Changing Tides

By Edward Elley

A fantastically lively novel that follows the story of Frankie Solomon as he leaves his life as a musician in New York and moves to a small Island in the south. There he discovers the hidden culture of modern day pirates, drugs and love that Island offered. Live Frankie’s life over a ten year period and the cultural changes that this country went through from 1975 to 1985.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Dec 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781480886032

Edward Elley

Edward Elley is a musician and avid Bills fan. After diligently writing every morning for the past six years, Elley completed Changing Tides, his first novel. He currently lives in Charlotte, North Carolina.

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Copyright © 2020 Edward Elley.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations marked (NLT) are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations marked HCSB are taken from the Holman Christian Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1999, 2000, 2002, 2003, 2009 by Holman Bible Publishers. Used by permission. Holman Christian Standard Bible®, Holman CSB®, and HCSB® are federally registered trademarks of Holman Bible Publishers.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-8602-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-8603-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019920156

Archway Publishing rev. date: 12/09/2019

CONTENTS

Date April 1975

Part One

Day One - Move In Day

Third Weekend Of April ’75

May ’75

Second Week In May

Third Week In May ’75

June ’75 Shrooms

Mid June ’75

July ’75

July ’75

4th Of July, Summer Of ’75

September ’75

October ’75

Spring ’76

March ’76

May ’76

June ’76

July ’76

September ’76

March ’77

May ’77

The First Week Of June ’77

Late June ’77

Early August ’77

October ’77

Thanksgiving Day ’77

December’77

Christmas, December ’77

January ’78

Late Febuary ’78

April ’78

May ’78

Mid-May ’78

June ’78

September ’78

August ’78

November ’78

December ’78

January ’79

February ’79

March ’79

April ’79

May ’79

1’st Day Of June ’79

Mid June ’79

Early Spring Of ’79

Late June ’79

August ’79

September ’79

October ’79

Late October ’79

December ’79

January 1980

March 1980

April ’80

May ’80

June 1980

2nd Week In June 1980

The Guest List

The Menu

Third Week June 1980

The Day After

July 1980

Mid-July 1980

August ’80

September ’80

Late September ’80

End Of September ’80

My Dealers Phone Pot Code

Early Nov. ’80

Late Nov. ’80

December 80

January ’81

February ’81

March ’81

April ’81

May ’81

June ’81

July ’81

August ’81

September ’81

Labor Day ’81

October ’81

End Of October ’81

Thankgiving Day November ’81

December ’81 And The Beginning Of ’82

February ’82

March ’82

April ’82

May’ 82

Part Two

June ’82

July ’82

August ’82

End Of First Week In August

Mid August

Fourth Week In August

September ’82

Part Three

September ’82

October ’82

Mid October ’82

The Next Day

November ’82

Mid-November

December ’82

Mid-December ’82

Nearing The End Of December ’82

January ’83

February ’83

End Of Feburary ’83

March ’83

April ’83

Tournament Week

May ’83

End Of May…1983 Captain Bob’s Arrival On The Island.

June ’83

July ’83

Last Week Of July-First Week Of August ’83

August ’83

September ’83

October ’83

Last Week October ’83

November ’83

Wanted Factory Workers…

December ’83

January ’84

Part Four

February ’84

March ’84

April ’84

May ’84

June ’84

July ’84

August ’84

September ’84

October ’84

Part Five

End Of November ’84

December ’84

January ’85

February ’85

End Of February ’85

March ’85

Later That Week

April ’85

Saturday Evening

To Diane who worked her tail off editing Frankie’s story

To my Sister and my Friend T for the encouragement to put this into print

DATE APRIL 1975

R amblers were not bad cars. My 1972 Rambler even with the absence of reverse ran well, unless you had to back up. Then you had to give careful thought to how you parked.

It was one a.m. when I found myself atop Paris Hill in New York standing beside my reverse free Rambler and a total of seventy dollars in my pocket trying to gather some courage up. In my heart I knew my time had run out where I was. I had no more plays to make and no more days to conquer.

I was parked on the shoulder of the road. The only sound in the air was the sound of an engine idling quietly, sending out its’ echoes across the valley. I walked around to the back of the car and leaned against the trunk facing back down the hill wondering how I had come to this point. Was I here out of desperation? Was it a divine intervention? Was I thinking this was the time for a radical change or was I just trying to escape the life I had been living?

I decided to possibility to make a move south leaving what I’d known all my life. I didn’t know exactly where I was going yet, I just knew I was going. I wasn’t high. I was just scared. Out of energy from fighting the good fight I thought I had been fighting. I was sitting there stuck in orbit like the moon caught by two gravitational pulls from the earth and the sun. Was I waiting for some universal or divine intervention to push me one way or the other? I was caught in a space suspension without the will to go back or the nerve to go forward. The breeze picked up and the air held its’ last chill of winter refusing to completely give way to spring. The wind gusted against my face and rushed past me heading south. That was just the sign I needed. I took a deep breath and said out loud to no one in particular. Well there is nothing between here and there so there it has to be.

With my Rambler patiently waiting for my command to go, I took another deep breath letting the taste of the still cool northern air fill my lungs. I made a mental note reminding myself not to park anyplace that would require backing-up.

I opened the car door took one last look at the city I’d spent the biggest part of my life in, a city that just a few short months ago I thought I would never leave. I collected my spirit into my body, took one last look and gave it the mighty one-fingered Italian salute

Part One

                                      We shall not cease our exploration

                                      And at the end of all our exploring

                                      Will be to arrive where we started

                                      And know the place for the first time

                                      T. S. Eliot

The Island news (fish wrapper to the locals) didn’t have a lot to offer. The island did. It was eight miles across, an ocean to the east, river to the west, and a drawbridge to enter the island. There was a nature reserve, an old Confederate fort, and welcoming me to the south two of the nastiest smelling pulp wood mills employing a good portion of the islands red-neck population. The other half of the population was comprised of hippies who single handedly built the resort community known as the Plantation by the sea. So, to the east you had the natural beauty and serenity of the ocean especially between the months of September and April when there was a lack of tourist there leaving the island to locals. You could walk the beach from the north end to south end and not run into more than a hand full of friends.

A great place to start a new life, to find the true meaning of love and true happiness and to learn about every non-legal drug on the open free market, that was the beach side. Now the river side, that was different, anyone who has driven by a pulp mill will know what I’m talking about. Calvin Kline and all his fragrance couldn’t cure. Shangri-La to the right and the gates of hell to the left and over the draw bridge I came, newspaper in hand, eyes wide open, let my life begin.

Staying with friends for a few weeks trying to find work was getting uncomfortable to say the least when at last one Air Conditioning job (which I had some knowledge of) appeared in the paper, Wanted AC helper, good pay, must have own equipment, Fritz’s Air Conditioning Company. Ask for (you guessed it Fritz).

Over the draw bridge and thru the beach to Fritz’s shop I go. Woops no shop, but a shed behind the house, one old truck, three dogs, one fat wife, one secretary by the name of Pat and of course the owner and operator, Mr. Fritz.

Pat, office manager was a woman right out of the magazine Hippies Are Us. She stood about 5’ 9". A sturdy girl with long straight blondish hair and moved in slow motion which made her seem a lot sexier than what she really was. Sitting at her desk she had her pack of Marlboro lights, a bottle of Mountain Dew, a phone and assorted papers.

Fritz had located his office in a small den just off the kitchen but before the hallway to his bedroom. Pat’s desk was positioned just inside the back door facing the garage. She could be seen through the window when entering from the back of the house.

Wait, I’m getting way ahead of myself here because these facts were not known to me when I arrived at the address. The directions to Fritz’s A/C were given to me on the phone by Pat herself and after a few trips up and down the block looking for a business I concluded it must be a house instead. I pulled up in front not knowing any better, rang the doorbell several times before Pat finally opened the door. What I saw matched the description from the previous paragraph and you can now apply that here.

Hi! My name is Frank. I’m the guy who called this morning and you gave me directions here? Pat turned slowly and so sensuous I almost forgot I needed a job and wondered if I had a chance in hell to sleep with her.

Fritz isn’t here right now. He’s getting his dogs out of the pound. He told me if you arrived to make sure you waited on him; he’ll be back in a few minutes. Pat paused for a moment. You can come in. She stepped away from the door and I entered the living room. Say you wouldn’t have a Doobie on you? I was surprised by the way she was so cavalier in just asking me for a joint. It was as casual as saying…by the way can I borrow your pen? It didn’t dawn on me yet, but I was soon to learn I was now living in a different place than the rest of the world. Hell, she didn’t know who I was. Maybe I was some narc getting ready to infiltrate the islands drug world.

No, I just arrived on the island a few weeks ago and I don’t know anyone who has anything to smoke, sorry. I thought to myself, shit! This girl I just met is either a big drug addict or really has no fear of being busted.

Pat continued her conversation with me almost like a pre- interview. We’d made our way over to her desk and again the previous description of her work environment should apply here.

Oh, where are you from?

I just moved down from New York.

Oh lord, not another Yankee!

What about you?

I was born and raised here on the island.

She was the kind of woman that just dripped with sensuality. Every movement she made was slow and purposeful. This movement of hers made her seem hotter than she really was. I made a mental note if I got the job, I would definitely work on that, possibly fall in love and keep her as my own. Later I’d find out what I was feeling that day was not going to be unusual for me, in fact I’d feel that way over a good number of women on the island. These emotions I would later figure out were brought about by the might of the ocean and the spirits of the island with one exception and that was my true love, the woman I’d eventually meet many years down the road.

Here comes Fritz now, Pat said half rising out of her seat and looking out the back window where her desk faced. An old pick up truck with compartments built on the sides pulled into the yard.

Fritz was easily explained, light haired Kentucky bred, mid-thirties mild mannered and in need of help. He offered me the job almost immediately at four bucks an hour which was good money in 1975. That’s what we settled on and that’s what I took.

When can you start?

Well I’m staying off the island with friends about 30 miles away at the moment until I get a pay-check under my belt so I can commute the thirty miles. I guess next week?

I know this guy on the island who has rental property on the beach. His name is Farley. Give him a call, better yet, Pat, give Farley a call and let Frank talk to him, tell him he just started working for me.

Pat dialed the number and got Farley on the phone for me, things were working fast. One minute I was just applying for a job and the next I was gainfully employed, eyeing a sexy girl and talking to someone about an apartment for myself on this island and on the beach. I was on a lucky roll. A guy with no money to speak of who just rolled in from New York and here I was on the brink of a new life…. snap you fingers, twirl around three times, follow the yellow brick road and snap! I landed in OZ.

Farley? This is Frank Solomon. I just started working for Fritz’ A/C. He said you might have an apartment available I can rent? There was no hesitation in Farley’s voice.

Are you by yourself or do you have family with you?

No, it’s just me.

Yes, I have one right on the beach. It’s a one bedroom going for $140 per month. The place is furnished and comes with utilities. I can meet you there in an hour. I wrote down the address and I got the directions from Fritz.

Farley is a great guy. He’ll take care of you. That way you can start tomorrow. Fritz was pushing for me to start right away but as obliging as I wanted to be, I still had to get my stuff from Jax and move in and that’s if by some miracle, Farley let me move in with no money.

As good fortune goes, I’d been blessed already finding this employment, but I still had my doubts about when I would have enough money to take the apartment, that is if it was still available before I got one weeks’ worth of pay.

Pride was not letting me tell Fritz I was low on money but in reality, I would have to commute for a while. What I did tell Fritz was I needed the rest of the week to move and get myself together and could I please start on Monday which he finally agreed to with some reluctance.

I said goodbye to Pat, the receptionist/secretary and thanked Fritz for the job and off I went big eyed, driving reverse free my way along the beach road looking at everything like a kid on his first day at Disney World. My head turned from the ocean to the apartments and back again. I was excited and knew I was going to have to ride this roller coaster we call life.

I was sad I had to leave my old life as a musician behind me. I traded it for an A/C job instead but living at the beach was too good to be true. I counted the numbers on the houses until I came to the apartment complex that had my apartment. It was great! It was on the beach side and I was so excited, I almost forgot my car had no reverse until I remembered at the last moment and parked parallel facing south and south.

Now: about Farley. He’s a man in his late fifties, Irish Catholic all the way, along with the Irish whiskey I could smell on his breath when I first met him. I’d find this out when on some later visits to his home to pay the rent or complain about something, I’d get involved with his daily ritual. The ritual would consist of sitting at the bar, drink whiskey until drunk and then have supper with Farley, his wife Alice, and his four kids. Farley was and still is a man who probably did more for me in those years on the island than anyone in my life and for some reason only God knows, took a liking to me in spite of the afro, beard and generation gap. I never thought of him as a friend until years later when I was mature enough to understand what an earthly angel he was. Not just to me, but to the many people who lived on the island. Insurance was his trade and compassion and morality was his life for at least the part of his life that I saw. Now you have a good picture of the man I first saw on the day I met him pulling into the apartment.

There I was standing in front of a four-apartment green block building next to another four- apartment gray building with a small alley in between. It was on the ocean side of the street not more than fifty yards from the beach with some sea oats in between. The apartment itself was a one bedroom furnished, small kitchen, bath and living room with yes…what else, green shag carpet over cement, a real Farley fixer-upper. Later on I learned Farley was actually color blind which explained his color schemes in some of the other apartments. Facing the apartment building, mine was the one on the bottom right. The parking lot was just outside my living room window with my bedroom located in the back of the apartment closest to the beach. The house itself was actually a two apartment complex he had converted to four apartments in each building in Farley fashion spending little or no money at all. Downstairs you had one 3- bedroom apt next to my one bedroom with nothing but sheetrock and paneling separating the two. Upstairs there were two, two-bedroom apartments. Across the alley, the same was true only in reverse.

When I explained to Farley I’d have to wait a few weeks until I got my first pay check to move in he told me not to worry about it and I could move in now, that same day if I promised to pay seventy which was half of my first months’ rent on my first paycheck and seventy on my next. He waved any deposit since I had no pets. So, there I was my first day on the island. I landed one job, one apartment, no friends yet. I was an ex-musician turned A/C man living on the beach. It was like Neil Young sings in his song, Helpless. All my changes were there and all my changes without me knowing where certainly going to be there more than I ever expected or could plan for.

The tricky part of parking my Rambler without reverse is I needed a lot of driveway to kind of pull in, make a wide sweeping U toward the road again and gently let the car roll back while in neutral with the front end facing the road. This was a very sound maneuver providing, (A) the parking lot was not full, and (B,) your mind and body were in a semi-conscious state. If in fact you were one who might be bordering on the cusp of some sort of mind bending drug or inebriated, it didn’t matter because whatever level of sobriety one might be on, you had no option but to remember reverse was not an option if you had to leave again. In any event when these situations did occur you were in for the night unless enough of your neighbors were there to help you correct the situation and steer you right so to speak.

Neighbors! You might as well meet them now. Facing my building from the road bottom right, me. Bottom left, three security guards, booze was their passion. Over me, top right, Flip and Bob, druggies with a plan, all the way from Atlanta. Top left is hippie Pete and his old lady and his red van. Building to the left; lower left, across the alley from me more people from Georgia, bottom right, some ex-vet who served in Korea. Top right a surfer dude and his fine-looking surfer gal, top left, Jack and his brother Bill from…you guessed it Georgia. These two guys were to be my first friends I’d make on the island.

Let us not discount my live-in neighbors, the Florida roaches! Yeah. Well, welcome to Florida. They say the human condition can get used to anything. You think? I was about to discover living at the beach had its’ drawbacks too. I know living right on the beach is everyone’s dream, the surf, the sand, the long walks, the sea shells, and girls in bikinis. It’s true. It’s all there for you. I’m sure you’ve pondered this point from time to time planning your vacation. There’s a dark secret no one tells you about. A secret you discover when you make that jump from tourist to resident.

DAY ONE - MOVE IN DAY

3rd week in April ‘75

I t was my first day moving into my swinging beach front bachelor pad. It was then I made the shocking realization I wasn’t living under the same conditions as I had in Upstate NY. Even though the apartments were of similar low rent status and size there were some noticeable differences other than the obvious in living at the beach and I was now what some people would consider living in the tropics. Also, I wasn’t alone like I had previously thought. This realization came about when I opened my first cupboard to put up some dishes and it was then I instantly knew the one hundred forty dollars I was going to pay for rent every month included some amenities I hadn’t counted on. This was going to require a trip to the Raid factory to purchase some bug bombs, sprays, pointed shoes, rolled up newspaper, and me shivering like I’d just seen a snake.

All this because I had my first glimpse of the roach colony’s urban development going on just beyond the sight of human eyes and taking place in the light of day. There they were going about their daily routine like they must have been doing now for weeks without any disturbance, living out their dream of multiplying.

Slightly startled by their exposure to the light, they slowly without too much panic started to make their way to the safety of shelter like some grammar school fire drill until the spray mist from my Raid can was engaged. Like mustard gas in WWI along with the bug bombs going off like a napalm fire storm did the major alarm go off to RUN! I was determined to put an end to this refugee migration invading the interior of my apartment to multiply and to feast on any edible morsel or crumb left behind in the middle of the night or any box of something you might not have secured tightly or stored away in the fridge, and that was still not completely a safe bet. Till this day even though I live in a more roach-free part of the world I still out of habit keep all my condiments, cereal and anything that is opened, or unsealed safely secure in the refrigerator.

After leaving this explosion behind and waiting the customary few hours it required to insure a complete euthanasia of all creepy crawly things and also to insure my own safety, I returned home. Not being familiar with roaches and their resistance to death I decided to take a body count and then finish my unpacking and get the feeling of home. Assured in my own mind the problem had been resolved, I was now free to freely roam about the apartment putting an end to the roaches that had appeared because of the last tenant’s sanitary habits.

Seventy-six dead roaches I counted plus the ones missing in action were the first reports to hit the Roach Gazette. I was sure, no, I was positive I had completely eradicated the beast from the premises, so I finished moving in. After all, this was now my home, and roach free and I was living at the beach!

Where do roaches go when in harm’s way? That’s easy…they go next door. What happens is, in a day or two when the people in the rest of the building decide they suddenly have a bug problem. They are required to repeat what I’d just done to squelch such pests and spray. The roaches simply move back to your place. You see this cycle continues back and forth, back and forth, until you actually get the problem to an acceptable amount you can put up with or, you just move out. You never completely get rid of them you just end up babysitting the survivors. Your only hope from to time is maybe one of the apartments might be empty once in a while where these roaches can gather without fear of Raid Attacks or at the very least, people in the rest of the apartment building are not as careful as you are. What is edible food now stays in the vault known to you as your refrigerator.

Everyone has a dream at one time or another in their life of living at the beach, the euphoria, the feeling of one returning to their roots of the sea, to a new beginning. These were the things I was contemplating while sitting on my backyard wall looking over the dunes separating my backyard from the beach. I was thinking about having left my home town. The rock group I played in for the past five years, and all those ladies that came from playing in a band. I wondered if they cared what had happened to me. It had only been a few weeks. Would they even notice I wasn’t around anymore, and God would I find anything to replace the natural high I got when the music was right and you looked down on the dance floor and people were feeling what you were playing? I can never replace the look in a woman’s eyes when you took a break and they positioned themselves at the bar so when you walked by, then they could make eye contact with you. Looking back now it’s almost a little embarrassing to talk about, and sex was so easy then, after all it was the early seventies, every knowing young lady was on the pill, and the word NO was no longer used especially when you played in a band. Having to court was not a necessary option. Occasionally you’d meet someone who was morally in conflict with the ways of this time, and then the operative word was just simply NEXT.

There was no doubt I was spoiled by all this, morally and egotistically. It meant by the end of the first set you usually knew the fortunate young thing you were going to grace with your presence that evening. How in Gods’ name was I ever going to replace all that and try to live an ordinary life? How could I possibly become a mere mortal again, an everyday Joe who went to work and came home?

You probably want to ask me then why I stopped playing since I loved the life so much. It didn’t matter much. I stopped playing not because I stopped loving music, but because I stopped loving the players, I was making music with. I was tired of their egos and trying to fit everyone’s’ agenda in and making it work; but it could’ve been worse, after all it was my decision but man, I did miss those lights, even those long rides home after a gig. Would ladies still like me even though I was not in a band? After all, who was I now? Just some hippie living at the beach who happens to know a little about air conditioning units and got a job on an island in the spring of ’75 starting a new life not out of want but out of necessity.

I suppose it could’ve been worse. I was standing there looking at the ocean and feeling the cool breeze wrap around me. No matter what, here I was in this space in time, my ego sadly needing a rush with no replacement in sight and no clue on how to fix myself again. Ah, the ocean, the might of it all. Would it make me clean again, could it fix me? I missed the upstate and the band and it was burning a hole in me. It was almost like I’d died and been reincarnated into a new life, a less fulfilling life but all in all, a new life. Damn I missed those lights and sounds and everything that came with it.

Are you the new guy who just moved in downstairs? A voice just snapped me out of my self-pity reminiscing thought process. I looked up.

Yeah, I just rented from Farley. This is my first day here. I held my hand over my eyes to shield the sun and get a better look on who was talking to me.

My name is Bill. I was staring at an albino looking guy and then he pointed to the Charlie Manson looking guy next to him and said. This is Jack, my brother. Jack looked down standing there with some real dirty work clothes on like he’d just arrived from some nasty form of work. Some really dirty job. Jack emerged from the porch with beer in hand looking down at me to see who the hell Bill was talking to.

Bill and Jack being brothers looked like they came from two opposite ends of the galaxy. Bill was and still is fair haired and blue eyed. His brother, Jack, looked like Rasputin. He had a receding hairline and straight black shoulder length hair. Thick black beard and dark eyes with crazy eyes which I would later find out came from Viet Nam, kind of scary looking. I thought for a moment, shit, this is what my life had come to. Not only was I feeling bad about what had happened to me lately but now I was living next to the deliverance brothers.

Do you want to come on up and smoke a Doobie? The dark haired one said. Fuck, I had nothing to lose and I hadn’t smoked anything since a week before my exit from the upstate.

Sure, Jack, is it?

Yep, always was, always will be. What’s your name? I paused for a second as my foot hit the second step of the back stairs.

Frank.

Well come on up Frank, have some smoke and a beer. What I said to myself as I walked up the stairs only God and I know and now you. Fuck, my life had come down to this.

Now you know the story on how I met my first two friends on the island.

Walking up the back steps onto the porch toward their living room, Bill spoke up and told me to watch that metal piece of flashing which was the bottom part of the threshold on the door. He went on to explain for some reason, ever since it rained that afternoon, there was some sort of electric shock if you stepped on the metal strip. Jack spoke up.

Don’t worry. It’s only about fifty volts. It won’t kill you but it’ll give you a jolt. Have a seat. You want a beer?

It was then I learned the southern country ritual. As soon as you got off work you had to stop at the jiffy store on the way home and pick up a six pack or two. That was your entertainment and God given right as a white southerner that beer; not only being the national drink of the south, but in some sort of way it was your payment for working all day. Myself, I was always a one beer kind of guy and maybe two on special occasions. It still amazes me even today how these good ole boys can drink a six pack without even an afterthought, still function and not put on weight? I could walk down the beer aisle in the Piggly-Wiggly store and put on two pounds. No, one beer maybe two was all I could afford without weight gain. Anything after that and I can watch my waist size change in front of me.

So here I was with two good ole southern boys who had just met me and invited me up for a beer and smoke. I guess that’s the southern hospitality I’d heard so much about. I walked in watching my step regarding the metal threshold and sat down. I was admiring the view of the ocean when my new best friend rolled a fat joint from an overstuffed bag of the greenest Mexican weed I’d ever seen, lit the sucker and passed it to me. I took my first toke of pot looking at the ocean. In my mind, I had just welcomed myself to Florida.

Jack was an electrician and Bill worked construction. They did odd jobs in Farley’s’ apartments in lieu of some rent consideration. About half way through the Doobie, the strangest looking dog walked into the living room.

What is that, what kind of breed is that? I took a long toke and sat there with a half-smile on my face holding in the toke I’d just inhaled?

It’s a donut dog. Jack said. No other explanation was needed or offered. I guess he saw the amused and puzzled look on my face and taking into consideration I must be new in town broke his silence and offered a further explanation to the dogs’ appearance and also to get me up to speed on a subject most local people already knew.

You see, there’s this dog on the island by the name of Donut, a sort of cross between Little Orphan Annie’s dog Sandy, and a Lab. After having mated with every four-legged animal on the beach, there are now all these dogs looking like Donut. We’re not allowed pets in these apartments so we named the dog Farley so Farley the apartment owner would let us keep him. He’s still kind of a puppy. You could tell even at six months old he’s not going to be the brightest thing on four feet.

Farley the dog made the tour of everyone. He received his complementary pats and headed out the door to take a jaunt on the beach. Crossing the doorway, I was reminded of the fifty volts of current they had recently discovered electrifying the doorway. It’s comical, having a buzz on added to the animals’ discomfort to a certain degree. It can only be called animal cruelty by not trying to stop the dog from exiting the living room to the outside porch. That’s the day the dog learned about electricity. Stepping on the threshold below the doorway sent the full fifty volts of electricity that suddenly appeared that day after the rain and lit him up, lifted him from the floor and turned him around. With a surprised yelp, he landed one pace outside the door looking back at us.

It happened not because we all knew it was going to happen, but being somewhat stoned we’d forgotten or better yet, we didn’t remember the problem until it was a second too late to spare this donut dog the mysterious pain from a exit and entrance he’d used many times. Walk, yelp, land, what the? I’ve never seen such a facial expression in a dogs’ face that said, what the? This was it. Then, looking back at us and then the doorway like he couldn’t believe this invisible feeling of pain had happened to him. Not quite sure what he’d experienced, he turned around and walked back into the safety of the apartment and it happened again. Walk, yelp, spin around and land!

By that time we were all carrying a little bit of a buzz from the second joint. That’s all you ever got off that early peasant weed. We all started laughing, not because this comic strip dog was getting zapped, but because of the comical look of confusion this donut dog was displaying. He was thinking this can’t be happening to me! The donut dog turns around and tries the door again. Same result except this time he heads straight down the stairs putting distance and the pain behind him before disappearing from sight. The next fifteen or twenty minutes we exchanged ideas giving each other our bios and a short history on where I was from and where they were from.

Roll another one just like the other one until our attention was refocused on the living room window. This was not a window like any ordinary window but like a window that was just a few feet off the floor that tilted inward. Why or how this window came to be was not the story, but it could be…the window was just there and didn’t serve any viewable purpose unless you were two feet tall.

There he was the forgotten donut dog climbing up a half-opened window, trying to get in the apartment not through the door but the window instead. The top section of the window was open and tilted inward and making it to the top without too much effort, Farley dog jumped into the living room. From that day on as long as the dog lived, Farley dog used the window to go in and out of the apartment. No amount of coaxing could persuade this dog to do otherwise. Maybe he wasn’t so dumb after all!

THIRD WEEKEND OF APRIL ’75

The Family Tree

I t didn’t take me but a few days to discover The Family Tree. I’m not talking about my heritage but instead the local hang out at lunch time and after work for the local working-hippie crowd. It was also a place that offered employment to some of the best-looking girls on the island. It was a concrete block building about nine hundred square feet located at the main beach intersection. Anyone who was anyone, so I was told, would frequent this establishment at least once a day, sometimes more. The Tree, as it was called, was the meeting place, date place, just show up place, and let’s rendezvous place, before starting any evening festivities. Then you eventually migrated to other places. Places I hadn’t yet discovered. The Tree made great sandwiches, served beer and wine and once a month played Reefer Madness and other forties and fifties anti-drug films, not particularly for any public good, but as comedy relief and to collect donations for NORMAL which at that time was actually trying to change legislation to do away with the backward marijuana laws. Back then you could get a twenty-year prison sentence for having one joint in your possession. That’s another story I’m sure has been told.

The owner was a man by the name of B.J. and according to the local hippie population this was short for blow job. The Tree was a side line for him. He was a high school teacher by trade who only made his appearances here for a short while at night. Even though his name didn’t describe the gentle soul he was, in fact he was a kind man who from time to time got taken advantage of because of his absences at the Tree. Certainly, not in any hateful or cruel way, but because of his being absent…well for his benefit, it would’ve been good if he was there a little more than he was. To my knowledge no one stole from him in a sense of taking money out of the till. Many a free sandwich and beer was had by either dating one of the girls or one of the girls that might have known you were down on your luck, or you traded some drugs for a sandwich.

Over the years I was to live on the island the subject of his sexual preference was quietly debated without any concrete evidence one way or the other. At one time he invested a lot of money into the speculation that Dome Homes were going to be the next big trend. One of the first warnings I had, in fact, the only warning I ever got was never, never, never, bring up the subject of Dome Homes to B.J. Oh, you haven’t heard about it? Neither had I! This dome housing venture went way south along with major money and if you ever wanted to get this kinder, gentler man really pissed at you, all you had to do was to inquire about the Dome Homes project. Jack and Bill took it upon themselves to show me all the local hang outs everyone frequented and first stop was The Tree. This was it. This was where everyone would hang out Jack boasted…well eventually, everyone comes by here at some point during the day.

The three of us sat at a table and waited for our waitress who finally appeared momentarily. We ordered some beers and when she turned away, I turned to Jack and said, I am in love.

Oh Paula, forget it. She doesn’t date anyone on the island. Everyone has asked her out, but, she has yet to say ‘yes’ to anyone.

I can’t remember the rest of what we were talking about because I kept one eye on Paula. When she returned to the table with our order, I tried to strike up a conversation with her. Her blue eyes and shoulder length blonde hair along with a cheerleader look just on physical symmetry made you want to propose marriage on the spot. Our conversation started out on the cool side with the attitude, no, not another one trying to hit on me.

That all changed when Paula learned I was brand new in town, that I’d only been here a few days. For some reason that seemed to warm her up to me with less hostility. I think it was the idea I hadn’t been passed around yet. I was to find out later new meat in town usually got passed around by the women here. This was kind of an informal swingers’ club with no set rules, meetings or dues. The idea of someone fresh was very appealing to her and opened the door for our first date. I got the nerve to ask her out before I finished the beer and sandwiches. The idea either came out of the clear blue or in desperation, but it worked!

There was a party upstairs that night at Flip and Bobs’ place located directly above my apartment. Paula said she’d meet me there about ten when she finished work. Jack and Bill looked at me with amazement on how the hell I pulled this off when so many had failed before. To be honest, I didn’t understand it either, other than I was brand new and also for some cosmic reason the stars must have been right. Sometimes the universe and all the planets and stars are in line.

Who are we fooling! Paula had all the power to say yes or no. Maybe I just asked her when she was horny or I was new to town or whatever reason she’d said yes. I’m pretty sure when I walked into The Family Tree that Saturday, she didn’t say to herself, wow, he’s the man of my dreams. Whatever made her say yes, only Paula would know because there she was at my place, right on time. I considered myself the luckiest man in the world to be graced by Paula, this Georgia beauty, to the amazement of my new-found friends. Dating Paula was like winning the island lottery.

For a brief moment, my home sick demons that had been tormenting me lay motionless, put to rest by the thought of this women being with me. This was the first time I had a date with some women who wanted to be with me not because I played in a band but because for no other reason than she wanted to be with me.

By the time we got upstairs there must have been ten or twelve people already sitting around the living room drinking, mostly beer which was stored in a large metal bucket with ice. Along with it were some bottles of wine, nothing fancy, just hippie type wine. There were two or three opened bags of Mexican pot. Some folks were rolling and passing it around. Everyone seemed pleased to see Paula and curious to see who she came with. I was introduced as the new guy in town who had just moved in downstairs.

The idea I was the new guy seemed to satisfy their curiosity on why Paula was with me. There was no fear on whether I was an undercover cop or anything because I came with Paula. If I’d showed up by myself then there’d have been suspicions all around.

Jack asked where Flip was because he wanted to introduce him to his new downstairs neighbor, me, but he was blatantly absent. We learned Flip was in the bedroom with some unfortunate lady. It didn’t matter. We just found a seat and joined in the conversation. Paula knew everyone there and being with Paula, everyone accepted me as part of the crew. During that time on the island, drugs were a casual item. Coke and other hard drugs were not the rage except for some psychos using such things as mushrooms and some mescaline. In 1975, the only pot around North Florida was Mexican. The price was fifteen dollars per ounce. A big old fat bag and you had to smoke two or three to catch a buzz. It was a very up high when you finally got there and it made you laugh a lot. Mexican was good group pot, silly weed or wacky weed. The crash on the couch Quaalude stone was yet to become fashionable and we didn’t know the difference. We thought all pot was this way but within a year that would all change with the import of Punta Rojas from Columbia.

Flip emerged from the bedroom. He seemed to my surprise, to be very friendly with Paula. This made me very uneasy at the time. I was very possessive and a little insecure from being the new kid on the block. I didn’t know who had been with whom or what baggage they carried with each other. I didn’t quite understand the islands dating customs. It was so different from my life in upstate. I’d never experienced a place where everyone knew everyone and eventually everyone dated everyone. It was like a giant city of communal living.

About two a.m. Paula seemed bored and wanted to go downstairs to my place. It seemed like the beer was overtaking the pot and the party was going from funny to stupid. We went downstairs to my place and walked into the living room. She turned, threw her arms around my neck and we started kissing. Ten minutes later we were making love. It all seemed so surreal. I felt lucky that I was blessed by this beauty who didn’t give it out to everyone, but the sex was mediocre and my emotions for this Georgia peach ignored the lust part of our love making and went immediately past go where I entered the zone of the first stages of heart throb.

While we were making love, I remembered thinking how lucky I was to find a woman I could care about the first weekend on the island. I could see us together for a long time and I did it without playing in a band. It was just me and she was with just me and I saw myself being her old man, a phrase used quite often in the seventies.

We were just lying there being quiet, having a smoke. It was like we both hadn’t made love in a long while. We were enjoying the quiet moment after love making with each other. The party seemed in a far off place even though it was still going on upstairs. My bed was at the back of the house, close to the beach and without the party noise you could hear the surf. I was thinking how nice it was just to hold her and how I wished the party would break up so it would be just the two of us there in the quiet.

That’s when it started. First the sounds of the party moved to the upstairs porch which was just above the bedroom window over our heads. We looked at each other with a combination of expressions, first annoyance and then confusion.

Help, help, I’m falling. Thud! Then I hear a voice from someone standing on the porch. Hey, somebody call an ambulance or the cops or something. Bob was lying just outside my window. He’d just fallen from his porch upstairs.

Paula and I were stretched out nude in bed, not looking out the window, just listening to the commotion beginning to escalate. Our expressions changed to pure smiles and then small laughter as we were in the middle of our own floor show. Bob lay on the sand just outside our bedroom window moaning in a drunken and confused state of mind. Not really comprehending the journey he’d just made from the second floor to the first. In the meantime some drunken, stoned idiot, and later I found out, in a mushroomed state of mind, called the police in a drug induced panic. He did this without thinking it through and failing to realize not only were the drugs he was taking highly illegal but also the drugs still sitting on the living room table. This reality of getting the police involved only manifested itself into realization when the cops did arrive.

Paula and I were still in bed in a heightened state of amusement to the point of uncontrollable laughter. We were listening to all the conversation taking place over our heads. The policemen were trying to gather information as to how it all happened. It was their determination the whole incident was truly an accident, a bizarre accident but still an accident. Ruling out suicide and attempted murder, they concluded: Bob, sitting backward on the bench which was attached to the railing, slid down while in a drunken state (not mentioning any drug influence) between the back rail and seat into a free-fall to the first floor below. They were also convinced no medical attention was required even though an ambulance was called.

It was 4 a.m. when things finally quieted down with no mention of any unusual items that might have been observed in the investigation of the incident. I looked at Paula and said. See, I really know how to show a girl a good time. Paula, in jest back to me thanked me for the floor show and the sex. We made love again and then in just a quick matter-of-fact way she said she had to go.

Ten minutes later Paula was gone and I felt like it never happened. I was confused. It was like our roles had been reversed and I’d left a woman in bed while I made my speedy exit. It felt almost like she’d never been there. I heard her car start and she left without any warmth at all, like an alarm went off and she was someone else, not the person I’d just made love to.

She got in her car without any promise of tomorrow, just a simple phrase. Catch you when I catch you, then drove off. Puzzled by the whole turn of events, I turned and got back into bed and fell asleep listening to the ocean on my second night in my apartment and slept until noon that Sunday.

Sunshine, a beautiful walk down the beach and I’d met the girl of my dreams. What could be better? Here I was, living in an almost roach free apartment, starting a new job on Monday and making 150 a week. I had some new friends, and everyone had pot.

I was certain Paula would stop by that day. After all, I must be the man of her dreams. As a couple we could walk up to the apartment upstairs to make sure there were no fatalities the night before. Go for a walk on the beach, maybe catch some rays then make out and later have some dinner. That was my plan except for one thing, there was no sign of Paula that day. I tried to think back and remember if I’d done anything to turn her off. I couldn’t think of a thing. Is this the way the women felt when I picked them up after playing on stage with my band at night, the ones I treated as a one night stand, not even spending the night afterward? Was this some kind of cosmic pay-back?

First day on the job I realized I didn’t know as much as I thought I did about Air Conditioning but that was okay. Fritz was patient and glad to have the help. I went with him on all his calls and mainly acted as a gopher, observing what he did. He also did some training while he repaired equipment. I felt secure for the time being. He didn’t seem to mind that I wasn’t as efficient as I’d hoped I would be. I was going to end up being a helper to him who could go on simple calls but I had a lot to learn. Somehow he enjoyed the companionship, having me with him on a daily basis. All this I observed my first week on the job. By the end of the first week, Pat the office girl and I had started to become better friends.

MAY ’75

I avoided The Family Tree that week altogether. I was hurt Paula didn’t make contact with me after that night and by avoiding seeing her at The Tree I wanted to send a message to her that I wasn’t going to chase after her. I was trying to be hard and it was killing me. In the meantime, another situation had come up.

By the end of the second week Pat and I had become even better friends. Better friends to the point of Frank can you rub my back. Her sexuality and my feeling horny had heated up to the point I looked forward to being there when Fritz wasn’t there. Fritz was not there more than one would think for some unexplained reason.

Each encounter that week with Pat started getting more intense as time went on and by mid week we were kissing a little and grinding at her desk. Fritz’s absence usually took place at lunchtime when Fritz would send me back to the office for some reason or another and then mysteriously disappear himself for an hour or two. Of course I was stuck at the office waiting for him with time on my hands. Idle hands make the devil’s work. Pat and I had too much time on our hands at Fritz’s house alone with no supervision.

Friday of that week it finally happened. Pat and I couldn’t control ourselves any longer. I went from rubbing her back, to kissing her, to all our clothes off, in Fritz’s bedroom making love on Fritz’s bed. It didn’t last that long, not because someone came home too early, that didn’t happen! It was over in five minutes because of me. The damn girl got me so excited with her week’s worth of foreplay, when it finally happened right there in Fritz’s master bedroom where he and his wife slept, well, let’s just say it was probably more exciting and satisfying for me than it was for Pat.

Of course the blame for my early withdrawal was…well…I’d had to put up with the excessive foreplay that pre-empted our move to the bedroom to begin with. I was about to make my third attempt with her, this one was going to be for her, when we heard Fritz’ truck coming down the road. Thank God for his loud exhaust! In haste we put our clothes on and quickly re-made the bed just before Fritz’s arrival in the house. Fritz seemed oblivious to anything that might have taken place in his absence. I thought for sure there was guilt written all over our faces.

Soon after Fritz’s arrival a call came in and by two Fritz and I were back out in his service truck going on a call at a restaurant. It was quiet in the truck for a few minutes. Fritz was not saying a word. I was waiting for the hammer to fall. Waiting for him to ask me what was going on in there before he arrived. Still more silence.

Finally Fritz started to speak…I have to confess something to someone. I can’t keep it in any longer. I looked at him with surprise. I’d expected him to say something like I know what you did and I’m going to have to let you go. It wasn’t that. He was confessing something to me. Wait maybe he was going to confess