My booth was on
Captain Tony’s Saloon, the site of the original
Sloppy Joe’s Bar. I was under a Royal Poinciana tree
with a bougainvillea vine growing up in it and next to
a man with a tropical bird on his shoulder he posed for
pictures of tourists with.
The idea of order in
The street was blocked.
The fair didn’t open until
Owen went to the salt water aquarium. We went to
the Hemingway House together. He saw the pictures of
Hemingway hunting and fishing. Big-game hunting.
Deep-sea fishing. We ate lunch at the Half Shell Raw Bar
near the turtle kraals.
He bought at copy of The Old Man
and
the Sea at the Hemingway House and that afternoon he read it.
He made friends with the vendors selling seafood kabobs.
The smell of lamb, roasting on a spit, the pennants snapping in
the breeze. Fiesta! A light bulb went on over Owen’s head.
There was more to being a writer than worrying about money
and shouting at the wife and kids. There was this.
We didn’t sell many books Friday night.
People had food in one hand and a drink in the other
and they were walking around, in costume, in preparation for
getting laid. Not much interest in the literature business.
Then, Saturday, Owen and I folded up our tent
and went to see Crocodile
at a movie theater. We had a laugh at
the Aussie getting over on the blacks in
Everybody has a threat display. It’s all playacting.