The Expatriated American

By Marc Gray

It’s hard enough to get what you want out of life while making good decisions. If you don’t believe that, try going through life making bad decisions.

—Marc Gray

The Expatriated American is the story of Jim Collins and how one simple decision puts his whole future in jeopardy. Jim’s an average young man with his entire life planned out in front of him. He graduated from college, has a great job, a beautiful fiancée, and is at the doorstep of living the American Dream. However, his life begins to unravel when he takes a business trip to Key West, where he meets Jerry Hinkle, an old high school friend. Jerry sails the world on his sailboat living life at his own pace. He sails from port to port with no schedule or responsibility, a life that fascinates Jim Collins. Jim is eager to experience the mystical life of Jerry and decides to take a three-day sailing trip to Cuba, changing his life forever. Follow Jim as he fights to get back to the life he once had.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781646285723

Book preview

Chapter

1

For most people, it’s coffee that wakes them up early on a workday. For me, it was the industrial smell of grinding steel, burning electrical circuits, and cleaning chemicals. Mix that with the stale air flowing from the subway tunnels, and that’s when I knew my day was starting.

A horn echoed from the darkness, followed by a small white light. Air pressure built, pushing wind from the tunnel right into my face as the train raced toward the platform. A blurry image of windows and doors sped past, and the metal wheels screeched on the rails as the conductor pushed hard on the breaks. Every day, like clockwork, a muffled voice spoke from a distance just as the doors opened. In an instant, the platform went from quiet and calm to chaos as people made their way on and off the train.

Car B, third seat from the cabin’s forward, was my regular spot, seat number 43. As usual, the senior man to my right held up his newspaper, reading. Just before his stop, he folded his paper and reached down to pull a briefcase from under the seat. I saw him every morning but wouldn’t recognize him walking down the street. I caught a slight glimpse of his face as he stood and turned toward the door.

The large black lady across from me rode in silence with her eyes closed. Her body jiggled with the ticking of the tracks, and her head bobbed back and forth with the motion. She was not sleeping, just resting. As happened every morning, the seat to my left remained open for one more stop. A well-dressed businessman said hello as he took the seat. He crossed his right leg over the left and began reading the morning news on his tablet. The next stop was mine, and I exited with dozens of other people and made my way up the crowded stairs to Tenth Street in Midtown Atlanta. It was a short walk to 999 Peachtree Street, to my office.

I worked in the fascinating world of generated power. The company is located in Atlanta, Georgia, but the majority of customers were located anywhere with heavy snowfall or on coastlines that get ravished by storms. Thompson Power is the company. Thompson Power makes generators, sells generators, services generators, and provides maintenance contracts for generators. We even had a nifty slogan that our founder said in every meeting and any chance he got. No power is more dependable than—wait for it—"Thompson Power. Yes, he came up with it himself, and he thought it was genius. It was the company’s battle cry and was boldly listed on every marketing piece, used in every radio spot, and repeated by salespeople as the last line of every sales pitch. I heard it all the time, Mr. Thompson himself saying, And remember, Gary, no power is more dependable than… He would wait for Gary to do the big finish, which Gary, playing the role of good employee, was more than happy to do. My eyes would roll. The word most used to describe the company’s slogan by employees was lame. But that was behind closed doors, of course.

My job with Thompson Power was project management. I made sure all the installations were completed correctly, on time and on budget. The most important part of my job was to wine and dine the customer, make them feel special. After all, they just spent a lot of money on Thompson Power.

I had been with Thompson Power for over five years. I made my way up from the installation crew. When Mr. Thompson was not reciting the company slogan, he told me that one day I would be selling these machines. He said it as though it is the best gig in the world.

I entered the building’s main lobby, and the security personnel greeted me. The elevator ride to the eighth floor was swift. When the doors opened, Cindy perked up on cue. Good morning, Mr. Collins! Her smile looked genuine, and she sat with perfect posture. Her traditional attire of a long flowing skirt and buttoned-up long-sleeved blouse made her look older than her age. I often thought that if she dressed a little less formally, she would be a pretty lady. She commented on my tie as I passed by her desk.

The phone on my desk was already ringing when I walked into my office. I noted the familiar number on the screen and picked up the receiver, Hi, baby, what’s up?

"I wanted to remind you to tell Daddy not to schedule you in the Keys until next week.

We’re meeting with the florist on Friday." It’s my fiancée, Melissa.

I remember. I’ll go talk to him now.

Oh, and don’t forget about dinner tonight, so leave the office on time, she says.

I got it. Anything else?

That’s all, she replies in her perky voice.

I hung up and walked down the hall to Mr. Thompson’s office. I could see that he was reading e-mails, so I knocked on the doorframe.

Good morning, Jim, he said.

I remained standing in the doorway. Melissa wanted me to remind you that we need to meet with the florist on Friday, so she doesn’t want you to schedule me in the Keys until next week.

I’ve already scheduled you for Monday. That daughter of mine thinks we men can’t remember anything, he said with a chuckle. By the way, Cindy should have your flight information.

Okay, thanks, I replied and walked away.

I spent most of the workday making sure all parts were on schedule to arrive in Key West. The project was to install a new backup diesel generator for a hospital. Thompson Power was supplying the generator, and we were working with a local electrician to wire it in. It’s is a big undertaking, one that will keep me down there for five days. I wanted it to go as smooth as our last job in Saint Thomas.

Dinner at the Thompsons was very predictable; it always was. We arrived promptly at six o’clock. I pulled into the circular drive after the gate opened and followed the stone-lined driveway up to the house. I parked in front of the brick steps leading up to the porch and the front door. After I opened the passenger door for Melissa, she picked up the appetizer platter from the back seat. I couldn’t help but feel that we were stepping back in time as we climbed the stairs. Melissa pushed the doorbell with her free hand then used it to fix her hair one last time. Without saying it out loud, I thought about how strangely formal this all is. It’s her parents’ house, yet we were acting as if we’ve been invited to the Governor’s Mansion. It was more than odd to me that Melissa was waiting at the front door of the home she grew up in. Mary Thompson opened the door, and the unnecessary compliments began flowing.

I headed straight to the study, where I knew Mr. Thompson would be waiting. He was sitting in a leather chair reading an article in the paper. When I walked in, he stood to greet me with a handshake. After pointing to the chair that I should sit in, he picked up a decanter and poured me a whiskey.

Can you believe they’re moving the Braves out of downtown? he asked with disgust.

It’s a shame, I replied, though I’ve never even been inside Turner Field.

Where is the tradition? Downtown’s already struggling, and they want to move the sports out of town.

It’s the Atlanta Braves, not the Marietta Braves, I said to go along with his banter.

You’ve got that right, he said and then took a pull from his whiskey. They should be moving the stadium closer to downtown, if you ask me. Put it next to the football stadium. That would bring a lot of people into Atlanta, and then the shops and restaurants could survive.

His rant continued.

I stopped commenting.

He sat down in his chair and shifted to get comfortable. Well, this is the life. We worked hard all week, and now we get to sit back and admire our hard yet prosperous week.

He held his glass up to say cheers, and we both took a swig.

I believe that some people are born in the wrong era of time. I am not sure why or how it happens, but it’s like certain individuals go directly from one life to another. I’m not getting into the debate of life after death; it’s just that some people are different. As soon as you meet these people, there is a feeling that they have a link to a past life. Almost as if their slate didn’t get wiped clean before reincarnating to the present life, and past experiences filter into their new being. Mr. Thompson was one of these people. All aspects of his life were old-fashioned. His business, house, family, clothes, and most of all, his attitude. Every time I was around him, this odd notion crosses my mind. I watched him, and it was like he was a character in a play. All of his actions are careful and premeditated. I don’t understand why he lives such a strict life and can only hope that I do not become him one day. I took a swig of whiskey from my glass and drifted deeper into thought as Mr. Thompson continued his bitching about the baseball stadium.

As I drifted into my thoughts another person crossed my mind, an old friend named Jerry Hinkle. His family lived down the street, and we met when we were both young boys. Instead of playing football or baseball on the front lawn, he preferred to explore the neighborhood’s woods and creeks. He went on explorations as though he was expecting to find a lost colony or some massive treasure. We both went to Georgia Southern University, and every weekend he packed a bag, loaded a kayak on the roof of his car, and headed to the coast to explore Georgia’s Barrier Islands. He traveled to every old fort, every lighthouse, and once drove for hours just to visit a maritime museum. Now he’s sailing around the world, doing odd jobs here and there to have a little cash, but mostly living off the sea. He still sends me handwritten letters, old-fashioned postcards, and e-mails from the places I have never heard of, such as Suriname in South America.

I have often wondered whether Jerry had a past life. Was he once a pirate, a merchant marine? What drives him to live life this way? It’s the same with Mr. Thompson. Did he live in New York in the Roaring Twenties? He lives like he is a wealthy man in the early 1900s, only with a stern driven force making sure not to cross any lines. Me, I wake up in the morning with no notion of what I am going to wear, much less know what the world will hold for me in six months. Mr. Thompson already has both planned. Jerry, on the other hand, doesn’t know what part of the world he will be in next week and only dresses for the weather conditions. There has to be something, something deep in their souls to make them have such a desire to live as they do, something more than just a choice. I have thought deeply about it and searched my own soul on occasions, but there is nothing. I can’t feel anything out of the norm and feel somewhat discontent with my normal mundane life.

I snapped back to reality when Mary Thompson entered the study. Dinner will be ready in five minutes.

That is fine, Mr. Thompson replied.

Mary took our glasses and left.

At the dinner table, the conversation turned to the job in Key West. I’ve never been to Key West or any other Key, although I had been to many of the islands in the Caribbean. In fact, it had only been a month since I did a job in Saint Thomas. Mr. Thompson had opinions on all the places we installed generators, and Key West was no different.

You know by now that not all places we sell generators are in nice areas, Mr. Thompson said.

I know. I did the job in Buffalo, New York, remember? I replied.

Well, you’ll not like this place any better.

At least it won’t be cold, I said.

No, but you’ll miss the cold. You can dress for the cold. You can’t get away from the heat.

Don’t scare the boy, Richard. He might not go if you keep talking. Mary laughed coquettishly.

And the mosquitos, they’re the size of birds. Their bite feels like a wasp sting, Mr. Thompson said. Don’t go out at night. That’s when the queers are out.

Richard! Mary shouted. That’s enough!

It’s true.

Well, we aren’t discussing it anymore, Mary reprimanded.

And we didn’t.

The evening finished with Melissa going over the wedding plans. Friends warned me that planning a wedding would challenge my relationship. I quickly learned to say yes when I was supposed to. I have always kept it quiet that I believe a large wedding is a huge waste of money.

Chapter

2

I pressed my forehead against the window of the airplane and was drawn into the world below. The clarity of the water teased my eyes and disoriented my brain. I knew the space between the islands was water, but it was so clear I couldn’t see it. I watched as a boat glided over the foreign land, leaving only an odd trail behind it. I was so lost in the illusion, I didn’t even hear the captain’s request to raise seat backs and fold up tray tables. The flight attendant reminded me by tapping my shoulder. I did as I was told, then looked back out the window to the water below. Small green islands seemingly floated in air, rising up out of the unseen water. I looked out at the horizon and couldn’t tell where the water ended and the sky began.

The plane touched down and broke hard. When we came to a stop at the gate, I stayed seated, watching all the other passengers stand up, eager to exit. Popping and clicking replaced the engine noise as people gathered their bags from the overheads. No one spoke. I finally joined the slow-moving line to disembark. The closer I got to the door, the warmer the air became. I stepped off the plane into a dense wall of humid heat. Once I reached the top of the gangway, I was back in the air-conditioning, and the contrast sent a chill through my body.

In front of the airport, there was already a long line of people waiting for a taxi cab. I was the only person wearing a long-sleeved shirt, and even after I removed my tie, I still felt far too overdressed. The hustle and bustle of life was a contrast to the tranquil airport. A man directed traffic with a whistle, while taxi drivers yelled out their passenger count. A large group of tourists caused a commotion by loudly demanding a van large enough to hold everyone in their party. They all wore the same green neon shirt that read, "Uncle Leon’s 70th Birthday in the Keys." Finally, someone guided them to the side, and the line started moving again. The taxi attendant ushered me past the noisy group and into a waiting cab. The air-conditioned car felt heavenly, and I pulled on the front of my sweat-soaked shirt for relief.

The Westin Resort and Marina, I said.

The driver nodded, and off we went.

The further we drove into the city, the more tourists I saw with neatly pressed clothes and belts. Old people wore cameras that swung from their sweaty necks. Young people snapped selfies with their smartphones in front of the bars and shops along the streets. The sun hung high in the sky, baking the humid air. The crowds grew larger, the closer to Duval Street we drove. People clustered in small groups on the sidewalk in front of Sloppy Joe’s, snapping pictures and posing in front of Hemingway’s picture located just inside the bar. They all smiled and laughed and chugged beers, even though it wasn’t even noon yet. There was nowhere else to go on the island, so I knew by nightfall that Duval Street would be wild.

It was one o’clock by the time I got to my room. I opened my blinds to reveal a massive cruise ship strapped tight against the dock. Downtown was already packed with people, but still more tourists were leaving the ship. I couldn’t help but wonder what Key West was like before cruise ships started coming. I sat down at the desk in my hotel room and called Tony Wilkes.

After two rings he answered, Jim, did you make it down okay?

Just got to my hotel room.

Get settled in. Maybe take a look around, and I will meet you at five. We’re going to eat at the Pilar Restaurant, Tony said, and I jotted down the address.

Sounds good. I hung up the phone.

Trying not to look too much like a tourist, I changed out of my suit and into a T-shirt and shorts. I slipped on flip-flops, grabbed my sunglasses, and headed into town. I had only walked a block when I smelled the aroma of a grill. My stomach reminded me that I had missed lunch, so I stopped. The restaurant was in an odd spot, located at the end of a parking lot behind buildings on the main road. The Raw Bar sign caught my eye. Above it was a neon sign reading Hog’s Breath Saloon. After ordering a dozen oysters, I weaved between trees growing out of the brick floor and sat at the bar. A friendly waitress asked what I wanted to drink, and I ordered a beer. The hanging fan blew an intoxicating aroma of grill smoke around the bar. As I waited for my oysters to be shucked, I read the stickers and license plates that had been stuck on the wall. There must have been a thousand of them. Three young girls giggled toward the back of the bar. They were talking on their phone and waving at a sign that read Hog Cam. My oysters arrived, and I dove into them.

I didn’t have time to return to the hotel, so I hoped my attire was acceptable for dinner at the Pilar Restaurant. I missed the restaurant the first time I walked by it. Nestled back from the street, the Pilar barely announced its existence. Wooden steps led to the deck, where a man sat on a stool holding a clipboard. He looked up and asked my name without taking the cigarette out of his mouth.

I am here to meet someone…

Name? he asked again before I could say who.

Tony Wilkes.

His scrawny tan arm held out the clipboard. He scanned the names while breathing in cigarette smoke. Don’t see it.

He looked up at me with his leathery face and blue eyes. The odd feeling of his glare left me with an uncomfortable feeling. The door to the restaurant opened, and I heard my name. Relief came over me when I saw Tony standing at the door. He waved me over. As I approached him, I looked back at the man on the stool. He was still staring at me. I looked again at Tony and headed his way, confused.

Sorry for that. This is a private establishment. Carl’s not used to people walking up, Tony said.

Carl’s the guy on the stool?

Yep, Tony said as he held the door open for me.

It was still bright outside, and my eyes had a hard time adjusting to the dark of the restaurant. Cigar smoke hung heavy, and soft music played above the quiet crowd. I followed Tony to our table. As we passed the bar, I noticed the uniqueness of it. It looked like a sportfishing boat that had run directly into the wall. The aft of the boat served as the bar top, with wooden captain’s chairs as barstools. A mirror replaced the window at the cockpit, and liquor bottles stood on glass shelves. The door to the boat was still in its original place. I was surprised to see it was functional when a bartender stepped out of it carrying four bottles of wine. The entire back of the boat shined from the lacquer covering the old wood. On the back, large gold letters spelling pilar reminded me of the name of Ernest Hemingway’s fishing boat.

Tony introduced me as I sat down at the table.

Jim, this is Jake Christianson, Charles Bradford, Harry Hinely, John Carson, and last but not least, Eddie Sparks.

We swapped pleasantries along with handshakes.

You all work with Tony, I assume?

No, old friends. We meet up every time I’m in town. Jake is originally from Jacksonville, Florida. How long have you been in the Keys now? Tony asked Jake.

Nineteen years.

Jake is the mechanic at Charles boatyard up on Sugarloaf Key.

Tony turned his attention to one of the other guys. Harry is the only true sailor. He’s sailed to places many people haven’t even heard of. Do yourself a favor, buy him a beer and listen to his stories from his past adventures.

I nodded at the news. Tony leaned over the table as if to keep anyone from hearing and said, And Eddie, he builds fast boats.

Used to, Eddie corrected.

Well, let’s just say that’s how he makes his money.

Used to, Eddie corrected again.

Oh, by the way. The concrete is no good, Tony said to me, switching topics.

No good? The generator is arriving tomorrow, I replied.

No good. Got to tear it up, redo it, Tony said while placing his napkin in his lap.

How long is that going to set us back? I asked.

Least three days, Tony replied in his nonchalant yet arrogant tone.

Three days!

Three days. Got to rip it up. Re-dig the footings and re-pour. Three days. And, that’s if the weather holds out, Tony said matter-of-factly.

The hospital management is going to be pissed, I said.

Pissed? They don’t care. It ain’t like there’s a storm coming.

How do you know it’s not a problem?

’Cause I already told ’em. They’re fine. Nothing ’round here happens on time, Tony said while patting me on the back. The delay didn’t faze them.

Tony could be breaking apart on the inside, but you would never know it. He is the best salesperson I have ever known. He can make you believe anything he wants you to and comes across so sure of himself, you feel odd for questioning him. I knew that the delay was no problem for him, but it was for me and my boss.

Well, Mr. Thompson isn’t going to be fine.

That’s your problem. Look at it this way. Now you get to go fishing with us tomorrow morning, Tony said with a big smile.

Chapter

3

I was up at daybreak. Not because I was excited to go fishing, but because I dreaded calling the office. I was to be at the docks at 6:00 a.m., so I had the front desk call a cab. I walked out the front door and into the already burning atmosphere. I waited for my ride, trying not to breathe in the smell of sulfur from the sprinkler system’s water. Other than the dump truck doing its rounds, everything seemed quiet. Birds chirped in the palms above. As I walked down the sidewalk, I noticed the cruise ship leaving the dock. A pelican plunged into the churned-up water, trying to catch breakfast.

The cab ride to the marina was less than seven minutes. The driver dropped me off at the gangway to V dock. From the top of the ramp, I could see Tony folding a rope behind a seafoam green boat. I walked up to him and read the name on the back of the boat—Magic.

Hey, you made it, Tony said.

I’m here. What should I do?

Put your stuff inside. Cap will be here in a moment.

Eddie came up from the cabin with two fishing rods in his hands and greeted me with a low Mornin’. I yelled hello to Jake who threw a cast net off the bow of the fishing boat.

Gettin’ some bait, he said.

Can I help? I asked Eddie.

Yeah, pass those rods up to me, he replied, pointing to more rods leaning against the deck.

Jake walked the narrow rail of the boat holding a bucket with baitfish. One of the baitfish jumped out of the bucket onto the deck of the boat and flopped around, trying to escape the unfamiliar liquid-less world. He poured the rest of the fish into the bait well before picking up the flopping fish. I noticed a large man walking the dock toward us, knowing immediately it was Charles. He was holding two cases of Natural Light beer. When he got to the boat he handed one case to Tony. Cap’s bringing 120 pounds of ice on the cart, so go ahead and load up the coolers, he said as he opened the other case and popped a beer.

Tony pulled up another hatch equal to the bait well but on the other side of the boat. He emptied both cases of beer into it. I’ve already got two cases of water in there, he said.

Someone walking down the dock caught my attention. A man, not a tall man, pushed