The Barking Dog Box Set: A 21st Century Adult Fairy Tale Continues

By E. P. Lee

This is the story of starting a new life in a modern America no one could have imagined before it occurred.

Mark Twain said:

“Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn't.”

Eric’s on a journey, a journey through modern America, living his 21st Century adult fairy tale existence with Freud, his full-grown French bulldog, barking at his heels every step of the way. A journey means moving on, change, and after years of loss, is Eric ready for change? And there’s a lot of change to catch up on ~ re-imagination and re-invention are rife all around him in an America that’s changing almost faster than he can adapt.

Change...

Despite being faced with a sea of “modern” people: e-people, gamesters, the simply weird, the duplicitous, liars, thieves, hustlers, the cheats of the modern world, despite these times of division, with modern America at war with itself, despite all that’s in the past, “memories”, Eric’s gonna move forward ~ ain’t no stopping him now.

As yesterday drifts away, and tomorrow becomes today, The Barking Dog series begins, and journeys forward.

Ándale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E. P. Lee
• Release date: Jan 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463826195

E. P. Lee

After a lifetime spent in his native New York Eric Paul Lee now resides in beautiful, tropical, Miami, Florida. Born in Brooklyn and raised in Coney Island, Eric often wandered the Boardwalk in his childhood. Eric frequently wasted his allowance at the now demolished Steeplechase Park and the other dated, dowdy and declining amusements that defined Coney Island... and much of traditional society... back then. The traditional was still IN back then. And the traditional like Coney Island had seen its glory days, its heyday, long passed. But the new hadn’t arrived yet. Just the old was fading... And so the forms still had to be obeyed. And with that Eric’s parent’s obeyed those forms and Eric was dispatched to college in Upstate NY to return to Brooklyn some four years later. Upon graduation from college Eric bounced from job to job until the Graphic Arts caught his creative eye and a new career began. With his first graphics production position under his belt Eric moved in to Manhattan some two years later never to live in Brooklyn again. Success built on success as corporate stints in California brought about even greater successes leading to Eric’s eventual New York City return and the opening of his own Graphics Agency in Manhattan. That enterprise ran successfully for over twenty years. Now out of industry entirely, Eric is happy to enjoy the perpetual Florida sun and write.

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Copyright © 2019 Eric Paul Lee.

andthepuppyhowls.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means——whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic——without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

All characters, situations, names, places and locations are the product of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Any and all resemblance to actual people living or dead, events, businesses, locations, or places is completely coincidental.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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For Freud:

…and only for Freud

Table of Contents

And the Dog Barks…

And the Dog Barks On…

And the Dog Barks On Some More…

And the Dog Barks On and ON… Some More…

And the Dog Barks ON… Still…

Still Barking… And the Dog Barks On Some More…

Macintosh HD:Users:johnlow:3. Formatting Jobs:3 Formatting in Progress:8A|0524 Peter Goldsmith Projects:Covers:And the Dog Barks Cover.jpgBarks Title Page

Copyright © 2013 Eric Paul Lee.

andthepuppyhowls.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means——whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic——without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

All characters, situations, names, places and locations are the product of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Any and all resemblance to actual people living or dead, events, businesses, locations, or places is completely coincidental.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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For Freud:

…and only for Freud

1

And the dog barks… Freud’s not a puppy in a marble kennel with a plush bed, and wee-wee pads, howling the night away any longer.

Good thing that, that’s a really good thing.

Now Freud is a three-year-old, fully grown, fully trained, fawn-colored French Bulldog who walks by my side off lead, and answers to verbal command. Sometimes Freud answers with great indignity, actually oft-times (but cute that, cute), but Freud answers to command.

Freud always answers, just so slowly sometimes.

Sooooo slowly…

But Freud always answers.

Always.

And Freud stays un-kenneled in the house now too. Freud un-kenneled and un-howling, both things are good.

Very good.

Peace in the castle reigns:

peace in the castle.

And since there hasn’t been any "peace" in a long, long time, "peace" is good.

Peace is very, very good!

2

We’ve arrived at a destination Freud and I, we’ve arrived; or perhaps we’re just not where we were.

I get confused sometimes.

There was so much insecurity, so much illness, so much death, so much tension, so much angst around me for so long before that I lost sight of the individual details and just stayed confused. It all blurred those details, they all blurred. And it was easier for me that way. I didn’t feel the pain so much. I didn’t feel the loss. I didn’t miss things as much: Mitch, Ziggy, my health, my family, my friends, the business, money.

I just moved on.

And move on I do.

I’m on this new trip today, a new voyage, a new journey, and I have no idea where I’m going. I suppose I never did know before as I travelled, as before I just went. But this time it’s different. I consciously took myself here. I worked at this, and worked at this, and worked at this, and pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and manipulated, and finally I’m here.

Here…

And Here is, well:

Here.

And Here is pretty, and safe, and secure, and comfortable, and Freud is happy and Freud howls no longer, and no one has died, and no one is sick; or at least no one is any sicker than they were before.

Here…

I’m Here.

And Here is fine.

But I’ve never done "fine" before.

And I’ve never been Here before.

I wonder where this will go?

3

Before I was Here, I was There.

I was There a long time.

And There was a beautiful abode, truly beautiful. There was a canal front house, with a pool, tumbled marble patios and terrace, four bedrooms, living room, kitchen, and a formal dining room. There was impeccably renovated, and furnished smartly.

There was located in Bay Harbor Estates, a beautiful gated community just 10 minutes from the heart of downtown Miami city center, and 15 minutes from chic and trendy South Beach, Miami Beach, Florida.

There was where I ran when I had to escape my old life in New York City. Yes, before I was Here, I was There, and before I was There, I was at those other "There’s" I’d previously inhabited in New York City, Jersey City, NJ, and East Hampton, NY.

All of my other lives have been at a There.

There was where I always was when I wasn’t Here.

To be, or not to be?

Serious…

I have to get serious.

Serious!

OK…

I’ll be serious.

There, I’ve always been at a "There".

Only…

Only now…

I’m not.

Now I’m not There, now I’m Here.

Here…

4

Here…

And Here ain’t bad.

Here is in the "City of the Village of Miami Shores", only some five minutes north of Bay Harbor Estates and hence some 15 minutes north of the sophistication that is downtown Miami/Brickell and some 20 minutes north of the trendy, chic environs, of South and Miami Beach.

Here is a two bedroom, split floor plan house of some 2,033 square feet (under air), on a 9,000 square foot lot, finished with cove ceilings (that’s ceilings with insets for those of you who don’t know about those things), Crema de Marfil marble floors, snazzy Bisazza glass tile trimmed, marble tiled bathrooms, granite topped kitchen counters, and deluxe, hurricane impact, triple wide glass windows letting the Florida sunlight stream in and sparkle over the marble, snazzy glass tile, granite, and stainless steel scattered all around the house.

It’s all so upscale that it almost makes me retch.

And I had all of the furniture redone to match the new digs before I moved in.

Yep…

I planned all of this stuff, each and every piece of it. I searched for this place and hard, 40, 50, maybe 60 houses did I look at, and finally Here.

I chose Here.

Crema de Marfil marble floors, granite, stainless steel, snazzy Bisazza…

Here…

I chose Here.

Here…

And Here is turning out to be a great choice.

I’m more than a little comfortable. The space is more than a little spacious. There’s only me and Freud in residence and we ramble around from room to room with impunity; breakfast at the granite breakfast bar, lunch at the eat-in breakfast room table under a grand crystal chandelier, dinner in the dining room, music in the living room, TV in the family room.

Oh…

Daily we ramble around the house with impunity and wanton abandon, ramble, ramble, ramble. But the house is pretty silent, totally devoid of voices, and that silence hurts me. And there are no memories Here, no memories of anything, no memories of Mitch, no memories of Gal, no memories of Ziggy, there are no memories Here.

Memories…

And I haven’t gotten laid Here, and I haven’t been well Here.

Sooooo…

So there are no memories of consequence Here.

No memories…

And yet, and yet, and yet, and yet… and yet, I haven’t died Here and I did almost do that There. So maybe Here is better,

But There…

There…

I was There so long, twelve years I was There. And I wanted to be There until I died. That’s why I put so much effort, and spent so much money on developing There. I wanted There to be the last place I lived.

And There almost was.

But I didn’t die There.

Nooooo…

I didn’t die There, I almost died There, but I didn’t. Ziggy died There.

Ziggy…

Memories…

And Mitch died There.

MITCH…

Well…

Mitch didn’t die There physically, in the house.

Nooooo…

Mitch died on a driveway miles and miles away physically. But emotionally for me, Mitch died There. As Mitch had lived There emotionally with me, Mitch died There emotionally for me. And right now I feel as if I’ve died emotionally too because I didn’t want to leave There, and leave my memories.

Memories…

All of my memories are There. Just like all of my other memories of any credibility are at the There(s) of before too. I have no memories of any credibility Here yet. Lots of pretty rooms do I have. Lots of pretty Crema De Marfil marble, and granite, and stainless steel, and snazzy Bisazza glass tiles do I have, but new memories of any credibility, no, none

Nooooo…

I have no memories of any credibility Here. No memories do I have, this place is filled with stuff, fine stuff, pretty stuff, my stuff, and yet…

It’s empty.

But There…

Yesssss…

Memories of credibility I had There, and at the There(s) before that, memories at, and of, all of those There(s).

Memories…

There…

Memories…

5

Memories…

My last close relative, my Father, died five days after September 11, 2001. Yeah, that’s right, Dad died five days after the Twin Towers came down and all of New York City imploded.

Memories…

For the first time in my life I was responsible to no one except myself, everyone was gone. My Mother, my Grandmother, my Father, all of them, gone. There was just me now in a pretty, renovated, 1856 Federal Townhouse in Jersey City, NJ, me with my adorable dog, my first French Bulldog Ziggy, all of my memories from all of those other There(s) of before, and a stratified, frozen and decaying 12-year-old relationship with Gal.

That relationship with Gal had been dying, along with my Father, for years, but my Father died first, leaving me to face an empty reality with an empty relationship still at hand. I didn’t know what to do, so at first I did nothing. And at first nothing was all I could, or wanted, to do.

Memories…

Then I had to escape.

Memories…

So on October 31, Halloween morning, 2001, I put my adorable white Frenchie, Ziggy, into my BMW X5 along with my suitcase, computer, and cell phone, and left on an indeterminate road trip to find my middle-aged self.

And at first I just drove South on I-95.

Miami…

I was going to Miami.

But I didn’t, somewhere around Jacksonville I had second thoughts about being alone in Miami.

"ALONE" in Miami filled me with trepidation just then.

And then I remembered, that I had old, old friends, older than me by decades, and great friends of mine for decades, residing in a small Florida Gulf Coast town near Charlotte Harbor and there I would go.

I remembered that there was a waterside Holiday Inn not far from their home, and that the Holiday Inn was located near a supermarket and all-around mini shopping center. And there was a small harborside park with a beach right next door for Ziggy. The location was perfect, and so with my cell phone I called information, and then the hotel, and then with a confirmation number for a reservation for a mini-suite for a week in hand, I drove off down I-75 from Jacksonville with a new destination in mind.

But I didn’t stay at the Holiday Inn, in a mini-suite, for a week.

Nooooo…

… for a week I did not stay. I stayed ensconced in that suite for 17 days, 17 days of tranquility, peace, and quiet. For the first time in what seemed to be forever I wasn’t writhing with tension, so I pushed the window.

I was content.

And content I stayed for 17 days.

Memories…

On the morning of the 18th day I left.

Memories…

I told my friends that I was going home, back to New York.

That was the information they expected to hear, the information that I think they wanted to hear, and the information they would understand. They knew almost everything about my life, my business, my Mother, my Father, my houses, my tensions, they knew almost everything about me. But as with all relationships, some things were held back, either by convenience, necessity, or duplicity, but held back nonetheless.

These people lived in a small, quiet town in Charlotte County, Florida, with all of its family values and small town America peccadilloes, with their son, his wife, and their grandchildren nearby.

And me?

Meeeee…

I lived in that Gomorrah of the North with its constant noise, and tumult, and relationship confusion, and so some things just never got said.

So on the 18th day I was going home, back.

Except…

Except I wasn’t.

After 17 days of small town Florida life, and small town family values, I needed a return to Big City life, and Big City values, so I was going to Manhattan South. Now I was going to Miami, Miami Beach to be specific, to South Beach actually.

South Beach…

And at around noon on the 18th day I arrived.

Let the party begin.

Memories…

6

Miami, Miami Beach actually, South Beach…

On day 18 on my road trip of re-discovery here I finally was in South Beach, Miami Beach, Florida, and oh, all the people do I see, and oh, all the noise. Bye-bye to the quiet, and all of the lower middle class Caucasian homogeneity of Charlotte Harbor, and hello…

Hello to:

Wham, Bang, Pop!

All the world comes to Miami Beach to party, South America in particular, but all of Europe, and Asia, are represented too. And that party was going on everyplace I looked once I exited off the Mac Arthur Causeway and into South Beach proper.

There were masses of people walking everywhere visible to me on the main drags of Ocean Drive, Collins Avenue, and Washington Avenue as I made my way to my hotel. I was proceeding down those streets slowly as traffic was stop and go, and mostly stopped more than once.

My driver’s side window was open and I could hear, and identify, different languages as I was stopped in that traffic. Spanish sounds were omnipresent. And Italian was a common accent overheard, as was French. The bespoke tones of British English resonated by frequently. And guttural German was heard often, along with some language sounds that I couldn’t identify specifically, but that seemed to have the overtones of Eastern Europe.

And there were Asians abounding, all kinds of Asians: Koreans, Japanese, Chinese.

And there were masses of Jews, the Orthodox, notable for their heavy black clothes, dark heavy garments worn in that oppressive heat (and often with aviator sun glasses, go figure), and tropically dressed Israeli Jews mouthing off loudly as only Israelis can mouth off, with more sedately dressed native born American Jews mixing in with their Israeli and Orthodox brethren.

And Blacks were everywhere, native African-Americans abounded aplenty. And there were people from all parts of Africa present and identified as such by the striking native garb they were wearing. There were also native island peoples from the Caribbean present, and often in native garb too. But there was some tension there as the Haitians were not liking Jamaicans, the Jamaicans not liking Bahamians, the Bahamians not liking the Trinidadians, and no one, no one, White, Black, Jewish, European, or Asian, "no one", liking the Cubans. And the Cubans were everywhere, like cockroaches, or like Puerto Ricans in New York City, they were everywhere.

Everywhere…

And just like in New York City everyone got along. In Miami Beach, November 2001, no one cared who was black, white, or other; racial equanimity was apparent and rampant. The only thing that mattered was money. If you had money, sit down and have a cocktail, Asian, Black, White, Jew, European, Cuban, party.

Party…

But no money:

go away.

And fast!

Just like New York City that; "money" was the great equalizer in that society too. And since I had money, I was equal.

Equal…

And so I was home, after 20 days on the road, I was home.

Home…

Manhattan South…

Memories…

Miami and Miami Beach, New York City with palm trees, Manhattan in the tropics (or the semi tropics), or whatever, but I was "home".

HOME!

So I took Ziggy for a walk.

Memories…

7

Ziggy and I walked right out the front door of our beachfront, boutique, luxury hotel in SOFI (South Of Fifth), South Beach and made an immediate left turn to walk on and up Ocean Drive, towards Lincoln Road for an outdoor cocktail, and dinner.

It was early so this was going to be our late afternoon meander and reconnaissance. And meander was all we could do as Ocean Drive was packed with late afternoon beach-goers just heading home, or to the local beachside Bars for early evening Happy Hour. And then there were all of those other people rushing to the beach for those last late afternoon rays, or for those same Happy Hour cocktails.

Vehicle traffic on the road was at a standstill as drivers fought each other for parking spaces. And sidewalk traffic was snail-like slow with skateboarders, bikers, and in-line skaters muscling lowly pedestrians to the side as they all tried to make their way wherever they were going.

And all of this noise, all of this activity, all of this LIFE was taking place on what you knew was a regular, daily, basis, just some nine or ten weeks after the disaster that was the fall of the Twin Towers in New York City.

Memories…

New York was still in shock when I ran away, beginning to stir, but still in shock. But Miami Beach never seemed to hiccup. Miami Beach, South Beach was just like the life and activity I knew in New York City before the Twin Towers came down, life before my Father died.

LIFE moving forward just like before.

Only it was warm here. And there were palm trees everywhere. And there was laughter, lots and lots of laughter all around. And it was warm, very warm, it was very, very "warm".

It was so pleasantly warm.

And I smiled as I walked, I smiled a lot.

Memories…

8

Ziggy and I had been meandering up Ocean Drive for about an hour when we made the left turn into the first of two city streets that lead to the Mall that is Lincoln Road.

The heat of the day was still intense, and what with the exhausts from the taxis, buses, cars, and trucks, the air was fetid with fumes and little bits of flying dust. I couldn’t wait to crest the Mall and escape the traffic. So we quickened our pace as much as possible and made our entrance onto the strip that the sign at the very beginning proclaimed:

The First Pedestrian Mall in America

The Lincoln Road Mall

And just as we walked by the ATM machine that begins the stretch towards the first of what must be 100’s of restaurants, cafes, bars, and shops, I faintly heard my name being called out.

At first I wasn’t sure, but a second or two later:

"Eric?

…

Eric?

…

Is that you?"

The last part of the phrase was much louder than the first, like the person speaking got more sure of themselves as they called out. I couldn’t not hear that last part, and since it was me, I turned and looked and…

Memories…

It was Antonio, an old friend from New York City, and San Juan, P.R. who I hadn’t seen in some eight, or nine, or ten years.

Antonio…

I didn’t know that Antonio had gone to Miami; Mars had been my choice of destinations for him when we lost contact so long ago. But here Antonio was in Miami Beach, on Lincoln Road, and here I was in Miami Beach, and now, and now, and now, well NOW I was no longer alone. Sayeth I:

Let’s go get a drink…

And off we do go to the bar.

Let the party begin.

Memories…

Damn…

Memories…

9

I had met Antonio some 14, 15, or 16 years prior on one of my frequent (three or four), yearly winter jaunts to San Juan, and we were never more than good, casual friends with each other, good, casual friends and in some contact.

And in contact was all we stayed.

Casually…

When we were actively friends we spoke often, and we went to dinner together. I even let Antonio use a spare room in my apartment for three months once when he first moved to New York City from San Juan and was attempting to get settled in the Big City.

Memories…

But I never saw Antonio naked, and I never touched him. I was never intimate with Antonio in any way.

I was intimate with someone Antonio knew, someone Antonio introduced me to a long time ago in San Juan. That happened the night Antonio and I first met, in another lifetime that event, in another Century even. So with his acquaintance, his friend, I was intimate, but with Antonio no.

Never!

And that’s all another story, and for another time.

Memories…

But I remembered Antonio well, and somewhat fondly, even though that fondness was distant. And I was happy to see him now. And why not? I had no reason not to be happy. Antonio and I had never had a fight. We had never exchanged bad words. We’d just drifted apart, our interests going in different directions as I settled into my relationship with Gal, and my new life outside of New York City in the village of East Hampton, New York, and Antonio settled into his new life in the Big Apple. Gal and Antonio were friendly for more than a couple of years too, but like I said before, time, different interests, different needs, different agendas, and we all drew apart.

Memories…

Eight or nine years had passed since I had seen, spoken to, or thought of Antonio once, and here Antonio was sitting across a café table from me on the Lincoln Road Mall in South Beach drinking a Cuba Libre` (that’s a rum and coke with a piece of fresh lime in it for those who don’t know. The Cuba Libre was a very South Beach in drink you know, pre Mojitos that, a pre-Mojitos South Beach in drink, but very, very South Beach in still.

IN…

And Antonio was always "Very, Very"…

VERY…

IN…

Always.

Memories…

10

Memories…

As we drank our cocktails, he his Cuba Libre`, me, I had a rum punch with tropical fruit juices, dark rum, a piece of pineapple, an orange slice, a very red maraschino cherry, and a green paper umbrella (everyone has to have one drink on Lincoln Road, or Ocean Drive, in South Beach with a paper umbrella in it, "everyone"), we spoke of why I was in Miami in November before Thanksgiving.

No Americans were in South Beach around then, the Americans were coming the next week, for Thanksgiving, and then again for the start of the Winter Season some 21 days after, around December 15th. But now, in mid-November, Americans…

… Americans in South Beach?

No!

Europe was there, Asia was there, South America was there, Cuba was everywhere, but Americans?

No.

So why was I there?

Yeah…

Why?

Memories…

So over drinks I told Antonio why, about my need to "find" myself, and possibly consider a new start in a new place. And at that point Antonio stopped me and said:

"Well you can’t make a decision like that based on a place like South Beach.

South Beach is a fantasy.

If you’re going to make that kind of a change you have to see Miami.

Pick me up tomorrow at my apartment at three p.m. and I’ll take you to some areas of Miami where a lot of people like you have bought houses, renovated them, and made a lot of money.

You can’t do that here in South Beach anymore.

So let me show you them."

And I said:

"Sounds like a plan.

Sure."

Memories…

SHIT!

Memories…

It’s the first, and only time Antonio ever had anything of substantive, or positive, value to say to me. The first and only time. And it was a life changer.

Memories…

11

As Antonio left, hunger set in and right next door to where we had been cocktailing was an Italian restaurant that both Ziggy and I were familiar with.

As we were seated at a prime front patio table one row off the mall traffic walking by, I noticed that my patio dining table-mates were chic South Beach hipsters, an older, middle-aged dude trying desperately to be hipper then he could ever be, and his waif thin, much younger, pretty, Asian, girlfriend. The Dude was dismissive of the lady’s presence, enamored of his cell phone, and constantly jumping up from the table, leaving the pretty lady, now with a bored, but amused, look on her face, all by her lonesome.

Ms. Left-Alone-Lady smiled at us somewhat quizzically when we were seated, as if to ask:

How’d you beat the line? …

… and then went back into her own world, at least until the food came. When the food arrived, her mildly amused, quizzical look became a direct stare, and as I enjoyed my appetizer of pasta with prosciutto, onions, fresh tomato, herbs, and cream, she couldn’t contain herself and asked me:

Does he always eat like that?

He was Ziggy.

You see I was eating one piece of pasta and sauce, and Ziggy was eating one piece of pasta and sauce. That was always our pattern some nights on vacation. If it was late and if I couldn’t get a plain piece of grilled chicken, or pork, or beef, to go with the dry kibble I kept in the suite, Ziggy and I shared dinner. We shared everything but my martini and my salad as Ziggy didn’t like lettuce, and alcohol (though he liked it), was a no-no for canines (and I didn’t want to share).

Memories…

The Asian Lady was overly amused at Ziggy’s voracious appetite for human food, and my willingness to feed it, excitedly amused even. And as her gold chain bedecked, black leather (way too tight), pants clad swain, was away from the table (AGAIN), we introduced ourselves to each other and started to talk.

So we talked, and we talked. What did I do for a living? Why was I in Miami in November before Thanksgiving?

And each broad question led to more specific questions and by the time Mr. Studly in Leather came back to the table to dine she and I were friendly acquaintances. She, Roxanne, knew all about why I was in South Beach in November before Thanksgiving, and I had learned what she and her boyfriend did for a living, they were in real estate.

It was all very superficial and very entertaining, but before dinner was over Roxanne got me to wax poetic about what I liked about the Florida lifestyle I had experienced on the West Coast, and the fantasy I was now experiencing on the East Coast, and what, just what kind of life I might like for myself if I came down for a longer, or permanent, stay.

And that question was asked directly twice, first:

Would you want to live here permanently?

And next as a blurt:

In what, where, when?

And to all those questions I had to stop and think, my thoughts weren’t formed yet.

Roxanne finished with:

Call me if you ever get serious?

Memories…

12

Memories…

That next day, Antonio conducted his tour.

Antonio was excited to show me what he knew, it was as if he was going to repay me for my efforts at helping him adjust to New York City way back when. And there’s a lot of similarity there, a lot. As when Antonio came to New York City it was a definite case of English as a second language, and for me in Miami, back in 2001, shit, even more so today, it’s still a case of English as a second language.

And that’s sad.

There are areas down here in South Florida, miles and miles of homes and shops, a whole city even (Hialeah), where English isn’t spoken. Go to the Dadeland Mall, and it’s HUGE, home to a Macy’s anchor store and many, many others, and speak English, and you won’t get waited on.

And that’s not just "sad", that’s simply wrong.

This is America, English is the language of the land. Anyone in America should be able to speak whatever language they want to speak at home, with their friends, their family, their neighbors, and live every day at home as they like. They should forever be able to do that, this is America after all. But out in the mainstream world of American Society, the workaday, school, shopping, everyplace else world, they should assimilate.

Assimilate.

Assimilate damn it!

The cultural norms of America should be obeyed in the everyplace-else world outside of your homestead, and the common language of the land spoken by all should be English; and all people should be respected, and served, equally, in public everywhere.

Assimilate damn it!

People who chose America, people who made the conscious decision to live here, people who want to be here, people who want to attempt to build better lives for themselves, for their families, should assimilate to the cultural norms of the place where they’ve chosen to reside.

ASSIMILATE!

If they hunger for, and want to be in Havana, or San Juan, or Caracas, or Bogotá, then they should go back to Cuba, Puerto Rico, Venezuela, or Colombia. But if they want to be here, in America, assimilate, learn the language, and interface freely with the rest of the populace; but no, not the Cubans.

Nooooo…

Not the Cubans, they don’t interface with any non-Cubanos if they can avoid it. And they don’t learn to speak English if they can avoid that too. The Cubanos ghettoize their lives and environments (think of the Dadeland Mall, and the city of Hialeah mentioned before). And the Cubanos thereby marginalize immediate opportunity for success in their adult lives, and they marginalize the future success of their children too. Current Cuban society perpetuates the norms, and customs previously lived in their abandoned homeland. And the children, their next generation, are being raised under those dictums, and outside of the norms, and common values, of American society.

They don’t assimilate!

So now, this day, Antonio was going to take me, and show me, and learn me, and protect me, from the fantasy I was currently engaged in, and from the ethnics he’d decided I didn’t want to associate with. And so off we went, and we toured first (as Antonio referred to it), Miami Shores, a much too homogenous Caucasian suburbia to me.

Hated it!

And then Antonio guided me to an ethnically mixed urban/suburban Bay Harbor Estates located in Miami city proper.

Paradise.

Memories…

And in Bay Harbor Estates, wouldn’t you know it, on a narrow, tree-lined interior street, I saw a small, Art Deco Spanish Mediterranean style, two-story house, with a pool, for sale. Now I’m a sucker for Art Deco. And I’m a sucker for Spanish Mediterranean. And a pool, well…

I just have to have a house with a pool.

And so…

And so I whipped out my cell phone and I called a very surprised Roxanne.

Memories…

The next day a very cool, self-possessed, and professional Roxanne picked me up in a black C-class Mercedes for another tour, only this time of houses, and not areas.

Memories…

Off we went, with Roxanne speaking from the moment the car lurched forward. Roxanne started speaking to me forcefully just as I buckled my seat-belt. Roxanne instantly made her disdain for my initial Florida housing choice apparent.

And it wasn’t that I had made a bad choice per se.

Nooooo…

It wasn’t that I had made a bad initial choice of house, or area, at all.

It was just that the house that I had chosen wasn’t on the water. And Roxanne knew from those fantasies I’d expressed that night over dinner, that my fantasy, my deep down desire, was for a quiet canal front home like the one my friends had in Charlotte Harbor, only in Miami.

Roxanne knew.

And Roxanne had found one, in Bay Harbor Estates even.

In:

"Paradise".

And we were going to tour it.

Now.

Memories…

13

Memories…

Damn!

Memories…

On first view the waterfront house in Bay Harbor Estates was a non-descript Key-West style, two-story, nothing. The house was an ugly pus-yellow colored, stucco structure. It was a 100% straight lined, ugly, unadorned, pus-yellow box, on a stilt-supported platform, surrounded by a chain link fence with an electric gate for entry. There was very little landscaping in the front yard. You could see faint glints of canal water through the stilts of the platform looking east from the street towards Biscayne Bay. Otherwise, there was no softness or detail to the structure at all, none.

None!

And it went downhill from there.

The metal front door into the house was painted fire-engine-red. And that red door stuck out from the pus-yellow stucco exterior like coagulated blood around an almost amputated limb.

It was just nasty looking.

And once through that metal, fire-engine-red, front door, you entered an austere double height foyer with a humongous green verdigris chandelier perched overhead. Immediately in front of you was a large, angled, yellow wood, pine, stairway with brown/black rubber tread covered steps, leading up to the main floor. It was like the entry foyer to a low security reformatory; you wanted to leave immediately.

But could you?

Up those stairs we proceeded, but slowly, slowly.

Me first, Roxanne right behind me.

Slowly…

Once at the top of the stairs, I moved away from the upper landing area and then I slowly turned to face forward into the main living room/family room combination. I was appalled by what I saw. At first look the interior was decrepit and filthy. I instantly noted that the bathroom glimpsed from afar would have to be gutted, that walls would have to come down, that exterior doors, and windows, would have to be replaced. I sensed that major renovations were required just for the place to be habitable. And all of this information goes through my conscious mind fast, and from a mere "glimpse", as I’m slowly turning around in place to get familiar with the space.

All of this information was processed from only a passing glimpse!

But, as my broad, slow turning, over view glimpse continued, as I turned to face fully forward, there, directly in front of me, through the sliding glass doors to the terrace some 27’ away, there~

There in the distance…

… the view.

First I saw the bright Florida sunlight, and the bright blue, cloudless, Florida sky, then the glistening canal water below, and next the tall palm trees swaying slowly in the breeze, and finally, far across a wide canal, far, far across at that, an old, white, 60’ wooden yacht was bobbing slowly up and down at its mooring. A classic, OLD, beautiful, white yacht was moored directly across the canal from the house; an old white yacht calmly, serenely, bobbing up and down on the water.

And…

From my lips jumped out the words:

Oh shit, this is perfect!

Memories…

14

Memories…

Oh shit this is perfect…

… was over $125,000 more than I could afford. And "perfect" or not, I wasn’t going that far overboard on a fantasy. And soon Roxanne grabbed my arm, and next two more houses did we tour, and finally, finally, when back in the black C-class Mercedes Roxanne spoke:

"Eric…

Remember your priorities, remember your values…

… remember your fantasies!

And remember that what you think you want today you might outgrow very, very quickly!"

And so…

And so my real estate tour ended in disappointment.

Disappointment!

Reality, what a concept.

Memories…

And two days later per my invitation, Gal arrived in Florida for a short weekend stay, and we reconciled as I’d planned, again.

Again!

MEMORIES…

Reality.

My reality.

Memories…

As planned, and on schedule, reconciled Gal left Sunday evening to return to NYC for work the next day, Monday.

That same Monday morning, Roxanne called me.

15

Surprised me Roxanne’s call did.

Surprised me!

Why was Roxanne calling?

Roxanne was calling because this was November 2001, just some ten weeks after 9/11 and the disaster that befell the World Trade Center. The party that was Miami Beach had never waffled as that crisis up north went down, and that "Party" was going handily along now, but the business that was Miami/Miami Beach Real Estate had crashed along with those fallen Twin Towers, and nothing was selling in Miami Beach/Miami still.

Nothing was even showing.

And Roxanne was doing no business of late, and since my business was possible.

Sooooo…

In conversation with Roxanne in the car after our tour, Roxanne had gotten me to admit that the Bay Harbor Estates Waterfront Mansion was the best of the properties seen that day, and that if I pushed myself I could raise $20,000 more for a down payment. That meant I could tolerate a higher top price sales point, which meant that my $80,000 could realize a property of $420,000. And I admitted then that I could max out at 420K. But that was still $75,000 less than the current asking price, and the current asking price had just been cut from $525,000, and so whom were we kidding?

…

So why was Roxanne calling?

Memories…

So why?

Roxanne was calling because the waterfront house that needed $250,000 in renovations just to be livable, would be mine for $424,000, that’s why.

I didn’t even breathe, I just said:

Sold!

Memories…

16

And that’s how I bought There.

And so, sooooo, so much happened There.

So, sooooo much…

There is where I met Mitch, just three months after I moved in. There is where I put all my savings as I thought I would live in that house until I died. There is where the brain tumors that I had since birth overwhelmed me, and I did almost die. And There is where I returned after brain surgery had made me a cripple, and There is where I learned how to walk a second time, two years did that process take, two years.

Two fucking years of being no place but There.

Two fucking years…

And There was where Gal brought Ziggy to me every weekend for 18 months so that I could be with the dog and not be all alone. Every week Gal came with the dog. Without fail that visit took place, every week. And There was where Mitch brought a living skeleton back to life with care, affection, sex, and love. And There was where Mitch died 28 months after I returned home. And There was where my Little Man Ziggy died seven weeks after Mitch.

And finally, finally, finally, There was where Freud came in to my life two weeks after Ziggy died.

And after all of that, There was where I had to leave to get the necessary equity that my now disabled self, and Freud, need to live on, Here.

HERE…

So Here, that’s why I’m Here.

Here…

17

Gal returns from Tel Aviv this Sunday at 11 a.m., he wants me to pick him up at the airport; I haven’t decided if I will, or not.

If I do pick him up, I’ll have to use my car.

Gal’s car has been parked on my back driveway parking pad for the last month, and I won’t go in it again. Besides being dirty with clothes, papers, and wrappers of all kinds scattered about, the car smells of dead fish and sweaty people. Along with the dirt and smells, the windshield has a nine-inch crack just off the center mirror, making the vehicle unsafe to drive in addition to its being filthy, and smelly.

I went into the vehicle once while Gal was away. I had to move it so the gardener could trim the bushes nearby. And the smell, compounded by a week’s worth of unventilated Florida sunlight and heat was overpowering, simply overpowering. I almost passed out.

Nooooo…

I won’t go in that car again.

I’ll just use my car and bring Gal his keys. Maybe that way Gal won’t come into the house and he’ll just transfer the luggage to his car in the back driveway and motor off to Key West. But I know Gal won’t do that. Gal hasn’t seen Freud in a month so into the house he and his luggage will come.

And the games will start again.

Gal was in Israel for a long stay this time, usually he goes for 17 days or so, but this trip was a 27, 28, or 30 day extravaganza. I know there was a minor, though, involved, dental procedure planned, and there was a wedding of a distant relative or friend, three, or four, times removed, to attend. And of course his three children and two Lesbian wives, and his twice married, twice divorced, all devouring spinster of a sister, his Mother, the DRAGON LADY, and his two brothers and their elongated families of in-laws, and cousins, and on, and on, and on, and on to be visited, and attended to.

I know of the intimate family three (the sister, and the two brothers), pretty well. The middle brother, his wife, and two children stayed with us in East Hampton, and Manhattan, many times years ago. There were nine of them at the beach house, nine of them, on one East Hampton visit. And I know Gal is devoted to them all. From a distance only, and from a great distance at that, but Gal’s devotion is always present.

From a distance yesssss… but "devoted" to them all Gal is nonetheless.

I know all of that.

18

All of the intimate family members that I know are from Gal’s pre-America, pre-leaving Israel, historic period.

That period was before, and right after, Gal was in the Israeli Army. That period was before Gal left Israel on his "coming out" world tour to become an illegal alien in the United States. All of those people in Israel are from that 22-year period of Gal’s life where he didn’t know me.

The two Lesbian "wives" and the three children, them I don’t know.

Gal refuses to speak to me about them, or show me pictures, or even speak to them on his phone in my presence when they call him on weekends and he’s here. Gal will show the voluminous pictures he collects of this modern family to others whenever he’s asked for details on their conditions, lives, current events, and happenings, but even if I’m in the group, the next one down from the passing photos, he pulls the photos away and speaks softly to the others so that I might not hear the details of the goings on.

It’s bizarre behavior, and it’s tired now.

So tired…

The oldest child, a boy, four and half years old, was born in October some eight days before my brain surgery. Gal returned to the United States the day I was operated on, and came from the Miami Airport directly to my hospital room with his luggage in tow.

Gal came to my hospital room every weekend for seven weeks after that, and stayed with me in that room for two nights before I was released as the hospital wouldn’t release me if a paid hospital attendant was still required for overnight care. I had to be unattended at night to go home.

And I couldn’t really be.

So for two nights, Gal stayed with me in my hospital room.

And then I went home, and Gal went back to Key West that same day. And I was unattended then. I was in my own house, but all alone. Gal couldn’t stay with me any further weekdays, or weeknights, as Gal had to work. But no matter that, others were able to help: Johan, Grace.

And Mitch, Mitch was around a lot.

19

I’m in recovery (sic) over four years now, and Gal’s son, the little boy in Israel will be five this October.

I knew nothing about the child at first. I only found out the boy existed some 15 months after he was born. It was early May, about a year and a quarter after I got home from the Hospital. Gal told me at dinner one Saturday night that he was going to Israel for the entire month of August as a Lesbian friend of his was giving birth to fraternal twin girls, and he was the father.

Yesssss…

It was said to me, explained, exactly that way, conversationally, over coffee after dinner. It was said casually, completely without emotion or any flowery expression at all. And as I sat there, somewhat dumbfounded, taking a moment to reel it all in, Gal next blurted out the existence of the boy, and his fatherhood of same, from a birth some 15 months prior.

Only this time Gal beamed as he spoke of the child’s existence.

Gal just glowed with pride.

And I sat still in shock saying nothing at first, and then mouthing soft expressions like:

"Good for you…

How nice…"

When?

…

And again slightly louder, normally, as I’d found my voice, so again:

WHEN?

…

And then the story burst forth.

It seems that some three, or perhaps four, years before, on one of Gal’s shorter twice, or thrice, yearly jaunts to Tel Aviv to see Mon, Spinster Sis, the Bro’s, and their extended families, Gal had gotten bored and gone to see an old, old friend that he hadn’t seen in years. This lady friend had been in New York City for a bit when Gal and I first met. I met her back then, briefly, but I met her, but she left NYC shortly thereafter, and Gal hadn’t seen her since.

Back in New York, when we’d met, she’d been gay but uncommitted, like Gal. But since returning to Tel Aviv, and resettling in Israel, she’d found a partner and they set up a full-time house-keeping gig. These two ladies had been living together for years by the time she and Gal rekindled their friendship, and the only thing missing from their committed relationship, the only thing missing to complete their lives as a couple, as a Modern Family in Tel Aviv, was children.

Over mucho gatherings the next week it was decided that Gal would become the sperm donor and the male titular head of their soon-to-be larger family. It was further decreed that Gal would send $500 per month, per child (they were planning on one child each) or $1,000 per month to Israel so that the children would be brought up in relative financial security and comfort.

And for this $1,000 monthly fee Gal would get to be called Daddy.

Some time over the next few days, whilst seeking shelter from the hot Israeli summer sun, bored but now purposeful Gal journeyed to a Tel Aviv sperm bank and made a prodigious donation. And some 14 months later the boy was born, 18 months after that came the twin fraternal girls.

The other seven embryos were destroyed. And now, month, after month, after month, year, after year, after year, Gal wires $1,500 a month to Tel Aviv.

And Gal is called Daddy often.

Daddy.

20

It gets complicated now, but I have to tell of it or the pieces won’t mesh, yet it’s so damned complicated, and so damn dicey.

"Complicated and dicey"…

And I don’t want to revel in it once again as I get angry, depressed, resentful, sad, maudlin, and PISSED all at once.

But, but, but…

BUT…

It’s because of that boredom, because of that prodigious sperm donation, because of those three children, it’s because of all of that…

… that I’m Here and not There.

Yesssss…

I now reside Here because of all of that.

And I’m not happy.

Nooooo…

I’m not happy at all.

Not happy!

21

But first, There, how did I get There, I’ve related how I bought There, but how did I come to reside There permanently?

Well…

Memories…

After Gal and I separated some 15 years ago I rediscovered both my social and my sex life. It kind of helped that my business was dying right about then. But that’s a separate long story, and the short story is that I had a lot of money put away, good health, and a lot of free time on my hands, so I went out a lot to see friends. I went out to dinner, out for drinks, or to the theater, the ballet, art galleries, some museums, a day trip outside of the City here, longer weekends in East Hampton away from Jersey City there.

I just focused on me and what I wanted to do all the time, and whenever I wanted to do it.

Let the party begin.

Memories…

It all came on slowly, but I went from a 60-hour workweek to a 40-hour plus party week schedule. Between weekend guests, both platonic and sexual, at the East Hampton abode, and the five, six, or seven hours a night I would spend out to dinner with friends, or at a Gay Boite` listening to piano bar music, I was engaged in satisfying whatever part of my ego that wanted to be satisfied whenever it demanded satisfaction.

And I never figured it out.

There I was, middle-aged, soft, not flabby or unsightly, but not buff, surely not buff, with a Friar Tuck fringe around an unwrinkled face, moving and grooving with people 20, and sometimes almost 30 years younger than myself.

I’d wanted to get:

back out in traffic …

… after I ousted Gal from my life, and I there I was. And I was hit. I was "hit" by a lot of oncoming motorcycles, cars, and trucks in that "traffic".

And a lot.

There was Mr. Spanish, (AKA Fred), the Spanish Mid-Century Art and Antiques Dealer with his own gallery off Madison Avenue, near the cross street of the Museum of Modern Art. And there was Dale, a 29-year-old mixed race, Asian/African American gymnast of various talents. Dale was like that free amuse-bouche a four-star restaurant gives you before the meal, "entertaining", but not satisfying.

Then there was Skip, interior designer to the stars. Skip whose fulltime lover was Writer Emeritus at Princeton or some such, and 30 years Skip’s senior. They had some sort of an open relationship those two did during the week, and I became the regular weekly Wednesday night piece-on-the-side. And then along came Robby the operating room nurse. And finally, at the very end of my Party-Boy escapade, Bradley came along just before I sojourned away from Manhattan. Bradley, was a bicycle taxi driver to the New York City masses. What drama he was.

What a drama they all were, and all were handsome, and all were in great shape, "gym bunnies" all. And all of them wanted to be with me.

Yesssss…

… to be with me.

What a drama it all was (especially Bradley at the end, that one lingered for a long bit).

DRAMA!

Memories…

But I had all this time on my hands, and they had all these physical wants and emotional needs. So it all fit together like that proverbial hand in that proverbial velvet glove.

Yesssss…

It all fit together.

And I hated it.

I wasn’t that much of a Party-Boy.

Try as I might, and I did try, I wasn’t that much of a "Party-Boy". I was used to being a couple. And dating was treacherous. Dating back then was like walking on an unknown minefield where you put your foot down in the wrong place one minute, and instantly the world as you thought you knew it existed was gone. And there I was gaining weight from all the food, alcohol, laughter, good times, and sex.

And I hated it.

So Manhattan Playboy (sic) that I was, out about town until two, three, or four o’clock in the morning four, or five, nights a week, said:

"Whoa!"

No mas!

I need to escape…

Or I might hurt myself.

I wasn’t used to all of this fun, all of this stability, this laughter, the perpetual absence of fear, stress, and need. I had to get back to my normal, and where better to do that than where I knew no one, and nothing?

So Miami…

I would close up the New York City apartment for a short while, and try life at my now vacant house in Miami.

I would journey There.

Yesssss…

I would go There.

There…

22

And that’s just how I got There.

And There was I!

Memories…

THERE!

And I accomplished my primary goal immediately as There pretty much nixed the "Party-Boy" routine from jump as I had massive things to do, and not a clue of where to go out, or who to go to those places with. Nor was the house "There" yet, as it was the dump I first saw before purchase described previously, only worse for wear now. Everything that had been bad about the house before had been made worse by the rental tenants of the past fifteen months and their negligence and abuse.

And time, and the hot Florida sun itself, had increased the visual decay on the exterior walls pus-yellow paint, fading it unevenly, and bubbling it in spots. The garden was bereft of color, overgrown with weeds, and devoid of any charm. And inside the house, oh my… the rust on the appliances had spread. The Cuban Tile painted concrete floors had faded. The porcelain tiles in the bathrooms had been additionally chipped. And the already badly scarred, and previously abused fixtures around the house had all deteriorated further. And then there was that doublewide laundry closet, a "doublewide laundry closet" in the living room, staring back at me daily; a "laundry" in the living room.

A laundry…

Really…

A laundry?

And this was my home in Paradise?

And I didn’t know where to go out.

I had only gone out as a couple before in Miami. I had gone out, by myself, some, on that last trip to Miami when I was on my voyage of re-discovery, sure. But back then I thought I was still part of a couple. So in these first days of residence I didn’t know where to go, or what to do.

I knew no one of any substance in Miami, but Roxanne, and her boyfriend Mr. Studly Leather Pants wouldn’t share.

Of course I knew Antonio too, but no, not on a regular basis that. I couldn’t see Antonio with any regularity. I could never be with Antonio on a regular basis.

I’d be ill.

And even if I could have just used Antonio for whom he would’ve introduced me to, there was no value there. Antonio attracted, and bonded with likes usually, likes in the sense that they were similarly affected, only somewhat intelligent, vapid, non-substantial, low-end, but pretty, droids, like him. And I couldn’t do that on an everyday basis again. After all, I had left some "substantial", pretty, droids back in NYC just before, and I wasn’t going to go down that road here, not immediately upon arrival anyway.

Nooooo…

… not immediately upon arrival!

So I had all this time on my hands, and just then Gal called:

Memories…

How about lunch tomorrow?

I querulously replied:

Lunch?

And again:

"Lunch…"

I hadn’t seen Gal in over 2 ½ years by then.

We’d spoken, regularly, once every two months or so over that time. Gal would call regularly to ask about Ziggy. And those calls were devoid of tension, devoid of any pleasure too for that matter.

Devoid.

But Gal and I had 13 years of couplehood between us, and of course one dead, and one still living animal. And I had no anger left. Indeed, I had no real anger when I ended the relationship.

Indeed…

Sooooo…

Lunch?

Sure.

Lunch…

…

Let’s do lunch…

23

I felt protected when I agreed to go to lunch with Gal that day, I was secure with myself right about then.

My health was stable:

Good …

… the doctor said just two months previous at my yearly physical. The last 18 months had given me a lot of money, well over a million dollars in cash did I have, and my immediately passed social life had filled me with confidence, pleasure, and sex.

"Protected".

I felt protected.

All of that positive sense-of-self, and positive personal reality that I had experienced in New York before I came down to Miami was lingering about, and Brad (Bradley, the New York City Bicycle Taxi, Pedicab, driver), was arriving in two days for a four-day R & R turn in the hot, tropical, Florida sun. It was to be Brad’s third four-day visit, and I would have only been in Florida seven weeks.

This was towards the middle of our first relationship go around, and we had been playing with:

Perhaps we should try living together…

Memories…

And so Brad was trying out Florida in small four-day bursts, and often those bursts were during those first four months of my Florida residency.

Yesssss…

… often those bursts were.

Brad was here twice in September just after my arrival, and he planned on attending twice again in October, and twice in November to come, and twice yet again in December before the Christmas Holidays. We had agreed on a schedule of events through to the end of the year.

But in December there was trouble between us, we seemed to draw apart, so only one visit was planned for January next, and only one again in for early February, and then we had a hiatus in our involvement until April, and then another burst of togetherness, so two trips were planned for April, and two trips in May. But right then, on this October day where lunch was being discussed, Brad was arriving on the morrow. And Dale was mouthing off about a visit a little later in October. So regardless of what went down in a visit with Gal the next day, at this planned lunch, my life, as I had created it, would continue on apace the next day.

So "lunch" with Gal…

Sure.

I can do that.

"Lunch"…

We’ll do lunch…

And so lunch we did.

Lunch…

24

And so the date for lunch was established, and it arrived promptly as scheduled the next day.

And just as