Reinventing Mike Lake (9 page)

              I remember my first love.  Puppy love.  Teenage love.  It was my freshman year of high school, and I was so enamored with the idea that a girl could like me.  Because it was the first time a girl had admittedly liked me, it came along with a large amount of jealousy I still am not proud about to this day.  A perfect mix of that jealousy, hormones, and typical teenage angst was a perfect cocktail for a lot of regrettable thoughts and actions.

              Abby and I had been friends since elementary school, then things got awkward with us in middle school, as boy-girl relationships often do.  In high school it seemed all the cool kids were dating, so Abby and I resorted back to our old elementary school days, only we were older and kissing each other more.  I remember the emotions I had hijacked nearly every other thought I had.  Concentrating on sports was out of the question most of the time because I was in my own world thinking about Abby and the thought of losing her to another guy almost constantly.  Despite having a girlfriend, my self-esteem was weak.

              Our boyfriend-girlfriend relationship lasted from the first week of junior year in high school until just before the end of the school year.  In that time I think we broke up with each other at least a dozen times, mostly for just a day at a time.  The drama consumed so much of me that it was routine for a basketball being passed to hit me square in the face or a baseball to land just a few feet away from me in the outfield, landing me seat on the bench next to a very angry coach.

              Eventually, and rightfully so, my dear Abby tired of my jealous ways.  I can remember being so ridiculous that I would ask to use the bathroom in class so I could walk by her class just to see if I could see her chatting with another guy.  Plus, considering she was a cheerleader, and our cheerleading team was co-ed, I had to watch from the court – or more often the bench – as another guy perched her high up into the air, hand on her ass.  In my mind, I always saw the guy go from staring at her ass and then at me with a smirk on his face.

              After a while, being accused of doing things she wasn’t doing eventually wore her out.  I remember her breaking up with me.  While I was upset, I figured she would call in a day or two, and we’d be “Mike and Abby” again.  School ended.  She went on vacation in Minnesota to see her family; she never called.  When she got back a few weeks later she dropped off some of the things I had given her for her birthday and holidays – a mix CD, photos, my basketball jersey – and then I knew it was over.  What was torture is that she lived right on the main road – the main road that was impossible to bypass if you wanted to go anywhere, meaning I passed her house almost every day.  I still have vivid memories of me staring out the window at her house as we drove by in the family car.  It’s usually raining during these remembrances.

              When school started back up I was shocked and hurt by how, in Abby’s eyes, it looked like I never existed in her world, that’s if she even looked me in the eyes.  Walking by each other in halls, she ignored me completely.  It was a small school, so this happened often.  I wrote letters, professing my love for her, telling her I miss our friendship, and how sorry I was for being so jealous.  All of them went unreturned, and I’m guessing unopened.  Even her friends, who used to be my friends, gave me glares.  Much of senior year was a miserable blur. 

              I remember focusing on a very scary thought to me, both then and now.  I had wondered if the situation would have been better if she were dead.  It was the first time I had ever remotely thought about someone dying.  I reasoned that if she was just gone I wouldn’t have to put up with the ignoring from her, and I felt that the pain would be a different one.  As it was, she was there, but out of my reach.  If she was dead I would have known better than to think I could ever be with her again.  I realized that this was the most selfish act I could ever think of, and was a result of how hurt I was.  I never specifically wished death on her, but when I think of that in terms of what happened to my wife it makes it hurt even more that I had ever once entertained that scenario. 

              When my wife died, sometimes during dark times, I thought of what I used to think about Abby and wishing she were dead.  With my wife, I would have given anything – now, then, and forever – just to spend another moment with her.  I used to go around the house, go into the closet, and just sit there taking in the smells.  I used to hope that her ghost would visit me and comfort me in a way only seen in movies or you read about happening to other people. 

              The ghosts would come, as they did to me that night in Key West, but only in my sleep.  I wanted something real, something tangible, but I only saw her figure in my dreams, and she always went the other way.  If I ran faster after her, she ran faster.  If I tried to sneak up on her, she was always one step ahead.

              I would get angry when I thought about what I wanted with Abby in regards to what actually happened to my wife.  I wondered if I had been punished for wishing death.  My calmer self realized that when it came to Abby, I was just a kid that had had my heart broken.  In a regretful moment of weakness I thought that if I were to throw away everything that ever reminded me of my wife it would take away some of the pain, and maybe the ghosts would stop coming to me in my dreams.  After all, all of her personal effects were in a way a ghost in their own right.  If I disposed of them, I reasoned, she would have no reason to hang around anymore.  It didn’t work, as I was once again reminded that morning when I woke up next to Bahama, hung over, and sweating in the hot room.

              It had been a while since I had had the ghost dream.  I tried to shake the dreams and hangover cobwebs out of my head.  I rolled out of bed, sat at the desk and tried my best to hunker down and get lost in my writing.  Every day for a week or so was about the same.  I would wake up, take Bahama for a short walk, eat, and get down to writing.  An hour or two into my writing my wife would consume all of my thoughts, making it near impossible for me to get any work done.  The one thing that usually drowned out sadness – my writing – wasn’t doing it anymore.

              I felt I had to get out of the room.  Here I was in one of the greatest walking towns in America and I was barely making it to the hallway of the bed and breakfast, let alone outside.  I was beginning to feel that I was very close to going through at least another year of mourning, only this time I was in Florida and not in my own house with my parents close by. 

              For a week or two, it took everything I could muster to not pack up the car and drive straight back to my house.  Only I had the thought, a very strong thought, that if I did that I may never leave the house again, and that over time living an agoraphobic lifestyle would have been just fine with me.

              While I felt a certain amount of peace with that idea I also knew that I couldn’t waste my life like that.  That would be the absolute worst tribute I could give my wife.  She died trying to live.  I didn’t want to live while waiting to die.  There are multiple ways of dying, I was learning, and if I just sat around my house until that day came, then my theoretical death date on my tombstone could appear years before my heart stopped beating.

              After another week of attempting to write and failing, then spending the rest of the day waiting for meals, I started going on short walks with Bahama.  One of the things I spent a lot time doing during these walks was to go down to the piers and watch the boats come and go from the docks.  A lot of them were fishing boats, but there were also cargo ships, party boats, and people who lived in their boats.  However, I enjoyed the action of the party fishing boats the most.  The tourists that got on these boats always looked a bit worried as they didn’t know what to expect – perhaps fighting a fear of sea sickness.  But, whenever they came back, they almost always had a large smile on their faces.  Seeing them smile, particularly the kids, usually brought a smile to my face.

              Back home, when I finally got outside of my house, I spent a lot of time fishing, but that was in a man-made pond, with a 12 dollar fishing pole, and worms for bait.  I had never been on a big charter boat like the ones I was spying on.  I wondered how much of it was a tourist trap when I first started watching the boats, but I soon realized that the enormous size of the fish that these tourists were catching was indeed real.  It also turned out that a lot of them would take the fish with them, presumably to fry them up later for a tasty meal.  I learned by unintentionally following one of these families back into town, that there was a nearby restaurant that would clean and cook them for you while throwing the sides in for free.  If it was a particularly big fish, I later learned, the restaurant would gladly give you your meal for free, if you would give them the leftover fish.  As most people were tourists, with no way to store the fish, they would gladly accept the offer of a free dinner, enjoying the fruits of their labor.  The restaurant in turn could serve the freshest fish in the area – just hours out of the sea.

              I walked up to the first dockside counter I could find with a sign for the Key West Party Boat Company.  I realized that most people on this boat, and any other of the charter boats, would be going out with a big group of friends and family, but I wouldn’t have that choice unless I wanted to ask Frank and Jean, but they were homebodies, and certainly weren’t hurting for food.  I was used to doing things solo, Bahama aside, so I wasn’t too uncomfortable as I approached the counter inquiring about prices and times.

              Keep in mind, fishing for me was merely a time-waster, and I could tell you very little about the ins-and-outs of the sport.  With the pond, I knew I was catching trout mostly, because it was stocked with them a few times a year, but every now and then I would catch a fish having no idea what type it was.  It was all relative to me anyway, as I always threw everything back.  So, when Tommy at the Key Largo Party Fishing Boat Company told me the types of fish I could catch if I went out it was all lost on me.

              “There’s mackerel, a few types of snapper, yellow tail, and trigger fish, but you tourists like to catch the big groupers the most,” said Tommy, wearing a tan long-sleeved T-shirt, a darker tan, and wraparound sunglasses. 

              They can always spot the tourists, I thought.

              “When do you go out again?  What do I need to bring?”

              “We go out again tomorrow morning at 9, and at 2; the 9 a.m. boat is pretty subdued, usually families.  The 2 p.m. is usually a little wilder, we let them bring beer, and then when they get back their party just continues down the street.  As far as your other question, all you need to bring is yourself.”

              While I was turning into a little bit more of a drinker than usual down here in the Keys, I didn’t think I could hang with a group of guys that were most likely going to party way more than I ever could.  Plus, they’d all be friends.  With the families I felt I could fit in a little more, or at least stay out of the way.

              “I’ll take the 9 a.m.,” I said while handing him my credit card.

14

              I started keeping my window open nearly 24 hours a day a few weeks into my stay.  The cat that had caused so much disruption the first night was now a regular fixture on my bed, and came and went as it pleased.  Bahama, seeing that I was cool with the situation, accepted the new visitor, and would often times lay right next to “Keysey” on the bed.  When Jean told me the calico’s name I sort of chuckled, thinking it little more than a play on words, when she once again educated me on something.

              “Being ‘keysey’ is how we describe the way of life down here.  In other places they may describe it as being laid back, or taking it easy, you know—just chilling out.  Down here though, it’s ‘keysey’.  As you can see,” she said, pointing to Keysey, completely out of it, and sleeping on her back, “she’s keysey.”

              During my time there, from Jean, and other locals, I learned that they absolutely detested the people who make up the imposter keysey group.  It turns out that a large group of people coming to The Keys think it is okay to do nothing – opting to drink in bars and partake in drugs and walk around zoned out.  Yes, they live here, technically making them locals, but the long time locals don’t have these frauds in mind when they are talking about what it’s like to be keysey.  The real keysey ones know how to relax, but they also know how to work hard and be a meaningful member of society.  Listening to some of them, you can’t help but think civil war could be raged in The Keys at some point.  It would be the most laid back war in the history of civilization.

              I instantly liked the idea of being keysey but doing such a touristy thing as going on a fishing boat didn’t seem like such a keysey thing to do, and mentioned it to Jean.

              “No, doing a party boat isn’t very keysey, but you can argue working on one is.  Anyway, have a nice time, and it’s nice you’re getting out,” she said, ending the conversation on a motherly note.

              After a breakfast of star fruit, and a couple of other goodies, since Jean had pretty much given me free reign of the house, I headed for the party boat.

              I arrived a bit early, so I watched the boat prepare from my usual spot when I went on walks, but it was different knowing I was going to be on the boat I’ve spied on for a few weeks.  I can’t say I was nervous, but I had never gone fishing for such big fish.  I hadn’t weighed a fish before, but I’m guessing the biggest one I ever caught was around eight pounds.  Eight pounds was about the size of the bait we would be using on the boat.

              At about quarter ‘til, I saw families gathering on the dock, so I headed over.  In a bin attached to the outside of the office where I paid for my party boat ticket yesterday, was the most random collection of things I had ever seen.  At first I thought it acted like a junk drawer, like one would have in their house, because there were hammers and wrenches, but upon closer inspection there were also broken golf clubs, knifes, fishing poles, and even a bachelor party blow-up doll.  Tommy, apparently reading my thoughts, or just used to curious tourists looking in that bin, enlightened me.