The hotel smelled stale, of its forty years. I had the door open, and I was in the parking lot off the strip. I could hear the surf behind the hotel.
The ice machine. The air conditioners. The Shag carpeting curled around the bed posts. The white towels from the surf on the bed.
I was twenty-two and the cars were driving past down the strip. I had a little black and red Yamaha guitar that I kept at the Church in town and a Pig Nose Amp. I lived with an inconvenient life. I kept my life private. I was a hundred and twenty pounds and five nine.
I flew or drove out to Florida. When I drove, I had my 1978 blue Camaro from my sister. When I flew the company paid for my rental car that I would pick out as I walked up the lot.
This was an old Spanish City with the remains of a Spanish Fort on the beach made into an amphitheater. During the day I would bring my guitar down there and play to the ocean and bring my skateboard.
It had three pictures on it. Lennon, Belushi and Einstein. And it had the words Dead Guys written on it. And yes, I cared very much, very much.
As a teen I had stayed away from home.
My mom and dad were alright with it. I staid sometimes with friends and went to school for periods of time in different cities.
“What’s the diameter of a circle?”
“It depends on its radius. What are you building?”
“They said I’d need three circles.”
“And they gave you the diameter?”
“Yeah. Why are you in Florida?”
“I’m here once a month on work.”
“I travel a little. Right now I am on my way down to the Surf Board Shop. You could use better runners on your board?”
“You in to stealing skateboards? You like my Camaro?”
“I like your hotel.”
“Keeps me on the strip.”
“I am going over to the Surf Shop to see about getting some shades, where you going to be tomorrow?”
“It”s three in the morning”, I said smiling, “I go down in the day to the Fort, the amphitheater on the beach.”
“See you tomorrow then.”
I put my guitar up in its case and put in the room and locked up the room and followed my new friend down the strip towards the surf shop.
“How long are you in St. Augustine?”
“Just this weekend.” I responded.
“Your plate says you’re from Kansas.”
“sometimes. I grew up traveling. I am a child of the late sixties. I was at Woodstock. My parents live in Wenatchee.”
“I am originally from Long Island. I’m 19 and from New York. You are just a little older than me. My Bike is at my friends.”
“So you are visiting. I’m working. I have the weekend off. I am down here from Savanah.”
“I am in to look at my surfboard. Where you going to be next?”
“Next Weekend I’ll be in Daytona and Clearwater before I head back.”
“Come on in and I’ll show you my board.”
Now, I have to admit. I don’t remember boards. I barely remember him. How do I populate the inside of the Surf Shop. Do I focus on the t-shirt. Or on the miniature orange trees. Or do I focus walking back alone afterwards to my room. I don’t remember much of surfers on the Daytona coast. I remember the Rat Bar and cruising the beach. I am remember standing outside the shop and my friend and I sitting for a while on the curb. So how do I get back to the hotel and the next morning out at the ampatheater. I stand slowly and say goodnight.
“I’m going to go get a Pepsi from my room. Do you want one?”
“No. I am going to head on down the strip.”
“I’ll be out in the afternoon on the beach.”
***
The room was cool and moist. And the drapes billowed effortlessly about
every three inches.
The sun would be pouring in through the material in the morning. For now I
curled up under the blanket and the thin bedsheet. The TV hummed in soft
gray sound as the channel went off the air.
I curled up and waited to sleep. I curled up in the silence accompanied by the
tv and waited to fall asleep.
The street was still alive outside.
***
My Camaro was a ’97, red and simple. My old ’78 was with a friend’s son now.
I had sold it for $1. The Camaro touched 35 mph. The ’97 was a beautiful
style. So was the ’78. And GTOs and ’68s and 442s. My personality was my
car, my guitar, my piano playing and it belonged only to me. Out here away
from Kansas. Away from home. It belonged to me and I resented sharing back
home, if that’s what you call it. My home was my Camaro, my hotel, my
Church, my friends.
On the road I always went to the same area of the cities to stay at the same
hotel. On the weekend I had already made friends at Church where there was
a piano and usually guitars, sometimes one of mine.
I always was sober. I never knew if I needed to be on the road. I drank Virgin
Bloody Marys and such and variations on Salty Dogs. I started traveling at 12
or 13 when Eddie had moved, Jay had moved, Vic had moved and Chris and I
had been confronted by a neighbor with a gun. Eddie got a car at 15 in Little
Rock and came back and from ’73 to ’77 Eddie and I traveled staying with
friends that we had made from Churches.
In 1977 I started working for my father until ’97 on the road and Eddie
traveled with me.
Now I pulled back in the hotel parking lot and parked the car and got out.
I could hear the surf as I got my guitar out of the Camaro and headed
down to the beach. I was still in St Augustine and the Fort was a
hundred feet away. I found my way to the Fort and sat back against
the stone wall and got out my guitar and pig nose amp. I began
playing to the ocean and the ocean listened. It was three in the
afternoon and the sun was beautiful with the surf. I played for about
an hour when my new friend arrived and sat down beside me in the sand.
He handed me a Pepsi and pair of shades and said… tourists have got to have
shades.
~
September 