I See Boat People (#18)

I wrote this when I first arrived in Marathon. Perhaps I was being a bit harsh. Shock can do that to you. I've since softened my opinion. Either I've mellowed or it's the primary stage of "Key's Disease". I suspect the latter. Last night for dinner I had beer.
Marathonians are a lot like manatees. Gentle, friendly, ugly and obese. When I was a kid, I’d shut my eyes when we drove through here on our way to Key West. At the age of twelve, I saw my first hooker in Marathon working the bar at the Seven-Mile Grill. It wasn’t a pretty site. (I still cringe when I see a woman wearing red.) The most attractive women I’ve encountered here so far work in Home Depot. 
There also are no young people. The jury is out on why. Maybe their parents eat them. Or they’ve gotten the hint that the Keys aren’t kind to the human physique and gotten the hell out, either down to Key West or to points north. Those unfortunates who remain looked like they’ve been zapped repeatedly with 400 roentgens, then doused with a bucket of cold water and put up wet. Women especially fare badly. The local joke is:
Q. “What’s a Marathon 9?”
A. “3 ex-husbands, 3 kids and 3 teeth”
Please excuse my criticism of mother nature’s greatest accomplishment. And not everyone fit’s the bill. But if you’re down here looking for love, you’d be best served by hightailing it to Key West. Especially if you have most of your teeth. I visited there last week and my neck’s still sore. 

Up at our marina, folks out of Hemingway, Hiaasen, Steinbeck and just about anywhere except Cosmopolitan and GQ congregate. One woman of an indeterminable age kayaks in each morning with two large canines sitting at her feet. She tows a second kayak with three more on board. She lives in the harbor on two sailboats roped together. I heard one is for the dogs. God only knows what that smells like. Then there’s the husky, almost-Home-Depot-quality blonde whose passion is spitting. As a long-time expectorate, I’m quite impressed with her delivery and may inquire about lessons. And of course, there’s the previously mentioned society of ex-bridge tenders and dumpster divers who hold court every morning, rain or shine. Once they depart around noon for parts unknown (the unemployment line?), the mariners take over. Most of them appear to be on the dole, their construction and waitron expertise being of little use after the last recession that hit the Middle Keys like a hurricane. 

At great expense, the City built a tiki hut at the marina entrance. It has wooden chairs and tables with a great view of the harbor cooled by ocean breezes. No one uses it. Instead, the residents and squatters loiter under the sacred Banyon tree with its gnats, mosquitoes and view of the dumpsters. They sit on worn patio chairs centered around an old card table with a hole in the middle of it. (Which by positioning it directly over a trash can makes an excellent beer can removal system, something the city architects never thought of.) I’ve yet to receive a formal invite, although a cold 18-pack would likely do the trick, but I am wary. On our first day here I dinghied in with my collapsible bicycle and was merrily putting it together when a woman walked over and silently stood about 8 inches away from me.
“Hello” I said.
No reply came. She just stared at my orange bike.
“Hello” I shouted in her ear.
“Hello” she muttered back still transfixed. “I wonder what color that was before it was painted”.
“I don’t know” I replied getting the gist of where this was headed. “It came from Central Florida” I added.
“We had ours stolen last month” she hissed back, staring at it like it was a train wreck.
“Well we have two” I answered defensively.
“So did we” she countered, then walked back to the group.
I finished assembling the bike keeping a watchful eye on Le Socie’te’ du Arbor as they stared in my direction. Then I got the hell out of there, expecting the torches to light and the pitchforks to descend on me at any moment.
There’s also an abundance of wildlife here. Ospreys (fish hawks), manatees, dolphin, tarpon and cougars. I ran across one of the latter, a middle-aged woman who’s anchored with her husband of thirty-plus years. They argue constantly and she’s quite sullen. You can tell she was quite a looker in her day but that day’s past and she now has “Key’s disease”. She was sitting alone one day in the marina when a younger guy who looks like Jan Michael Vincent, (remember him?) but with a better tan, strolled in. You should’ve seen her light up. She positively glowed (and not that sickly orange color). I could’ve placed my computer next to her and it would’ve powered up. JMV was friendly and they were having quite an animated conversation until hubby walked in. Then the lights went out, JMV left, my computer went blank and the two of them commenced to arguing. Call it the bitterness of past attraction. 
The Captain steers clear of the marina entirely, having written off the lot as rakes, fops, sots and scoundrels. But I’m not discouraged. I’ll continue cheerily waving my cortisone-infused arm at passing dinghies and chatting up even the most reticent of mariners. My well being depends on it. And I sort of hope that the ex-trophy wife and JMV are getting it on. Why? Just call me a cockeyed humanist.