Portraits in the manner of William Adolphe Bouguereau, French, 1825-1905
Landscapes in the manner of Jan Van Der Heyden, Dutch, 1637-1712
Paintings in the manner of
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[Note from Ed: An incongruent point of view runs through the piece. Sometimes you say that Tom did such and such, and then you say I did such and such. It will work better if you choose one point of view then stick with it. I’d go with first person. I would also title the piece “The Daughters of Olympio.”]
Character three woman teenager response from the girls, Experienced desire into the subtle and richly. Your character is a worldly guy and has seen tits before.
This is the beginning of the great collection of figures in landscape. Tom's earlier landscapes were sometimes deliberately devoid of figures. He would compose on the spot and finish the work in a few days. Now he can spend a good week working up the compositional figure in the landscape. The drawing turns into a sepia watercolor and then into a oil painting.
The Story
The Commission
Tom never imagined he would get a commission off the Internet. Sure, he had a big site: 500 megs chock full of paintings and artwork. Usually Tom discarded the con-man e-mail — but this time it was different. Olympio insisted that Tom paint his daughters, and even sent the money up front. Quickly Tom booked a flight to Rio; it was January. He had an old friend there he could look up if things turned suspicious.
VISA
Three days before he was to leave, Tom discovered that he needed a VISA from
the Brazilian Consulate in Washington. The U.S. government had clamped down
on Brazilians coming into the country by requiring them to get a VISA while
still in Brazil instead of at the arrival airport, and charging $100 worth of
finger printing and photo on top of it. A U.S. couple had been fined $1500 dollars
for making rude gestures into the camera while being photographed and finger
printed after arriving in Brazil. Tom rebooked his flight and went about in
earnest planning the compositions of the daughters. He created three watercolors
of possible compositions. For three weeks he ruminated over the lay of the hands
holding a little flower. Once in Rio Tom saw the five-petal yellow vine flower
he would paint, growing on the hillsides. Cactus also grew on the steep sides
of the rock, spiraling around the grip it had as if looking for another foot
hold.
Planning the Work
Olympio never let on that he wanted anything special from the painter, but insisted
that Tom make all the decisions. Tom saw new possibilities open up; already
he had been painting portraits of young beefcake and cheesecake with local landscapes
in the background, signaling new directions for his work. This new work stimulated
him beyond the power of the peopleless landscapes Tom had become known for.
His first landscapes had evoked docile popular scenes that offered a quiet place
for the viewer to go. They presented no people, even though off the canvas the
scene may have overflowed with laughing faces and flowing arms as the season
sweltered to its climax. Tom chose a favorite movie, "Black Orpheus,"
to supply the backdrop for the girls’ portraits. He wondered: could film become
flesh?
The Paint Box
The canvas would be 12" x 16" for all three of the girls’ portraits.
The girls, just out of high school, were eighteen, nineteen, and twenty-two.
Olympio sent snap shots electronically for Tom to work from. Tom rebuilt an
old paint box to hold the Masonite panels while they still were wet.
Alalouisa, the driver, greeted Tom in Rio. At least fifty chauffeurs with cards and four times as many family members waved and cried at the site of their loved ones arriving on Brazilian soil. The driver was as old as Tom's father. Dressed in black Bermuda shorts and yellow playboy shirt tailored like a T, he showed a smile that made his guest feel welcome in a gay sort of way. His big nose let on that maybe he imbibed a little too much. Though Alalouisa seemed happy and gay, the way he pushed people aside to get out of the crowded reception area revealed a mean streak lurking. Quickly he and Tom made their way around Guanabara Bay to Copacabana. Tom was very familiar with the landscape, having flown around it for a month in his flight simulator. Although the simulator did not have “The Redeemer” atop the highest mountain, Tom knew exactly where it was in relation to Centro, Ipanema, Lagoa, and Sugar Loaf.
Getting Up
The driver stopped. He spoke perfect English, but never told Tom who Olympio
was. He backed the car into a very tight spot on a dead end side street, half
way up one of the mountains of a hill at the southern end of Ipanema. The driver
took Tom's full loaded backpack and insisted he take the carry on — but Tom
refused, thinking there was no way he could let this old man carry anything.
Tom thought the two of them were headed towards one of the million-dollar penthouses
that lined the beach, until they passed the last one and continued on the steep
hill into a darker path. Tom thought then of organ transplants done on tourists,
but Alalouisa calmed him. He had a way about him, as if he would put his life
on the line. The light of noon made the path before them more inviting. The
natives peered out from corners. The houses got poorer or more pieced together.
Tom realized they were not heading to the penthouse, and asked Alalouisa what
was up. He stopped, turned straight to Tom, and said that Olympio was the big
man of this favela, "The Carioca." Tom did not know of the favela,
but he did know the poor lived on the hillsides, free of rent or cares. This
was the Rio Tom planned his portraits around. He never imagined that he would
be escorted into a land forbidden to tourists unless they wanted to wake up
missing a body part. Or dead.
Olympio Concelos
Tom started to worry about his commissioner’s intention. How could he work in
such squalor? Old men were lying on the ground with feet that looked like shoes.
Their clothes were black with dirt. But there were little children playing,
and occasionally a pretty girl, cleanly dressed, going about her daily chores.
As he peaked into their homes, the people looked to Tom like people from a land
long gone. Instead of the shacks made of wood in "Black Orpheus,"
these hovels used a light, extruded baked red terra-cotta building block with
lightening square holes running the length of the 5"x 7"x 8"
brick. Concrete held the structures together, and when finished with a skim
of concrete they looked like any other home — except they were never finished.
Any finishing was relegated to inserted ready-made windows with factory painted
aluminum white edges. Everything else was brightly polished aluminum, fabricated
into everything from doors to gates to vents. Finally, after what seemed to
be a thousand-foot hike straight uphill, Alalouisa stopped in front of certainly
the best hovel — or one with the best bare bulb street light and jerry rigged
wiring dangling about. “This is the place,” Alalouisa announced. The large crowd
that had gathered dispersed almost immediately after an off hand comment by
Alalouisa. He and Tom went into a sitting room with a whirling ceiling fan.
Olympio immediately came in, threw his arms around Tom and kissed both cheeks.
He apologized for the accommodations and added that the view was still a million
dollar one, as we looked down on the high-rise penthouse patio towards the crescent
shape beach of Ipanema. We were much higher than any of the normal buildings;
Tom's legs ached for three days.
Staying Up
Olympio was a little man, as old as Alalouisa, and like him spoke perfect English.
Tom and Olympio joked about things they had said in the numerous e-mails exchanged,
and Olympio apologized for deceiving him into thinking he lived in a penthouse.
A man came in with a cold native drink. Crushed lime and vodka, or distilled
cane alcohol mixed with sugar. Tom and Olympio sat in lightweight, padded chairs
and sized each other up as the ceiling fan whirred overhead and Peggy Lee sang
from the boom box. Olympio was needle eyed. His tan ran deep and his belly looked
pregnant from drinking. His nose was long and mashed up against his face; it
seemed mostly nostril. His black eyes bulged from their sockets, one clear and
the other blood shot. He wore his gray hair like a Caesar. His nails were exceptionally
manicured. His clothes combined tank top and plaid shorts with the customary
flip flops. Olympio was a cultured man. Even though he lived in a shantytown
his interior featured Portuguese antiques and religious objects. A shrine of
Saint Francis graced one wall. The main furniture consisted of a couch flanked
with side tables, and two stuffed side chairs made of tan Naugahyde around a
glass coffee table. A double painting of an abstract butterfly hung on the only
wall that did not have a small window in it. Tom liked Olympio, and soon became
comfortable with his station. Tom had traveled to many strange places on commission,
but never one as strange as this. The arrangement held together only by the
love of the commission on both the commissioner and the artist’s parts. They
chatted at length about where Tom would work, and decided he would work in the
guest bedroom just off this main room.
Onita's Food
Before Tom could get settled in, Onita arrived with her companion. Onita was
Olympio's ninety-six year old aunt. She had fuzzy red brown hair, typical patterned
housedress and wrinkled face and limbs. There was no hiding where her bones
were. How she got up that hillside would be anyone's guess. Olympio said that
he took care of her, paid for her apartment in Flamenco; he mentioned the church
she built in the jungle. She walked up an even steeper hill every fortnight
to attend mass with the poor that lived around the church. Olympio also mentioned
the homeless black girl she took in as a child — found on the street — and now
was a doctor. Later Onita would ask Tom to do a drawing of her. First taken
aback by the forward nature of the request, he finally warmed up to the idea.
The food Onita brought would be the only food Tom would enjoy during his stay. Somewhat trapped by the commission, he would enjoy the beaches from afar. Onita’s roasted chicken and rice sat out in covered Glad containers until eaten. The fare included pot roast, steamed okra and similar vegetables, mangos, papaya, jack fruit compote as well as fresh jack fruit and a small round yellow fruit that was dark pink on the inside. A biscuit was presented as a special home made specialty, small sticks with an essence of anise. All the fruit ripened with an inviting smell. The favela had no running water, no toilet, and no electricity except for the mish mash of bare bulbs along the path. People cooked with bottled butane that looked as if it had been refilled just after the Second World War. Men played cards under the bulbs at night, playing on a table wrapped with strings to hold the cards. Olympio showed Tom the soil pot that somehow got taken out daily. A flowing stream used for bathing provided a fantastic substitute for the beach. A large tub had been made out of the universal extruded red clay block, complete with seats. So cool and refreshing it was to sit in mountain water up to the neck. Tom wanted never to get out. The hotter the temperature, the colder the water. He could regulate the cold incoming water with the warm water in the pool till the temperature was perfect. Getting out, letting the breeze dry his body, set him up for another batch of the lime juice drinks that came endlessly from the servants.
The Servants
It was strange to meet the servants. Olympio clearly sat on top, and they worked
to do his bidding — along with some general joking, like they were all equal.
All the men were thick armed, big and strong. They spent their free time outside
the home working out on makeshift bars and ramps, making the scene like a gym.
They seemed out of place doing little errands around the compound. The men brought
linseed oil and paint thinner for Tom, picked up laundry for Olympio, and supplied
any and all things so that Tom and Olympio never left the mountainside. The
servants even found a small guitar made out of a gourd for Tom. The slightest
request was delivered the next day, from chocolate for Olympio’s wife to little
outfits for his daughter.
Killing Your
Grandmother
Guns shots rang out at a normal time for gun shots, the fine line of time between
night and morning. It happened right outside Tom's window. He jumped, hit the
floor and crept over to the window, noticing bullet holes here and there from
past events. Who got shot? News arrived slowly as the servants, now very armed
and dangerous, ran one way or another speaking quickly and with precision. It
would be during the afternoon siesta, on the patio that launched itself out
over Olympio's hovel, that Tom would hear what happened. A mother and her two
children had died. Olympio's men had done it. It seemed to be a case of mistaken
identify or friendly fire. The mother was just in the wrong place at the wrong
time. Her children, early risers like her, were on their way to see the sunrise.
Up from behind, the opposition attacked. The deaths were a most regrettable
event, one that did nobody any good. Neither Olympio nor his henchmen seemed
to care as other lesser servants got rid of the bodies out of the corner of
an eye on the verandah. Drinks all round; weapons vanished.
Painting Your
Daughter Nude
That day, Olympio introduced his daughters. Each one resembled him, but their
mothers were nowhere to be seen. The girls spoke no English, and talked with
their father as if they were his girlfriends. Hugs and kisses, scantly clad
divine figures who lacked for nothing as long as it was a delicate sarong hiding
a tiny thong. Tattoos and piercing abounded, through the navel, eyelids, ears
and even nipples. The girls chatted among themselves as Olympio decided who
would be painted first and what the background would be. Tom saw Olympio as
Gauguin composing his canvas. Tom told of his new direction of painting beefcake
and cheese cake poses of any and all comers. He had painted an older woman as
her younger self for the local newsletter at home. The woman wrote a column
about food, so Tom made the artwork for the column’s title. He portrayed its
author as a young woman with the crops and animals that made for a good diet
in the background, surrounding her face. The bottom half of the watercolor portrait
did not get printed: she was nude from the waist up. Tom had often said that
clothes type a work so fast it almost takes a Herculean effort to get the clothes
right for a timeless portrait; nudity solves the problem instantly. Olympio
liked the idea, and then and there decided that his girls would be painted topless.
The canvases would stop just where the thong started. Olympio joked that here
where all were deeply religious, there had to be a limit to what the girls could
bare. Excited for the good fortune of dropping in on such an excellent connoisseur
of a patron, Tom quickly looked to see his daughters’ reaction. Nothing. Beautiful
girls that wanted to pose topless. The girls did not care. They knew it was
just another fun fantasy their father offered. They all looked light of skin,
with long blond hair down to their elbows, blue green eyes and round face, girlish
with a large forehead and pug nose. They were called Sheala, Maria and Catrina.
Catrina was the oldest, a little bit larger than her sisters. She was talented
at playing the guitar and drawing cartoons of the locals. Maria was fun loving,
a dancer in the Rio Revue and Carnival. She was thin and petite. She was tall,
but she did not have the curves of her other sisters; her form was grace. Sheila
was the Girl from Ipanema without the attitude. She loved to look and be looked
at. She engaged people with a smile. She exhibited all the features of all the
Brazilian races. But Catrina was by far the real prize of Olympio, for she had
his brains and the dark side of something behind the scenes that was larger
than all the rest.
Giving the Painting
What It Wants
The next day Tom wandered around the hillside with Maria, looking for suitable
backdrops. It amazed him to walk along a seemingly straight down side of a cliff,
keeping close to the narrow path that was flat but ever going up. When looking
at the huge rock outcroppings that made the landscape of Rio distinctive from
afar, it was impossible to imagine such pathways existed, pathways that may
have been used by the first natives. Lizards broke the silence. Tom heard no
birds. Maria said there were monkeys around. Hugh yellow and florescent blue
butterflies lingered. Beetles with iridescent green bodies flew in place like
balls in space. From time to time bright red dirt piled up from the bugs below
the surface. It was this same red dirt that colored the extruded clay bricks.
The landscape was old green. The lush jungle had been around, slowly holding
on to its original color but fighting a losing battle. The real green, the exciting
green, could be seen only at the growing tips of the plants.
Tom settled on three views based loosely on views he had derived from "Black
Orpheus." One had the girl lying down, her head on a pillow of rock. Just
above her head a complete drop off showed the built up city of ten story white
buildings popping up from the narrow gap between two enormous rock loafs. Another
composition took place on the plateau of one rock looking at another sugar loaf
form in the distance.
The whole region consisted of loaf type rocks sticking their necks out of the
ground waiting for eons for all that surrounded it to weather away. These rocks
were granite, hard enough to stay put while nature did its thing. The third
composition was of the bay from the top of a loaf. The girls were fun to work
with. They posed for me in my room, mostly clothed as I worked on their features
and only topless when necessary. Their father and his men joked about what was
going on, but nothing went on except painting. Each evening, sipping beers or
drinks, eating fried sardines, little meat drops baked in bread or shrimp on
a skewer, Olympio would marvel at the progress and proclaim the paintings beautiful
every day. Tom looked on the paintings as a good beginning to his new manner
or series. While he painted he continually remembered what his master, celebrity
portrait painter turned AAA society portraitist Ralph Wolf Cowan, said while
Tom learned his manner. Tom was trying to return to his free and easy old master
style. He looked for a quick sketch of a painting, masterfully brushed using
line and stippled color shading to get the biggest bang for your time. Tom imagined
a whole series of young girls painted for mementos of a wonderful visit in paradise.
His brain running away from him, Tom could now become the celebrated artist
of Ipanema that Olympio envisioned. He was always reminding Tom that Ipanema
was ripe for the picking. The day dreams were shot down when Tom realized the
folly of the artist: never really being satisfied, like a rich man never happy
unless he was getting richer.
The Hot Long Walk
Everyday was the same in the favela. Tom would wake up at first light ready
to work as soon as the light was bright enough, working methodically until ten.
Then he and Olympio would walk around the favela and surrounding areas. Olympio
was a god in this part of the world. He seemed above any law. Nobody approached
him that did not go through one of his servants, who always were there in the
bushes, in the shadows. Even the drug crazed lower men, men who had problems,
men who were unkempt, watched out for Olympio. Occasionally you would hear what
would sound like a bird call but all the while it would be lookouts announcing
this, that, or the other. After a good long walk they would retire to the patio
for drinks and then a meal at 12:30. Tom would work or take a nap making at
least another good go at the canvas before the light settled down and the day’s
work was done. In bed by 8:30, it all started again the next day. Olympio did
do business at night. He slept until ten, occasionally getting up sleepless.
Late at night you would hear Peggy Lee. One night the CD players got stuck on
one song and it was almost first light when Tom walked in to the adjoining room
and turned it and the lights off. Tom was never bothered by the fortress of
men guarding the hovel. Portrait painters are always being given exceptional
powers to do almost as the master. He lives as part of the master while painting
him. Olympio was too old and ugly to paint now but he still afforded the powers
to his portraitist. Even his daughters could not go and do what Tom did. Tom
did not pry either. It was more likely Tom was in his small room painting as
the men divided up the drugs and counted stacks of money. Somehow Tom was no
threat, more like a good book to be picked up enjoyed and then set down right
next to a huge deal being arranged where men died and vast wealth was exchanged.
No Drugs
Funny to be in the middle of such craziness and not have the bounty. For one
period over several days, Tom was alone in Olympio's den. Accustomed to having
a little snort or smoke around to stimulate inspiration, there was none to be
had, nothing. Not one roach or rock or pill. Tom had to resort to scraping a
bong that had already been scrapped and that did not do the trick. Olympio always
carried a small sample of the very best of everything. Freely used prudently
and never overindulging, he seemed master of his domain. But when he left the
favela a cockroach had to go somewhere else because the area was sterile of
drugs.
I Read, You Paint
Tom was nearing the end of his stay. Two portraits were done and the third had
only some details of the background to be completed. Tom worked hard at giving
each work the time it needed. It was tantamount to respect the time needed for
a good result. If a background needed a little time at the same time of day
or type of weather, you had to wait until it was time. This gave Tom time to
work on several personal paintings. With enough canvases started there was always
one that could be worked on.
Vision of a Simple Life
Tom had been in the favela for five weeks now. His daily routine was so simple.
He lacked for nothing, spending his time thinking big thoughts and wondering
if his applications would rise above the milieu. It was crazy to think he could
just stay there. He would have to eventually go back down that hill with his
big wad of cash, and apply it to a bigger mission. The success of his art depended
on a delivery campaign akin to a well run ad campaign. How could he be aloof
enough to not let the campaign show and articulate enough to make it work? Olympio
had no advice. He was doing his job. His ideas were regular enough. He executed
his ideas with what could only be described as a Brazilian viciousness, the
same ruthless business dealings that drove the country's history. Olympio needed
no authority, he just used his vast knowledge of who had power and surprised
them with his own ingenuity. Where government, business, and military officials
used the same instinct, Olympio applied a brand of business stranglehold devoid
of scruples. How he entertained artistic thoughts seemed impossible to imagine.
Tom was privy to the latter but never to the former. He just guessed.
Tom needed a higher level. At least he thought he did. It was just a new idea
he had. Maybe surrounding yourself with the very best advice sounded good —
but was it good? There was no magic bullet. It's better to work hard to learn
as much as you can rather than to depend on your born brilliance, wandering
through a created life melancholy. Tom may have seemed unhappy, but he was not.
His work, like children born, grew up and found homes of their own. But they
were never as great as one wished.
Mind Your Own
Business
Just before Tom left, Olympio told him to take the work with him and deliver
it to a framer in New York City. Tom had recommended the Datt Brothers as the
best framers in the world. Italian wood carvers with original gold leaf finishes
duplicated the great frame. Tom would take the work with him and frame all of
them, shipping back the three daughters and one landscape to Olympio. It was
a goodbye that was a continued hello. Almost setting the date for return, almost
forgetting to leave and just remain, Tom did leave and had the framing done.
A month and a half later Tom was puzzled why he could not contact Olympio. Time
and time again, no news arrived. He exhausted all his leads and finally started
to think the worst. He did not want to get the news from the newspaper. The
paintings now hang in Tom’s home waiting hopefully for one of the daughters
of Olympio to call.
The End
References:
Beautiful Rio
Alfred Gray
Bell, London 1914
Rocinha Favela
Chiquinta Gonzago
Rodo
Key Hurricane
I had been painting portraits and landscapes in Palm Beach for about six years now and finally started traveling down to Key West at least for one week. It was at that time that I reacquainted myself with my estranged father. A bitter divorce had cut him off from his children for fifteen years. He only talked to one or two of his eight. I was the third and it was tough to get started. Today he has recapitulated and then his common law wife dies suddenly and he his left with his eight children all to be proud of. He even went to the second marriage of one of his eight after all but one had gotten married. It could only have happened because his daughter Patty was on her third marriage.
Now I no longer paint in Palm Beach. Settled in Cincinnati with my lovely wife, we entertain my father at our home. He ventures up about once a year. On and off his eight children visit him at his Big Pine key home and lately they have filled up several weeks.
My sister Cindy had just left Dad two days before the hurricane hit and she kissed him goodbye and cried thinking it could be the last time she would see him alive but he shrugged it off and asked her once again something about the computer. He was stalwart about sitting it out. And that was just about what he did. He did not prepare one iota. The computer has taken him over. Being a retired advertising executive who worked in the biz for thirty years the old fashion way he finds the new computer way riveting in its expansions and ease of use. His entire burning hot summer was spent in an air conditioned living room typing away at the thing, turning out a story to go along with his shark leather products.
But that was before Georges struck. The hurricane blew through the lower keys destroying hundreds of homes just above Key West. The family had not heard from Dad for three days. But he faired pretty well, watching hundred mile an hour winds blow across his property. He was on the lee side of the storm and the storm surge was only three feet. The winds blew East to West and the home just to the East buffeted a lot of the wind. His roof was shingled about fifteen years ago with what looked like twenty year shingles and they had harden up to a point where the wind only blew one off that I could see. His screen porch had blown out and the power was still off. Water was restored in five days and telephone in three. Mostly the big beautiful flowering trees that made the street so desirable blew down. Water had flooded the majority of homes. Flotsam and jetsam was everywhere. Fences collapsed under the weight of the debris. Everybody's stuff was somewhere down wind several miles.
My Dad was 74 with one eye and a patch over it. He lost it as a complication of cataract surgery. His weight was down although he did have a cute basketball of a belly. He had to watch his salt intake and as a barometer he would watch his feet swell up and down. He only had about three hours of work in him these days. Early morning was best. The heat throughout the main part of the day was unbearable especially due to the lack of electricity. My Dad was tall and for the most part wore the clothes of a Cuban patriarch.
His friend who help him get ready for the hurricane was Oscar Montejo. His was compact and dark. He seemed to be aware of all that was around him in a very matter of fact way. He was Cuban and after trimming some of the broken palm fronds piled the fallen coconuts into his truck for good drinking later especially with rum. He had dark curly hair and well worn clothes. To be with him was to not want him to leave. Everything he said and did was interesting although none of it had any intellectual content just good common sense. Oscar was kind and benevolent. He lived downstairs with is daughter. Mrs. Montejo had died quite a few years earlier from a aliment that could have been treated at a major hospital but the distance and weather had prevented it just long enough to claim her. Oscar always spoke kindly of her like she was always with him even after being gone for many years.
His 19 year old daughter lived with him in the small studio apartment. She slept in the bedroom and he on the couch. She was the picture of beauty. It was hard to believe that she was his daughter being tall and blond. I never asked about her mother but you could assumed that she was tall and blond. Her name was Gabriella. She was very centered around herself and would not venture out unless everything was in order about her. Her swelt body was the perfect mannequin for all she wore. The gaze she put forth was strange in its not having any real meaning. Her looks just made you stare at her without knowing why.
If you were ever stuck somewhere you did not want to be this was it. I did not know if the heat or my Dad were worst.
We all lived together. My father and I upstairs and Oscar and Gabriella downstairs. If I had not been married you would think the men were trying to match mate us although Gabriella was quite a bit younger than I, being 45.
Oscar was very busy after the hurricane and we very rarely saw him. He was greatfull I had come down and wanted to take care of all the loose ends the hurricane had caused around the compound. Oscar had many friends that relied on him and the heat was getting to everyone.
My fathers home was beginning to be a classic courtyard paradise like you would find throughout South America. He had purchased the distressed property because of the potential and location and slowly was turning it into a little garden of Eden. The canal ran along the back and a substantial boat was tied to the dock. A deck covered a large portion of the yard and his jeep was always parked under it.
I spent my days fixing this and that always making the long ride to the not so local hardware store. A lot of little things had piled up. All the while my father would be right there going on about something or another. You would have thought he never talked to anyone. I do not think he really ever talked to anyone. It just all piled up inside of him and he let it all out when one of his children came to visit.
Mostly he talked of his plans and dreams for the place. He also owned a shark skin leather products business which also kept the conversation going at a fever pitch. Recently he had started to incorporate Mayan mythology into the business in the form of little stories to go along with the products.
My dad was a one person hurricane of himself. To be around him was to be captured by a alleged question or opinion wanted. Always a idea needed scrutiny or observation from your point. Or maybe not from your point. You offered advice or suggestions from the endless opened ended ideas and proverbially got it rejected. He was an endless string of thoughts and ideas. To keep up with him was dangerous. A nod or yes every now and then just didn't make it. Heaven forbid you say something insulting or crass. Even a semantically debate could lead to disaster. My father was for all intents and purposes a large bore cannon pointed at you, loaded and ready for firing. You had the match and your conversation was causing it to sway around the fuse. You really didn't know how your conversation moved the match but at any moment you could have a lit fuse and a explosion in your face.
Opinionated my father was. He hated most everybody. To him all were scum. The government was evil and he would never vote. He was a crotchety old man who had no friends. Nobody was good enough for him. He surrounded himself with servants and yes men. The exchange of civil thoughts amongst men was not possible. The Church offered no comfort. He had high ideals but saw none of it in most people. He was a hopeless case of defiance.
To be around him was to learn how to avoid him. Trapped in a fishbowl. But he was your father?
Coming down was a constant call to the airlines waiting for the Key West airport to open. They almost didn't let me on the plane from Tampa. My father had just the right telephone number for the ticket agent to call when she called him and off I flew into the wind torn keys. Above, you could see the overturned airplanes and boats looking to take a right turn off the highway as they sat in the middle of it. Small buildings were twisted masses. All along the highway, living room furniture and fixtures rested where the water had subsided. Water had covered all the windward land to a depth of three or four feet. Roofs slowly broke apart and coolers ended up in trees.
The first night there we had dinner at the local Catholic Church. I realized later that Dad had taken me there to be exposed to the scum side of the island. To listen to him you would think the vast majority of inhabitants were drug runners, thieves, shiftless Joes, hookers and criminals. Of course there were also the independents like himself. Independent from everyone. Contributing nothing. Oscar was around back that night working at the grill. Dad did say hello to a man serving us. He was a large kind looking man with wits about him. I wished I could have seen him dropping by to say hello. Inside where we ate was the parish hall. We ate rolled this and steamed that. I finished everything as I looked on into the human eyes of the keys. They were white crackers. Some men were tattooed all over their potbellies. Others had super long hair untied moving this way and that as they flashed the peace sign to friends. One couple brought in their children, two small boys. Each parent was kind and attentive to serving and cutting their food. He was rugged and honest like Oscar. She was solid and well proportioned. You imagined that they had lost everything from the somber looks on their faces. The only relief was the neon green knitted swimsuit top the mother had on. It covered her perfectly large bronzed breasts in a manner that made you think of Tropicana Suntan lotion.
Dad had even been to a few services there. He did not elaborate. I envisioned that they were funerals or weddings and just maybe one of those holidays where you just go to mass like a Jesus zombie had taken control of your soul and given you a unthinkable reason to justify going to church. Father spoke up on the microphone. He was sturdy, full bearded and concentrated. Right on top of everything he oversaw all the doings of the parish. He was a true Shepard.
It was a sprawling pioneer church. A still standing tall decorative bell tower made from what looked like a very creative use of cinder block rose above everything. A sprawling compound of many one storey buildings and gardens were exposed because the clean slate hurricane had stripped all leaves from the brushes. Everything was well worn now. What was hidden was now exposed.
Next to the church was the FEMA tent. The Salvation Army had clothes, food and toiletries out for taking along with potatoes chips and canned vegetables.
Hundreds of workers came down from up North to help clear the land. The chainsaw wheeling Baptists were legendary. An autonomous group of do gooders who worked like they enjoyed the hell they were putting themselves through. Duke Power from North Carolina sent many line trucks to help rebuild the power grid. There were around two hundred line trucks in operation. Just as we left for the airport they were working on our weather head. It looked like the power would be restored soon.
The last afternoon of my stay I took a little ride through the key deer preserve on Big Pine. The deer were so tame. Some had electronic collars on them. The homes in the center seemed almost like places reserved for the outback or African coast. Canals seemed to be at the back of each home leading the docked boats out to sea. It seemed hundreds of miles from civilization where you caught rain water to drink and used a generator for power. Independents and adventurers lived there away from the security of a community of homes or trailer park. The keys are coral rock with mangroves and key deer. Everything else has been brought in either willfully or accidentally. The government owns 90% of the land. Taxes are so high the locals think they are paying for everything. This storm will go a long way to prevent trailers and billboards in the keys since they were hit the worst.
The savior of the keys is Radio US 1. They stayed on all during the hurricane thanks to zippy the generator. The only radio station became the lifeboat for the citizens of Big Pine. A talk radio station, they fielded all questions and comments during and after the disaster. If you ever heard the DJ on Northern Exposure, Kirby was him. Kirby was grace personified. You could feel the serenity and openness in his voice. He handled one and all with consummate beauty. To have a tape of some of those calls would be entertainus maximus. The tragedy of one caller followed by the hatedred of another juxposed against the dandy comments of another and the friendly I know you thoughts of an acquaintance all brought full circle with Kirby calmly allowing each to have their way. Such excellence in talk radio is a marvel to hear. I stopped by to see the station but a receptionist and office did no justice to the great idea I had in my head. I should have gone around to see Zippy the generator.
I was slated to stay a week but it took an extra day to get into Key West because they had no power. The plane was not that full. Mostly ladies that had left Key West to avoid the storm. Some had lost everything others had no damage. I was leaving Tuesday no matter what. Irene, my wife, wouldn't have it any other way. I had grown up to put all my marbles in one basket, Irene. Family had become myself and a heretofore complete stranger. Now my bonds to my father were second. None the less he was very glad to see me. The other children were especially happy to have me there. Being self employed allowed me to drop everything and get down there post haste. Now I realize I should have gone down before the storm and prepared.
The heat was prominent. At night sleeping was a sweaty mess. I ended up tying a kerchief around my neck an bunching my long hair on top of my head with a hair tie. The heat blanket it caused if lying on my neck was enough to wake me to a drenched pillow. Occasionally a mosquito would chew incessantly until I hit it with my flallyings.
Probably the one hell raiser was the neighborhood generators. The guy across the canal had lost a good portion of his roof and kept one going twenty four hours a day drying out his place but the rich neighbor next to us arrived to a untouched home and promptly placed a generator into what seemed to be our ear drums. It drove use away. We looked for any opportunity to leave. We planned ways to cripple his generator. I spoke kindly to the man using words like incensed and unbelievable. He seemed not to get my drift but just before we planned our attack he moved it inside his garage which made it tolerable to talk outside on the deck.
All was becoming normal again. I know the power was to be restored soon and it would only take a few days to cool the home down and all the while Dad hammering at that unbelievable machine the computer. Much like I am here except I could not find the serenity to write it down until on the way home sitting in air-conditioned airline seats with little fold down desk tops.
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