Chapter 3: “Still time to start a life in the palm trees, Billy Clyde wasn’t insane, And if it doesn’t work out, there’ll never be any doubt That the pleasure was worth all the pain.”

Chapter 3

“Still time to start a life in the palm trees,

 Billy Clyde wasn’t insane,

 And if it doesn’t work out, there’ll never be any doubt

 That the pleasure was worth all the pain.”

Back at the shack after drinking Red Stripe and warm saki with 5 very, very happy, very big tipping Japanese businessmen, Billy Ray sat at the bar, took a deep breath, and opened the big envelope his dad’s lawyer had left him.  Here was the new bank account information and some starter checks.  There was his dad’s obituary from the Charleston Post and Courier.  The rest of the papers were his father’s work on J.C. Calhoun.  Well, if he ever had trouble sleeping, Billy Ray would read these in greater detail.

As he was packing up the envelope, Billy Ray was surprised to hear a knock at his door.  “Who in the Hell ever knocks?” Billy Ray groused to himself as he got up to open the door.  There standing out front was a fairly beefy guy, wearing a cheap Hawaiian shirt.  “Can I help you?” Billy Ray asked.

“Oh, sorry.  I thought this was the motel’s sauna and hot-tub.  My mistake.  Hey, is that a Tiki-Bar?” the guy asked.

“Yes sir, but I’m afraid it’s only open to private parties and friends of the bartender,” said Billy Ray with an ironic look on his face.

“So, how do you get in good with the bartender?  My name’s Jake.”

“Well Jake, unless you’re a leggy blonde nympho from up North, the best way to get a drink at this bar is to have an interesting story.  So what’s yours?  You sound like you’re a Yankee, from Boston or thereabouts?  What brings you to this fair isle; can’t take the winters anymore?”

“You’ve got a fair ear for accents, Mr…?”

“Call me Billy Ray. Everyone does.”

“Ok Billy Ray,” said Jake with a smile, accepting the barstool offered to him.  “Well, not much to tell.  Divorced, late 40’s, on vacation in the Keys, was hoping to work on my tan and maybe do some fishing.”

“What line of work are you in, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Work mostly for insurance companies as a consultant.  Keeps me busy.  The ex gets most of my paycheck, so a Florida motel is the extent of my international vacation experience this winter.”

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Jake, but so far this story of yours is a bit of a snoozer,” said Billy Ray, stepping behind the bar and choosing a bottle very carefully.  “Now lookee here: this is a bottle of the CSA’s finest Cuban rum, Don Fidel, 1969.  If you want a pull of this baby, you’re going to have to come up with a better story that that one.”

“Ok,” said Jake, “how about the real reason I’m in Key West.  It’s my girlfriend, Simone.  She’s what we call in Boston a barracuda in a skirt –a high-end commercial realtor.  If you’re running for President of the United States and you need a campaign office in a fancy address for only a month, Simone can get it for you.  If you’re looking for that ultimate corporate boardroom on top-of-the-skyscraper with an attached apartment for CEO overnights with special friends, Simone’s your girl.”

“She sounds great,” said Billy Ray.

“Oh SHE’s just fine,” answered Jake, “it’s her goddamn phone that I can’t stand.”

“Mister, you just earned yourself a glass at the most exclusive Tiki-Bar in all of Key West,” said Billy Ray, dropping a pair of highball glasses and some ice between them.  “Do tell.”

“Well, it’ll be like we’re at home on a Sunday, in comfy clothes, reading the paper or playing with her dog, just enjoying some down-time together.  Her phone will ring, and bam! –she instantly becomes Ms. Commercial Realtor and then disappears for hours or the rest of the day. Same thing when we go out to eat, or to a Celtics game, or visit friends.  That phone is always with her and always on.  So I’m like, I need a vacation from your damn phone, Simone.”

“And how’d that go over with her?”

“She says Sorry Baby, I’ll go on vacation with you, so I suggest Florida and she starts bitchin’ about the mosquitoes and complaining that there’s nothing to do, so that’s when I say, Don’t bother, ‘cause you’d probably bring that phone with you, and that’s kind of how we left things.  Probably will need a new girlfriend when I get back,” grinned Jake as he sipped his Don Fidel appreciatively.

“Well, that is sure a much better story than what you started with, Jake –if that’s your real name.  Now, how about telling me your real story, and not just the plot from one of my best friend, Jimmy Buffet’s song, “The Weather is Here –I Wish You were Beautiful?”

Jake froze in mid-sip.  He then quickly tossed his drink into Billy Ray’s eyes, grabbed the envelope that was still on the bar and before Billy Ray could even wipe his face, bolted for the door and ran off into the night.

Now what in the Hell is this all about, cursed Billy Ray to himself as he knocked his own bar stool over and sprinted off after the guy in the Hawaiian shirt formerly known as Jake.

Chapter 2: “Ya got fins to the left, fins to the right, And you’re the only bait in town!”

Chapter 2

“Ya got fins to the left, fins to the right,

 And you’re the only bait in town!”

The fuel dock at Key West municipal marina has the usual signs screaming at you to not smoke while tied-up and fueling, but it also had a unique bit of local color: a 22’ taxidermy mako shark hanging by its tail from a scaffold, midway between the pumps and the storage tank.  Over the years, Fred, the shark, had acquired quite a colorful coating of seagull guano and graffiti, sporting a tie-dye peace sign on his dorsal fin, lots of names of fishermen’s girlfriends, and a suggestion to “Smoke Panama Red” that some stoner spray painted on Fred’s port side.  ‘Westie fishermen being as superstitious as fishermen all over the world, it became mandatory to high-five Fred on the dorsal fin and low-five him on the snout in order to ensure a good catch.

Billy Ray sidled his buddy P.T.’s Pennyan sport fisher up to the dock, hopped off, secured his lines, and hooked up the fuel line.  “How much you want today, Billy Ray?” called Sketcher from up in the control shack.  Folks called him Sketcher because working the fuel dock was just a day job for him; Sketcher was a bona-fide artist, whose charcoal sketches of Key West hung in art galleries up in Naples, and whose occasional oil-on-canvasses adorned many a corporate boardroom both North and South.

“We’re going after blue marlin with Japs payin’ for the ride, so better fill her up,” Billy Ray called back.  “Oh, and P.T. neglected to give me any cash, so can we…”

“…can y’all pay me once your Japs have paid you?  I suppose so.  But y’all be sure y’all don’t sink or get grabbed by that Bermuda Triangle, or take off to South America without paying me ‘n Mr. Texaco fust,” said P.T. in a mock serious voice.

“Why Mr. Sketcher, I don’t believe what anybody else says –you are a real human being, bless your heart,” Billy Ray came back with.

“G’wan now, make sure that fuel line’s on tight.  If I want someone to kiss my ass, I can always ask yer daddy.”

“Funy you should mention that: Daddy died a couple of months back.”

“Oh Billy Ray, I am so sorry,” said Sketcher, seriously this time, “I had no idea.  Y’all were never all that close, right?  I seem to remember you chewin’ my ear off about somethin’ he had done…”

“Thanks, Sketcher.  No, we were not close.  And it wasn’t something he had done, so much as something he had said.  Right after Deirdre left with my boy, he had the gall to say I was better off rid of white trash like her, and called my boy a redneck-in-training.  Now granted, me ‘n her didn’t always see eye to eye, but Christ, I still had feelings for her, and to call your own grandson a redneck-in-training…  Well, we just never had anything more to say to each other after that.”

“I forget ‘cause you’re just a good-old-boy, but ain’t you from some kind of plantation-society people back in Carolina?”

“Yep, I allow that I’m the last living descendant of John C. Calhoun, founding father of the Confederate States of America.”

“Wow,” said Sketcher, “that’s pretty impressive.  I don’t remember much about history, but that name rings a bell.  So, what with your Daddy passing, you must be set somethin’ pretty now.  Gonna sell the shack?  Can I buy the bar if ya do?”

“No plans to do that, Sketcher.  Daddy left me a little bit, just enough to put me in some old folks home around Tallahassee once I get too old to wipe my own behind.  He also left me with his precious “family papers,” more crap about J.C. Calhoun, I’d allow.  I might get me a parrot and line the cage with them.”

“Hey ol’ boy, that’s your family there.  If you don’t want ‘em, betcha the library might.  There’s probably historical stuff in there an’ all.  Might even be able to sell some of it to a collector.  Some of my gallery buddies might know people…”

“Thanks anyway, Sketcher.  I just might give them to the library.  Lord knows, I ain’t interested.  So, we full yet?”

“I believe you are.  Don’t forget Fred on the way out, and bring back some marlin,” said Sketcher cheerily as Billy Ray waved over his shoulder.  He unhooked the fuel line, hung it up, paid his respects to Fred, untied and giving the dock a shove with his foot, climbed up to the bridge and started up the Pennyan’s diesel.  Slithering through the inner harbor, Billy Ray next sidled up to the bait dock where his friend, P.T. was waiting for him with two buckets of live bait fish at his side.

“You didn’t put on a full fuel load, did ya?” asked P.T. as he handed Billy Ray one of the buckets.

“Of course I did,” said Billy Ray, stowing the bait fish in the aft compartment.

“You think I got an A.T.M. card for the Richmond Treasury or somethin’?  Why’d you do that?  You know I can’t afford a full load?”

“Aw, quit yer belly-aching, P.T.  Japs’re paying for the gas this time out, and besides, no telling how far we’ll have to go for marlin this time of year.  Besides, Sketcher let me have it on credit, so long’s we pay him when we get back.”

“Well why didn’t you say so in the first place?  Let’s go git us some marlin, good buddy!”

“You forgetting something, boss?  We gotta go git us some Paying Jap customers before we git us some marlin.”

“You know, I knew there was a reason to include you on this outing my friend, more ‘n just because you got the best free bar I’ve ever smoked a Cuban cigar at.  Come on, I feel lucky.  By the way, did you…”

“Yeah, I high-fived Fred before I left.”

“But did you low-five him too?  Curtis once forgot to low-five him and his boat…”

“…run aground off Key Biscayne.  I know.  It wouldn’t be because Curtis was actually headed for Bimini and couldn’t read a chart even if it was printed in scratch ‘n sniff format, would it?”

“Maybe,” said P.T. thoughtfully, “but just don’t mess with Fred, ok?  That ol’ shark’s been there since the 50’s, so there’s something to be said for that.”

Billy Ray threaded his way through the harbor, putting into the boat slip that P.T. had rented for the winter sport fishing season.  While P.T. made fast the lines and schmoozed the Jap businessmen who had chartered them for the day, Billy Ray studied the charts and listened in on the chatter from the c.b. radio and the loran, trying to figure out where the fish might be today.  Once their guests were settled with a Red Stripe and some seaweed crackers, P.T. joined him on the bridge.  “Where you reckon we should head?”

“Sounds like the Annabelle is getting some action off of Dead Rebb Ledge, right close to #77 buoy.  As I remember, that’s got a nice up-well that the marlin like to hang-out in, especially with a rising tide.  Think we can make it in two hours?”

“Two hours ought to do it,” answered P.T.  “I’ll take the bridge and you show our guests how the rigging works.  And be nice.  Those Japs are all about politeness and respect.”

“It’d be the other way around if the Yankees had of whupped them in the war,” groused Billy Ray, who didn’t relish explaining how the long-lines and marlin-seat worked to somebody whose second language was English.  Still, Japs tipped pretty well when they caught a fish, so Billy Ray didn’t really mind them all that much.  And they only came in the winter, besides.

While P.T. gunned the Pennyan over the waves, Billy Ray explained and demonstrated to the five dapper, courteous subjects of the Divine Emperor Akahito how to hook a marlin and play him all the way back to the boat.  He figured they picked up on about 75% of what they said, but at least it passed the time while they motored out to their station.  They even offered him a Red Stripe and tried to teach him a Japanese drinking song, to much hilarity on both sides of the language barrier. 

It seemed like no time at all when P.T. throttled-back and called down to Billy Ray to get up into the flying bridge.  P.T. went down to the deck, baited up 10-15 hooks, set the four long-lines out on his wings, and buckled the first guest into the marlin chair.  “Annabelle 3 points off starboard,” Billy Ray sang out. 

As the two boats passed each other, Sam, the Annabelle’s owner, hailed them with “Sorry Phineas, we done grabbed all the marlin here.  Early bird gets the worm, good buddy.”

“That’s P.T. to you, you ol’ flounder!” P.T. shot back.  “An’ what I heard was that it’s the second mouse that gets the cheese!”  This produced general laughter from both boats as the Annabelle throttled-up and made way for Key West.

After trolling the ledge for about a half hour, Billy Ray spotted what he was looking for: “Sails 2 points off to port!”

“You sure they ain’t fins?” P.T. called back.

“No sir, they’re marlin sails.  Prepare to get hit!”

Chapter 1: “Some people claim that there’s a woman to blame, But I know it’s my own damn fault.”

Hi, and thank you for reading my new story, White Man's Paradise.  Don;t worry about the title --it's not racist, neo-Nazi hate speech.  It IS, however, a counter-factual piece of historical fiction, set in a world where the Union did not win the Civil War (it was a tie, negotiated by France and Britain).  Starting out on Key West, Florida, the story follows William Raymond Caldwell Calhoun (y'all call him Billy Ray --everybody does!) and his friend, Jimmy Buffett (yes, THAT Jimmy Buffett) as he learns some surprising things about his family history and, incidentally, some surprising things about a 150 year-old conspiracy that could end up with him sleeping with the fishes off of Dead Rebel Ledge.  Y'all have a good read, y'hear?

White Man’s Paradise

Chapter 1

“Some people claim that there’s a woman to blame,

 But I know it’s my own damn fault.”

     William Raymond Caldwell Calhoun squinted through bloodshot eyes at his 1970’s era clock radio, trying to correctly determine the shape and meaning of its analog display function.  Big hand on the 12, little hand on the 9.  Too damn early to get up on Key West, Florida; way too damn early to get up on Key West, Florida, after spending all night and a good part of the morning trading tequila shots and swapping spit with an entire college girl’s field-hockey team from St. Paul on spring break.  Tell a Yankee chick you’re Jimmy Buffet and a feller can just about do as he pleases.  Not that William Raymond (y’all can call me Billy Ray) could exactly remember whom he did what with for how long last night.  A more pressing concern was the 500 pound anvil-shaped headache that was threatening to crack his world in half at any moment.

     Eight oranges in the juicer, a raw egg, some honey and three aspirins later, Billy Ray regarded his domain through slightly scratched, very dark Ray Ban sunglasses: a 1-room shack (but a big room, he reminded himself) with 3 alcoves containing a double-sized platform waterbed, a pine clothes chest and wicker nightstand; a kitchenette and ½ size fridge filled with Durango beer, limes and margarita mix –there might be a couple of cans of something indestructible in the cupboard; a toilet, sink and mirror surrounded by a circle of hanging beads for privacy. 

     And then there was the bar. It occupied the entire center of the shack and was an honest-to-god bamboo Tiki bar from some defunct Chinese restaurant on the mainland.  Billy Ray had his friend, Jimmy, help him float it out to Key West on Jimmy’s boat, the Jolly Mon, just after Billy had bought the shack from the previous owner, a derelict castaway veteran of the Nicaraguan War.  He and Jimmy lovingly restored it, mounting a 100-gallon fish tank into the bottle rack dead center and cleaning the accumulated grime off of the bamboo until it gleamed like a freshly cut stand.  6 rattan covered bar stools were the shack’s only furniture besides the waterbed.  The bar also had a color t.v. attached to a satellite dish, an 8-speaker stereo, a c.b. radio mounted upside down on the ceiling next to the glass rack, a working dishwasher, blender, trash compactor, and a Hawaiian hula-dancer lamp with a shade made from local palm fronds.  Stolen street signs adorned the walls of the shack.  Screen covered picture windows provided ventilation and screened views of palm trees, ocean, his neighbor’s dumpster and a motel that had clearly seen better days.

     Legend has it that Jimmy wrote his huge hit-single, White Man’s Paradise, sitting at this very bar, a legend invented by Jimmy himself, because it was way more romantic than where he actually wrote it: an office cubicle in Nashville on his lunch-break from the commercial real estate firm he worked at right out of college.  However, it is true that more than a couple of his tunes were first tried out on Billy Ray and his select group of ‘Westies that would drop by with a bottle or two and a bag of burgers now and then.  Jimmy called them his “focus-group,” and would always stop in when he was between tours.

     Billy Ray shuffled around the bar and grabbed his beach towel from the back of the bar-stool where he had left it to dry.  He then walked out the front and only door, stripped naked, waved at the elderly hotel guest at across the yard who didn't think this was proper behavior for one’s own doorway, and stepped into the outdoor shower stall.  The water came from a rainwater collector mounted on the roof, with hot water coming from a solar-powered tank, also on the roof.  After a nice long shower, Billy Ray wrapped the towel around his middle so as to avoid repeated offense, stretched and wandered back inside his shack, wondering whatever possessed him to set an alarm for 9 in the a. of m., and hoping it wasn't something important he had forgotten.

     Now dressed in Key West local attire of sport fishing advertising tee-shirt, cargo shorts, old boat shoes with no socks and a Florida State baseball cap, Billy Ray made his way back to the bar, just about tripping over the reason for the 9 a.m. alarm before he actually saw it.  Or rather, saw him: a slightly pudgy man dressed in a tan suit, whose open briefcase was up on the bar.  The man was fishing around for something in there.  He stood up and greeted Billy Ray, who just now had remembered that his guest was his father’s estate attorney.  “Let’s get this over with,” Billy Ray sighed.

     “Thank you, Mr. Calhoun, and once again, I am so sorry for your loss.”

     “Not much of a loss, Mr…”

     “Howe, Mr. Calhoun.”

     “You can just call me Billy Ray, Mr. Howe.  Everyone does.  Except for my old man.  He never called me much at all, which was fine for both of us.”

     “Yes, well your father did leave you a small legacy: $75,000 worth in mature government bonds, as well as some family papers.  He was devoted to researching the life of your ancestor, John C. Calhoun.”

     “Yeah, old J.C.C. meant more to my father than I did,” replied Billy Ray.  “I guess that famous dead relatives are a whole lot less disappointing than living, breathing relatives who don’t –what was it he used to say? –who don’t realize their true potential, that was it.”

     “Every father loves his son, Mr. Calhoun,” said Attorney Howe.

     “Call me Billy Ray.  Mr. Calhoun died a couple of months back in Charlestown, South Carolina.  So, what do we have to do this morning, because I told a friend I’d help him out with a charter group of Jap businessmen who wanted to haul a blue marlin back to Tokyo with them.”

     “Just sign this account authorization, Mr. Calhoun.  This creates the bank account into which your inheritance will be deposited.  And sign here, saying that I explained that to you.  And sign over here on this paper, stating that you are next of kin to the deceased and that all taxes, debts and duties have been paid by the estate executor, who is me.  Sign here, which is a statement of my accounting, showing that the taxes, debts, etc., have been paid.  And finally, sign here.  This acknowledges your receipt of the decedent’s family papers, as stipulated by article IV, section 7, paragraph 19, clause 3 of your father’s will.  Oops, sign this line here, too.  This says I have presented you with this true copy of he will.  Do you have any questions I can answer?”

     “Nope, you’ve been very straightforward, Mr. Howe.  Thanks a lot.  You need directions out of here?” asked Billy Ray.

     “No thank you, Mr. Calhoun.  It is a small island with only one road off.”

     “That’s right, Mr. Howe.  You’re at the last stop sign in the continental Confederate States of America.  Go the wrong way and you’ll have a few sharks to keep you company on your swim to Cuba,” said Billy Ray with a wink.

     “I suppose you’re right, Mr. Calhoun.  And once again, I am so sorry about your loss.”

    

     “And once again, Mr. Howe, it ain’t that much of a loss.  That, and just call me Billy Ray –everyone does.”

     “Certainly Mr… certainly, Billy Ray,” said the attorney, shaking Billy Rays hand in parting.  He eased himself into some kind of expensive Kraut land-yacht that was backed into Billy Ray’s front yard (there was no driveway –Billy Ray thought having a driveway when he didn't own a car was just too flashy), turned left at the motel and right onto the causeway.

     Billy Ray watched him go, noting that the flags in front of the motel were twisting this way and that, as if the breeze couldn't make up its mind which direction to blow.  This could cause a problem later out on the water, as it was the beginning of tropical storm season.  There is nothing worse than a boatload of Jap landlubbers puking over the rail in the middle of a dirty squall, he thought to himself.  Better check the marine report at the bait dock before picking up the party. 

     After checking to make sure he had his rigging knife and wallet on him, Billy Ray grabbed a tube of zinc oxide from under the bar, leaving the legal papers on the bar for a later look.  As he walked up the street towards the municipal marina, the breeze finally decided to blow out of the southeast, making the motel flags (Jolly Roger, Florida and the Stars ‘n Bars, respectively) snap on their poles.  Maybe today would be ok for fishing.  Hell, a bad day of fishing beats a good day at work, thought Billy Ray with a half-smile.