Once you sleep on feathers you can't go back to sleeping on the floor.
— Lenny Bruce
Back at my desk after an evening spent sleeping on the floor there in front of me, air mattress gradually deflating overnight such that at 3 a.m. my posterior had reached the cheap Wayfair rug underneath, forcing me awake to plug in the pump and give me enough air to make it to the dawn.
Which, by the way, was quite beautiful. It's sixty-four and sunny here along the St. Andrew Bay.
October and May in north Florida are the loveliest of months, although I fell out of love with the former after the crushing blows of Opal in '95 and Michael in '18. This--this is what I remember of October when I first arrived here thirty years and four weeks ago, a softness and luster unlike any I'd experienced before. As I pout about having to spend a couple weeks here preparing and trying a case, my first in-person courtroom experience in over eighteen months, I need to remind myself to notice the fleeting loveliness of it all.
The reason I find myself sleeping on the floor like the Son of Man with no place to lay his head is, of course, the continuing saga of the condo. I traveled with hope yesterday, driving the pickup over from the farm and stopping for a quick client meeting enroute in Tallahassee. Cabinets and quirky antique fixtures Peg and Lori had located were arriving, so surely we were in the home stretch. Hell, maybe I'd even get to sleep there before the end of this TDY.
Then hope obliterated itself on the rocks of empirical reality.
Nope, I wouldn't be staying here anytime soon. I shot a few photos of the disarray so Peg could share my disappointment, which she in turn sent on to Lori the interior designer along with a polite push for her to lean on our contractor. I'd do so myself, but he's never at the condo when I come to check up on things, ever.
I consoled myself by walking out on the balcony and reminding myself that one day, eventually, P and I would be taking our coffee with this lovely view, then maybe dashing across that bay in the Robalo for a day on the island.
Where there's life, there's hope.
Last night I was delighted that my good friend and mentor Tom had time to meet me at Hunt's Oyster Bar for supper. I followed Tom's culinary lead, having not eaten at Hunt's since my squadron's reunion here in 2001.
Our menu:
1. A dozen raw each, me not sliding the big, salty things onto crackers lest Tom think I'm a wussy.
2. One dozen fried oysters, no sides.
3. One dozen fried shrimp, no sides. (like Peg, Tom eats the tails. I do not, being a wussy).
4. Two Yeunglings.
The acoustics at Hunt's are terrible, the conversations loud and a little ribald, and we two old guys were stuck lip reading our way through our supper.
Bloated with draft beer and fried things, I made my way to 23rd Street in search of a bluetooth speaker for my office. Might as well have a little music in the background while I rough it.
I crawled through traffic to CVS, only to find they carry all sorts of odd electronica but no speakers. This led me to Wal-Mart, mobbed with the after work crowd resplendent in jorts and t-shirts proclaiming their football, religious, or political fealties (as if there's a difference) stretched across massive midsections. I zigzagged through the zombie-like masses hunched over shopping carts while staring at their phones like a halfback navigating the massive tackles and guards along the line of scrimmage, finally breaking into the open field to the electronics department where I found a mid-priced speaker that should do the trick. Returning to the front of the store, I found lines of shoppers stretching back into the women's wear department, sullenly pushing carts crammed with bargain crap to one of the only two checkout lines that were open.
I felt like Virgil and Dante viewing the procession through the gates of hell.
I had not thought that obesity, poverty, and despair had overcome so many.
But not me, by God. I put the speaker on a shelf and walked out the front door. Better to labor in silence at night in my office than to endure this sort of non-service.
So I worked on trial prep until about 10:30, hung a few prints that had been sitting on my floor, then curled up with one of Bishop Spong's books on the air mattress until I fell asleep.
Remembering that yesterday's month-old oat milk in my coffee at Wyldswood left me in acute GI distress an hour later, this morning I took a pass on the month-old oat milk here at the office, opting instead for a bagel from the Bagel Maker and a cup of coffee from Press.
Standing at the counter at the Bagel Maker I heard I familiar voice behind me. "Mike Dickey. As I live and breathe. I'd know that bald head anywhere!"
My old friend Mike had just walked in the door, dressed to practice law in a Master's golf shirt, khakis, and flip flops. You gotta love the panhandle. We caught up after three years of just seeing each other on Facebook, then he left for his office in Marianna while I went in search of coffee.
There are some good things about this season, and I have to remind myself of that. I truly despise being away from P, but I need to tell myself this is just a TDY, and I have lots of experience with those from my time in the Air Force. We'll get through this part, and value our time together that much more for the fact that we did without for a while. Hoping absence really does make the heart grow fonder.
But in the meantime, work beckons.
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