Leo and I got into an argument the morning he left for the motorbike competition. It was the last time, as far as I was concerned. I planned on breaking it off with him when he got back.

Right away I felt a massive relief. I was turning over that leaf after weeks of dithering. I could hardly wait to launch the new phase.

And then I received a phone call.

A man I did not know was shrieking and frantic, “You need to get over to Dover Hospital.” The man was screaming in a blur of static. I did not need it explained that this could only be about Leo.

I was not impressed. I sighed audibly and mumbled, “He better be half dead.” I hung up on him.

Driving the forty minutes to Dover Hospital I fumed and pictured Leo in a wheelchair doing wheelies up and down some ward corridor, driving everyone nuts and me having to waste time on a twisted ankle or some such nonsense.

I was feeling wholly uncharitable.

I was doubly annoyed becaus

e I was unsure if this turn of events would interfere with my decision to dump him. And triply annoyed with having to waste more time on him with this ridiculous trip to the hospital. As I drove I murmured, “He better be dying.”

Glowering at everyone and swaggering with chilly disdain I badgered nurses until they escorted me to Leo. I was led into a huge room filled with cots, and him on one, propped up with pillows and smiling cheerily at me. I was ready to strangle him when I saw the demolished foot.

The sight stopped me short, like a hand to my chest. His left leg was out from the sheet, and the end of it, where the foot was supposed to be, was what looked like a heap of raw hamburger meat with a huge French Fry sticking out of the middle of it. When it became clear that the raw hamburger meat was what was left of his flesh and the French Fry was a bone, I pitched forward and vomited like I was going for the gold, and then I fainted.

There was one night I went to a reggae concert on the beach, and in the crowd there was a girl dancing with a hula hoop. She was young, with long untidy hair and a long tight dress and no shoes. She had a way of snaking the hula up above her head, and with her arms stretched she made a tunnel of its descent; she undulated, dancing inside the hoop for maybe a second, then, with well practiced hips she caught the blue O and flicked fast side to side, her hard bottom working the toy into a ribbon. Just before the thing reached the ground she kicked it with her heel and had it back in play. She was desperately sexy.

Her companion, male, rangy and blond, in knee length shorts and a lot of tattoos, lounged on the sandy dirt leaning on his elbows with his legs out in front of him daintily crossed at the ankle. His attention seemed entirely rapt upon the reggae band. And to be fair they were good.

I figured this couple must have been together a very long time for him to no longer be mesmerized by his girl’s screaming sensuality. Or he was not her boyfriend and, instead, of another persuasion entirely. The only thing I knew for certain was, whoever he was, he could not keep up with her. Few could. No matter, she was a pleasure to behold.

It was a Wednesday evening, a few weeks ago, and I was glumly hibernating in the barren drifts of the East End.

I had been craving change. For one thing, ever since the New Year, I was determined to crack my habit of television-time and it was going to need to be something beyond the glory of shoveling snow.

January was surging unstoppably to the midway-mark; that awful moment in man-made time where bright possibilities have begun to dim and taunt.

On the TV a cheery male apologetically announced an advancing blizzard, and for the millionth time I fired up a travel website. Except that this occasion was different, it was for real and I bought myself a ticket to Florida. The flight departed in the middle of the following afternoon, but I was ready. After weeks of waffling, my rolling carry-on bag (with coffee-brown Zebra motif) was long since packed.

Less than 24 hours later and I was in a rented vanilla Mini Cooper. Something Calypso was coming out of the radio and I was driving southbound from Fort Lauderdale. Feeling tiny surrounded by a hundred lanes of juggernauts I was glad to leave the slipknot of Miami and its congestion. An hour or so and the road slimmed to two lanes and bridges connecting ever smaller islands.

And ultimately to Key West, where the highway ends in the thronging narrow streets filled with shops and tourists strolling slowly touching and fooling with the colorful knickknacks.

I took a room with a porch in the old town. Warm rain with hints of jasmine, and mango trees and palm trees and strolling cats, and roving roosters with their long lazy calls. Everyone here is from elsewhere, and the first question asked is, “How long are you staying?” And when I reply that I traveled here on a one-way ticket, people smile knowingly and mutter, “That’s what happened to me years ago.”

A pal points out I am following in the footsteps of Ernest Hemingway. Short of producing masterpieces and blasting myself in the head, things might look that way. I’ll have to research it but my guess is Papa H did not shoot himself here in the magnificent Keys. This place is too giddily magical to be a tip off for self-destruction. Ergo the only mistake of Papa H was to leave.

A local bookstore told me to eff off when I asked after the chances of putting my books on their shelves. Their criterion was that I was not a local, “You gotta be born here, live here or write about here.”

In that instant a decision was forged, “It so happens,” I informed, “I am your newest author in residence. I just moved here.”

There are flimsier reasons for relocating a couple thousand miles, but since I’ve been here I’ve forgotten all about television and returned my attention to my true love of reading, everything from Hemingway, to McGuane, to Hiaasen in situ; life doesn’t get much better than that.

In a bar, while picking from several plates of ocean dwelling foodstuffs, it was impossible not to notice a couple of hardened

drinkers dawdling nearby, eyeballing the grub like pelicans. Next upping the nudge to comments, such as, “In my opinion, this place

serves the best conch fritters on the whole island.” Followed by, “you gonna eat all that?” and, since of course I was not going to eat all that, I invited the pirate sots to help themselves. They bayed in consternation and then plunged upon the fritters.

Customer: (Male, pony-tailed, with bandy legs and a beer belly, in a sleeveless t-shirt and slept-in grey shorts) “Have you heard what’s happening?”

Cashier: (Female, blond, weathered, slender, mauve Hemp supple clothing) “You talking about the storm?”

Customer: “It’s, like, minus 5 degrees. There’s no reason to rush back.”

Cashier: (Smiling) “I’ve thought that since the 70’s.”

Overnight, as per predictions, a foot of powder had fallen, reconfiguring my surroundings to a Whistler. When first alerted to the impending blizzard I had every intention of buying a shovel, but a good book got in the way.

Late into the day snow continued to fall so I tore myself from the excellent read. Scuffling with the elements I burrowed a route to my car. I drove to town to find it unrecognizable in its desolation except for a cardboard Santa and his caravan swinging ridiculously in the air over Main Street.

I slid around with the radio playing something classical and I was charmed by the romantic melancholy of it all. Snowflakes continually descended, absorbing noise and obscuring sight. Eventually I had to acknowledge the sli

de beneath my tires. Carefully I steered homebound.

There were no tracks on the road to my house, not even those of a plow. No signs of life at all other than a hunchbacked man trudging down my street. At first I figured he must be deranged as this was not strolling weather. On approach I saw he was wearing a backpack and carrying something like a broom.

Closer still I saw it was a shovel.

Oh right, a shovel. I meant to buy a shovel. I considered returning to the village. Instead I slowed beside the man and asked him if he was looking for work.

“Si.” He told me and we struck up a deal. His name is Victor and for the rest of the winter Victor will be my shoveler. Thank the heavens, I’m now returned to reading. Long live Victor.

Ever since graduating culinary school Upstate New York, close to ten years ago, Buck has been employed as a chef. If you ask him he’ll tell you he can do anything and everything there is to do, where it concerns food. He’ll tell you he enjoys a tasty meal.

Buck grew up on some tropical island where he lived with his parents, a stampede of older brothers, one younger sister, and a black dog. He remembers a loving family, he remembers innovative games with friends, but most acutely he remembers being hungry.

For a pet Buck kept a rooster he had coddled since it was an egg, he named him Johnny. Johnny looked more like a vulture than your typical rooster with no feathers on his long bare knobby neck.

One day, Buck was dawdling on the back porch, leaning against a bamboo banister. Wood cut down by Buck’s father with a machete, then hewn smooth and perfect. Buck’s father stuck his head out the kitchen window and said, “Fetch me Johnny, Son.”

Buck cooed to his pet, calling to him. The rooster, busy crowing on the roof of a shed, hopped down to the sandy earth, chumming up dust.

Buck’s father was yelling from the kitchen telling him to hurry it up. But Buck waited patiently. Buck clucked and clicked and Johnny stalked confidently across the yard, wings wagging. The child and his pet met at the foot of the steps and climbed them together. Buck opened the kitchen door and clucked some more, ushering the bird inside.

The boy and his bird stepped into the kitchen. Buck saw his mother place a pot of water on the lit stove. The family dog lay in the middle of the room, on his side, slapping at flies with his long tail. Buck’s father handed him his best machete and instructed him to lay the bird’s neck across the butcher’s block. Buck could scarcely believe what he was being asked to do. But this was his father, whom he had never disobeyed, and it was unthinkable to question.

“Do it!” His father said. Buck gathered up his trusting bird and attempted to lay the long neck across the cutting board where old blood had soaked the wood dark. The rooster sensed something was off and began to resist and flap his wings.

Buck was only nine years old but he was strong. He clamped down around the bird and attempted to pin him. He thought he saw a look of disbelief in Johnny’s beady eyes. For a fraction Buck hesitated and his thou

ghts ran amok and he vowed, if he made sure of nothing else, he’d make sure he never went hungry when he was grown. A quick glimpse of his father’s serious face and he snapped to attention and back to his task. A task he had observed adults complete countless times, without fussing, without sentimentality.

His mother stood beside the pot on the stove where steam bubbled up, her hands tucked under her armpits, as was her habit. The steam began coaxing smells from out of ceiling beams suffused from years of pungent vapors.

“Do it!” His father ordered again.

Focused and using all his force Buck overwhelmed the bird, struggling to hold him still, he spread out the long featherless neck across the cutting board and struck it a decisive blow with the machete. Buck watched Johnny’s head fly across the room, spurting blood.

The dog lunged for Johnny’s head and crunched it to a wet mouthful.

Buck’s mother swooped down with well-practiced

hands and grabbed at the quills and in a trice the bird was bare.

“Put Johnny in the pot, Son!” His father said, less loud but just as forcefully.

Buck picked up the corpse and walked to the stove. Stretching on tip toes, and with the minimum splash, he heaved the bird into the boiling water.

Buck took a step back and swallowed his feelings. He hoped his father would praise him.

A noise like an explosion came from the stove. The heavy iron cooking pot was shuddering. Hissing hot waves shot over the lip, momentarily dousing the flames beneath. Like a bad dream Johnny’s body came out from the cooking pot and flopped to the floor, startling everyone, including the dog who darted from the room gripping the rooster’s cleaned skull in his jaws.

The twitching bird began to scoot around, slamming against chairs and walls, tumbling in a mess of watery blood and sticky feathers.

“Son, put Johnny back in the pot!” Buck’s father commanded.

Buck stumbled after the crashing headless bird until he had recaptured it. Now thoroughly dead Buck noted how much heavier the animal was as he hefted it back into the cauldron.

That night the family ate Johnny, along with fried plantains and rum spiked coconut milk. They feasted in silence except to groan appreciatively at the wondrousness of a proper meal. If you ask him Buck will tell you he vividly remembers, “Johnny tasted good.”

January, Sunday, and the East End was unnaturally balmy. A cloud reclined on the ground, spreading itself generously in amongst denuded shrubbery, smudging outlines. For an instant the sun burned a hole through the heavy grey haze.

Enthused by the splash of day light I ventured out for a drive. Dirty ice and slick mud lined long residential streets. Overlooking the beach, from behind high dunes where snow obstinately clung, I watched a girl on a pecan brown pony. There was something in the way she held the reins, her arms wide and stiff, as if she was unfamiliar with horseback riding. Despite the distance I could clearly see she was smiling.

It was early afternoon and I continued on my survey. Houses appeared to slumber; shut up with curtains and blinds drawn. They did not look derelict; rather they seemed bloated and suspended, somehow, as if in the middle of a yawn. Tubs and crates had been dragged to the end of driveways, near the curb. Plastic bins stuffed with folded cardboard and red and green wrapping paper and spilling over with strings of ribbon skittering on the breeze.

Soon the remnants of the recent past will be trucked away and we will catch a collective breath and forge ahead with this new year.

Happy New Year.

I just spent a few days in the Rockies of Idaho, in a snow-globe deep-freeze sun drenched valley thousands of feet above sea level. I had been asked to read from my new book by the Ketchum Community Library.

This came to pass because Sabina Dana Plasse, currently Arts & Events editor of the Idaho Mountain Express, brought my book to the powers that be at the library and they extended an invitation. My ego was tickled pink and I accepted and ever since, for the past couple months, I have lived suspended in a state of excitement and terror.

Dana and I met 10 years ago when we were both struggling. We wanted to be writers but met mostly with obstacles and legions of naysayers. We lost touch and now, a decade later and thanks to the possibilities of social networking, we have reconnected.

The town of Ketchum is fairy tale Cowboy. My second day I did the reading at the very magnificent 5 star hotel ski lodge of a library with a roaring fire and cathedral ceilings of sultry dark beams. As if by some extraordinary tumble into another dimension I watched myself striding toward a podium in front of a roomful of seated, expectant, complete strangers. I looked at the faces looking right at me and I figured I must be dreaming because I would never have the guts to do such a thing as this.

Instead of freezing, as I’d expected, I got totally carried away and told stories and chatted on and on and then when I realized I must have abused a good chunk of time I said, “Ok, that’s probably enough about me, if anyone has any questions?”

No one said anything. All these faces stared at me, no one uttering a word. And then it dawned on me, I had forgotten to read from my book. I asked if I should, and someone called out, “Yes, read a story!” So I did, and then the forgiving and tolerant audience effervesced with questions and all of us were soon sharing some laughs.

From the library a group of us stopped in at a restaurant and then wound down at Grumpy’s, a bar as tiny as a train carriage and eccentric like a carnival barker’s caravan.

I’ll be happy for an excuse to go back. I say Ketchum, if you can.

It was soon apparent I did not possess Mary’s instincts for genius in children’s entertainment. Work, such as it was called, amounted to reading an incessant influx of unsolicited scripts. Topics favored the supernatural, and all were laced with syrupy morality messages. Where Mary saw magic I saw putrefaction. My job was to read and reduce these scripts to one hundred word reports. So like school, I marveled. I was printing out my latest report, one hundred words meant to eviscerate a script about a ‘good’ pirate, when I heard:

“Yoo-hoo!” Mary screamed from her office. By now fully on automatic, I eased from my chair to the doorway of her office in a single fluid motion.

“I want the first banquette at Mondiale for twelve-thirty and then confirm the reservation with Pig.” Chomping on her headpiece she handed me a scrap of notepaper with the word ‘Pig’ and a phone number.

For all of Mary’s eccentricities, she had a spotless track record producing hits. She claimed she had a formula for auguring, and amazingly, she was always right, one saccharine children’s brain-rot after another. I had already figured out her secret formula. She passed everything by Willow, her eight year old daughter.

Mary brought Willow to work some days and gave me the odious task of escorting the small child to the bathroom when the need arose, and the need arose all day long.

Back at my desk I phoned Mary’s favorite bistro and reserved the booth for two near the front door. I was feeling like I was definitely getting the hang of things. It was going to be alright after all. Just do my time and presto! Travel and hammocks forever. Before Mary left for lunch I maternally retrieved the iron scaffold from her head.

Down the hall, in a small room filled with machines, the printer was retching a piece of paper. I pulled on the page and got squirted in the chest with ink.

“Cannelloni.” I whispered as loudly as I dared into the intercom.

“Canne-LEO-LEO-LEO-ni.” He sounded exasperated.

“Help! Copy room.”

In moments I heard the sounds of Cannelloni’s bulk lumbering along the hallway and I felt a twinge of embarrassment as the formerly noble printer was reduced to beeping and grinding.

Like a detective come upon a crime scene Cannelloni loomed and coolly absorbed the evidence. He read the clues expertly and crossed the room to the bucking printer. He flicked open a plastic panel and extracted a tumor of crumpled pages. “I’m selling two tickets to the ballgame this Saturday. It’s the fiancé’s birthday and she wants me to take her to the mall and then out to dinner. I hate going to restaurants with her. She’s always telling me I’m too fat, and she doesn’t let me eat anything. She’s a pain in the ass.”

I took my ruined documents and dropped them into a plastic tub labeled ‘Recycle’. “I don’t get it Cannelloni Why are you with this girl? You’re always complaining about her.”

“What can I say? She’s got great tits.”

I returned to my cubicle and lazily rolled back in the comfortable office chair, and fell fast asleep.

“Yoo-hoo!” Mary’s voice pierced some intense dream of a beach and a storm and something to do with running. “Santa!” Mary continued to shriek so that the sound scooped me up and had me standing at attention before I was even fully awake.

“How was lunch?” I asked, gathering myself.

“I can’t understand it. I waited an hour at the restaurant and Pig never showed up!” Mary prattled while she bolted on her head gear and began to slurp on the mouth bit.

From nowhere, a blast of radiation, I knew what had happened. “Ah, um,” I began, the searing heat of clarity microwaving me as I realized I would surely be fired. Reluctantly, I pointed to Mary’s office and said, “I am so sorry, Mary, you might want to sit down for this.” Single file we trooped in and took our positions across from one another at her immense desk.

“What’s with your shirt?” Mary stared at me, her eyes wide with wonderment.

I looked down to see the printer fluid had stained a patch of my blouse. “That’s another story.” I said, and cleared my throat, “I never phoned your friend, Mr. Pig. I guess I forgot. I’m really sorry.”

Mary eyed me, the tip of her tongue flicking against her mouthful of metal, and then she heaved forward and exploded with the laughter of a pack of hyenas. She spluttered until tears gushed from her eyes.

“Everyone makes mistakes.” She said, and she dabbed at the brine with a tissue.

…TO BE CONTINUED