I must have stayed in a motel in the newer part of town
and taken a bus to Old Town. I know I didn't stay in
a bed-and-breakfast. I took the trolley, or the Conch Train.
I walked around, looking at the architecture and the vegetation.
The weather was glorious. So much sky. There was a smoothie stand
on every corner. Tropical ices. Sure, mango. But tamarindo?
I saw the Hemingway House, the aquarium. Mel Fisher's Salvager Museum.
That made me think of Sonny Cockrell, underwater archeologist.
That made me think of Marcia Chance. Apropos of patronage.
I walked by Sloppy Joe's. College kids. Fraternity boys.
No, wanna-bes. Juvenile delinquents. Bikers.
I don't know. Alcohol and testosterone don't mix.
They might have been sailors, for all I know.
It reminded me of the GI bars I avoided
when I was in the service.
The Hemingway write-alike
short-story contest.
Macho men, with whiskers.
The Karsh portrait in a turtleneck sweater.
I prefer the Don Pinder poster with Old Hem holding
a Hofbräu mug in one hand and a Budweiser in the other.
I like to think the mug had Coast to Coast California Pale Dry
Cocktail Sherry in it. He wears a guayabera that's soaked with sweat.
Back then they didn't have air-conditioning in Key West. They barely had ice.
Pinder speared an 800 lb Goliath Grouper. Could that be right?