Mosquito Season. The locals had warned of this. With shame stricken faces, they had ominously said, “it can get bad.” They told of how the rainy season would incite the mosquito population to engage in wildings, when the insects tear across the island, stabbing and sucking on the red-blooded. Well, it’s half way through the Mosquito Season, and I have yet to be bitten.

My houseguest is of Haitian extraction. As a welcoming gift I bought him a book. This book came with a small blue doll and a set of pins, portable Voodoo. I left it out on the kitchen counter, where I knew he would see it. Sure enough, his first evening he picked it up and examined it at close range, and I watched his expression change from calm to cloudy. With a flick he let the little book drop to the counter, where it bounced once, and flounced to the floor. The Haitian wiped his fingertips on his shirt front, and then he yelped, and slapped at his neck.

“What’s the matter?” I had to ask.
“Something is biting me,” he said, and he spun a tight pirouette, and smacked himself in the face.

His first day he woke up horribly ill, all my plans for the adventures we would have, were dashed. Instead of swimming with the dolphins, the Haitian was holed up in the guest room with paper tissues in his nose.

Our first evening I talked the Haitian out of the guest room and

into joining me for a gaze at the stars in the garden. In no time, mosquitos showed up like bikers to a rally, over-excited and raring to go. Amusingly, it turned out the insects only went for the Haitian. His ankles were torn up, while I remained unmolested. Sneezing and scratching he abandoned me and returned to the sanctity of the guest room.

On his second and last day the Haitian rented a scooter and agreed to permit me to sit behind. I learned it is not good scooter etiquette to swivel dramatically as I craned about, “Oh look!” I’d yell into his ear. “No!” he would reply. “Stop moving around back there.” Also, I learned the importance of hanging the hell on. As, after waiting on traffic lights to change color, I would tend to space out, and release my grip, and then the bike would go forward, my neck snapping to catch up.

A girl on a moped with flowers stenciled all over, passed us, and stupidly I felt compelled to point this out. Immediately, the Haitian leaned forward, elbows out, shoulders flush with the handlebars, and sped the bike up as fast as it would go. I closed my eyes, and inhaled on the sweet smell of exhaust fumes. Without the benefit of sight the mopeds sounded like mosquitos. When I heard the engine rev down, I opened my eyes. We were caught up with the girl on the flower bike. Sod bicycles, I’m buying a scooter.

“Ouch!” cried Lula Belle, and she raised fingertips to her head.
“Sorry, darling, casualty of war,” said Charles.

Charles crouched in the sturdy limbs of an orange tree. Through the dark leaves he could see his wife’s mouth, he watched her tongue licking across her sunburnt lips. He felt nothing whatsoever as he watched her rub her temple. “You’re the one who wanted something sweet,” said Charles.

The orange tree was in an orchard, on a hill, owned for generations by the Rodriguez-Lopez family. Until a few years ago, when the family sold it to the Englishman, Charles, and his American wife, Lula Belle.

“I can’t believe you interrupted my work, for this!” said Charles. He squatted, high up in the tree. With one hand he grasped at a branch, and with his free hand he reached for the ripe fruit. Lula Belle held the bucket steady, tight against her torso. There were three small oranges in it, mottled white and yellow.

“I don’t want oranges,” Lula Belle was near crying, “I want chocolate.”
“Hold still,” said Charles, and he made as if to lob the fruit. At the last moment he flicked his wrist, giving the missile topspin.
“Hey! Ow!” Lula Belle screamed, and dropped the basket, clutched at her ribs.

Tonio heard the scream. He was walking near the hill that used to belong to his father. The hill where he was born, his ancestors were born, and buried. Tonio grew up believing this land would one day be his. He did not mean to turn his head and look, but he did. He was at the exact spot where he and his brothers, returning home from midnight escapades, would slip through the forrest of bamboo, and the grove of lemon and orange trees, from which his mother would make fresh juice. Tonio and his brothers would ease back into hammocks, never waking the snoring family, or snoozing dogs.

Just as when they were children, these country boys, now grown, would leave their homes late at night. Tonio led them to the secret meetings in the jungle. In mud-splattered, threadbare clothes, and scuffed knee-high rubber boots, the brothers climbed the red earth mountain paths, deep into the steep jungly hills, where no roads would ever be paved. Tonio was a natural leader. One day he would get back his father’s land.

Lula Belle gathered up the basket, and the spilled fruit. “I love our life,” she said, and instantly, her eyes welled with tears, and she added, under her breath, “I just wish I could spend it with someone other than you.”

“Bitch,” muttered Charles, as he unwound an orange from its stem, and aimed it at the bridge of his wife’s nose, where it exploded.
“Stop!” cried Lula Belle.
“Accident, luvie, sorry,” said Charles, with a thin grin.

What really annoyed her, was that after this pelting, she knew she would be the one to squeeze the damn oranges.

Recently I bought a bicycle. I bought the bike because I first considered stealing one, but I have no aptitude for crime. Instead, dutifully, I paid for a lime green contraption, with whitewall tires, and a front basket.

I was under the impression that one could not forget how to ride these things, however, I have almost killed myself several times already. It does not help that fearless cats lie out in the middle of the streets. They lie on their sides, heads cocked, and stare at you as you perform wobbly maneuvers around them.

But a bicycle is the best way to get around when the streets flood.

September is the rainy season, and tropical rains are symphonic. In moments, a storm can switch the sky from pristine, to a purple, velvet, padded look. Et puis, the deluge. In an instant, streets are submerged, sidewalks immersed. Whole coconuts bob in gutters turned to rivers, like kids on water-slides.

It is customary in Key West to ride on the sidewalks. I found this spectacularly annoying so long as I was a pedestrian. Now that I am a cyclist I see the merits. Primarily, that one is out of the reach of motorists.

However, Key West sidewalks are treacherous. They are irregularly dotted with lampposts, palm trees, and one time, a man sleeping on a low cot. Not to mention, the spectacularly annoying pedestrians. It does not help that these sidewalks, made of concrete slabs, occasionally pitch, like buck-teeth, from Jurassic tree roots.

Often there is jungle foliage drooping over the sidewalks, reducing the space to an ever narrowing, green tunnel. Tight enough to crash into, if one was not used to being on a bicycle. I have crashed a couple of times, spiky fronds leave marks like cat’s claws.

As quickly as the storms come, they depart. Sunshine infiltrates and rainbows pop out, birds chirrup. The air turns steamy and fills with dense, loamy, flower smells. On my bike I glide through the heavy puddles, and inspect the drenched town. Steam rises. Roosters bark out their mad song. Cats are everywhere, on car roofs, on porch railings. With only the merest curiosity they watch my unsteady approach, on my green bicycle, flicking muddy water, and still they do not even twitch an ear. Cool cats.

Amigo might as well have been a cat. Every night at the restaurant it was the same, when the place filled up, Amigo speeding through a heedless throng, a heavy tray in his hands, held aloft. He never lost control of the tray no matter how heaped. All of him was slim and hard and he smoothly split a path through the crowd, a cat in the tall grass. He noticed the lady in the green dress. She was a regular and he always noticed her because something about her reminded him of his mother.

Later that evening Amigo was at a club with his friends but he recognized her the instant she entered. Paused in the entrance she looked like she wanted to bolt, like she was there on a dare. Until that moment he had forgotten all about her. He must have been in the back of the restaurant when she left because now that he thought about it he had not seen her leave. Had forgotten about her until this minute and now she was standing in the doorway of his salsa club. Without thinking he reached for the tattoo on his shoulder. The tattoo was the outline of his mother’s hand.

Just like every Sunday after work Amigo was with his friends. In a huddle they cavorted until the music started and then they cruised around and propositioned partners. Effortlessly Amigo crossed the room and materialized in front of the lady in the green dress. Wordlessly, gracefully he held out a hand.

“No! I can’t dance!” she said, startled, waving off the stranger.

Amigo did not move. Instead he stared into her anxious eyes, and then decisively he reached and curled his fingertips into hers, like a carpenter’s joint. He touched her so lightly she could not be sure he was doing what she could clearly see him doing.

The music was resonant with steel drums and dueling electric guitars and a big slouch of a man singing, rumblingly.

Amigo drew her to the dance floor. With one hand hovering near her hip, he was not even touching her yet somehow he guided her. His expression was intense. For his part he could feel her body following. He knew exactly what to do with her. Knew precisely how to strum her ignorance.

He had them so they faced each other. Their feet were stepping to the drums, their torsos an inch apart, arms out, palms touching palms, they were clapping against each others hands, the sound was raucous like castanets. She could hardly believe she could keep up with him. He was making this happen, he had led her into this, had made it somehow so she could follow. She was exhilarated and it seemed it was only her and Amigo in the glittering room.

When the music stopped Amigo bowed his head slightly, and turned away. She thought she saw a tattoo of a hand on his shoulder.

Craziness is a festering theme for me and periodically I doubt my sanity. I have tried to devise algorithms by which to measure my madness, if indeed there is any. So it was a given I’d check out Jon Ronson’s new book. Ronson, of The Men Who Stare At Goats, brings us The Psychopath Test. I perused it with interest.

Out on the balcony of my second floor apartment I tipped back and forth in the wicker rocking chair, working a rut into the floorboards. Ever since relocating to Key West I’ve developed yet another tic, worshipfully watching the sunset. In between chapters I glanced up, espied the dissolving day and inhaled the sensual feast in the enveloping richness. Is this crazy?

Interrupting my research Joon phoned with a proposition. Joon lives in Hoboken, in a shiny new apartment with views of Manhattan. She sent Jpgs. Her home is airy and bright. There’s a full service saloon in each of the supersonic elevators. Well, I exaggerate, but you get the flavor. I said yes a shade before Joon asked me if I’d like to rent one of the many bedrooms. Deluxe, super comfortable and I’d only have to contribute a pittance. Best of all I would get to live with Joon, a friend I adore. Caught in the incoming tide of excitement, I said yes.

Drifting from reality I imagined life with Joon, saw a mental montage missing only a soundtrack. Us sitting on a sofa, sharing a laugh. Us in the kitchen, me on a countertop, Joon chopping something leafy. And then I saw her leaving for work in the mornings and me burrowing deeper into bed, blackout curtains drawn, snuffling like a truffle pig beneath layers in a chilled cave. I saw eons potentially sopped up by hibernation. I saw how eventually I would have to leave the sumptuous apartment. I would have to go outside and meld with the crowded planet that is Hoboken. I pictured the traffic and I thought I could smell the metallic air. Summers of cement-refracted heat, winters of dirty snow. And then a rooster crowed his throaty long call and I looked around at the green palm trees and the pink and white Victorian houses. Checked up at the bruising sky and the glow from the receding sun that brightly hemmed the edges of clouds shaped like sails.

The Psychopath Test serves up some scientific research though weighs in more heavily with personal observations. It is great entertainment. It posits if you find yourself asking if you are a psychopath, the answer is no. A true psychopath does not question themselves.

I think a better test is ask yourself, if you were living in Paradise, would you move to New Jersey, even for the deal of the century? From the rocker on my balcony gazing on a riotous sunset I phoned Joon, “I love you dearly, and thanks all the same, but I’m not psycho.”

HipHamptons.com
By Heather Buchanan

The 7th annual Authors Night to benefit East Hampton Library gathered enough literary talent under the big top tent to entertain, educate, and enlighten us for years to come….
…I caught up with Christina Oxenberg – attracted not only by her book’s title Do These Gloves Make My Ass Look Fat, but for the chocolate kisses she offered.  “You have to get people to dawdle,” she explained of her strategy to stand out in the crowd of 170 authors signing books, “Next year I’m going to put out a bowl of cash.”  Oxenberg says of her newest work, “It’s a comment on female neuroses because I’m an expert.”  Well a charming and witty expert then.

August, at a friend’s house for the weekend in Water Mill. I came to participate in the East Hampton Library fund raiser.
What I love about the Hamptons is the sound of the crickets at night, hearing the whistle of the train in the distance, the smells of cut lawn and sweet flower-scented air.
The library event was spectacular. Bigger than ever, the tent was bulging. I had planned to walk around and meet the authors but that never happened. I was selling books and chatting with people. And soon, of course, I got competitive and needed to sell more books than the authors seated on either side of me. To my right was a gaunt man with a book about an accident, human error, lives were lost, yawn. Along for the ride was his wife, obviously the eater in the family, who insisted on wedging her way in between us, which was impossible so I had to growl at her. To restore her equilibrium she tore into plate after plate of boiled shrimp which was pretty disgusting. To my left an angelic lady with a book about an art theft told from the point of view of a dog. I figured I would probably win my secret competition. Besides, I was armed.
I did this event last year so I knew to come prepared. I had extra books to foist on anyone with the least bit of clout who could advance my career (or improve my mood). I had business cards and spread them in a tidy fan on my bit of table. Most importantly I brought a cut crystal bowl that I filled with tiny silver wrapped chocolates. I was going to get people to visit my bit of table one way or the other. “Chocolate or literature?” I asked those sauntering by. My pile of books began to dwindle. I carnival barked and even resorted to imploring. “How about if I flat-out beg you to buy my book?” I went so far as to offer a money back guarantee, “If my book does not make you laugh,” I assured, “I will send you a refund.” My pile whittled down a little more.
Also there was the enormously popular Dick Cavett (his wife bought my book), Martin Amis (I sycophantically forced my book on him). “I have a present for you,” I said. “Thank you,” he said, unafraid, unsurprised, the famous soft pink boyish face rumpling into the tiniest smile and then shyness got the better of me and I dashed away into the thicket of the crowd. There were plenty of well known writers from Michael Connelly, to Nelson DeMille, and Shere Hite in full Kabuki makeup, and on the list went from the heavyweights all the way to myself and the dog book lady who I liked a lot. After quite a bit of arm wrestling I sold off my pile of books.
I already can hardly wait to do it again next year.

I was at the beach when Ella, my favorite do-gooder girlfriend, phoned.
“Are you saving the whales?” Ella said. “I’m looking on the internet and a couple of miles north you could volunteer to help save a pod of stranded whales.”

“I could.” I agreed, as I spread sunblock on me like I was a basting chicken. “But I just plonked down twenty bucks for a chair and an umbrella.” We disconnected and I looked up the whale story. Already there were squadrons of do-gooders clogging the work zone of the rescue effort. Allegedly, the whales were youngsters and they were coughing in small raspy rumbles, blowing bubbles out their spouts. Volunteers hosed the whales and patted them and chattered in understated tones. They gave the whales names, and they cried as their friends died. Out of twenty whales five were saved and rolled back into the sea. A week or so later many of the volunteers came down with whale pneumonia.

From the beach I passed the Key West animal shelter. “Perfection!” I thought and I steered my car from the road and came to a dusty stop in front of a double-wide trailer and a chain-link fence. A sign read: please do not throw animals over the fence. I entered the trailer to the smell of bleach. A weathered woman with wavy hair like cocker spaniels ears sat at a metal desk. “I want to walk the dogs. If I may?” I said. The woman gave me the once-over and snatched up a three page questionnaire from a tray. I was appalled by the questions, for example: Why do you want to walk the dogs? Are you a dog lover? Are you trying to impress someone? Are you trying to impress yourself?

“Cheeky!” I grumbled under my breath and ticked the box that said I was there for entirely self-serving purposes. To underscore the point, on my way home, I phoned Ella and bragged. “I hope you feel good.” Ella said. By the time the shelter lady phoned to invite me to orientation I was over my surge of feel-good juice. Life had moved on. I had discovered Sam and Tango night, and I was hellbent on introducing one to the other.

At twenty-five Sam is already disillusioned. He has a useless college degree, a menial job he despises and a special fondness for cheeseburgers. “A whale of my own to save!” I thought when we met. If I could get him shaking at Tango night that would be four hours where Sam was parted from the cheeseburgers. We would dance. Sam would shed, and I’d get to heaven. Brimming with sanctimony weekly I texted, “Tango?” Each week he replied, “Maybe next week?”

Finally, he responded positively. I was so excited.

But no, he had no desire to attend Tango night. Au contraire, would I like to join him at the All You Can Eat Buffet?

We gorged like Romans.

After a lifetime in captivity one Florida Keys resident’s private collection of pond wildlife, frogs and such, turned on each other. These beasts had enjoyed one another’s company in a complacent state until Sam, their caretaker, got his plans mixed up and the daily feeding was overlooked. The animals used to be friends and now there was tension. They went feral and they did not come back. They began to eat each other. Sam decided to turn the critters loose. “At least they’re tough now and can look out for themselves,” he reasoned, shooing them down an embankment toward a canal.

In the evening Sam enjoyed a meditative stroll circumnavigating the corral island. He absorbed the commingling scents of flowers and dinners cooking, and the sounds of music pulsating from low houses. He observed palm trees swaying and greedily inhaled the nourishing Caribbean breeze. Cars passed by slowly enough that the stink of liquor from the passengers hung in the draft.

On his way to the eastern shore Sam’s path took him by a young couple, two fragrant men, their fragrance knitting delicately with the hot night air. He wouldn’t mind a friend to walk with, Sam thought, and sniffed at the sweetened air.

Reaching the beach he meandered to the dark end of an unlit pier where flat wavelets lapped, shattering against the cement. He hadn’t seen them until he was almost on them. Two women loomed and asked him to take their photo.

On the return loop from the beach Sam passed his favorite church. Unpainted Pine, wide and squat, and a diamond of stained glass on the front of the tower. A cactus grew into the side of a fence. The night lights translated the driftwood grey to a matt purple hue. Sam discreetly flashed a peace sign and strode by, wishing he wasn’t always alone, yet unwilling to abase himself to the company of the women who would have anything to do with him. It had always been this way.

A while later and Sam was a block from home, he was crossing a street when a terrifying rattling noise made him spin around. It sounded like a boat was heading for him. He had only a couple more steps to take before he would be safely across the street. He began turning around as he walked. Swiveling he noticed it was very dark out. But he could see no headlights. Yet still he heard the noisy rumbling sound. Perhaps a muffler backfiring? He took another step, and he almost made it the other side when decidedly the sound grew louder. Sam began jumping now so as to keep his feet from vulnerabilities, hopping sort of and bounding the last step to the sidewalk, leaping over a gaping gutter, painted in red with, ‘drains to sea’. As he leaped through the air, to the safety of the sidewalk, he figured out what the dreadful sound was. It was frogs echoing in the gutters.

It was past midnight and Violet was wide awake. In her bedroom she lay supine on the bed, arms splayed.
“Meeting with HR at noon,” she whispered, and the sound of defeat in her susurrations sprung loose a tear drop. “I’d rather be dead,” she thought, not for the first time, and she wiped away the tear.

The meeting with HR only served to remind her of her failures. “No more!” Violet snapped. With the precision of a robot she was up and out of bed and making her way to the bathroom. She did not need the lights on, she knew exactly where the medications were. Behind a mirrored door her fingers found them. Arms loaded with rattling bottles she padded to the kitchen. From the fridge she fetched beers, before returning to her bedroom with her supplies.

“To hell with everything,” Violet said, and clinked her beer can with a pill bottle. It wasn’t just the meeting with a superior who hated her, she reasoned, pushing the pills into her mouth, and swallowing them with the beer. According to her five year plan, now ten years old, she wasn’t supposed to still be working at this job. “Should be long gone,” she burped. She got a little giddy and began to laugh. “No,” she said, and waved a finger in the air, “I will not be writing a suicide note!” She chuckled and continued consuming the poisons. “It’s not enough I do myself in? What the hell more is there to say?”

She felt the pills begin to take effect. Laying on her bed, she carefully styled her right hand across her chest, and fixed her fingers so that she was flipping the bird. Soon she was plummeting to a peaceful leaden sleep whence she would remember no dreams.

The next thing she knew was a searing white light. She had no idea how much time had elapsed, if any. “I’m dead!” She gushed, overjoyed. And then startling herself she yawned. Her fingers automatically reached for her face, touched at the soft skin, yet still all she could see was a blinding bright light. “Am I?” she said to no one. Hearing her own voice shocked her, “what the…,” she uttered, and blinked as the brightness of daylight blared at her.

“Not dead!” Laying still she took quick stock. She wriggled her fingers, her toes, intact, check. “Damn it!” She surged out of bed and almost took a spill on the mess of empty pill bottles all over the floor around her bed, with her arms helicoptering for balance she steadied herself. Standing amidst the rubble, hands on hips, she had to acknowledge she had never felt better in her life. Surreal. It was a moment before she thought to check the time. Turned out, if she hustled, she could make it to the HR meeting. “Seeing as I’m alive,” she reckoned, heading for the shower, “I might as well show up. Ask for a raise. Damn it.”