Key Dali Page 3

  I have no idea where I’ve been and tell him so. My short-term memory goes only as far as standing in the ticket line at the Jacksonville bus station. I know better than to waste too much time trying to remember beyond that, so I don’t. But Stoney is a good friend and I’m glad to see him.

  “So, what’s the word, Stoney?”

  His beady little eyes narrow as he looks around carefully. “Word is Islamorada One Toke, man. You interested? I can get weight.”

  “No thanks, I’m saving my money for something special. Besides, I think I’m still high from that last stuff of yours I smoked a few months ago.”

  Stoney says nothing but nods as though he hears this often. A thought flies by and I grab it just in time.

  “Stoney, what happened to that woman you were engaged to? The big girl, Cindy?”

  “Cindy?” Stoney looks down and shakes his head wearily. “We broke up, man. Decided I couldn’t afford a woman like that.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Nah, it was for the best. You know she’s a cop, right?”

  “Uh, no. You were dating a cop?”

  “We met online on one of those dating services. Went out a few times and were really hitting it off, you know? Then one day we were coming back from Marathon. I was driving her car and she was snuggled up against me and we were just grooving on the radio and colors of the sea as we hurried back to Key West for Sunset.

  “I remembered reading on her online profile how she felt honesty was the most important thing in a relationship, so as we’re coming up on the Seven Mile Bridge I start telling her how I’ve also been seeing her sister, Ruthie. You know, the girl with the big boobs, tends bar over at the Parrot? Anyway, we’re going across the bridge and Cindy doesn’t say anything, so I think I’ve scored some major points by being Mr. Honest. She leans over closer and I’m thinking here comes a big kiss, or who knows, maybe even a Bridge BJ. But instead she looks at the speedometer and is suddenly all, ‘Pull over!’ and shit. So I stop in the middle of the fucking bridge and she pulls out this big pad from her purse and writes me a two hundred dollar speeding ticket!

  “I can’t believe it and call her some things I realize later maybe weren’t such a good idea, under the circumstances.”

  I hold up a finger at the opportunity. “Timing is everything!”

  “You got that shit right, Dali. Anyway, she slaps the ticket against my chest and tells me to get out of her car, and I’m all, ‘You can’t leave me here on this bridge like this!’ and she says I’m right and pulls this big black cop gun out of her purse and tells me to take off my pants. I start to say something and she cracks off a round by my head so I’m pulling off my pants as fast as I can and end up standing there in the middle of the world’s longest bridge wearing just a t-shirt and holding a speeding ticket while watching the back of her car getting smaller in the distance.”

  “So you broke up?”

  “Well, besides that little incident, I found out later that she’s married. So I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”

  Stoney jumps up and gets in line when the lady at the kiosk starts rattling a can full of washers to get everyone’s attention for the lottery.

  But I stay on the bench while spots are assigned for the evening show. I’m feeling creatively drained from painting Consuelo and am a bit unhinged from the Weird Nancy assault and the little fraud moving in on Socks. Not to mention that, as usual, I’m feeling a bit stoned just from Stoney’s mere presence. I need to recharge and become centered before I can go to my assigned spot to create.

  I face the setting sun and breathe in the cool sea breeze. There is something in the air – a change in the weather coming?

  After a few minutes of deep breathing and quietly chanting the ancient magical lyrics of early Doors songs, my calm returns. I realize my energy level had been somewhat restored momentarily by the earlier Socks sighting so, after checking in at the kiosk, I decide to wander over for another dose.

  But first I must detour by the psychics and palm readers. As usual there are plenty of tourists lined up to waste their money on psychics, but hardly anyone around the palm readers. I will never understand people. I spot the guy with the droopy eyelids.

  “Today’s horoscope, my good man.”

  He shakes his head.

  “Union rules, man. Only psychics can do horoscopes.”

  I hold up a silver dollar. “I’ll bet you a dollar that someone truly in tune with the stars can do a horoscope reading without even looking at my palm.” I never let mystics look at my palm anymore since the last few couldn’t find my lifeline, which is something I try not to think about. The reader takes a quick look around.

  “Okay, what’s your sign?”

  “Trojan.”

  “Trojan? What kind of sign is that?”

  I show him a condom from my pocket and smile. “The universal sign of a man in love.”

  The reader rolls his eyes, then closes them for several seconds while he connects with the spirit world. After allowing enough time for the spirit to enter his mind until he is full of it, he speaks.

  “Lucidity comes in waves, interrupted by moments of chaos. Your romantic connection is likely to be strong but muddled. It is a time for challenges and showmanship while knowing the satisfaction of helping others is the best possible reward.”

  As these are all things I already know, I suspect the man is a scammer and consider stiffing him on the buck until he surprises me with one last bit of information.

  “And your spirit animal is the grunt.”

  I flip him the dollar and float off in deliberation of the implications of my past relationships with grunts. I think perhaps I should reconsider my spiritual connections with not only grunts, but with all my favorite recreational foods.

  Speaking of foods, since my last meal consisted entirely of what I now know as a spiritual being, I purchase a Soft Pretzel with mustard to fully reestablish my link to normal consciousness through indigestion.

  Spiritually enlightened and grounded by small, sharp burps, I am now ready to seek the world of glass walkers.

  ∨ Key Dali ∧

  7

  Socks

  I casually check a few trashcans for art supplies while walking across the plaza. The sun is still hovering over the horizon, giving a few wisps of flaming clouds enough time to soak up some last-minute shades of vibrant color, and giving the tourists ample opportunity to jockey for the best positions along the seawall so their cameras can enjoy the view.

  There’s the girl glass walker at the far end of the seawall, set up off to the side of the main throng. I don’t want to draw attention to myself, so I take the long way around a brick tree planter. Where I stand the sea is a perfect backdrop for her performance.

  The ball cap is gone and in its place a dark scarf is tied around her head. The headband goes well with her black hair. She’s also shed a baggy men’s jacket and now looks just a bit like a gypsy. She stands on one leg at a time, casually pushing the long socks down with her other foot. The lady has both grace and balance.

  Buckets of glass are already spread out and the last rays of the sun have them glistening like spiked jewels. On the next spot over, a worn-looking man and dog team is keeping a decent crowd of sunsetters happy while they wait for the big event. Socks, now No Socks, is sitting on a bucket, gazing out to sea while waiting for her turn. I take in the view of the lovely lady casually gazing out in the direction of one of the distant islands as the sun slowly sets fire to some clouds just off her left shoulder. A sailboat full of sunset watchers passes slowly behind her. It is quite a scene. I look out over the water for a few seconds myself and sigh at the immensity of it all.

  But since everything is in a holding pattern, and I’m a man of action, especially when I’m nervous, I’ll just ease over here to a nearby art supply receptacle and take a poke around for any Specials.

  I’ve just retrieved a very colorful empty cigarette pack from the trashcan when a glance
up gets me No Socks just looking away and turning back towards the sea. Shit. I wanted to be looking at her when she first noticed me. Not to mention I’m dying to see how that headband sets off those dark eyes.

  There’s applause for the man and dog, and the lady gives it enough time for some bills to float down into the bucket next door. Then she begins.

  “OVER HERE! A SHOW!”

  She’s got a set of lungs on her, that’s for sure. And having studied human anatomy in school, I can easily visualize the strong and curvy body under those loose clothes she wears.

  The headband is gone, and she’s doing a bit of a swirling and spinning dance now as she moves over to the glass. The dancing makes her long dark hair flow out at times and is quite enchanting. Like I needed any further enchanting.

  I’m watching from the back of the crowd, but she never looks my way. In fact, her eyes are closed most of the time, even when she stops her dance directly facing the waiting carpet of glass.

  The scarf reappears and goes around her head again. Her hands shoot straight up as she holds rigid, staring straight ahead at the glass. If ever an act needed a drum roll, it’s this one.

  I can’t help but cringe as her right foot approaches, then hovers over the bed of glass shards. The crowd spread around three sides seems to be holding its collective breath as one foot, then the other, carry the lady glass walker ever so slowly and carefully across the long layer of glass to the safety of hard, smooth ground once again.

  Applause, and well deserved. Of course, I’m the most fervent clapper in the crowd, and hoping my enthusiastic applause will grant me a front row seat for the upcoming donning of the socks.

  The crowd breaks ranks as the dark-eyed young woman bows to the applause and smiles. Bits and pieces of money find their way into her tip bucket. I drop in a silver dollar and see she has done quite well.

  Though I sense she is aware of my presence, the lady still hasn’t looked my way again and has now retaken her seat on the bucket. As I approach, she nimbly removes a sliver of glass hanging from her foot and flips it over the seawall into the sea.

  “Doesn’t that hurt?”

  She looks up at me with those dark, innocent eyes and I am a goner.

  She shrugs. “No, not really.”

  The socks make an appearance and I immediately go to my knees without even checking for stray glass. I notice for the first time that the bottoms of her feet are heavily callused.

  “Have you been doing this long? Walking on glass?” Not the most original line, but the best I can come up with since most of my being is riveted to long socks easily sliding up soft, shapely legs. I hope I am not drooling.

  She runs her hands from ankle to knee for a final smoothing of the socks right before my eager eyes just as the crowd breaks into applause for the successful setting of the sun. Without looking away, I applaud as well.

  Big, sad eyes gaze into mine for just a moment before they blink slowly and she looks back down. “I haven’t been doing it long, less than a year, and for only a few days here.” Obviously not her favorite subject. Her eyes come up to meet mine again. “You are Dali? They say you’re an artist, and that you have a phone in your head.”

  Since the socks show is for the most part over, I stand.

  “Yes, I am Dali, and I am at your service!” I whip off the fedora and bow as though to a queen. “And you, my dear, I don’t believe I caught your name?”

  There is no smile, but I detect a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Oh, I have no name. People just call me what they like. Do you have a name for me?”

  Without thinking I hear myself say, “Socks, of course.”

  Now the smile is there.

  She asks again about the phone thing and I offer to tell the tale when she is packed up. I help sweep the glass into the buckets and then we have a seat along the brick tree planter that looks out over the water. There’s an occasional smattering of applause and laughter for the other performers as the lights come on for the final hour of the sunset celebration.

  The lady is truly beautiful in the twilight, and the gentle sea breeze is doing nice things to her hair. Perhaps she is somewhat clairvoyant, for at that moment I believe she senses the purity of my intentions to screw her.

  “So, you have a phone in your head?”

  I tell her the story of a young man studying art at Juilliard, and she asks isn’t that the school for musicians, actors, and dancers? I say the very one, but at one time they had a small trial program for artists as well. She asks how small and I reply by pointing to myself.

  I tell her how the gifted, but poor, young artist would sign up for lab experiments to make money for tuition. He often participated in drug research and new product testing. Some of the stuff was pretty weird and even dangerous, but he was young and strong and learned to live with the various rashes and hallucinations while he exclusively studied the art of the master surrealist, Salvador Dali. Since his own work was so obviously influenced by the great artist, it wasn’t long before everyone called him Dali. He took this as the ultimate compliment and before long had taken to wearing floppy hats and twirling the ends of his long, waxed mustache with his face locked into various poses of astonishment.

  I give her my best mustache twirling astonished look, then continue my story. I tell her how one day the young man called a number he’d found on a subway wall to take part in a revolutionary new concept in implantable cell phones. The job paid well and came with a free phone, so he went for it. The doctor put him under and when he awoke he had the ultimate hands-free, onboard telephone. After a few hours of successful testing the young man left the satisfied doctor and hurried to his next job so he could be sprayed with roach killer.

  Unfortunately, it was winter. In his rush, the young man slipped on an icy New York sidewalk and took a bad fall. He landed on his head – directly on the spot with the freshly implanted experimental phone.

  It was several days before he regained consciousness in the hospital and learned some interesting things. X-rays showed the fall had not only damaged the phone in his head, but caused it to shift to a place where the surgeons couldn’t remove it without risking serious damage to his brain. He also learned the doctor who did the phone implant not only gave him a rubber check, but wasn’t even a doctor. The phony doctor was by then in jail with no bond, awaiting trial for numerous crimes including illegal sex-change operations on plants. It seems the budding artist had not only been the madman’s first experiment in telecommunications – but the first human subject as well.

  The young man was soon released from the hospital, as there was nothing they could do. But the fall had left him too disoriented and confused to resume his studies at the prestigious school. Plus, none of the labs hiring test subjects would give him a job because of his injury, so he had to drop out.

  Over the next few weeks he slowly remembered things he’d been told by the bogus doctor about possible side effects like nausea, blackouts, and memory loss. And that would be with a fully functional, undamaged, phone in his head.

  I pause in my tale and sigh mightily while looking out over the water. A warm hand gives one of mine a gentle squeeze.

  “So, you still have the phone? In your head?” I nod. “Does it work?”

  “I can’t call out, but I receive calls, random calls that are out there on the airwaves.” I gesture with my hand. “Sometimes I hear both sides of a conversation, sometimes just one side. There are tapping noises as well, which is think is texting.”

  “Wow. How long has this been going on?”

  I shrug. “I don’t really know. A few years.”

  “What about your family?”

  “Orphan. No family.”

  Though I’ve never been one to turn down a good healthy sympathy screwing, I don’t really like the way the mood is going.

  “But it’s not so bad. I can usually stop the ringing by popping myself in the head, and I have listened in on some interesting conversations in the past.” A wink. “
My life is not really so bad at all. For example: I’m currently sitting in a picturesque spot in Key West on a very pleasant evening with a beautiful lady beside me. I have no bills to pay, and no one to answer to.” I stand and turn once with my hands swirling in the air. “And best of all – I have my art! Would you like to see?”

  “Of course!”

  “Come along, then, and I’ll show you. It’s about time for me to give the tourist money tree a good shaking anyway.”

  “Great! Let me stash my stuff and I’ll catch up to you!”

  “I have E-10 tonight, over by the pretzel stand.”

  She’s all smiles and waving as I turn to go across the plaza to my spot. I’m looking forward to my first official performance since returning to Key West. Plus it seems I always do my best work when there’s a beautiful woman involved.

  I nearly float across the plaza. I’m so happy I don’t even want to acknowledge that the man watching me from behind a palm tree is the same one I saw the night before with the glass walker.

  ∨ Key Dali ∧

  8

  Performance

  My energy level is near its peak as I work my way through the crowd of vacationers enjoying the street party atmosphere of Mallory on a beautiful cool evening. With the sun down, the main area around the vendors and performers is packed with people. I see Hooman and wave to Ponce who is about to start his amazing cat juggling performance.

  I’m nearly at my designated area before I notice that the little fraud himself is occupying the spot next to mine. He has several of his feeble attempts at art on display and is in the process of pushing one off on a plump woman in brightly colored tourist clothes who obviously must have the artistic comprehension of a catfish.

  My spot, however, is bare to the bricks, except for a small pile of dog excrement. I notice on the other side of my spot, next to the pretzel stand, is Robert with his little yapper dog and a table of books. His devious smile leaves no doubt as to the origin of the poop.