two foot fiberglass hull at a dump and built a small cabin atop. The holes in the hull had been patched and remained unpainted. The cabin was constructed of home materials rather than boat materials making it look like a strange amalgamation of land and sea. Accessed with a screen door the interior smelled of filth and urine. It contained one bed and a couple of cast iron pots. Marcel excitedly showed us his double sinks which were actually just two five gallon buckets filled with water. Marcel told us he'd been living in Driftwood to get away from his Haitian wife, whom he hated and referred to as a witch. <br />
<br />
Marcel was now so intoxicated he literally could not walk without holding on to the side of his boat. We sat down, Billy in the recliner and Marcel told us stories about God. I couldn't determine if he liked God or not but whatever it was he was passionate about and grumbled, now barely coherent. Although he was still able to recite the alphabet backwards for us with incredible speed and accuracy. This pleased him and he sat smiling at his boat. Driftwood was his oasis in his backyard, the vessel that would allow him to sail away, maybe, to some place without his Haitian wife, a place where he was much younger than 71, 73 or 83. A small black girl no older than 12 brought him a coke and he introduced her as his daughter. He asked us to admire how beautiful she was which made her blush. I was uncertain if she was more embarrassed by her dad or by what he was saying. <br />
<br />
I asked Marcel about his gyrocopter and he perked up, his eyes went from shut to slightly open and a smile came over him. Billy said, Marcel had built a small helicopter, it took him years, maybe ten to put together. It had a pontoon that allowed him to land on the water around Elbow Cay. One day he'd unknowingly landed it on a conch shell which punctured one of the pontoons and caused it to fill with water. Now off balance and weighted with hundreds of pounds of water Marcel took to air and shortly after crashed. The copter was destroyed but Marcel walked away entirely unscathed.<br />
<br />
Billy suggested we go back to his girlfriend's house and have some wine. Marcel drunk, now settled into a state of grumpiness that allowed us to excuse ourselves without inviting him back to Billy's place. "He'll be better off here where he can pass out with his cruise ship." <br />
<br />
Billy's girlfriend, Joann had a beautiful house, the garage covered with jasmine and the house with red, white and orange bougainvillea. Billy told us how he'd built the house with his ex-wife and then sold it to the woman who became his girlfriend. Which made us laugh and wonder if it was Joann or the house that was so special to him. We sat on the porch and drank wine as Billy told us about how much he loved Joann, how wonderful she was and how much he'd love for us to meet her. The way he spoke about love was unusual, not because he was slurring, but because he spoke about it casually and comfortably. More like a poet than the owner of a construction company. Still it was difficult to imagine a New York, fashion show producer with a Bahamian Crocodile Dundee.<br />
<br />
When a golf cart pulled into the driveway, he immediately recognized it as his mom's. She'd come to berate him for being drunk and to request a special plant from Billy's garden. A friend of hers was going back to the States and their friend had cancer. The cancer wasn't responding to treatment and his mom new one Billy's plants as a remedy to all ailments. It's leaves were to be made into a tea for the woman. Billy suggested a few ways they might hide it to get it through customs like putting it inside of an empty shampoo bottle.<br />
<br />
Anna and I called Philip, Amber and Chris on the VHF to invite them over to Billy's house. They came over with vodka and ate the cookies Joann left for Billy. Billy offered to get us pot from his dealer Francis. Philip informed Billy that Francis was out, as Philip had already tried buying from Francis. Billy called Francis and kept getting disconnected. Frustrated, Billy decided it was a good idea to just go over to Francis's house and talk to him in person so the six of us climbed on Billy's golf cart. Francis met Billy in the driveway and insisted that he go home. Billy told him what he wanted and this infuriated Francis. Francis told Billy he was too drunk, too drunk to even buy pot. Slightly agitated Billy turned the golf cart around and drove us back to Hopetown to our boat where we said goodnight and thanked him for the vegetables.<br />
<br />
A few days later when Anna and I found ourselves at a beach restaurant down the road from Billy's house we asked the bartenders if they knew our friends Billy and Marcel. We told them about drinking with Billy about the cruiseship and asked them if Marcel really crashed his gyrocopter. They confirmed the stories and told us "Billy Gates is the second biggest drunk in the Bahamas. The biggest is Marcel. When Joann leaves, Billy drinks and when Joann comes home Billy is sober. He's really not supposed to be drinking.....But did you see his garden?"<br />
<br />
When we leave the shore in the evening to head back to our boat, the sunset showing off like a child that needs attention. Reds, pinks and purples colliding. The red helicopter is parked back on the jetty after a day of tours and the cruiseship is loaded back up with passengers about to head to Cozumel or Grand Cayman or wherever. Billy and Marcel are back in the Bahamas. Billy's working in the garden of the house he built with his ex-wife and sold to the woman he fell in love with. Joann is coming home soon and he's taking a bag of empty beer bottles out to the trash. Everything is in its place.Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-26594247990142727752010-10-01T16:42:00.000-04:002010-10-01T16:42:35.184-04:00Sonia: Part 1 of 3Camped out at the Peace and Plenty Hotel Restaurant in Georgetown, Bahamas with our computers Philip, Anna and I uploaded photos, sent email and checked Facebook. It was late and I was determined to upload our photos. Philip and Anna were ready to go but were being patient with the technical problems I was experiencing.<br />
<br />
A man in his mid to late thirties, salt and pepper stubble, California surfer blond hair in a bathing suit and a tank top sat down at the table next to ours. He wasn't fat because he was tall but was definitely out of shape. He carried a bottle of rum and and bottle of vodka and placed them on the table with his computer. Clearly a tourist and a guest of the hotel he asked us if we were as well. We said we were not, that we were on a sailboat and there to use the internet. He told us he was from San Diego which was already evident by his frequent use of the word "dude." I could see that he was looking at photos from his vacation, photos of himself. I am vain. I am in love with myself but when I encounter these traits in other men I am irritated by their vanity and ego and determined to make them understand and accept how much better I am than them. He reminded me of someone who was in the Navy, I'd had a roommate who was once and they were eerily similar. The way they carried themselves, boastful, the way they immediately assumed I was interested in their lives. Someone who tried too hard to be cool. The things they tell you leaving you skeptical if it's actually the truth. When I asked what he did he said,<br />
"Dude, bro it's complicated but I'll tell you I'm a Navy Diver. I search and locate undetonated explosives. Dude I get to travel all over and do some sick shit bro dude."<br />
"Oh, but you're not a SEAL." Anyone in the Navy that is not a Navy SEAL is jealous of the SEAL's image. My comment was simply meant to knock his ego a little.<br />
"Dude, I do shit SEALs can't do bro. I'm a specialist. Dude I have a lot of SEAL friends and they're even afraid of the shit I do dude bro."<br />
"Well sure, but the explosives you're diffusing, there isn't any secret about them and you probably have a lot of information on the details of what is there before you get into it. So at least you don't have to worry about being shot at."<br />
"Bro, I could blow up a huge area if I mess up in my job."<br />
"A huge area of water."<br />
"Yeah, dude, yeah bro."<br />
<br />
After a few minutes of awkward silence he said, "Dude I went to this cave today up near Staniel Cay and well, this is crazy, I should never have done it, but I swam underneath and there was a pocket of air and I snapped this awesome photo dude." He picked up his computer and showed us a photo of his face, his mask on top of his head in what appeared to be a dark area.<br />
"Was this at Thunderball grotto?" I asked<br />
I looked at Anna, rolled my eyes and checked the upload hoping we'd soon be leaving.<br />
"Yeah bro, it was nuts dude I just swam under, totally could have died bro."<br />
"Oh yeah, we were there, lots of little kids snorkeling in and out of the cave."<br />
"Oh you guys went there? Yeah we took this boat up there for the day, this guy took us out it was sick."<br />
<br />
A woman, in her fifties, but fit and heavily made up came and sat down next to Dude and whispered something. I couldn't hear his response but could tell it was rude. The woman seemed irritated and started using his laptop. Now unoccupied he began to comment on the woman's wealth, that she had a nice car and that the Peace and Plenty was a shit hole compared to the hotels they usually stayed in.. She interrupted him to say, "I'm not <i>that</i> rich."<br />
After a short time she left and asked if he was coming. He said that he wasn't, that he was going to hang out with us, his new friends. Anna, Philip and I looked at each other, none of us liking be blamed for him not returning with this woman and even more upset to hear that he considered us his friends. Annoyed she left and one of us made the obvious assumption it was his girlfriend and he said it was just a woman he knew, someone he took trips with. The words hooker, escort and slut buddy suddenly came to mind. Dude, now clearly inebriated said, "Bro, you got to see this crazy pic I snapped today of me in this cave." He turned in his laptop towards us and showed us the same picture of his face in what appeared to be a cave. We looked at each other confused. Could we be experiencing group deja vu? <br />
<br />
When we left I apologized for keeping us there so long and we collectively agreed Dude was a major douchebag.<br />
<br />
A day later Philip ran into the Dude and the woman from the night before at a bon-fire at Hamburger Beach. He said they bought him a few drinks but that the guy was still a douche but said the woman, he was with, Lana, was much nicer than the night before. In fact she'd confided in Philip that she was upset with the way Dude was treating her.<br />
<br />
Elizabeth Harbor on which Georgetown sits is a big in terms of the Bahamas. It's dotted by protective islands, the largest of which, Stocking Island is home to a hotel, restaurant and bars. Desdemona was anchored off of Stocking Island, about two km from Georgetown, in front of a beach bar called Chat N Chill. From the galley I heard splashing followed by "Dude? Dude? Bro? Dude? You there dude?" Anna already in the cockpit looked down in the water and said "hello" while I was wondering how he'd located our boat.<br />
"Just thought I'd swim across and check out this bar."<br />
"Wow, that's a long swim." said Anna<br />
"Yeah, it's not dude. It's what I do I swim so maybe for some people but not for me bro."<br />
"Okay."<br />
"Well if you guys want to hang I'm going to be over there for a while so just hit me up." and off he swam.<br />
<br />
For some stupid reason or another we ended up at Chat N Chill that afternoon. At the open air bar was Dude and Lana. We sat down and ordered hamburgers. Philip didn't want to spend money so he made a salad on a napkin out of what he could find on the condiment table. Philip appeared to be spending more time chatting with Lana than anyone else which wasn't unusual.<br />
<br />
I'd seen this behavior out of Philip before. Once when he was chatting with an older couple I'd seen him talking to before I asked him why he was so interested in them. He explained to me that he thought that it was possible that if he got to know them a little, the old husband might ask him to service his wife which he was now, incapable of doing. And though it seemed a long shot it almost worked out for Philip. One Friday night at the Peace and Plenty, Philip was dancing with a few older women in an effort to get the attention of a group of young girls and inadvertently got the attention of an older British woman. Large, unattractive and also married Philip wasn't interested but nevertheless continued dancing. After a while her husband casually asked Philip in a strong British accent "Philip, how do you feel about threesomes and foursomes and such?" <br />
Philip replied, "Uhhh, I mean I guess they are whatever. I mean I guess they're alright."<br />
"The misses and I are going to have a spot of cocaine and we'll be back straight away."<br />
"Okay whatever." Philip said wanting to get out of the situation.<br />
<br />
And while the British never returned for Philip I wondered if this was what he was up to now with Lana and Dude. So when we made it back to the boat and Philip announced he'd worked out a deal with Lana I wasn't surprised. It was when I learned what the deal was that I was shocked. Philip said that Lana's twenty one year old daughter, Aimee was dating some loser who lived at home with his parents, did a lot of drugs and was the father of a small child. Lana, like a clueless mother, thought if she voiced her disapproval Aimee would simply stop dating this guy. Not surprisingly, since daughters are programmed to like a guy more if their parents disapprove that is what happened. So like a mother with no parenting skills but lots of money she decided to buy her daughter off. Which is when he announced the plan, Aimee is going to come sailing with us for a month and Lana is going to pay her $1000 and pay us however much we decide. Of course Anna and I had lots of questions.<br />
What if she doesn't like it? <br />
What if we don't like her? <br />
Where is she going to sleep? <br />
How much is she paying? <br />
But perhaps more than any other we all wondered "Why would a woman who has no idea who we are send her daughter to come live with us on the ocean?" Our parents discouraged us and here she is paying us to take her daughter away. She'd never even seen our boat. Philip told her we'd have to check with our other crew member and if we all agreed we'd let her know a price. When we asked Chris what he thought his response was "Is she cool?" We said probably not based on her Facebook profile. Still we agreed this was too interesting, if she would pay us $2000 plus expenses for Aimee's share of food and gas we'd take her aboard.<br />
<br />
The next day when Philip was going to Georgetown I asked him to pick up a few bottles of champagne for Anna's birthday which was in a couple weeks. I wasn't sure if I'd find champagne in Long Island and preferred to buy them in Georgetown and keep them a secret. When Philip returned he told me he ran into Lana and Dude at the liquor store and that they bought us a bottle of vodka and a couple bottles of champagne for Anna's birthday. I thought that this was strange but shrugged as Philip hid the bottles he'd brought back. After lunch Dude swam to our boat pulling Lana in an inner tube. They were at Chat N Chill and wanted us to join them. We asked if they wanted to come aboard thinking Lana would want to see the boat her daughter was going to live on. They declined but invited us to Chat N Chill. None of us wanted to but we needed to tell Lana our terms.<br />
<br />
At the beach at Chat N Chill Lana agreed to pay, she'd transfer the money directly into our account when she got back to the States. At least that is what she said at the time and we had no reason to doubt it. Sitting with feet in the water she opened a bottle of champagne and said Happy Birthday to Anna. I bought these for you. Anna clinked her plastic glass, confused as to why this lady was celebrating since her birthday wasn't for another two weeks and how this lady even knew she had one coming. "I saw Philip buying champagne for your birthday and I wanted to buy champagne for your birthday too." I sat in a chair behind the two of them with my mouth open at what she'd just done and used all of my effort not to drown her as she ruined the surprise.<br />
<br />
While her and Philip made a few phone calls to convince Aimee I was stuck talking with Dude.<br />
"I can't believe you swam all the way across the harbor, that's a long swim." I said trying to be nice.<br />
"Naaa dude, I'm an Ironman, I do tri-s and that is nothin."<br />
I knew he was a huge liar, the shape he was in, there was no way, he couldn't do a Pillowman.<br />
"<i>Really,</i> you do?" I said staring at his ridiculous belly and oval shaped thighs.<br />
"Dude. Yeah, I'm into it big time, big time bro" <br />
Fine, I thought, maybe he fancies himself a better liar than me.<br />
"I'm an astronaut." I said without blinking<br />
"Dude, no way."<br />
"Yeah. Ever heard of the Hubble Telescope? I designed it." Clearly this was impossible as I was nine when it was launched into space.<br />
"Whoa bro! It's high five time." to which we high fived.<br />
And then we sat there our feet in the water exchanging stories, none of which were based on a true story.<br />
<br />
At first Aimee thought we were some kind of sailing missionaries. Her mom had tricked her once before into going to Costa Rica to what turned out to be a bible camp. "Are you guys like studying sea turtles or something?" she asked Philip<br />
"No. What? Sea Turtles? No. We just sail around, get drunk and meet people." <br />
Aimee reluctantly agreed to come. She was going to meet us in Long Island, Bahamas, our next stop. First she had to get a passport. Lana assured us, "My daughter is a huge pain in the ass. If you guys get sick of her just drop her off on an island somewhere. And if you need her to bring anything for the boat let me know, I'll send it with her."<br />
<br />
Even the idea of Aimee brought the four of us together as a group. We couldn't say no to $2000 just to drag some little rich brat around the islands for a month. And we agreed that if she sucked we'd just get rid of her. Our cruiser friend Gary aboard S/V Cool Change, our friends Dennis and Diane on S/V Rendezvous and Alvin owner of The Hamburger Beach Bar were all excited about the new crew member. They'd met Dude and Lana and couldn't believe the deal she'd made and couldn't wait to hear about the drama that would ensue. At the large round table at Alvin's we talked about tricks we could play on her like telling her we didn't have sails that we had to paddle our boat to Dominican Republic. Gary suggested the first thing we do is call her the wrong name, "How about Sonia?" We agreed, from then on Aimee Lishamer was Sonia.Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-61425282307619393212010-09-30T16:14:00.002-04:002010-09-30T16:52:52.399-04:00The Man With The BeardThe best way to find drugs is to grow a beard. As a result of a bet with Chris and Philip my face looks and feels like an overgrown vagina but I get to claim the title of champion. Our wager was not based on thickness or length, but who could tolerate having one the longest. Chris and Philip shaved but for now, I'm kind of attached to it or rather, it is attached to me. And so when those individuals who sell drugs see someone such as myself with a beard they immediately assume this guy needs to get high. Here in Aruba, a man that hangs out by the cruise ships puts his hand to his lips and asks me if I smoke He asks me three times a week as I run by him, each time as if he's never seen me before. I'm running, sweating and trying to stay conscious in the heat and this man thinks what I'd really like at the moment is some marijuana. At the end of my run as I cool down, walking along the dock towards our dinghy a fisherman says, "Yo, if you ever want to come smoke, just see me, I can get you whatever you need." I could use some water. The Dominican men would grab their face, nod, smile and say Chevo which means goat. Then they'd offer me prostitutes and cocaine. "You look like you do cocaine. Allow me to get you some." said a man in Samana as an introduction. <br />
<br />
I get stared at by men and women. Children grab their parents hand tight as they look up at me as I pass. In the middle of the night they wake up screaming for mom. And when she runs in to see what is wrong the child looks at her terrified, "It's the man with the beard, he was in my nightmare." And the mom holds the child, pats it on the back, "Don't worry it's just a dream, he can't get you, it was just a dream." The only way I could be scarier is if I was Muslim or worse, black.<br />
<br />
Enjoying coffee and a cigarette at a cafe with my puppy an incident occurred which caused whispers among the other patrons. The curious puppy and the fragile coffee cup met resulting in the dog being doused with semi-hot coffee. She wailed and screamed as if the end was near more scared than actually burned. At the same moment, reacting like she'd trained for moments like this, an overly protective waitress rushed up and doused her a second time with cold water. I laughed while the puppy now sat stunned at the sudden hot and then cold sensations. While the waitress fretted over the dog I looked around at the other tables all watching the scene, like an actor looking out into the audience. A few moments later I heard someone whisper "Did you see what the man with the beard did to that puppy? He dumped hot coffee on her head."Not just that man with the puppy. The man with the beard, as if the beard makes me inherently more evil. <br />
<br />
But it's okay because when I hear them whisper "The man with the beard." it reminds me of when I first met Anna and had not a beard but a bird. I was babysitting my friend Josh's cockatoo, CJ, while he was away for a few months. Cockatoos are highly social birds when Josh learned this he started taking CJ to bars. In order to keep the bird comfortable I decided to do the same. The problem was that most bars aren't cockatoo friendly, something about the shitting and feathers in people's drinks. I was kicked out of a couple and tolerated at the rest. It was only at Chez Pierre, where Anna worked, that he was permitted to crawl up the bar, climb on Anna's arm as she shook a martini and dance up and down in rhythm with the shaker, raising the feathers on his head and let out a loud CAAAAAAA. Anna just laughed. A talented bird, CJ's other favorite activity was taking the cocktail straws from the bar, one at a time in his mouth and tossing them on to the floor. One day speaking with her manager she said, "I think I like someone."<br />
"Who?"<br />
"The man with the bird." she said.<br />
<br />
And since Anna and I have been watching the History Channel series <i>"The Most Evil Men in History" </i>the whisper about me dumping coffee on the puppies head also makes me feel like maybe I'm on or should be on that list. Maybe we just haven't gotten to that episode. And I think about the men who are on the list and their facial hair, men like Atilla the Hun and Ivan the Terrible and I wonder if they got offered drugs when they went for a jog. If Ivan really was that terrible or did he just seem to be, like a man with a beard who appears to have dumped coffee on a puppies head.Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-36843088744870060832010-09-29T18:10:00.001-04:002010-09-29T18:13:16.626-04:00120 Nights in Jail: Night 3<i>The following post as well as any others under the 120 Days title are from my experiences between November, 2008 and February 2009 at the Wakulla County Jail. </i><o:p></o:p> <br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">At 5:00 the lights came on, startled I sat up quickly. I looked around and remembered where I was. The inmate in charge of serving breakfast banged on the glass three times and yelled something unintelligible. Later I realized he said, "chow time." I noticed the blanket that was covering my lower half, it appeared to be a reddish brown. It was tattered near the ends with a few holes throughout. I held a piece of it close to my eye to determine what color it was. When closely examined I could see it was actually a combination of green, blue, brown, red, orange, yellow, black and grey like those tightly woven carpets they install in schools and public buildings. I threw the blanket off and went to stand in line to get breakfast.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">As happened the day before </span><span style="font-size: small;">an inmate in an all white jumpsuit slid a tray and a small Styrofoam cup of water through a slot in the door to each inmate. The trusties handed us our food while a guard stoodby with a clipboard making note of who received their meal. Again, I was asked my number which I still I didn’t know what number the guard was referring to. This time the skinny black kid who was handing out the trays decided he didn't have time for my ignorance and told the guard “twenty five, twenty five.” The guard looked at his clipboard and said, “no.”A second time I tried to explain I don’t know my number but the guard would look down as if he didn't hear me and then moved on to the next person never acknowledging or letting me know the actual number I was supposed to say. The black kid handed me my food and water. This guessing game repeated itself at every meal for the rest of my time in Wakulla. After about a week I stopped trying to explain and just guessed different numbers for every meal. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Breakfast was two pieces of white bread pretending to be French toast along with a ketchup packet of syrup along with grey oatmeal all served cold to go with the climate of the jail. After carb-loading most inmates went back to bed as did I. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">At 5:30 I again watched work release leave for the day, knowing I was supposed to be with them but unable to do anything about it I just watched jealously as they left. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Around 10:00 the intercom said, "BRANARD! BRANARD! Get dressed." I was so excited I leapt off the bed slipped on the orange flip flops I was assigned and ran to the door. After a couple minutes a man who became synonymous with freedom, Lt. Hoppi Strickland opened the door to the pod. He looked down at his a manila file folder and up at me and said, "Brainard?" I nodded. "Come with me Brainard." </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Lt. Hoppi Strickland, every bit the good ol’boy you’d expect with a name like Hoppi Strickland, was an old man, probably in his early sixties, bald with stiff movement and poor posture. As I followed him through the corridors of the jail I noticed the bunched skin on the back of neck where it met the collar on his green sheriff uniform. It looked doughy and I could smell his Old Spice. When my dad used to wear Old Spice I never cared for it but it became a smell I loved. If you were smelling Old Spice you were about to be free, at least for the day. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Following him through the jail would soon become the best part of everyday. Me and the ten or so other work release guys would walk as he led us to freedom. I pretended we were POWs and we were his guys and he was our captain, he'd swiped one of the enemy uniforms and was now leading us out of the enemy prison. Hoppi, as everyone called him, looked like the older cousin of </span><span id="search" style="font-size: small; visibility: visible;"><i><i>R. Lee Ermey</i></i><i>, </i></span><span style="font-size: small;">the drill sergeant from Full Metal Jacket. He was strict but nice at the same time. With a crotchety grumpy tone he'd zing an inmate and then laugh at his own joke. He was the only person in the facility that seemed to care about the inmates, just not too much where it'd be obvious to other guards. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> For me and the others on work release he was the most powerful person in the jail even though he wasn’t the administrator. He was our freedom and everybody liked him. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Hoppi led me to the lobby of the jail and held the door for me to walk out into the only parking lot i ever considered beautiful. When I stepped through the door, the sun on my skin felt as if I'd just left a toxic cocoon. The warmth of the day reminded me what it was like not to be cold. It felt as if it was the first time in about 40 hours, my body was awake. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Hoppi took me to his office which was actually just a shed outside the jail across the parking lot. Opening the door to his make shift office you’d expect to see lawn mowers but instead it’s filled with filing cabinets, a large wooden desk, so large it's surprising when you open the door. It looks as if the shed was built around the desk because it would never fit through the door. The desk was exactly the large wooden type you'd expect for a sheriff and surrounded by framed photos of his Brahma Bull, Pete, who he referred to with tender affection as, “a good ol’boy.” On his desk were business cards for “Strickland’s Goats and Hog” with the sub-head “live or skinned, whole or parts.” I imagined him skinning a hog. It was a good fit for him. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">He apologized for not being able to get me out yesterday and confirmed that my truck was around the corner at the health department and told me I needed to return by 6:30. He took me to the shed next door to change. My clothes and keys were in a blue bin waiting for me. As quickly as humanly possible I removed my clothes, pulled my Noles shirt over my head, put my legs in my jeans and ran out of the shed before someone changed their mind. I imagined a sniper taking aim and realized running from a jail was not a good idea. When I started my truck it idled a little higher for a minute, as if to say, "Glad to see you Jeff." I lit the best cigarette in the world and took off towards Tallahassee. At a stoplight I exchanged glances with a middle aged lady in the car next to me. She smiled and it occurred to me she had no idea I was currently an inmate. On the way to Tallahassee the whole world seemed amazing. I stopped at the first gas station I came to for a coffee. As I handed the clerk my debit card I could see her staring at my arm. On my wrist was the yellow band that read Wakulla County Jail. I smiled weakly at her and she smiled back in discomfort. I wondered if she'd report an escapee purchasing coffee.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Back on the road I said hello to the birds, telephone poles and pine trees. I could stop at Circle K if I wanted. Or McDonalds or Publix or take a tour of the Old Capital. Until 6:30 I could do whatever I wanted. Instead of any of those things I went to my office to see my wife and friends. I called my mother and she instructed me that this was to be our routine. I was to call her every morning as soon as I got in my truck so she knew I was okay. She also informed me that Barack Obama had won the election. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Allison met me at my office with our dog Benson and we hugged the kind of hug a soldier receives when they return from war. Her eyes were puffy, she looked tired and sad. Benson hyper at seeing me licked my face as if he understood the situation. She brought me sandwiches and cottage cheese and I told her about the carb-loaded breakfast, Lt. Kelly, the pod and my tattered blanket. I tried to explain things as if they were funny which only had the effect of making her cry. I told her about the zebra stripes thinking that the image would make her laugh but it only made things worse. At the time I didn't appreciate the stress she'd endured in the past forty hours. And while I was scared and uncomfortable in jail at least I knew what I was facing. She did not and her imagination was likely worse than my reality. Ironically, the more sad she became the more positive I became. She stayed for a while. At my desk I read the news to catch up on the election. Eventually she left to go buy me socks, boxers and plain white t-shirts.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Four or five times that day I repeated my stories from the past two days to my bosses, friends and family. Repeating them gave me a small amount of confidence in my situation, perhaps understanding it better, not being there and laughing at the ironies and silliness of the whole situation. My afternoon was spent teaching forty students at Florida State University how to be more creative. Part of my job involved teaching an advertising class called Creative Strategy. This semester class was Wednesday from 3:30-6:00. I'd have to excuse myself at 5:30 to leave to head back to Wakulla. The duality of my life left me slightly amused. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">At 5:30 I left to return to Hotel Wakulla. On the way I listened to Johnny Cash and sang </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">"<i>I Got Stripes.......Stripes Around My Shoulders</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i> I Got Chains.......Chains Around My Feet" </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I parked at the health department, called Allison to tell her goodnight and that I'd gotten to the jail in time. I wandered back to the shed where I'd changed that morning. A few other guys on work release were there waiting. We sat and smoked cigarettes on a picnic table while they talked. At exactly 6:30 a guard came out of the jail and let us into the shed. His name was Lt. Strickland, he was old, probably in his seventies. </span><span style="font-size: small;">He was tall, grouchy, wore dentures and had an extra amount of skin beneath his chin that flapped when he spoke. The ten other men and I placed our real world clothes in a blue bin with our name and photo on it and changed back into criminals. The new socks felt especially soft on my feet. Once everyone changed and the Lt. Strickland led us around and into the jail through the back. He ordered everyone to wait up against a wall while he went into a control room. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Standing across from the one way glass I could see my reflection. I suddenly felt that this was all wrong. I thought about being a kid, being a little playful, a little smartass but never bad. About highschool and being disruptive but never a serious troublemaker. I always made honor roll, did they know this? Honor roll kids aren't supposed to be in jail. I was a drama nerd not some punk that smoked in the parking lot. Drama nerds don't go to jail. I squinted at my reflection and thought about college about the scholarships I'd received about graduating with honors. Sure I partied but everything I did illegal was silly, nothing seriously criminal. And here I was, my reflection telling me I was wrong. I thought about buying real estate and stocks about working as a consultant and teacher. Consultants aren't supposed to go to jail. I stood there looking at my reflection slightly shaking my head wondering how I'd gotten here, not realizing everything I knew about myself was beginning to change. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Lt. Strickland returned wearing rubber gloves with a a large black guard named Porter also wearing gloves. Porter looked like Fat Albert except he serious, almost comically mad. I wondered if he was a bad dancer and because of his size I assumed he was probably bad at sports. Even though it is unfair it made me feel better to pretend that his anger was a result at failing at two things society expects black men to succeed at. I imagined him crying in his pillow after being laughed off a basketball court. This allowed me to believe he was just misunderstood and not purely evil. Porter had huge bulging green eyes that delighted in what was to follow. They ordered us from the wall to a small eight by eight holding cell and instructed us not to use the toilet. Waiting in the holding cell I can see a certain stiffness in a few inmates. Lt. Strickland asks for the first two and Porter says I'll take the next two. Four inmates leaves the cell. The remaining inmates joke about how Lt. Porter is tough and loves to get a piece of ass every night, our ass. A tough looking inmate who reminds me of my uncle Steve except with a white patch of hair on his otherwise brown head says, “if you don’t like it don’t go to jail.”</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Meanwhile I had no idea what they were talking about or what was about to happen. Then Porter returned and said, "next two." Eager to end my anticipation I followed him into a small janitorial closet. In the closet I was surprised to find another equally large but much less menacing black guard wearing gloves. He nodded at me. Which I thought strange because guards don't normally show any signs of acknowledging that you are alive. I nodded back and stood there. He nodded at me again. I was beginning to wonder if this was some sort of code until the other inmate started undressing and I realized what his nods meant. The nod meant "take your clothes off." As I began undressing the guard extended his hand and asked for my clothes. He turned them inside out and felt the seems for anything that could have been hidden. I was instructed to remove my socks and my underwear. I remove my underwear, now standing completely naked when the large guard with the kind eyes says,</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Open the pouch."</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Excuse me?"</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">"The pouch, I need to see in the pouch?"</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">"The pouch?" I say, very naked equally confused. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">"On your underwear man, where your dick goes, your pouch."said the other inmate frustrated with my naivete.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Oh. right. okay, the pouch, oh." I said trembling naked trying to separate fabric from fabric. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Then he says, “cough.” I thought this meant he was going to check my testicles like a physical, which I thought a nice and a surprising service for a jail to offer. Standing upright I covered my mouth and went “acch.” Porter and the other guard laughed along with the other inmate who said, “no, he doesn’t want to check your nuts, turn around, bend over, spread your cheeks and cough.” Considering this for a second I stood there blinking, like when you call a dog and he just looks at you, I looked at the guards for assurance this is what they wanted. I followed the instructions, bent over, my head near the ground with my hands reaching back to spread my cheeks I went "acch" and shouted, "is this good? Is this what you wanted?" The guard said, "yeah that's it, you can stop now" approving that my asshole was in acceptable condition. He handed me my clothes back. I quickly redressed and asked his name. “Sgt. Thomas,” he said. I told him I’d never done that without knowing a person’s name but complimented him on doing a good job. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">After the exam the door was opened and we were told to stand against the wall while the remaining inmates from work release could be checked. We were led back to the pod where I saw a fat old man showering. Men were playing cards as they greeted some of the guys from our group. I went back to my bed and pretended to sleep. It was 7:00. The room was loud with laughter and playful yelling. I wondered how anyone could laugh in jail. I thought about getting out the next morning at 5:30. I calculated that I only had 10.5 hours. I was still awake when the lights went off at 12:00.</span></div>Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-46857971414154907222010-09-27T18:34:00.000-04:002010-09-27T18:34:26.386-04:00"How are you going to eat?"When we told people we were going to live aboard Desdemona and sail around The Bahamas, The Caribbean and wherever else a common question we were asked was, "Well when you go to these places what are you going to eat?" The question implying that outside of America food didn't exist. And while we never found that to be the case, certain aspects of acquiring a good meal were not as we expected. Fishing and spearfishing played a large role in how we planned to feed ourselves. When we went to the dive shop in Ft. Lauderdale to purchase our Hawaiian sling and our pole spears the woman showed us a video of serious spearfishermen. This was going to be easy, I thought, we'll jump in the water, shoot a couple of fish and dinner is served. A fine theory but what I hadn't considered was the water. Everything about the many beautiful Bahama shades of blue says, "I'm tropical and warm" and yet the water temperature read out on our instruments disagreed, "bullshit you're tropical" reading somewhere between 60-70 degrees farenheit while we were in the Northern Bahamas in February, March and April. No fish I could imagine was worth what for me, a Floridian, was the equivalent to joining the Polar Bear club. <br />
<br />
It was in Hopetown towards the end of April when the water reached a still unacceptable but-fuck-it-I'm-sick-of-waiting 72 degrees. Lobster season had closed the day before but we could probably get away with one or two and claim stupid American tourist defense if we got caught. There was a close reef only thirty feet off the beach in front of the Hopetown Harbour Lodge, a small quiet boutique hotel on Elbow Cay. We were all excited, we loaded all of our gear, fins, masks, slings, spears in the dinghy and headed across the harbor to shore.<br />
"Are you ready to harvest the bounty of the sea?" I asked Philip<br />
"YEAH! The bounty of the sea!!" Philip echoed<br />
"Do you think it's a good idea to carry these spears through the hotel?" said Anna<br />
"Of course! How else are we going to catch dinner? I said. "Besides I don't think they'll even notice. And if they did what could they do about? It isn't illegal to spearfish." <br />
<br />
To get to the beach we had to walk up the hotel's long stairway entrance, through the hotel lobby, across the grounds, through the pool area, then through the middle of the beach restaurant. What Anna was trying to tell me was that if we only attempted to take the benevolent looking green and blue masks and snorkels we might have made it through this minefield without being noticed by hotel staff. Her implication was we'd look like we didn't belong, that somehow the four, six foot aluminum spears each of us carried over our shoulder that drew the notice of the entire hotel as we made our way to the beach looking like a small band of Maori tribesmen made us look out of place. The four of us just walked across the hotel as if it was normal for us to be carrying a giant spear. As we walked I thought "Why wouldn't we be carrying a giant spear?" I stared back at people thinking "Where is your spear? Do my clothes not match or is it the giant spear you're staring at?"<br />
<br />
When we got to the beach we stuck our spears upright in the sand and threw our gear down. I saw a mothers order her children out of the water. They looked like weak swimmers and it made me think that if we didn't find any fish what other prey we could go after. Before we could get our masks adjusted to our face we were approached by a man who looked way to serious for his hawaiin shirt. The shirt apparently the hotels uniform, he introduced himself as the manager. He was pale for living in the Bahamas and rather paunch with a moustache. I figured he was coming to wish us the best of luck in our hunt.<br />
"Are those your spears?" he said and looked at them shaking his head in disapproval<br />
"It appears they are with us" I said.<br />
"I don't mind if you use our beach. All beaches in the Bahamas are public." he said<br />
"Ok great!" said Philip<br />
"But I do regret to inform you that you cannot spearfish at this beach."<br />
"Well I regret to inform you that you have mustard on your face." said Philip<br />
The man started to feel around his lips in his moustache. "That can't be I have eaten anything today."<br />
Anna, Chris and I started laughing at the unexpected change of direction the conversation just took. I leaned in and squinted to get a look at the man's mustard face. The man continued to paw at his face and check his hand.<br />
"Up a little to the left." said Philip "No over. Yeah there it's covered in mustard.<br />
The man rubbed but the patch of yellow remained in his moustache.<br />
"I think that must be just his moustache." said Anna<br />
"It looks like you have mustard in your mustache but you don't. I guess I just thought it looked weird." said Philip. <br />
Mr. Mustard Face wiped at his face a little more, his face now red, he reminded us not to use our spears, turned and left. We snorkeled sans spears. Entrees swam by us, a large lobster taunted me. <br />
<br />
As we were about to leave Chris went to use the bathroom off of the lobby. As we were waiting for him Philip and I noticed a red basket of undisturbed chicken nuggets resting on a bench in the lobby.<br />
My hands full of snorkel gear I whispered for Philip to take it. Philip with his backpack and sunglasses on looked back and forth moving just his neck. He spun hiding the nuggets, holding them at waste level we giggled our way down the stairs. Philip and I waited for Chris on the street while Anna walked ahead wanting no part in it. Chris met us downstairs and said,<br />
"Hey guys, I just saw Mr. Mustard Face when I left the bathroom. He was looking around in the lobby, apparently he'd left his lunch, a basket of chicken nuggets lying around."<br />
We all laughed when we realized the nuggets were previously owned by Mr. Mustard Face. <br />
"Who needs the bounty of the sea when you have nuggets." said Philip<br />
Philip held out the basket to Chris and we walked towards the dinghy dipping our nuggets in what else, mustard.Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-76173801572690698752010-09-24T14:26:00.003-04:002010-09-24T14:38:05.225-04:00120 Nights in Jail: Night 2<i>The following post as well as any others under the 120 Days title are from my experiences between November, 2008 and February 2009 at the Wakulla County Jail. </i><o:p></o:p> <br />
<br />
After falling asleep sometime after midnight my first night I awoke startled by a voice over an intercom. I couldn't make out what it said, it had the quality of most drive-thru windows and from what I could tell was coming from the front of the pod. All the lights were off except for one row of overhead flourescents. The room was a symphony of snores, some loud and nasal, others deep and slow. I scanned the room, everyone was sleeping except two men who'd just crawled out of bed. Eyes fixed, I watched them from my bunk as they pulled on work boots. They went to the door, it opened and they left. Unsure of the time I was concerned. Was this work release? Should I have left with them? When I made my over to the clock on the wall it read 3:00. I did my best to climb back into bed without waking my bunkmate. The second time I awoke all the lights had just come on. It was 5:00. They were preparing to serve breakfast. I could see inmates in white jumpsuits through the plexiglass with metal carts filled with food trays Most of my other roommates, crawled out of bed and formed a line by the door. Some stayed in bed and covered their head to block out the light. Everyone was wearing plain white t-shirts which I thought made them look like a team. Others woke up and began brushing their teeth. I chose to brush my teeth as I knew I'd be leaving shortly and could grab breakfast on the way to the office. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
After brushing I went back to my bunk and sat down. I heard the voice come over the intercom again at 5:30, it’s Wizard of Oz-esque, you're not sure where it's coming from, it's loud but since I'm in Wakulla instead of booming and grand it was twangy and incomprehensible. It sounded like the person on the other end didn't understand what they were speaking into was a microphone connected to a speaker, as if they believed they had to actually project their voice through cinder block walls. When I asked another inmate what they had just said he said, "work release." </div><div class="MsoNormal">"Do I just leave?"</div><div class="MsoNormal">"No, they come get you, they'll call you." </div><div class="MsoNormal">I was concerned that since everyone else in work release had a ride picking them up it would be clear when they needed to leave but that Lt. Strickland, perhaps forgetful in his old age, wouldn't be aware that I was now a resident here and that no one would be picking me up because of our secret arrangement. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At 6:00 the intercom came to life again and I moved from my bed to the front of the room. More inmates left. Perhaps if whoever was behind the one way glass in the control room saw me sitting here waiting to leave they would realize and quickly take corrective action. Of course it did not occur to me at the time that jail isn't really focused on customer service and further, I was just sitting there like someone who wants to get out of jail. Everyone wants to get out of jail. <br />
<br />
Unsure of what to do next I watched the clock and waited. After my first night, expecting to be released at 5:30 am for work release the anticipation of coffee, a cigarette and seeing my wife (now ex-wife) drilled holes in my mind. At 8:30 the intercom came to life and two names were called. Two elderly black men lined up at the door. I lined up with them, waving to get the attention of the people in the control room. The intercom came to life, "ahhhhaaa I thought, I'm getting somewhere" </div><div class="MsoNormal">"Whaddya need" blared the voice</div><div class="MsoNormal">"To go to work, I'm supposed to be in work release."</div><div class="MsoNormal">"Doorspen." said the voice.</div><div class="MsoNormal">"Excuse me?" I replied</div><div class="MsoNormal">"Doorspen." it repeated.</div><div class="MsoNormal">"Pardon me, I can't quite understand what you're saying."</div><div class="MsoNormal">"The door is open." said the voice with irritation.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Though I'm not a master of communication, the implication of this statement meant "it's okay to go ahead and leave." I followed two other work release inmates out of the pod and down the hall. They appeared to know what they were doing and because in jail no one tells you anything, there is no orientation, you simply follow what appears to be right. They walked into a small janitorial closet as a guard was passing, I stopped him and said, “I’m on work release, where do I go?” He directed me to follow him down another hallway, opened the door electronically and let me into an adjoining hallway. He turned away and left. Now I was alone, in a hallway somewhere within a jail and because it is a jail and not a movie theater the exits are not quite clearly marked. After wandering a maze of adjoining hallways I spotted a green exit sign. I imagined my image from the video camera appearing on a black and white screen somewhere, what I must look like, a prisoner in stripes making his way through the jail. Was anyone watching? <br />
<br />
The exit I discovered was the back entrance of the front lobby, I saw the front door to the jail, the one I used the night before when I turned myself in. It was as if I could walk out and and undo everything, like I was never here. Can this be it? Do I just walk out? I paced back and forth unsure what to do. Eventually I made my way back to the door the guard had opened for me and found the guard that let me into the hallway. I asked if he could help me find where I was supposed to go, briefly explaining my situation. When you’re talking to a guard you have a half of a sentence worth of their attention, it’s as if they’re not fully listening so you have to be quick before you lose them. Before I could finish he was already on his radio and asked me to follow him. I could tell we were walking back down the rabbit hole towards the inerds of the jail. We arrived at a control room outside of which stood three more guards, one of whom would be the Queen of Hearts herself, the scariest person I'd ever encounter and a constant source of fear and nightmares.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She was an old female guard with a jacket and her grayish brown hair pinned in a bun. Incorrectly, I assumed the woman would be the kindest of the bunch and so I directed my plea towards her. She’d have to be sympathetic I thought, “she’s probably a mom of a kid just like me.” Her face was white like and looked like bread dough. She looked as if she’d absorbed the colors of the jail after the many years of being there. Her eyes hung low in her head, her cheeks sagged creating jowls that began to shake. The woman’s face squinched like someone poured acid on her and suddenly she screamed “What the fuck do you think you’re doing with that goddamn shirt?” Her squint eyes were fire, I was about to be eaten by a lion. “You’re not supposed to have that if you don’t give it to me in three seconds you’re finished.” “Excuse me, I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand,” I said. I was wearing a yellow FSU shirt beneath my zebra stripes. The guard who booked me told me it was okay and not to worry but now I was worried. “Take it off,” she barked. Nervously I took off my zebra shirt and the FSU shirt below. Standing in the hallway shirtless, “You’re trying to escape,” she said as she snatched the shirt from by hand. “No ma’m I’m on work relea-” “Shut up” she ordered, she directed the guard to return me to my pod and said” if you so much as budge from your bunk you’re never getting out of here.” The guard, Nichols, who had let me into the hallway earlier and then back to the control room now escorted me back to the pod his hand on my arm as if now I was suddenly a threat to escape. On the way back he said, “You shouldn't have left if you weren't called. Now you got in trouble.” I told him about what The Voice on the intercom said. "That don't mean you can leave, just means the doors open."<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Returning to the pod the other inmates that watched me watching the clock all morning gathered around me. One asked, “What happened, thought you were going to work.” I told them I got in trouble by some kind of demon inhabiting a woman's body. They all nodded in unison and said, “That’s Lt. Kelly.” As if nothing else needed to be explained. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
The pod had four phones on the far wall. Calls can only be made collect which cell phones do not allow. Communication with family now impossible, the only landline I knew was my office. I picked up the receiver and the phone was dead. An inmate yelled, "phones don't turn on until 10:00." I climbed into bed, unsure what to do. I knew I needed to get to work. Most of all I needed to call my wife because I knew she'd be worried. At this point I encountered a part of captivity that perhaps today is more impactful than in the past. In a world where communication is as easy as a text message, where all the information you could ever need is obtainable wherever you are the inability to communicate, to receive the information you need is painful. I could not find out why I was not being released and I could not tell anyone about it. Why wasn't I being released? Why wouldn't any of the guards talk to me? How long would this last a day? A week? A month? What I didn't realize at that time was that all those periods of time, a day, a week, a month were irrelevant in jail. When you're captive, time does not function the way it does when you're free. A day was not just twenty four hours, a week not just seven days. New measurements of time were needed, measurements that fluctuated depending on the situation at the moment. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At 10:00 I called my office. Scott answered the robot that told him an inmate from the Wakulla County Jail was calling and he accepted the charges. I told Scott what had happened. He was going to call Allison, my wife, let her know what happened and have her call Alex, my attorney. Since no one could call me back I told him I'd call back in an hour. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At 11:00 Allison was at my office so I was able to talk to her, a small bit of relief. I could tell she was scared but trying to do her best she was waiting to hear back from Alex. I told her I was fine but I'm sure my voice said otherwise. </div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I tried to ask another guard about my work release but he couldn't hear my frequency. <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">The only ones willing to provide information are unreliable sources, the criminals. </span> One of the other inmates over heard my conversation and told me it usually took a month or two for your work release application to go through. I did not have a month or two, I needed to leave now. Lunch was served, two green cold hot dogs, four pieces of white bread, a packet of mustard and something resembling coleslaw but completely orange with kool-aid to wash it down.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At 12:00 Allison had spoken with Alex and he told her to give him an hour. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At 1:00 Allison said, Alex spoke to the Sheriffs office and discovered the mix up was due to an incomplete work release application and they would get back to him with what information was needed. The Sheriff's office was in the same building where I was located and yet it took a collect call, to a wife, to an attorney, back to where the collect call was coming from for information to be given and received.<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At 2:00 Allison hadn't heard from Alex.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At 3:00 Allison said, Alex said, The Sheriff's office said the missing information was a signature by a particular jail administrator that was not in the office today as it was election day and many senior jail administrators were out of the office campaigning for Sheriff Harvey. It could not be signed until tomorrow. Nothing could be done. Allison apologized even though it wasn't her fault. <br />
<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Once I realized I wasn't going anywhere today and possibly not tomorrow it actually helped how I felt. I could stop anticipating, stop trying to figure out how to get out. I talked to a few inmates even though I had no interest in it. I preferred to lay in bed and make up stories in my head about what each of the other inmates had done like pretending one frail-skinny albino man was an arsonist who burnt down twenty tanning salons. <br />
<br />
At 5:30 the meal carts came to serve dinner. Other inmates in white jump suits slid one tray through the door at the time. Everyone stood in line against the wall waiting to be served. When it was my turn a guard who stoodwith a clipboard next to the inmate serving trays asked for my number. Unsure what this I meant I said I did not know my number. He said not to worry about it and I received my tray. The tray contained a chicken drumstick, grey instant mashed potatos, some kind of unidentifiable bean and a piece of yellow cake. I ate the drumstick and gave away the rest. Even though my body hurt from laying down I returned to my bunk within five minutes of receiving my tray.<br />
<br />
<br />
At 6:45 everyone who'd left on work release, about fifteen guys returned to the pod. They were in rowdy and in good spirits compared to everyone else. Men played cards at the table, others watched TV while others conspired on bunks.Since it was election day I assumed they would turn on one of the news channels to see who our next president would be. I thought it might be especially meaningful to the three black inmates who were watching TV. They skipped right passed the election coverage and turned on football. <br />
<br />
Everyone seemed so comfortable, like they were kind of happy or even if they weren't happy they all seemed okay. Like when you first get a puppy and the first few days it just kind of sits in the corner unsure of it's new environment. I just stayed in bed and tried to avoid thinking of my wife lying in our bed all alone. To avoid thinking about how I disappointed my parents. I did this by trying to remember things I'd forgotten. In Kindergarten, making a Christmas ornament in the shape of a tree with my picture in it. The "field day" themed birthday I had. I tried to remember as many kids in each class from Kindgergarten through highschool. I tried to remember regular ordinary days, not special occasions, like what did you do on Tuesday? What about the previous Tuesday? Tuesday two weeks ago? It was uncomfortably cold without a shirt under my zebra strips. I had no socks either and the thin blanket was only long enough to keep my feet tucked in or my arms but not both. I tucked my feet in, curled up and at some point I fell asleep. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div>Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-48636702047420609432010-09-23T14:19:00.001-04:002010-09-23T14:19:35.526-04:00The Reason You're a StrangerOccasionally there is a good reason behind certain traditions, even if it's not visible on the surface. But as a contrarian and as an idiot, it seems that I learn only from experience. Whenever someone warns me, cautions me, I just don't listen. Never have. Don't play with that knife you'll cut yourself. "We'll see about that." I'd think and ten minutes later be running for the first aid kit. Like all American children I learned to be ware of strangers. This is great for keeping children safe but not great for making friends. Perhaps the reason people claim they have difficulty making new friends and meeting new people is rooted in the word "strangers." It sounds bad. It automatically assume strangeness. When we first met, Anna and I decided we'd no longer use the word to reference people we didn't know, we'd simply refer to them as "unknowns."It seems less bias and judgemental and since I'm always judgemental of people once I meet them, I thought I'd let them start off with a clean record. <br />
<br />
At anchorages, amongst one another, boaters quickly morph from strangers into the classic TV image of neighbors. They keep an eye on your boat, lend you tools and even leave fresh baked banana bread on your companionway. Invitations for boat drinks and dinner parties are the norm. <br />
<br />
Off the northern tip of Long Island, not the Long Island with trains, smog and New Yorkers but the Long Island with conch, clear blue water and Bahamians at the anchorage at Cape Santa Maria we had three boats as neighbors. We met them all at once at the hotel bar as they enjoyed happy hour and invited us to join them. One was a Catamaran named Sol' Surfin' with Gary and Celeste from California in their mid forties. Another was Rosenante, a monohull with George and Donna from Miami. The last, a trawler, occupied by two men named Jerry and one of the Jerry's wife. All of them had taken similar paths through the Bahamas, shared many anchorages together and clearly did not consider each other strangers. <br />
<br />
"I invited Rosenante and Sol Surfin' over for breakfast tomorrow." said Anna<br />
"Why?" I said, thinking mostly of having to do the dishes.<br />
"Was that bad? They seem nice." Anna offered.<br />
"Gary is really cool, he was telling me about his catamaran and he's a really nice guy you should talk to him." said Philip<br />
"The one with the long hair?" I asked<br />
"No, that's George, the other one, the one sitting next to me." replied Philip<br />
"Oh." <br />
"Everyone is going to bring something. I think I'm going to make the spinach quiche thing. Does that sound okay?" said Anna<br />
"Sure, yeah that's good." I said, not really meaning it.<br />
<br />
The next morning when George, Donna, Gary and Celeste arrived I deposited myself in the Captain's chair at the helm. I spoke mostly with George because he looked the most intriguing, probably in his mid forties, his natural bleach white wiry hair swept back into a ponytail and his face was decorated with a long pointy hipster style goatee. He spoke like a professor, someone sure of what he was talking about, almost as if speaking, the act of it, brought him satisfaction by curing the ignorance of everyone else with his voice. And it wasn't surprising when he told me he was a professor, some kind of biomolecular scientist, at The University Miami. So I let George talk at me for his benefit. Gary would always chime in to agree with everything George said. Gary and George liked to brag about things they'd seen or done, none of which were all that impressive to anyone but themselves but for their benefit I feigned amazement by raising my eyebrows and saying "oh really, hmmm." My level of interest in conversation with Gary was as low as Gary's sense of humor. He would ask questions to know information nobody would ever care about like, <br />
"What kind of threads do you have on your keel bolts?" <br />
"Jeff, do you know about our keel bolts." Philip would reiterate.<br />
"I have no idea." I'd say disinterested.<br />
"Don't feel bad, I don't know ours either." and then unexpectedly he was laughing. Since he had a catamaran he did not have a keel which I guess is why he thought this was richly amusing. Confused why he was laughing I fake laughed to make him comfortable. <br />
<br />
I noticed Celeste, Donna and Anna were talking about something having to do with sewing at which I curled my lip and squinted. Anna is amazing with "unknowns" she's witty and funny. She is wild, adventurous and creative in conversation. One of my greatest joys is to watch Anna make people uncomfortable by bringing up things that are typically taboo which is why I was annoyed to hear that they were talking about sewing.<br />
<br />
Before departing the group decided to go spearfishing later in the afternoon. This did not bother me as I knew being underwater would at least limit my irritation with our new neighbors and also I'd heard the reefs off Cape Santa Maria were excellent. <br />
<br />
The hunt yielded little, George shot a small triggerfish and a grouper and I shot a lobster. While I was still underwater plans were made for everyone to go over to Rosenante for dinner and drinks. <br />
"Hey Philip you want to share this lobster with me?"<br />
"Well I told Rosenante we'd take it bring it over when we come over for dinner."<br />
"You did what? Why? Why are we going over there?"<br />
"Jeff you're the one who usually likes to be social. Why do you dislike them so much?" said Anna<br />
"I don't know they just bother me."<br />
"Gary is really cool, did you talk to him?" asked Philip<br />
"Yes I did and no, no he is not cool, he laughs at his own jokes and he creeps me out."<br />
"You laugh at your own jokes." Anna chimed.<br />
<br />
That afternoon the three of us dinghied over to Rosenante. After the customary tour of the boat we settled into the cockpit. I sat as close as possible to the side of the boat the dinghy was tied up to, already envisioning a quick exit from this get together. Everyone was overdosing on drinks and George's delicious triggerfish ceviche and equally tasty, Celeste's conch fritters, that were more like conch nuggets due to the amount of conch in each one. Unfortunately the wonderful food was accompanied by conversation with Gary and George. Every five minutes I'd look at the dinghy imagining an escape. The dynamic between the two couples was unusual. I convinced myself they were swingers.<br />
<br />
Before sunset the Jerry's and the wife of Jerry arrived completely hammered. Jerry's wife and the Jerry sans wife had gone to the hotel for happy hour and had neglected to anchor their dinghy. The incoming tide took the dinghy out of the bay. Fortunately for the Jerrys, a sailboat in the next bay to the north noticed a drifting dinghy and recovered it and returned it to the wasted duo. When they arrived at Rosenante the wife of Jerry was taking joy in Jerry's mistake. Slurring, slapping her lap and talk-screaming the story of losing the dinghy, she was clearly trying to humiliate the Jerrys. She disliked boats, boating and the ocean. It was clear that this was a source of tension between her and her Jerry. She made it clear to everyone she was a "city girl" and cruising around islands not her idea of a good time which was a strange point to make in front of a group of people for whom it is. I hoped I could segue the conversation from losing a dinghy to my need to get in our dinghy and get the hell out of there. Before I could George stood up and said, "I will be getting high now, if any body would like to join me please come to my cabin, one at a time." Now I knew Philip would never leave. Everyone took turns going downstairs and smoking out of a socket with George. <br />
<br />
And then as the sun went down and the alcohol and THC took effect the evening went from annoying to just fucking weird. Gary got out his guitar and started playing. Donna passed out several drums, a wooden flute and a tambourine. I declined an instrument while everyone started to follow Gary's lead in the most appalling version of California Dreamin'.<br />
"All the leaves are brown and the sky is grey." sang Gary<br />
"and the sky is greeeeeeeeyyyyyyyy." harmonized George<br />
I looked at Anna, horrified at the scene, hoping she'd be a source of reality within this nightmare. Instead she had on a giant goofy grin following the beat on a small bongo drum. Looking around everyone was playing an instrument. Donna and Celeste were swaying with their eyes closed. Jerry's wife was standing up in the center of the cockpit, her hands above her head, swaying her hips and shaking her ass off beat to the music.I nudged Anna hard in the side. <br />
"What are you doing?" I said under my breath.<br />
'Drumming."<br />
"I know you're drumming. <i>Why </i>are you drumming? Don't you see what's going on? This is weird. They're going to try to indoctrinate us. They're going to make us like them. <br />
Anna giggled loud and kept drumming. She knew these people were off but where as I was annoyed by it she was amused. I felt I was kidnapped, held hostage by this cult of tools. I was concerned at what was happening to my girlfriend and my friend Philip, they were being brainwashed. I thought of my heroes, people like Bob Shacochis and I shuttered at what I was bearing witness to. I started to panic. My body began to tremble. <br />
<br />
"I gotta get out of here." I whispered.<br />
"Stop it. Here you want a drum. Is that why you're upset?" Anna teased.<br />
"No. No I don't want a drum. I don't want a flute or a fucking tambourine either. I want to leave before the orgy starts." <br />
Anna laughed and kept drumming. <br />
<br />
They took a break after a few other songs including a version of The Boxer in which Anna vocalized the "PSSSH!" sound of the cymbals. From the other side of the cockpit I over heard George, with intense seriousness, tell Philip that he was able to control other peoples mind. Philip, clearly impressed provoked George to continue. <br />
"It's really quite simple if I think something it is electrical impulses, positives and negatives and your mind also functions off of electricity. By focusing my energy I can control what you think." I squinted at George and thought "Well how come I still think you're a tool? Can you control that?"<br />
<br />
"Whoa, that's awesome. I really did not know that was possible." said Philip<br />
And then from my other side Gary says, "Did you know that the whole universe is corn? Everything, everything is corn." George nodded in agreement as if this was an obvious thing to say like, "Tomorrow is Sunday or water is wet." I gave Anna a look, as if to say, "Now do you see what I mean?"<br />
"What do you mean the whole universe is made of corn?" Philip said.<br />
"I like corn." Anna added clearly taking pleasure in my disdain for these people.<br />
<br />
"I do to" said Gary, "In fact I love corn, it's the essence of everything." He began large sweeping movements with his hands as if he was approaching a meditative state. "Me and you even, we eat cows, cows eat corn thus we are corn. I am corn, I just am. I'm corn." <br />
"I hate corn." I said<br />
"Why" said Gary.<br />
"No reason, it's just not good to me. It bothers me. Corn bothers me."<br />
"Corn cannot bother you, you are corn, corn is independant of positive or negative emotions." said Gary<br />
<br />
I looked at Gary for a moment, this middle aged organic, california hippie with a pooka shell necklace then turned to Anna and said, "I know why they call them strangers."Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-52800647344371473852010-09-21T14:39:00.000-04:002010-09-21T14:39:30.232-04:00120 Nights in Jail: Night 1<i>The following post as well as any others under the 120 Days title are from my experiences between November, 2008 and February 2009 at the Wakulla County Jail. </i><o:p></o:p> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, 105 nights to be exact, when you factor time off for good behavior (yes that is a real thing, not just something from the movies).<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the beginning of October, 2008 I was sentenced to serve 120 days in jail in the Leon County Jail. My attorney, brilliantly convinced the Leon County Jail to let me serve my time in Wakulla County, the next county to the south, about an hour away from my home, so that I could be in their Work Release program. Work Release, just like it sounds, allows a person to leave jail to go to work. "It'll be like staying at a bad hotel." said my attorney. I left the Wakulla County Jail everyday except Sundays (yes, as far as the jail new I worked Saturdays) at 5:30 am and reported back to the jail by 6:30 pm. Lieutenant Hoppi Strickland, made an exception for me and gave me permission to drive myself to and from the jail. He instructed me to park around the corner at The Wakulla County Health Department, walk around the stand of pine trees and tell nobody, especially other prisoners. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Before jail, for a long time I’ve been into adventure travel and longed for my own adventures. Having eighteen rental properties among other obligations at the time made solo kayaking the Pacific an adventure that didn’t seem like something I’d be able to fit into my schedule. The way I constructed my life I couldn't pickup and move to Tehran for a year just to see what it's like, at least not without disassembling everything I'd already put together. I longed for adventure, an escape from the mundane but didn’t realize what I’d wish for would come to me in quite this way. It did and it was the perfect form of adventure travel for my life at the time because it allowed me to continue to keep up with my obligations. It wasn't an awesomely horrific experience, I wasn't stuck in a Pakistani prison confined to a hole, fed only a scoop of moldy maggot infested rice. Nor am I the wrongly accused sympathetic figure that was screwed by the system. I am just a regular guy who made a bad decision or two and ended up in jail, just like any other<i> American idiot</i>.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I should have foreseen the ironies I’d later encounter during my time at Wakulla when getting into jail was as difficult as you’d think getting out would be. I turned myself in, as directed by my sentence, no later than 6:00 pm, November 3, 2008. I thought turning myself in would be more monumental than it proved. I'd hoped to walk in to the jail, hands in the air while a waiting sheriff would say, <br />
<br />
"You Jeff Brainard?" in the slow country accent native to Wakulla.<br />
"I am" I'd say doing my Johnny Cash<br />
"I been waiting for you, ya dirty ol' dog." <br />
None of this happened. No one even knew I was there. For the first thirty minutes I sat in what I figured was the lobby. Finally I started milling around and found a nurses office and she took me down a corridor where I am told I should have known to have been the whole time. I was now at the real lobby for the jail. The carpet and comfortable chairs were replaced by a cement floor and a metal bench. Behind me and in front of me were one way windows. Behind those windows were guards processing prisoners in and out of the jail. To the left of me was a long hallway of white cinder block walls ending with a heavy gray metal door.<br />
<br />
As I waited inmates walked by on there own as if they had some where to go but no reason to go there. Guards walk past with authority but seem to have developed an ability to know you were there without looking at you. And because no one acknowledges your existence it begins to make you think you’ve become forgotten altogether. One of the guards looked like Steve Irwin and I thought "how bad can this guy be, he looks like Steve Irwin and The Crocodile Hunter is a jolly guy. It appears the main criteria for being a guard is a particular body type for males stiff movement but a large belly with a slow moving waddle. The female guards are required to be every bit of cliche you'd expect when you hear the words "female prison guard." Short manly with man like skin like a leathery cowboy with a short quick paced walk. I tried giving head nods along with a hello-smile but it had no effect. If anything they probably thought, "Why does this kid keep smiling? He's obviously intoxicated. We'll let him sober up before we do anything with him." I waited on the metal bench for three hours waiting to get into jail.<br />
<br />
While serving my time on the metal bench I the metal bench across from was occupied by twenty some Hispanic illegals waiting to be booked. What I learned from the group ambassador, the one who spoke English was that Wakulla is a drop off facility for Immigration and Naturalization. The men who sat across from me committed crimes in Florida, they all served their time in the county for which they were charged. Now they were waiting in Wakulla for INS to pick them up to send them back to Panama, Mexico or wherever they called their homeland their homeland. Why the little county of Wakulla was the waiting room for illegals I am still unsure as it is not near any major city or airport.<br />
A fat one from Cuba was both jolly and mischievous. He kept trying to make phone calls when no one was looking. He would slide back and forth from the end of the bench to the phone, tickled as if he was getting a way with something. Perhaps he was just amused by pushing buttons and pretending to talk to someone. Apparently he'd never seen one way glass before as the guards knew exactly what he was up to. One came out and said, "the phone is turned off, it isn't going to work." The man simply giggled.<br />
<br />
The most dominant feeling the jail gave me at this point was sterility and coldness. A sterile that did not feel clean but a sterile of indifference like gray on gray. The jail is cold not just in personality but literally. The temperteure set on miserable<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">At check-in, a guard with the name Zimba on his uniform sat me across his desk and asked me my name. I wanted to reply, "Osama Bin Laden" but knew better. I asked the concierge how long he worked at the jail. How he liked it. Was it what he wanted to be doing. What he likes to do in his free time. The same thing I would do as if I was checking into the Marriott. Zimba was nice, he was young, tall and wore glasses. He looked like he played a lot of video games. I wondered why he, or anyone would have chosen the profession of Jailer. To volunteer for a life sentence of being in jail. And while I smiled and responded to his answers I was scared. I wanted to make this process last for three months. Inevitably it didn't, I was booked and fingerprinted. <br />
<br />
I was told to follow a large black guard (clearly the bellhop). Again I made conversation to avoid the inevitable.<br />
"Do you enjoy your job? I said. <br />
“No, this place is too corrupt.” was his answer<br />
We walked past large rooms of inmates. I wondered which would be mine. A few inmates stood at the inward facing window of their pods doing strange movements with their hands. I asked the black guard with the eighties high top haircut, “How’d they learn sign language?” “They learn it in here,” he said, “People will always figure out a way to communicate.” "What do they have to say?" I wondered, they're both in jail?<br />
<br />
He took me to a closet to change into my new wardrobe, zebra stripes. I thought these were only used in old movies. I removed my jeans and stepped into my new clothes. The shirt I wore over a yellow FSU t-shirt (Way to represent. Go Noles!). The zebra outfit was stained with paint and dirt and the material was rough and unflexible like something you’d use to cover a grill, a smock of sorts like wearing canvas.<br />
<br />
I was handed a small laundry bag which included two non-fitted sheets, that were once white and now a dingy yellow. If the sheets were new the package would list the thread count at 2. Also in the bag was a pillow case a small towel, a wash cloth and a tattered, paper thin blanket no bigger than the kind you receive on an airplane and resembling something a homeless man would discard as useless.<br />
I was given one travel size toothbrush and mint toothpaste and a roll of toilet paper. "Travel size? Where am I going?" I thought.<o:p></o:p> And then the bellman showed me to my room. He called on his radio to open the door to pod three and the large heavy metal door slowly slid open. He instructed me I was to sleep on bunk fifty four (none of the bunks are numbered).<br />
<br />
The room or pod that was my home away from home for the next 120 days was three side cement block appointed with one side thick Plexiglas pane windows. It was comforting to know that if Kim Jong Il lost it and sent his nuclear weapons across the globe from North Korea to Wakulla, at least me and the other inmates would be safe. The room came with 59 inmates plus me on metal bunks. I've never seen an army barracks but this is what I imagine only more gray than olive. The bunks were cold and just long enough for your feet to hang over the metal lip. Laying on your side you could feel the cold metal through the mattress press into your ribs, the mint green plastic mattresses like thin versions of lawn chair cushions.<br />
<br />
I made my way past men playing cards at the eight metal tables bolted to the floor with metal chairs bolted to them and wandered the rows of bunks. Many inmates were hanging out on their bunks chatting like they were at sleep away camp. Which made me feel like even more of a kid, a kid who just wants to go home. I located the only open bunk, the top of the last bunk in the back of the pod. I spread the non-fitted sheets on my bed. My pillowcase was yellowed from use and came equipped with hundreds of those little round balls of fabric you find on old t-shirts.<br />
<br />
I got into bed and took in the rest of my penthouse suite. In the front of the room, above the Plexiglas windows was a 15 inch TV perched half way up the 25 ft. ceiling. In the back of the room was the shower which drained into an open gutter and three stainless steal toilets without seats and two urinals. The urinals smelled as if they’d never been flush, as if they were made from steel piss composite. The pod had six small windows near the ceiling that ran horizontally, no bigger than six inches tall. They allowed you to see just enough sky and trees to see what you're missing.<br />
<br />
That night I didn't step off my bunk. I did my best to will myself to sleep. Instead all I could do was lay on my side facing the cinder block wall and try not to cry. The lights went off at 11:30. </div></div>Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-28393805262939157282010-09-20T13:20:00.000-04:002010-09-20T13:20:25.655-04:00Something MissingIn the Bahamas, off the west coast of Eleuthera lies an industrious island called Spanish Wells. A small "Loyalist Island", meaning it's residents are white people of British decent, their ancestors left the U.S. during the revolution to escape the rebellious colonist and keep allegiance to his royal highness. As a result Spanish Wells is a great place to go if you enjoy the outcome of generations of a small group of people breeding among one another. The guidebooks will tell you about Spanish Wells' fishing fleet which supplies the States with a large amount of fresh fish and lobster but the real treat is the crossed eyes, large foreheads and the confusion that results when everyone has the same last name, Pinder. The citizenry is largely a god fearing group, with an affinity towards racism which is much easier to find than the alcohol as there is only one place serving beer.<br />
<br />
<br />
As we approached the dock in our dinghy Anna noticed a man smoking a joint along the water. As Chris, Amber, Philip, Anna and I disembarked to search for a place to eat the man approached us and introduced himself as "The General." A nice way to describe him would be to say he had the look of a homeless man who just showered. The General had the physique of a laborer, strong forearms with many scars, trim with slicked back long blond hair, probably in his mid thirties but his face looked much older. As a result of their British background and their limited gene pool most Loyalist, The General included, sound reminiscent of a combination between Forest Gump and Captain Jack Sparrow. He is of the breed for whom people say, "something is missing" The implication of the "something" being intelligence and in this case genetic diversity. <br />
<br />
Immediately following his introduction The General showed us his roach and asked if we'd like to acquire some for ourselves. Philip, as the most experienced pot smoker in our group and the only one who cared about it quickly stepped into his role as pot negotiator. Philip did not take kindly to The General's blatant offer. Philip prefers to be subtle, as he tends to be suspicious of people. He offers vague assertions to people he thinks sell drugs and somehow they seem to understand what he's talking about. For instance, once, outside a grocery store a man asked how he was doing, "Just living in the clouds." he responded and somehow shortly after a deal was arranged. Philip, not even looking at The General said,"Naw, were good man" as we continued to walk towards town.<br />
<br />
The General, walking slightly behind us like a stray dog, yelled, "Ello General" to a man watering his grass. Chris said, "Wait a minute, I thought you were The General?" "Everyone calls me The General so I call everyone else The General even though I'm The General." Obviously this isn't confusing to people who live on an island where they all share the same last name. He then asked again if we'd like to buy some "really good 'ome growed stuff."<br />
Philip, clearly annoyed, said, "Fine, let me see what you have for fifty dollars." <br />
"Well see, you give me the money, I gotsta go get jit from me uncle." <br />
"Listen to this joker" Philip announced. "We're going to go eat in here I'm not giving you any money bro."<br />
<br />
Halfway through dinner a loud knocking on the window is followed by "PSSST Ey ey it's me, General, I got some bit of stuff." All of us turn to see The General's face in between the slats of blinds mashed up against the window screen. Philip goes outside and returns with some sample joints while I'm still imagining what the scene outside the restaurant looked like as The General must have been peering through different windows trying to locate us like some London orphan.<br />
<br />
Sunday afternoon, a couple days later, The General came to our boat to see if we'd like to go with him to a family picnic to buy some pot. If the last line didn't sink in, please understand we were offered an invitation to a family picnic to buy drugs.<br />
<br />
Philip agreed because of the quality product The General supplied us with and Anna and I because of the entertainment. The three of us hopped into his flats boat and headed down the channel towards the west side of the island. Here, The General ran the boat aground on a sandbar as we were assured the picnic was just a short walk down the beach. Suspicious, "Could this be a setup?" we worried but continued. As we walked The General decided to take us on a visual tour of his bodily scars<br />
<br />
"This is from when I crash me motorcycle into a pole." as he showed us a missing piece of his leg bone<br />
"Why did you do that." I said<br />
"Was too much drunk. But I don't even drinks no more ever since I the third time I crashed me cycle. Now I just get high because I don't drive into poles when I'm high"<br />
"You've crashed your bike three times?"<br />
"Yeah too many poles, whenever I see poles I just drive into them."<br />
"What kind of bike do you have"<br />
"Don't have any bike anymore"<br />
"Maybe that is why you don't drive into poles."<br />
<br />
About a hundred yards down the beach an odd site appeared. What looked to be a huge ball, the size of car, floated in the water. It was white and appeared to be marking something, but what? Was it a marker to signal DEA agents to swoop in and get us I wondered?<br />
<br />
<br />
"Man my skin is so dry I need to moisturize today. Do you ever use Jergens?" Philip asked. <br />
"Yeah, I like to Jergens. Jergens, sometimes I Jergens." The General used Jergens as a verb as if he did not really know Jergens was a moisturizer.<br />
Philip and The General then high fived to Jergens. "Yes!! Jergens!" laughed Philip. <br />
Do you see this?"The General held up his left arm, "Sometimes I spill my blood. I cut myself, sometimes. Sometimes I like to drink it, but sometimes I just let it spill out." <br />
Anna and I looked at each other unsure if it was okay to laugh. <br />
No one said much else.<br />
<br />
The picnic was marked by the giant floating ball which turned out to be, not a signal for the DEA, but a massive piece of flotsam, once an advertisement for a club, now converted to a yard ornament, albeit a yard ornament in the ocean. Onshore was a picnic table under Casuarina trees. Seated was a massive elderly woman in a moo moo, her chubby pink skinned and even less genetically diverse than she grandchild, two young black Bahamians and an alcoholic-skinny elderly man smoking a joint off of his car key. Unlike his behemoth spouse his fashion sense indicated his affinity towards marijuana by displaying a giant pot leaf and the words "God made man, God made weed, Man made Beer, In God We Trust." I've always done well in reading comprehension but I'm still trying to puzzle meaning out of this shirt. <br />
<br />
The General made quick introductions and we all sat down at the table and enjoyed a pot head's Sunday afternoon picnic off of the old man's key while warm rum and coke was offered for refreshments. The chubby grandchild was having hunger pangs and as a result ordered to the sea to remove conch from their conch garden, a small fenced in area of grass, twenty yards offshore in about three feet of water. Chubby made a couple slow trips between the shore and the garden with a conch in each hand, his wet t-shirt trapped in between rolls of fat. Out of breath from what must have been a years worth of physical activity, he huffed as he was sent to the neighbor's yard to pick a few sour oranges for the conch salad. The old man and The General began to clean. Philip diced onions and tomatoes while the grandmother prepared the best conch salad in the Bahamas. Unfortunately for Chubby, his grandmother used a bit too much hot pepper for the child and he soon began to sweat as his pink hue darkened to red. His grandmother suggested he sit in the shade while the heat passed. The old man sold Philip fifty dollars worth of his homegrown marijuana and rolled more for the picnic. We all sat at the table, there was little conversation, mostly everyone just watched the giant piece of flotsam loll around between the waves.<br />
<br />
On the way back to the boat, The General, pointed out a tree in the marsh that they used to smoke.<br />
"See that et's the Brolliweed, I remba when we use'ta smoke the Brolli as kids, like cigarettes ya'know."<br />
"Which one is the Brolli? Philip said.<br />
"Tat one over there." <br />
"Which?"<br />
"It uhh green one, looks like tree" as he pointed to a stand of trees and brush.<br />
"General, all of them are green." <br />
"I know, they are some greeeen trees out here." laughed The General.<br />
<br />
Philip and I asked The General about local fishing spots and he gave us specific directions we'd never be able to decipher. "My mom loves the fish. She goes and fish all the time and boy if she don't catch her some fish.<br />
<br />
The General dropped the three of us off back at our boat. Before we were finished relaying the events of that afternoon for Chris and Amber, I heard an an outboard choke and, "ELLO! ELLO guys General ere, guys it's General." He handed me three bags of frozen juvenile snappers, jacks and grunts.<br />
"Where did you get all these fish?" I said.<br />
"My moms, they live in her freezer but I thought you wanted some feesh so General got them from the freezer and I brotcha these feesh." <br />
"Wow, thanks General, that was really nice of you" I said holding ten pounds of fish that looked more like bait than a meal. I fake smiled at the fish and then back at The General. For a minute he just looked at me, waiting maybe for an invitation to come aboard. "Alright, well. Have a good evening General." I said and went down into the boat. <br />
<br />
The next night I scorched and fried the snappers whole and threw away the rest of the fish. They were small and bony but there was enough of them for everyone to have a few. <br />
<br />
Picking away the flesh from the sharp little bones I thought about The General's mom, I imagined her tired from a hard days work but then she goes out to the dock with her hand reel to fish for these little Lane and Mangrove Snappers. And then she's at home and she goes to her freezer, she's going to fry up a couple fish, maybe a few for The General too. And when she reaches in her freezer she notices, something is missing. Confused she walks into the next room to ask her son about it where she finds a roach on the table and The General, on the couch drinking his blood or maybe Jergensing.Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9125297301106854548.post-31973930641707720372010-09-17T15:44:00.000-04:002010-09-17T15:44:17.836-04:00Necesito la anfetaminaA British friend of mine, Emma, is always preaching the importance of having a balanced life. I practice her advice by slowly enjoying a cigarette before and after a long a five mile run. Plenty of Vodka the night before a morning workout. <br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Before leaving the Dominican Republic Anna and I thought it wise to resupply our medicine cabinet with prescription drugs. In the DR you do not need a prescription to buy drugs from a pharmacy, you simply need the name of the medications and the pesos to pay for them (which in the DR isn't very much). So we compiled a list of medications, the brand name and their generic equivalent in Espanol and went shopping. Our list was as follows:<br />
<br />
Immitrex-for Anna's migraines<br />
Adderall-for fun and staying awake long nights on the boats<br />
Concerta-for fun <br />
Oxycontin-for fun and to balance out the Adderall and the Concerta<br />
Tramadol-for rainy days and injuries<br />
Antibiotics-for anything we might do to ourselves while under the influence of any of the above<br />
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">In two days we visited every Farmacia in Samana able to acquire everything except the stimulants we adore. At each Farmacia I'd pull out a wrinkled, stained sheet of paper and say, <span class="short_text" id="result_box"><span style="color: black;" title="">"Tiene los estimulantes? </span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box"><span style="color: black;" title="">Necesito la anfetamina, la dextroanfetamina." The pharmacist would study my list, squeeze their lips together say, "la dextroanfetamina?" Occasionally they'd go to the back and return with random medicines, one tried to offer us a cream for Eczema. </span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box"><span style="color: black;" title=""></span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box"><span style="color: black;" title=""></span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box"><span style="color: black;" title="">I'd say, "</span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box"><span title="">i un problema para pagar la atención" </span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box"><span style="color: black;" title="">Out of desperation I tried miming symptoms of ADHD trying to look distracted I'd look at the wall, then at deodorant, look at the newspaper, sniff Anna's head, then rifle through my pockets. This only made me look crazy and the pharmacist cocked his head to the side, confused, the way a dog does as if to say, "I'm not sure what you're telling me." I was startled by how focused I became looking for medication for people who cannot focus. </span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box"><span style="color: black;" title=""></span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box"><span style="color: black;" title="">After returning to most of the Farmacias a second time with new names for the drugs like "</span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box"><span style="color: black;" title="">metilfenidato" the pharmacist would simply shake their head. </span></span></div><span class="short_text" id="result_box"><span title=""></span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box"><span title=""><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box"><span title="">Walking in between Farmacias complaining to Anna, "They must have people with attention problems here, what do they do with them?" Anna's ADD responded with "Do you ever wish you had a tail?" </span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box"><span title=""></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box"><span title="">***</span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box"><span title=""> </span></span>Jeff Brainardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17516071085404662670noreply@blogger.com1