Tropical Depression Read Online Free Page A
“Fucking cop, huh. Told you he ’uz trouble. Smelt it on him.” He put a finger the size of a kielbasa up beside his nose. “This don’t miss much. Could tell he ’uz trouble.”
“No trouble, Art.”
“Thirty-five years in this goddamn town,” he told me. “Think I can’t smell trouble?”
“There’s no trouble, for Christ’s sake, Art,” I yelled at him. The sound of my voice was too high and much too loud, so I gave him a big, loopy smile so he could see for himself there was no trouble. “I’m going home.” I turned for the door, staggering slightly as some trick of the cold locked my knee up for half a step. I shook it off and made it to the door.
“Dickhead,” I heard Art mumble behind me.
Outside, I walked to the other side of the shack, where my bicycle was chained to a piling. I undid the lock, flung the chain into the battered basket, and headed out onto the street and across US 1. I had a car, but I hadn’t started it up for six months. I wasn’t even sure it would still start.
There’s a special word for anybody who drives a car in Key West: tourist. Real Conchs have battered bicycles with large, American seats and those high handlebars that every kid in the country lusted after in 1966. With the high handlebars it’s a lot easier to stay upright under Key West conditions.
Most of the bikes have a half-smashed basket on the front, and generally a half-smashed rider holding onto the handlebars. But even if you’re sober, the way you ride a Conch bike is the same, easy enough for any drunk. You lean half-forward, drape one forearm over the handlebars, and slouch over in a kind of boneless way while your legs move on the pedals as if you were going downhill and you’re just keeping up with the spinning wheel; you’re not really pedalling at all, just letting gravity pull you along.
It works out pretty well on an island that’s completely flat and only a few miles long and a few miles across. Gas is expensive, and unless you’re hauling lumber, cars are a waste of time and money and take up too much room. Besides, nobody is really in a hurry here. Tourists are here for a break from the hectic rodent marathon. Residents generally don’t have anything too pressing; at worst, they’re keeping a tourist waiting a few minutes—which is actually one of the real pleasures of living here, so nobody minds.
I generally managed to get across US 1 without serious injury, but it always amazed me. If the road wasn’t so straight nobody would make it all the way to Duval Street. Nobody is really driving as they come through here. They’re hanging onto the wheel often enough, but they are either wrestling kids or gaping out the window. In a lot of ways people feel like they’ve come to a foreign country, so I guess they assume a red light means something else here.
I was as bad as any tourist right now. I couldn’t get that last picture of Roscoe out of my mind, as he tried that pained half-smile one last time and turned for his rental car. So I ended up partway across the street before I realized I was in traffic, going against the light. I made it back to the curb without losing a wheel or a leg, but just barely. A thoughtful guy with a blonde crewcut leaned out the window and very loudly told me what my head was full of and what he figured I liked to put in my mouth. It wasn’t very original; I barely heard him.
When the light finally changed I missed it and had to wait through another cycle. I felt trapped. Roscoe had found me and in just a half-hour stripped away all my carefully built-up defenses. He was right; I was still a cop underneath. I still cared.
A red convertible filled with college kids went by. The horn honked and a beer bottle spun from the backseat and smashed at my feet. Small pellets of glass pattered off my hat, and one stung my cheek. My left leg was wet with warm beer that smelled like the urinal at Sloppy Joe’s. It woke me up, and when the light changed a
“No trouble, Art.”
“Thirty-five years in this goddamn town,” he told me. “Think I can’t smell trouble?”
“There’s no trouble, for Christ’s sake, Art,” I yelled at him. The sound of my voice was too high and much too loud, so I gave him a big, loopy smile so he could see for himself there was no trouble. “I’m going home.” I turned for the door, staggering slightly as some trick of the cold locked my knee up for half a step. I shook it off and made it to the door.
“Dickhead,” I heard Art mumble behind me.
Outside, I walked to the other side of the shack, where my bicycle was chained to a piling. I undid the lock, flung the chain into the battered basket, and headed out onto the street and across US 1. I had a car, but I hadn’t started it up for six months. I wasn’t even sure it would still start.
There’s a special word for anybody who drives a car in Key West: tourist. Real Conchs have battered bicycles with large, American seats and those high handlebars that every kid in the country lusted after in 1966. With the high handlebars it’s a lot easier to stay upright under Key West conditions.
Most of the bikes have a half-smashed basket on the front, and generally a half-smashed rider holding onto the handlebars. But even if you’re sober, the way you ride a Conch bike is the same, easy enough for any drunk. You lean half-forward, drape one forearm over the handlebars, and slouch over in a kind of boneless way while your legs move on the pedals as if you were going downhill and you’re just keeping up with the spinning wheel; you’re not really pedalling at all, just letting gravity pull you along.
It works out pretty well on an island that’s completely flat and only a few miles long and a few miles across. Gas is expensive, and unless you’re hauling lumber, cars are a waste of time and money and take up too much room. Besides, nobody is really in a hurry here. Tourists are here for a break from the hectic rodent marathon. Residents generally don’t have anything too pressing; at worst, they’re keeping a tourist waiting a few minutes—which is actually one of the real pleasures of living here, so nobody minds.
I generally managed to get across US 1 without serious injury, but it always amazed me. If the road wasn’t so straight nobody would make it all the way to Duval Street. Nobody is really driving as they come through here. They’re hanging onto the wheel often enough, but they are either wrestling kids or gaping out the window. In a lot of ways people feel like they’ve come to a foreign country, so I guess they assume a red light means something else here.
I was as bad as any tourist right now. I couldn’t get that last picture of Roscoe out of my mind, as he tried that pained half-smile one last time and turned for his rental car. So I ended up partway across the street before I realized I was in traffic, going against the light. I made it back to the curb without losing a wheel or a leg, but just barely. A thoughtful guy with a blonde crewcut leaned out the window and very loudly told me what my head was full of and what he figured I liked to put in my mouth. It wasn’t very original; I barely heard him.
When the light finally changed I missed it and had to wait through another cycle. I felt trapped. Roscoe had found me and in just a half-hour stripped away all my carefully built-up defenses. He was right; I was still a cop underneath. I still cared.
A red convertible filled with college kids went by. The horn honked and a beer bottle spun from the backseat and smashed at my feet. Small pellets of glass pattered off my hat, and one stung my cheek. My left leg was wet with warm beer that smelled like the urinal at Sloppy Joe’s. It woke me up, and when the light changed a
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