The Feet of God

106 - MAKING A LONG STORY SHORT

But the gods wasn’t gonna smile on the damned today.  It started raining pitchforks and hammer handles.  Cars and trucks continued to whoosh on by, ignoring me, while I got back up on my feet and wandered over to the protection of some kudzu covered palm trees and tall hedges.

Then my luck turned again.  The torrential shower stopped almost as soon as it’d begun.  Although soaked, and still swollen and sore all over, I resolved to keep moving on.  I stuck my thumb out to allure somebody to pick a poor soul up, but I knew I cut a pretty bedraggled image for hitching a free ride.  Then, unbelievably, a Ford Pinto stopped.  This had potential.

The driver rolled down the passenger window and we chatted.  I figured he was sizing me up, and probably making sure it’d be safe to transport me in whatever direction he was headed.  The passenger door swung open.  I knew to jump in before the driver had second thoughts.

No sooner do we drive off than I realized this dude wouldn’t shut up.  At all.  He was a nonstop talker, that’s for sure.  It really grated on my nerves, I tellya, but I had to try and be polite.  While he talked on and on I noticed this guy had huge protruding buckteeth.  So bad, I swear, he could’a eaten corn on the cob through a tennis racket.

Anyhow, I mostly tuned him out, offering a response every now and then, and pretending I was remotely interested in his life story.  He finally stopped and dropped me off at an intersection where there was a few shops, eateries and gas stations clustered together.  I thanked him for the lift, then begun to look around.  I checked my pockets and fished out several moist and crumpled bills, and I went inside a small convenience store.  Minutes later I emerged with a pack of Camels and a Mountain Dew.  I passed a group of street kids slouched next to the building looking for panhandling opportunities.  (I wondered if they was a band of Seekers, but didn’t bother to ask.)  Curiously, they didn’t ask me for nothing, and in fact, they shared a whole turkey sandwich with me for a couple’a smokes and sips of soda.

I didn’t stay long, though.  Over the next several weeks I caught a series of uneventful rides, eking out a living, and living on my wits alone.  Everywhere I went I produced the picture of my lost little sister and asked everyone if they’d seen her.  Many said they recognized Baby Harmonica from the near-destroyed photo, but they couldn’t remember when or where.  This encouraged me in thinking I must be on the right track.

I stopped in Tampa and actually landed a part-time job there with a bounty hunter named Sixto Bellafonte.  He was a nice enough guy, but after the altercation in his office when a near-miss shot was fired in the vicinity of my head I knew I wasn’t cut out for this line of work.  I moved on.

I ended up getting another job at The Cheetah Club in St. Pete.  Basically it was janitorial work, but let’s just say there was certain fringe benefits available.  I got fired after four days for using up all my sick time.

I made my way past Tarpon Flats and got an el-cheapo room at The Last Resort Motel.  After my fifth Colt45 in the motel bar I met a woman who suggestively tossed her room key at me.  I took the bait, hook-line-and-sinker, as you might expect, and prepared to be exuberantly entertained in the lady’s room.  Things was pretty great, too, until I found out she was married when her husband suddenly busted in and confronted me.  (Ever tried goin’ toe-to-toe when you’re completely naked?)

I made a dash for the door, salvaging as much dignity as possible with what clothes I could grab in a hasty retreat.  For several days afterward I hitched and hiked, scrounging up whatever was available for the plucking.  Outside Sarasota, I scored big at The Garden of Eat’n picking up food from diners’ plates after they’d left but before the tables got bused.  Tips was easy to rake in too, helping me make bank.  I also got lucky at Dottie’s Diner and The Pink Taco.  Clearly, all my training and experience as a seasoned traveler was coming in handy.

Then the road called again.  Lucky for me, not long after I extended my thumb, a Chevy Tacoma pulled up and stopped.  The door opened.  I saw a shape shifting about on the driver’s side, but couldn’t make out exactly who or what it was.  I scrambled in anyhow.

“What’s your sign?”  The voice came from a woman who I could now see appeared to be of a certain age.  She wasn’t much to look at, but not particularly ugly either.  Her orange hair was cropped close to her head, all one consistent color, obviously fake.  And she had a pair of striking amethyst eyes.

“Well,” I kidded, “I was a Virgo till I turned 16.”

The driver broke up laughing at my attempt at humor.  She put her hand on her crotch, “That gives me wood.”  She laughed some more, “I was born under a Stop sign in the eye of a hurricane.”

I gave her the ol’ thumbs-up and a smile.  This was gonna be an interesting leg of my journey, I could tell.

“The name’s Dollar,” she stuck out her hand for a shake.  “Sandi Dollar.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” I obligingly shook her moist hand.

“Where you headed?” she asked.

“I guess I’ll know when I get there.  I’m searching for my little half-sister, named Baby Harmonica.  She’s lost.  Hey, maybe you might’a seen her?”  I pulled out the picture.

Sandi Dollar squinted then nodded her head from side to side.  “Nah, never seen her before.”

We talked and got on a first name basis.  Sandi revealed she owned a beach shack bar on the other side of Carlotta Harbor called The Rusty Trumpet.

I thought that was an intriguing name for a bar.  She explained that the love of her life was a jazz musician, but he’d dumped her and left behind his rusted musical instrument.  I detected she carried a lingering romantic sense for this trumpet player.

We continued driving over the causeway across several islands in the Florida Keys, and we passed a sign for a place called San Guano (“Not Just Another Pretty Name”).  I was taken in by the beautiful views.  It sure put my old trailer park home in Bakersfield to shame, that’s for sure.

Sandi followed a curving road that led to a small cove with various boats bobbin’ around up and down on small white-capped waves.  Turns out there was a station for fishing trawlers and pleasure craft to gas up, which was the main business in this tiny waterfront community.  Then we pulled up to a weather-beaten building next to a long pier, and I saw a sheet metal sign hanging over the doorway:  The Rusty Trumpet.

Sandi winked, “Welcome to Punta Gordita, where destinies collide.”