Reinventing Mike Lake (5 page)

              The huge house sat on stilts to protect it from flooding due to hurricanes causing some kind of impact on this little town every few years.  Four parking spots were underneath the house, and then a wooden staircase went all the way up to the third floor.  As soon as I parked the car Bahama got excited – more than usual.

              It was pretty dark underneath the house, but I could see well enough to know that we were being greeted by a huge dog.  The mix breed dog appeared to come in at over 100 pounds.  I felt Bahama and I had every right to be scared, but in demeanor the dog was calm, as it peaked into the driver’s side window.  After giving us a curious look, he backed up and sat at the foot of the steps.  I guess he was going to be our personal escort on our way to meet Howard and his wife.  Judging by the size of his back, he would have had no trouble taking my luggage for me.

              Bahama and I got out of the car, Bahama making a bee-line directly to the beast of a dog for an introduction.  This scared me a bit, but the dog hardly paid any attention to Bahama, other than a quick sniff back, and then looked back at me, as if to ask, “Are you coming?”  Being that I had spent most of the time talking to a dog the last two days, I didn’t feel odd at all, answering, “We’re coming!  We’re coming!”

              We marched up to the third floor, and around to the side of the house facing the Gulf of Mexico.  As soon as we reached the final step, we were greeted by a hot tub with my naked uncle and his second wife, whom I had not yet met mind you – not that it would have made it any easier had I met her.  My uncle barely moved, while his wife Gail looked around frantically weighing her decisions about running into the house stark naked or sinking further into the hot tub.  At this point to her I was just a stranger, so she also had the concern of just exactly who was this guy standing in front of her and staring at her.  Unintentionally.  I was also worried that she would scream or squeal and that their dog would react by eating me for lunch.  Luckily, after a few seconds of remembrance, my uncle said to his wife, “Relax, relax, this is my brother’s kid, Michael,” setting down a now-soggy joint on an elevated table next to the hot tub.

              I don’t think this helped Gail any, as she was still naked, and I was still a stranger.  I finally got the hint and walked a few steps back down the stairs.  I was used to back tracking this trip so this was natural.  I waited until I could tell she had scampered back into the house.

              In the meantime, Howard had put on a pair of swimming trunks and was getting out of the tub.

              “Your dad said you were driving around the country.  I had a feeling you might make it here,” slapping a wet hand on my back.  “I see you met my wife,” he added, laughing, as she came back outside, this time with clothes on, but still wearing a red mask of embarrassment. 

              While I had had the opportunity to get a full look at her I had diverted my eyes, until this point.  She was a pretty woman, about my uncle’s age, mid 40’s.  My first aunt, Howard’s first wife, had been a bit overweight due to their eating habits, but Gail was a pillar of health.  She had a flat stomach, toned arms and legs, and beautiful skin.  Just as I was surmising that she was not the type of eater that my uncle is, or maybe was, she asked me while extending her arm for a handshake, “Are you hungry can I make you something?” making that the first time I had ever heard the possibility of homemade food an option in my uncle’s presence. 

              “Yeah, hate to ask you do that being I just got here, but I am pretty hungry,” as the gigantic sandwich I had eaten for breakfast was starting to wear off.

              “Great, I’ll make us some smoothies, and fresh salmon with wild rice.  How’s that sound?”

              “Great, thank you,” I said, as she was heading towards the kitchen in no-time.

              Despite not seeing my uncle in quite a few years, I gave him a look as if to say, “What’s up with this?” 

              “Yeah, I don’t eat quite as bad as I used to.”  Seeing that my face had turned to a frown, concerned for his health, he quickly added, “Don’t worry, I’m healthy, so it’s nothing like that.  Gail said if she was going to marry me and follow me around from here to there that I had to eat a bit healthier.  To put it like she did, ‘I’m not going to eat this shit for the rest of my life.’  Loving her like I do, I agreed, but don’t worry Mike, I still have my favorite places.”

              I whispered, “Does she know you still eat out?”

              He replied, “Of course, we don’t hold secrets from each other,” but after a laugh he added, “I just usually don’t tell her about it.”

              I sat down next to him in a beach chair, and for the next hour over lunch I told them what I had done so far.  Gail was almost moved to tears when I told them about reconciling with my sister and niece.  They also both got a chuckle when I told them about my wallet, and even offered to give me the money I had lost. 

              I asked them about their dog, who was off with Bahama giving her the lay of the land, sniffing through the sand in the front yard.

              “Oh, that’s Snuka.  Funniest thing – one night, not long after we moved out here, he came up to us when we got back to the house after a walk, scaring the shit out of us.”  They both laughed.

              They added, “But that’s not the funny part.  After we saw he was calm and nice and all that, we noticed he had on loin-cloths like the old wrestler Jimmy ‘Superfly’ Snuka!”  More laughs followed, this time from me too.

              “After calling the local shelter and leaving some signs up throughout the island nobody claimed him, so he became ours.  For a beach dog he’s terrified of the water, but as you can see, he loves the sand.  He usually shakes most of it off before going into the house, but it feels like we are changing the sheets every day.”

              “Yeah, because you let him sleep in bed with us,” Gail added, with a smile.

              After some more light talking, my uncle asked, “So, what are you doing here?”

              Taken slightly aback, but keeping up with the jovial feel of the conversation I just laughed, not knowing how to answer.  “Good question.”

              “Ahh, I know that feeling all too well, I think you have some of my blood in you after all.”  Before I could say anything he added, “I’ve been where you are many times, maybe not with as heavy heart as you, but I have always felt like I am searching for something.  While I figure out exactly what I’m looking for I figured I’d do it in the most beautiful places I could surround myself with.  As you can see, we have plenty of beauty, and we have plenty of room, so you are welcome to stay as long as you want.” 

              Gail nodded her approval of his invite.  That’s how Bahama and I ended up staying in Treasure Island for the next month.

9

              It had been maybe ten years since I had been high – I mean really high.  I had smoked a few times at cookouts, parties, and a concert or two, but I hardly ever felt any differently afterwards.  With Howard and Gail around it was going to be hard not to be high.  They celebrate almost every occasion with the words, “Let’s get high.”  Going to the grocery store?  Let’s get high.  We’re going for a walk.  Let’s get high.  I need to get air in the tires.  Let’s get high!  I want to get high!  Let’s get high!

              While not an authority on this topic, I was assured what I was smoking was “good shit.”  I felt that my uncle and aunt are nice enough people to get connections in every city that they live in, and that’s how they always had a healthy supply of “herb,” as they like to call it.  However, when this came up one night my uncle told me they have been using the same supplier for close to 25 years.  Perhaps, sometimes, it’s different types of weed, but always the same supplier.

              Their supplier, a couple with whom they had become good friends, lived in Arizona.  Uncle Howard met Zeke and Callie when they were vacationing in Phoenix one winter.  Howard said he knew he wouldn’t last long in Phoenix because it wasn’t close enough to a large enough body of water, but as a consolation prize, he did find a source to make sure his weed never ran out.  I was told Zeke and Callie grew weed out of their basement, and have connections all over the world to other forms of herb. 

              Knowing Howard wasn’t venturing to Phoenix every time he ran low, I asked him how he stayed stocked on one of my first days as his roommate.

              He replied, “I know you’re family, and I love you like the son I never had, but I’d rather not answer that.” 

              I respected his response, and didn’t press for an answer.  I was free to use my imagination.  Whatever I was smoking with him sure did help my imagination.  I just figured a weed stork brought it to him during one of my hazy daydreams while staring out in the Gulf. 

              Even though there was no pressure from my uncle or aunt to do much of anything, I was again getting the desire to write.  It’s odd to think that smoking a ton of weed would make want me to do anything other than eat, but I think it was because of my chemical-filled brain I was getting antsy to get something out.  It’s no coincidence, I thought, especially while feeling like this, that it seemed most writers needed a little extra motivation, if you will, to be the best writer they can be.  Inspiration has to come from somewhere, right?

              A few peers in my college writing class and I would get a case of beer, and sit around one of our crappy apartments.  Only a few beers in and I think everyone experienced a wave of inspiration.  Occasionally, we would go from wanting to write books to wanting to write movies.  The problem with combining drinking and writing is the fine line where you feel inspired and the point you start to get too drunk to even operate a pen.  By the time our little group graduated we had at least a half dozen “scripts” started.  My favorite one was the one we started on the inside of a pizza box.  The main character was a pizza delivery driver.  Imagine that.

              So I don’t know if it was the weed, or my surroundings, or that I just generally missed it, but I started seeking out part-time writing jobs again.  For most of my marriage I made a living taking in all kinds of freelance jobs.  When I was much younger I fancied myself a Hunter S. Thompson, always wanting to be part of the story, but there weren’t many opportunities for me to do that.  Instead I settled for becoming a semi-professional biography writer, usually writing a famous person’s entire story in 1,000 words or less.

              Through the years there have been many jobs.  One of the big (see: financially rewarding) jobs I had was writing a biography on every president in the history of the United States, again in 1,000 words or less.  The stories were to be given to an editor of an 8th grade history book, and then they would put the information I gave them in the context of the textbook.  You had to be incredibly unbiased and neutral in your writing.  It helped to have a grip on American history, but really anyone with a competent internet search function, and an 8th grade writing ability, could have done the job.

              I also worked for various magazines, ranging from news, sports, and, even once, professional wrestling.  For a while in college I had gotten into the habit of just applying for any job I could, trying to earn enough money to buy an engagement ring.  A wrestling magazine, much to my surprise, asked me if I would rank the order of WrestleMania events from worst to first.  I had been a bit of a wrestling fan in my youth, but at the time of the writing and since then, I hadn’t watched wrestling in years.  So, I watched every WrestleMania and sought out the opinions of people who I knew that watched wrestling.  It was interesting watching over 60 hours of wrestling, but at the end I felt like I had a pretty good grip on it.  For the record, I picked WrestleMania V as the best.  The backlash was strong. 

              As the years passed during my college and young adult years, my desire to write a novel grew stronger.  Snapping back to a haze of reality on my uncle’s deck, I decided that’s what I would do then, only I would use a computer and not a pizza box.  I had tried many times before to write a novel, but usually after a few thousand words I would think it was awful, and quit.  Then after a few more months I would try again, then rinse and repeat.  Another false start.

              In the year of my mourning, I began to get the strong urge to write again, especially the last few weeks when I decided I was going to hit the road for an adventure of my own.  From time to time I wrote short stories of imaginary adventures and a character similar to me took shape.  I didn’t think they were that good, but I shared some with my friends and family, and they seemed to be well received, but then again they didn’t want to hurt the already fragile feelings of someone they cared about.

              Most asked me if I had done the things the characters had done in the story, and almost always the answer was no.  I know it wasn’t their intention to make me feel upset with that question, but it always reminded me that for the last year, and in a lot of ways long before that, I hadn’t done much of anything that would be considered an adventure.  Those innocent questions ultimately helped lead me on this journey.

              My wife always made more money than me.  When she died I was left with what we had already had, plus a very substantial check from the insurance company.  We always agreed with each other that if one of us were to die, we’d want the other to live relatively worry free.  My wife and I didn’t live exactly frugally, but we never bought things we didn’t need, we didn’t eat out much, preferring dinner with my family, who loved to cook, and we saved quite a bit.  I was lucky enough to have a wife who supported my passion for writing.  In freelance work, there could be long lulls between employment and then there was the amount of time I’d have to spend building up a resume so I could realistically have a chance at the big jobs, which were few and far between.