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.
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