I
am not one to dwell on death or on getting old.
Matter of fact, I am probably the anti-Woody Allen on such matters. Why obsess over these things? When I find dismal little thoughts trying to
creep into my mind, I just turn the channel.
Anyone can do it. I do have to
admit, however, that the Allies of Termination have branches everywhere,
constantly sending out rafts of discouraging information that is almost
impossible to avoid. It’s getting so you
can’t even read your everyday album reviews.
The other day, I was reading a review of Bob Dylan’s new album, Tempest, by some self-satisfied pup
named David Yaffe who is probably under 40.
He says Dylan is “worse for wear….with the exit sign looming ever
closer.”
This
is the kind of stuff we’re bombarded with daily. It’s enough to make an old man cry. As if we needed to get this news. We’re
the ones standing in front of those mirrors every day, you think we don’t know
the score? We meet friends from 20 years
ago and we don’t even know who the hell they are. And, for God’s sake, don’t look through your
piles of old photographs where even 10 years ago you look like a comparative
adolescent. It’s bad enough to be
circling the drain without actually looking like someone who lives down there.
I,
myself, am fortunate to have decent skin genes.
Eating reasonably well, exercising for 17 years thrice weekly and
popping a few supplements have preserved those parts of my body which are
generally unavailable to the sun. The
rest of it—forget about it. I know what skin
cancer looks like, but what are all those nasty multicolored things which keep
showing up on my arms? And what can you
do about them? If you try to sandpaper
them off, they bleed, take it from me.
You can wear long-sleeved shirts, of course, but that’s not much fun in
Florida, where some people will mark you for an aging junkie.
All
of this difficulty pales in comparison, of course, to the ravages happening daily
to your face, which you like to remember as it was 50 years ago. Or even 5.
Bags under the eyes, loose jowls, neck wattles. What if you just ATE a lot and got fat? Would that tighten the skin up a little? Inquiring minds want to know.
Anyway,
as I was saying, all this is bad enough without the constant reminders from the
outside (younger) world which refuses to leave us to our beloved
delusions. No, they have to keep poking
their noses into our business, reminding us of our diminishing capacities, real
and imagined, laughing off whatever noble aspirations we still possess and gently—or
non-gently—steering us ever closer to those dreaded “assisted living”
residences and nursing homes. Well, I,
for one, am having none of it. If I want
to go hiking up a mountain to a glacier, I’m going to do it, old fool or not. And if I fall off the goddam mountain and
careen down into the underbrush, tough shit for me. At least I had fun til the last minute. They say you’re only as old as you think you
are and that would be just peachy if somebody wasn’t constantly trying to make
you THINK you are too old, too feeble, too confused or too inept to do
anything. Trouble is, these guys convince a lot of people that these
calumnies are true.
It
would be foolish to ignore the actual realities of the situation. Memories slip, physical resources diminish,
confidence ebbs. But these things don’t
disappear completely overnight and we shouldn’t let anybody, however
well-meaning, convince us that this is so.
Occasionally, instead of erring on the side of caution, let’s err on the
side of recklessness.
I
like a lot of the old people in my gym.
They’re making the best of what they’ve got, staying as healthy as
possible, travelling, continuing to have adventures, not ceding any more than
is necessary to age. One man, a
relatively short bull of a guy nearing 80, shows up every day, can lift as much
as the kids. He missed a couple of days
last week and the next time I saw him I asked what happened.
“Got
a touch of food poisonin’ at the shrimp bar,” he said. “Knocked me out for awhile, but I’m back at
it now.” He clanged the weights around
for a bit and returned to the conversation.
“You
know, I got nothin’ to complain about.
Barely ever miss a day. Do
whatever I want. My kids give me a hard
time and my friends think I’m crazy, but I don’t care. I’ve been lucky. Never had much in the way of injuries,
diseases…don’t have to take a whole mess of pills every day….”
“You
have been lucky,” I told him. “But you’ve
also taken care of yourself, led a physical life and stayed optimistic.”
“That’s
right,” he agreed. “I’ve always been a
glass-half-full kinda guy. I’ve led a
charmed life, I guess. Of course, I’d be
a lot better off without the damned diabetes….”
An Ethereal Encore—The
Brief Return Of Betsy Harper
I
had an unusual dream (or vision) the other night featuring old girlfriend Betsy
Harper. You remember Betsy—sister to
drug-lawyer Bob, proud graduate of ‘Bama, sweet southern belle and the tannest
white girl in town. Our relationship took
place a couple of years after my marriage to Harolyn disintegrated and lasted
for about fours years, at which time Betsy succumbed to the charms of Miami and
moved south. Shortly thereafter, I took
up with Siobhan, who told me I would be staying. And, of course, there’s no arguing with
Siobhan.
Anyway,
Betsy was a great girlfriend, always there to provide acclaim for any good
works you might perform or sympathy for your reversals. She lived in a house of her own out on 39th
Avenue in Gainesville with her beloved Dalmatian, “Dixie,” where she spent an
inordinate amount of time suntanning nude.
When her friends—and I—casually mentioned the dangers inherent, she
replied with “I want to look good NOW.”
And she did, by golly. Betsy was
maybe 5-4 on a good day and an inch of that was curly hair. She had a great sense of style, knew what
looked good on her and wore it. Nobody
had better shoes. After a brief and
agonizing career as a high-school teacher (“I hate some of those little
bastards”), she opened up an exercise studio out where the Royal Park Cinema is
located today.
I
knew of Betsy for several years before we spoke much. Her brother was a friend, having represented
several of my drug-dealing associates and one of my non-drug-dealing
employees. I was once sued by Betsy’s
boyfriend at the time, a character named Steve Lewis, who fell from a ladder
while doing some work in Silver City, my clothing store. He was a private contractor but claimed
otherwise when the opportunity for a lawsuit arose. I got a cheap lawyer, went to court and lost,
got a better lawyer, appealed in a Tallahassee court and won. During this time, Betsy, who was put off by
Lewis’ shenanigans, rang my doorbell one night to tell me she was appalled by
her friend’s tactics and totally disapproved.
Shortly thereafter, their relationship dissolved. Eventually, for some reason unknown to her or
anyone else, she married a drug entrepreneur named Rex Johnson in a spectacular
wedding sponsored by her brother at the old Thomas Center. I attended and even bought an expensive
present. Rex Johnson may not have been
the greatest human being ever but he spent a helluva lot of money in the
Subterranean Circus so I am not going to report on his various shortcomings—sort
of a loyal customer bonus. Suffice to
say, Betsy said she knew the marriage was doomed from the first night but felt
an obligation to soldier on until things became impossible.
I
met her again at George Swinford’s wedding, a coupling which went off the
tracks even faster than Johnson-Harper.
Another wasted wedding gift.
Anyway, she was wearing an off-white antique gown and looked better than
the bride. Not long after, I mailed her
two tickets to a horse race in Miami, the beginnings of her love affair with
the city. She thought it was very
romantic and responded enthusiastically.
A nice four years followed, mostly on Wednesdays and Sundays, my two
days off from work. The other five days
of the week, Betsy referred to as “dark days,” picking up the parlance of the
race track where dark days are those with no racing.
One
Sunday, early in the relationship, Betsy brought a big picnic basket out to my
farm. It was Summer and I was mowing the
40 acres with my tractor, more than an all-day job. I tried to put on a happy face but she sensed
she was interrupting something.
“I
screwed up, didn’t I?” she asked. No, of
course not, I reassured her, but she promised to never do it again.
One
Christmas, in homage to her beachgoing ways, I bought her about 10 bathing
suits. She tried on each one in
succession and the results were worth the price. Betsy was a sensual person and, where some
girls might wait to be invited, if there was some degree of urgency involved,
she would take charge. One fine
afternoon I was driving on A1A near St. Augustine and she became exceptionally
friendly. “Pull off over there,” she
said, motioning to a road that was less-travelled but certainly not abandoned. I never argue with women at times like this
even though I have very good recollections of early problems with the beach
patrol. Fortunately, there were no
arrests this time.
I
gradually lost track of Betsy after her move to Miami, although a friend of a
friend told me at a Gator basketball game that she had moved back to
Alabama. That was the last I heard of
her until Chuck Lemasters came to dinner a few months ago and reported that she
had died—of skin cancer, he thought.
Marcia Hanson—a member of the Big Three with Betsy and Jerry Juris—confirmed
her death a few weeks later when she discovered The Flying Pie.
In
the vision—or dream—Betsy appeared in off-white tailored spotswear, very crisp,
pants ironed. She was leaning on a wall next
to a friend of Mike Garcia, with whom I was having lunch at an outdoor café in
Miami.
“Where
did you come from?” I asked her, stunned.
“I thought you were….”
“Yeh,
I know—dead. Lemasters tells everybody
that.”
“Confirmed,
though, by Marcia.”
“And
a big hello to Marcia next time you see her.
Always remember the good times we had in Gainesville.”
“So
you’re not dead?”
“Well,
yes and no. Not right now, I guess. Up in Big Sky Country, we have an upper
echelon called ‘Primaries.’ The
Primaries have performed some extraordinary deed above and beyond the call and
are given the opportunity to reenter life on earth. In my case, the Primary chose not to return, having
undergone a brutal death and not wishing to repeat the ordeal. For some reason, she tapped me to go
back. I hear the sunscreen is better
now. Anyway, the Primary is now my Sponsor,
like in AA. She keeps me up on what’s
permissible and what’s verboten. For
instance, there can be no contact with family and only ‘light contact’ with
people who are in ongoing relationships.”
“Like
me.”
“Like
you."
“Can
we have dinner?”
“I
think that would be alright, but I have to check. Where do we go?”
“Well,
Mike and I were going to Shorty’s rib joint in South Miami tonight.”
“My
old stompin’ grounds. Knowin’ you, it’ll
be early. About six?”
“Six
is good.”
“Okay,
then, I’m going to check in and I’ll see you for dinner, subject to a review of
the rules.”
We
sat around for awhile at Shorty’s, well past the dining hour, but not a sign of
Betsy. I waited around as long as I
could but eventually you wake up. Some
dreams float off, some are vivid. This
was like a television show you watched just before bed. It was as real as dreams get. If it was a dream at all.
That’s
all, folks….
