Lorraine
Lorraine by Geoffrey Zimmerman from JointVentureLightning on Vimeo.
By
Geoffrey Zimmerman
I love you, Lorraine. I haven’t seen you in years and years. And, most assuredly I will never see you again. Before I met you, I know no one had ever said these words to you. Maybe by now they have, but I’ll never be sure. Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, I know you are selfless, unquestionably devoted, and maybe someone cares. I do.
Ah, to live in Miami. The biggest vacation hot spot on the East coast, and probably the country. I live in a bungalow in Coconut Grove. Not a town, but an official village, just south of Miami proper, directly across the bay from Miami Beach.
I sit along the sidewalk, (on the sidewalk, actually), at the local bar, The Village Inn, taking it all in. I wear a Speedo and twist in my seat, the white wrought iron chair pinching my bare thighs, and peer down Grove Avenue. I can easily make out the bench where I sat two years ago, alone, drunk, thinking deep thoughts of what was to lie in the future. So ironic.
My first night in this town. I came to the Village Inn with my brother, his girlfriend, (at the time), and their friend, Hope. We drank, laughed and danced to Jimmy Buffet. I had drank too much and was feeling dizzy, so I came outside to clear my head, and sat myself down at that bench. My first night in town. I peered left down the road, then right, then left again. Left seemed more interesting to me. I wondered what lay that direction. Now I know. I’ve been living on that road for a year now. I walk that road in a skimpy bathing suit and flip flops to go to the store to buy cigarettes.
I’ll never forget that first night in town.
Down that road. …The waitress pulls my consciousness to the present with a sort of mental fishhook. “Is there anything more I can get you, Sir?” she asks. An involuntary sigh escapes my lungs and fills the humid space between us. “No, thank you. That’s fine. Thank you.” I pull my wallet out of my sock, (no pockets in this bathing suit), and pay her.
What a languid day. High seventies. Humid as hell. Breezy. Time to go home, I guess. I could sit here all day and listen to these palm fronds overhead that remind me of the sound of satin sheets.
Responsibility. I have my beeper. All the vehicles are procured for the current show. No new script revisions until tomorrow, (I hope). Howard will be happy if I whip up something delicious and tropical. My first effort with dolphin was a masterpiece, but, ever since, I can’t seem to duplicate it. Maybe something with avocados. From the back yard. Mangoes, from the back yard. Then what? Who cares…this jailbait on roller skates seems to be going my way. Maybe she’ll give me a ride.
The bungalow. Seven p.m. Those two huge palm trees in the front yard always impress visitors. I even had some guy knock on the door, and ask if he could climb them, and grab a few coconuts for himself. “Sure”, I replied. They weren’t mine, anyways. I think we made an excellent decision in grabbing this place. The price can’t be beat. The corner location gives us both easy accessibility because of the main road, and tranquility, because all bedrooms face Day Avenue, our sleepy, tropical, palm-lined street. Kids even play in the road. I think every house on Day Avenue is one story. That must be because no one wants to climb stairs in this humidity.
They also like to walk directly from their bedroom to their pool, and splash around amidst bougainvillea, hibiscus, banana trees, and all the rest. There’s something restful and demure about this part of town, but that incipient drug crime stuff always seems to put a damper on things.
Brother’s home. His car’s out front. Slap goes our front door. No one in sight. He must be sleeping. Great time for a nap. I don’t feel like one. Scott should be home soon. What can I whip up? You know, there should be a law that the guy who cooks ALL the meals pays less rent, AND doesn’t have to clean anything up, take out the garbage, or any of that domestic crap. I could sleep if I lay down, but my buzz puts me in ‘the cooking mood, not the sleeping mood. Living in the tropics has an effect on one’s diet. The fridge is filled with fruit, fresh vegetables, fish, beer, (of course), and fancy stuff, since we are all living pretty well, like steak, lobster, crab meat and shrimp. I don’t feel like using heat, so … it’s going to be a salad. Crab meat and shrimp, with some avocados from the back yard and, (of course), beer. With fresh vegs. Perfect.
As I sit at the kitchen table, waiting for the shrimp to boil, and gently mix up a fine homemade sauce, the balmy evening breeze wafts in through the Florida room in front, across my body, and out the back porch door. It puts me in a calm and pensive mood. It makes me feel like just living. Dreams, aspirations, goals and the struggle for the gold ring vanish from my mind. What more could one want? There’s a rapid knock at the front door. “Come in”, I request. No one enters. A stranger, I assume. No neighbor friends. I turn the shrimp water off, and slide to the front door, my callused bare feet reminding me I must soon sweep and mop the living room floor.
No one else will.
It’s a woman.
THE REST OF THIS STORY CAN BE READ IN MY BOOK, GREAT AMERICAN SHORT STORIES AND POETRY
