The Black Nail

This evening, feeling a mite better and attempting to stave off a slim version of cabin-fever, I dotted my eyes and drifted up the street to a local-watering hole; where I would sit a spell away from the homestead.

Now, a local “watering-hole” to most would best be described as a raucous dive on a street corner within the neighborhood; full of charmed burping chums and American water-beer on tap. Yet, for me, a local “watering-hole” is best described as a quaint place on a side-street with a sturdy candle-lit porch and a bar void of beer and overflowing with red wine. Such a place has come to be called ‘Rumours‘; sitting quietly in the 12th South District, a stone’s throw from the “raucous”.

I must admit that my attendance here has been low in the past year.

This would be the wine bar that my pal Cameron and I would spend many a nights deep in discussion; whether it be our dilemma with each of our own current female of interest or the state of the world at present. Hours and glasses would pass until satisfaction of time spent under the night sky was reached.

This would also be the place where a beautiful foreign girl worked. At one point I expressed to Cameron my interest in said girl. To which, under the influence of cabernet or not, he jumped at the opportunity to express to the owner my “interest”. To which the result, as I had suspected, was a boisterous, “Oh, how cute. Yeh, sorry… she’s married.”

To which I sunk my head, and Cam raised a glass to his efforts.

Cam has since spent the last year in Africa wearing the label of “Peace-Corps”. Thus being the reason for my lack of frequenting Rumours.

Tonight, I brought a book and a pack of Clove cigars. As I walked out onto the patio the woman working said, “Well, we’re closing up for the evening.” I responded to the tune of, “Thanks, anyway…” Which she abruptly combated with, “Did you want a bottle …or just a glass?”

“Just a glass, Ma’am.”

“Well, in that case, have a seat… what would you like?”

“Chocolate Box, please. Thank you.”

I chose a table off in the corner with a seat facing the street. In the last 4 years I have grown accustomed to feeling the need to face anything that would come my way; my back must never face the entrance, nor the street.

That’s the way it is.

I pulled out my book, The Rum Diary, and my small package of Clove cigars. There was a French couple in the opposite corner dining away on slender cigarettes; I knew I wouldn’t disturb them. The only remaining patrons on the patio were two females sitting across from me. I politely interrupted them and asked if my smoking a Clove would disturb them. Being allergic to cigarettes myself I know how annoying it can be when others smoke near you. The dominate of the two spoke, “Not at all, as long as you tend to share.”

“Of course.”

I set away at my book, creasing each of the first few freshly purchased pages. I have oft thumbed through this book but never read it in it’s entirety. This time I would.

Pages 1-5 took me back to my time spent on Key West; as far South in the ole’ US of A as one could get. With that my mind drifted further yet – to the Tortuga Islands. 60 miles North of Cuba, my small bit of “Paradiso” back in 2009. I reminisced of sleeping under the stormy skies with nothing but my fourteen dollar sleeping bag; combating winds so swift they would move me across the sand. I recalled waking with the Sun, stretching my limbs out over the water – eating my gourmet breakfast of beef jerky as I watched the Gulls dive for theirs.

Oh to be back on that island.

I thought of how funny it was spending all of that time keeping to myself on the island when there were four other people roaming about. The humorous part being that on the three hour boat ride back to the mainland I formed a brother like bond with one of the four – having said no more than 10 words to him on the island, we didn’t stop talking the entire ride in.

It’s quite the metaphor on life, really.

His name was Rourke, he and his girl chose the island for an adventurous getaway. They lived in New Mexico. Rourke’s background consisted of a heavy intoxication of religion, much like mine. His being, Mormonism. He was sent away on his two year mission to live with a tribe of Indians; his mission being: convert the natives.

In an odd twist of fate, they converted him.

Quickly realizing I was no longer reading The Rum Diary, and was now watching my own life play back on a reel to reel in my minds-eye, I realigned my thoughts and set straight-away back into reading the book.

Pages 7 -12 reminded me of my travels to Buenos Aires, Argentina. I recalled being stranded at the airport in Atlanta as I missed my flight. While the rest of the band went on I remained after having my Passport stolen – only to be recovered a half a day later by the FBI. I recalled finally arriving at the ‘Ministro Pistarini International Airport’ in Buenos Aires after a twelve hour flight and equal hours of red tape.

Once on the ground I searched high and low for the concert promoter who was no where to be found. I used what Spanish I had left in the tank from growing up in Phoenix and taking two years in high school; it was the growing up in Phoenix that got me where I needed to go. I remembered walking about late at night through the dark streets of the city wondering if I’d ever meet up with the rest of the crew. At that point I felt invincible. I was alone in a foreign city without a care in the world. I could howl at the moon and no one would give notice.

So I did.

Looking at the moon and chuckling I led my eyes once again back to my book under the flickering candles on the porch at Rumours. The humid Summer night made it all the more easy to travel back to those places. Both brought back the glistening of sweat on my skin and the somewhat cooling breeze that followed.

I took another drink from my glass of wine, sloshed it around a bit – then drank it down.