Thanks to Yadge, for noticing the lack of scene. This is Fay. Here in Florida we obviously must deal with hurricanes. Duh! But Fay wasn’t no ‘cane, folks. Nope, just a tropical storm when she landed. She landed hard, landed wet. She prevented me from flying away to Ohio (bummer. Insert the sarcasm here). I moved my car to higher land. Thanks to Mary, the San Marco Market matriarch. We are bonified unifiers in times like these. We stand up and help one another. Funny, in the ironic sense that we don’t take these ideals to bed with us, eh? Why is it only in crisis that we stand up,  protect and serve each other? The bulkhead kept the sludgey,  St. John’s force at bay. But my personal blockade prevented any delusions on this  day…

I used to get so indignant (ok, still do), when I would hear folks refer to the attack on the World Trade Center Towers as the; 9/11 attack. “Nope, I would think to myself, it isn’t 9/11. I HATE that term. Can’t we spell it out in all its meaning? ” Is it not the least we can do to say the full date? Today it is seven years since seven years ago. Yes, today I shed  my Yankee born tears watching the re-enactment on the History Channel. Yes, I am still afraid. Yes, I still yearn for revenge. Revenge against something, someone, somewhere. But mostly I think, I am done. I am done with Bush and all his branches. I am ready to get over, get on, get going with things American. You know… things brave, things upright, things proud. I will not forget the events of September Eleventh, 2001. But I am SOOO ready to get upward and onward and beyond the stifling velcro of deceipt. I’m ready for difference, deliverance. I’m ready to carry the flag of the UNITED States Of America. Walk with me, please. But, let’s not forget a single thing, ok? Let’s not “Palin” comparison in the face of  “Barack.”

Let’s stay quiet for a moment and just remember those who are not here to give their opinion. Those who gave up their lives, those who had no choice…

Eleven gold medals behind China. But, we’re ranked number one overall in medal count. I was wondering where Canada stood this night.

(You know, after my Jaguars got horrifically massacred by the 1 and 15 Dolphins tonight. The Miami mammals with the worst NFL record last year). I was crying in my sushi.

Canada, you ask? Medal count? Geez. Get this…We’re tied for 25th with Indonesia! Indonesia? WTF? Summer games just aren’t our forte, folks.

Just wait ’til Whistler, y’all. Twenty ten and shit. I’ve already begun compiling my commemorative pins, too! Canada’s gonna put the smackdown on all you, fo’ sho’.

And we’ll just see how your toboggan slides then, beeotch!

PS- Nice going, Phelps! You’ve made us so proud.

Barack Obama.

If you’re a part of the Georgepublican-loop, it’ll be three words; Barack Obama Bin Laden. (Didya notice that our dear George miscounted?) I knew that you did-educated bunch, you are!

Did you also catch his inappropriate smiling during Bob Costas’ interview in Beijing? I for one, was embarrassed for our country. Imagine a leader, (look it up- it doesn’t mean war monger) smiling when asked about agendas. “I don’t need the olympics to advance America’s agenda.” And then there’s this;  “I don’t see America as having problems…”

I do. I see us as having BIG fucking problems, Georgie-poo. We’re not leaders anymore.

If we can’t vote this right, I’m moving left.

Peace out y’all.

Yeah.

My head, like my bed is empty right now. I’m afraid that I must have let go of my, ‘WOW.’

I used to have game, y’all. Really I did. Not so much today, it’s come to the skids.

My weight that has gained, caused romance to wane. It sucks but it’s true, us women pursue…

…We want so much to look like this girl or that. We peer into mirrors and think that we’re fat.

Women are gifted, but I forget this at times. I get trapped by the notion, and the;  “size two”  head crimes.

I’m going so soon, to the land of Ohio. The girls haven’t seen me since I was sooo fly-o.

It’s all good. I’ve warned all my ladies. It’s my humor they seek, or so they’ve told all my maties.

Not such a pirate these days of dog summer, but I’m getting back on my track so it’s not such a bummer.

I’ll chuckle and snicker and make light of the scale, but inside I’ll fret over my mirror’s inner whale.

My bed lies still empty-I guess it’s ok. I doubt that I’d want you beside me today.

I’d roll over to find that you’re still not here. I’ll snuggle instead with my overweight fear.

My bed, like my head, is empty this night. But my faith in Slim-Fast makes everything allright.

G’night all you ladies who harbor self doubt. I’ll take your false mirrors and toss ’em about.

So I was just driving home. It was a long trip, this one. Destin is a few hundred miles of vague, en route memories. Blew out a tire. Again. Such are the normalcies in the road life of Dee. Thank the stars for the three A’s. Towed me into “enemy territory”. Enemy, because the Seminoles are housed therein. Not that I regularly give a shit about the rivalries between the two Florida Universities; it’s taken me at least a decade to know which one is where. (UF is in Gainseville and Fl State is in Tallahassee) But I  feel that I must house an alliance with the one school that the majority of people that I know, go. Or, want to go. So… U of F it is  (Orange and blue, to me and you).

But that isn’t what this story’s about…

It’s about the song that popped in my head along interstate 75.

Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall. You know it?

I have no clue as to why this repetitious fodder would pop into my grey matter at that particular moment, other than the fact that driving anywhere in the state of Flat-ida causes the brain to conjour up mundane, ritualistic tunes. (“Ding-Dong the witch is dead, which old witch? The wicked witch…”)

I pondered…

…wondered why;

a) Folks would keep their beer on a wall. Don’t most people store/refrigerate their libations in a climate controlled area? Like a fridge? Duh?!

b) Ninety-nine? Why not round it up to one hundred?

And finally:

c) What makes a bottle;  “happen to fall?” An earthquake?

Shouldn’t we be running for our lives rather than counting down to the next freakin’ bottle?

Nevertheless, I only got to 97 bottles before I exited at that blessed rest stop in Marrianna, Fl.

After all that singing about beer..well, you know the rest.

I directly directed the automatic flush.

No more bottles of beer on the wall…I’m stuck on Gilligan’s friggin’ Island now!

Wow. If only God woulda let me have a kid…

But he let me mentor some amazing young folks instead.

I get lost for words at times like this (no really, I do).

There was a random boy applicant one day back in 2006…

He came in for an interview on September the something….  He fidgeted and looked down at imaginary things. He complained about shopping carts and missed expectations. He managed to get through despite self deprecation. I doubted a bit, though I felt something stir…I hired him then and the days since are a blur…

I’ve been in the;  “biznezz”,  for a few 24 hours now. But geez. No single employee has EVER asked; “The question.”

Until Benji.

I love this kid. I’ve written it before. But now, well…God, I love this kid. How can I explain?

He asked me the question. You know-the one. The one that I, Dee Fortin, asked Mr. CEO back in 2001. Las Vegas, it was. My very first encounter with all things corporate-ish.

I was terribly green back then. Nervous to meet our CEO. Did I belong? Did I have any skills at all to succeed in a world I couldn’t even comprehend? I could only muster two questions; “What do I need to learn?”  And…”Do you have any advice for me?”

Mr. CEO replied;  “Participate. Ask questions. Give answers.”
I don’t remember if I even heeded that advice. All I know is that
I tried to tow the line and listen to the folks who were smarter than me (it paid many dividends years later, not simply monetary ones, either).

Allow me to tell you that in my tenure here at the “company”, not one employee has been so forthright, so genuine as this kid. No person has been so much like me. No one as curious and as eager to figure the shit out, recognizes opportunity and grabs all he can…

He gets it. He gets me; my vision for our shop. He gets the “we” of this company.

Alas…here’s the news: He’s gonna leave. As well it should be, I reluctantly admit.

College doth steal our dependent finest. He’ll add and subtract and plus and minus. 

He’s wants to be a Gator. We joke and jest, make fun of the “haters.” 

Benji’s a great kid, I wish you could know. You probably will, stick around for the show…(he may be your attorney, your counsel when heeded. He might be your doctor, when life-saving is needed. He might just be #28’s agent, directing the Jag’s and all of their wages. Whatever he chooses, it will impact this space. It will take away shadows and lighten the place.)

He told me this the other day, in a grown-up, direct and factual way. He said; “You know Dee, I was just another aimless teenager until I started working here. I have learned so much in my two years, I have a plan for my life now. I go to college on time and I come to work and I do the right thing…”

I look up to him now, in more ways than one. (I must be shrinking back down to the earth, no way he could be growing so tall, so fast).

I listen to him now, not just hear him, (smarter than me already? No friggin’ way!)

“What can I improve upon, Dee?”

Your improvement is obvious, this is a fact.

You are all the ways and means that I lacked.

P.S. Whitney, my demon child, graduated and is going to college in the fall. What a ride this life gives us, eh?

So..the story is this;

I was reluctant to go. Why? Because I am loathe to be the least experienced at anything. But I went. Obviously. Thanks to my kayak-carrying mate and Jodi and my keen eye for jellyfishing. The water was freakin’ freezing as compared to piss-warm Florida standards. I found my rhythm, found my groove. I saw orange and purple starfish, too! Which, at this moment, reminded me of the orange and purple spatula sets that were reduced to clearance prices yesterday at the ol’ shop. But I digress.

 It took me a couple of 45 minute segments to acquire the finesse needed to maneuver properly (and not look like too much of a complete friggin’ dork!) Despite my on-land instruction, I still managed to crash my plastic tube on a rock. I loved it, though. It was peace personified. That whole three hours of manning my own boat. 

It’s pouring here in San Marco tonight. I imagine myself in the blue, sturdy canoe. Oops, kayak. Rowing upstream. Rowing against the grain. Rowing and rowing ’til my shoulder burns again… 

I wasn’t the star and I most definitely didn’t shine…but I sit here this night crossing my memory’s finish line.

I’m glad I went. I’ll go again. Somewhere different next time, no tellin’ when.

So here’s what I heard on vacation…

… Oops, in trying to relate the sounds of hearing, I heard seven things that belie the truth of what I heard. Because really, I heard this…

…Damn it! I screwed it up again! Hear nothing, is what I’m trying to say. Here is more than-way more than nothing. Ever heard nothing? No. Me either. Until Hornby. Until I got loose of my city vibe, my shitty vibe. Hear ye, here ye. So let’s try again, me. 

Hear this…A cow bird. Gracie whining cuz’ mama’s done gone fo’ a bit. A homeless yet entrepreneurial wasp, chewing the cabin post. A deep inhale of American smoke. The crisp departure of unenamored feet. The sizzle of wings just ready to eat. The buzz of bees so close to the sheets. The cawing of ravens who’re ready for meat.

Do not hear this…Air conditioners and suv’s. Sirens, trains and flat t.v.’s. Sodium lamps and angry squirrels. Feral cats and human perils. 4th of July shenanigan crackers, pops and bangs and homeless wackers.

The noise of San Marco that I most usually tune out, is the antithesis of a cacauphony that Hornby’s without.

Can you hear me now? I sincerely hope not. The silence will unnerve you. But it most surely will  serve you.

Ya heard dat?