The good thing about partridges is that they don't crow. Those of you who have been reading for awhile might remember that last year my cousins were raising chickens and the roosters would not let me sleep. This year they have settled on partridges. I don't know what they do with them, but there is a hurricane fence cage in the back yard where they keep them. Rabbits, I tell them. That's the thing. Good meat. And like the partridge, they don't make noise. The dachshunds do, though, every time I move. Three of them.
I made my escape to the beach late this morning. I walked miles along the Gulf of Mexico over sugar sand and shell, the water cold, the crowds large, the weather perfect, and while walking I made resolutions I'll never keep, the same ones I've made for years and years and years. If I'd kept them, I'd be a different--and maybe better--person. But that is what we do and the rest is what we are. There are many options, but we have only energy for a few.
And after walking on the sandy beaches until my heels were raw, I went to the gym. That, I guess, is one resolution I made and kept long ago. And then I went back and showered and readied myself for lunch. The day had already slipped away from me and I was shaking with hunger and other things. I went to the Columbia.
The Columbia is a Cuban restaurant that has been in Tampa since 1906. There are several in Florida now, and I've never had a bad meal in one. I like this one on St. Armand's Circle because the bar overlooks the street and I enjoy eating at bars. Sangria and ropa viejos and a big slice of Cuban bread. The world was looking better. It was time to do the Black Friday stroll.
If this place is any indication, the economy is coming back. Of course, this was no mall but a square just off the beach serving the wealthy and the wannabes. The stores were full of merchandise, and unlike last year, shoppers. I got caught up in it, I think. I wanted to buy something. A madness, really, or maybe it was the Sangria. But suddenly I found myself standing in a Tony Bahama store (I know the actual name)--no, not standing--shopping.
"These aren't as bad as I remember," I was telling myself, and then I was in the dressing room with an armful of shirts and shorts. And then I came to my senses about almost all things--but one. A shirt. I swear, it doesn't look like a Tony Bahama shirt. I swear. I swear.
I strolled to the counter to pay hoping I wouldn't see anyone I know even this far away from home. A Tony Bahama shirt for God's sake. How many jokes have I made about the people who shop in these stores? Scores. But I wanted the shirt. It was the embodiment of tropical comfort. It didn't have a picture or script on the back. It wasn't flowered. None of that, I tell you. It was normal.
The woman ringing me up did not care for me or the job or her job or something. She was just snotty and deliberately reluctant. But I had to get the shirt. She putz around in a drawer or two without looking at me who was so obviously on the other side of the counter staring at her with desire. Maybe she mistook my desire to get the hell out of Tony Bahamas for the other kind. I don't know. So just before my herky-jerkiness got out of hand, an equally snotty gay fellow decided to ring me up. Maybe I had done something wrong, I thought. Maybe they just didn't like my kind.
When he rang me up, I knew that it was true. It was a shirt, for Christ's sake. There had to be a mistake. But as usual, I had not brought my glasses and the lights were too dim (I assume to flatter the aging patrons) for me to get even a semi-blurry vision of the price tag (I had guessed at the size when I picked it up and had guessed wrong on some others). Without visual verification, I did not feel I could challenge what I was being most assuredly wrongly charged. Besides--I wanted that shirt.
And so, too many dollars the poorer, I had joined the Black Friday crowd--of sorts. They were looking for bargains. I was looking for the highest price I could find.
As I write this from my cousin's home, I notice two Tony Bahama prints on the wall. Jesus.
I don't know, I don't know. I can't explain it. But my cousins. . . well, they like the Tony Bahama line.
I find these types of photos the most intriguing. Really my favorite. The little girl is beyond good -- she could barely give you more. The narrative of course adds so much. And the Gun Guy is just wow. Probably why I stalked Canapari so long. And why I have always loved National Geographic (I guess it was never for the naked women :P ).
ReplyDeleteMy brother was telling me about what is going on up on the dairy farms in St. Lawrence County. I wanted to stay and find out more but I probably would have faced similar guns.
Anyway -- because there is no help up there anymore -- cause who wants to stay there and work on a dairy farm -- there is a secret and silent population of Latin American immigrants who are stowed away in barns and out buildings. The farmer does not let them out anywhere -- does all the shopping for them etc.
Now what is so interesting (well, to a geek like me I suppose) is that Border Patrol is right there. My brother said that they (Border Patrol) mostly "look the other way" because who is else going to do the job? and of all the political implications.
So why the hell are we paying for Border Patrol? Who occupy a new and one of the nicest buildings up there -- with lots of cars and trucks. Talk about living in a hologram.
I would have loved to have explored more. You can feel the pressure of this gray secret hanging itself heavy all over the place.
Too bad we don't have a decent immigration program. I imagined some of these funky little downtowns if illegals were given work visas and paid taxes and participated in the community -- there might be wonderful little markets and restaurants. Instead the towns are decrepit and dying. House bones litter the sides of the roads.
You are probably more familiar with this type of situation where you are in the south because of fruit harvest. But all I kept thinking of -- as the snow fell -- was huddled men and women from warm & humid Nicaragua living 10 deep in one of those smoking chimneyed little wood shacks. What route did they take to get there? How do they send the money home?
My brother told of a story of driving out to see one of his clients miles and miles from anything (he claims where he lives is considered The City) on a farm -- he was greeted by a Spanish speaking man on four wheeler -- who radioed someone else about his arrival. While my brother waited for the owner, he looked around the property -- the huge milking pavilions, all the machinery and then was struck to see 5 or 6 coyotes strung up by there tails on the clothes line. Who wears coyote fur?
Hey! People eat partridge, don't they?
The drive through the Adirondacks back home felt like a purification of sorts. All those shimmery cold lakes..
Happy Thanksgiving weekend to you C.S. No comment on the Tony shirt. Really?
The border patrol has doubled in size from 2005 until now, expanding to more than 20,000 officers. During that same time the amount of illegals they have captured and returned to their native nations has decreased by half.
ReplyDeleteThe Border Patrol does not need a warrant to search your home if you live within 100 miles of a border or shore, which includes almost 75% of America's population.
They shoot partridges, don't they? Love the pictures!
ReplyDeleteL, Commented on the shirt today, of course. Seized the moment.
ReplyDeleteQ, Incredibly, the number of border collies has dwindled to near-nothing. I don't want to be a conspiracy theorist, but. . . you can draw your own conclusions.
R, Thanks. They are difficult to hit with either an AK-47 or a Glock.
You are poking fun at me via SQ aren't u CS?
ReplyDeleteP.S. What do they shoot with the guns? What?