…Life Beyond the Window a short novel by Sahara Sutter The Fairy Tale was merely propaganda

I turned to the Good Samaritan and thanked him for his attention and his incredible timing. His smile was brief but genuine. His manner was one of comfortable unflappability. His appearance defined a singular vertical outlier of nonconformist average - if that is possible. Yet, his essence was one of uncommon wisdom, insight, and patience.

“Do you think he will be okay?” I asked.

“From what I was able to assess without any equipment, I’d have to say I think so. He will probably be in the hospital for a few days with a chest tube, which should patch things up rather quickly. But broken ribs, boy, those can hurt” he returned.

“It is rare that I find someone who knows what he’s doing in such situations and it looks as if that was an unscheduled stop in your exercise regime but I am very grateful. I am guessing you have done this type of thing before. If showing up to mayhem and saving the world is what you do, you do extraordinarily well. By the way, I’m Cindy.”

“Antonio. Good to meet you.”

“Well, Antonio, I owe you an authentic ancient St. Augustine fruit smoothie of your choice. Would you join me?”

“I know just the place, but first I need to wash my hands” he replied. We both started a leisurely stroll north.

“It figures, ya know. The only Antonio I know does nothing but tell me where to go and how to get there but with that Italian accent, ahhhh……….” I feigned a slight swoon.

“I’m not Italian…Perhaps this gentleman, I should talk with him. How can I meet him?” It was difficult to determine his level of sincerity. He simply could not be serious.

“You can talk, but he won’t listen – believe me, I’ve tried.”

“Maybe he will listen to me. I can try,” he insisted. The sincerity measure was rising.

“OK, but he’s in my car. I turn him on there.” I was actually starting to enjoy this misdirection and it had the intended effect as Antonio stopped in full stride.

Finally, deciding this was hedging into somewhat cruel territory, I relented.

“Did I mention he has ‘Garmin’ tattooed to his front side and probably back as well?”

A brief moment later, his head dropped to conceal a slight smile before he hurried to catch up with me a few steps ahead.

“You’ve managed to catch me in the day when I am playing hooky from endless mountains of tedium-filled reality. Today I am on a self designed tour of celebrating mediocrity and escaping the slow suffocation known as corporate America. For something totally different and completely unlike my usual routine of life, I decided to go somewhere and just enjoy being. Tomorrow I will return control back over to my usual handlers and hope they don’t discover my deception to get me here today.” I said.

“Otherwise, in real-life I do programming which means I drown daily in infinite details and get my thrills from an incredibly rare find when I can fix something that no one else can and no one else appreciates. Previously, I worked as a Physician Assistant at Bayfront Emergency Room in Tampa until the disillusionment that is our current hopeless state of ‘health repair’ got to me. On day I realized I was doing nothing more than applying Band-Aids to politically promoted social issues and chasing a myth. So, I got into informatics and eventually where I am today. I have exchanged futility for monotony.

“What about you? I would not imagine that a town full of wandering, half lost tourists and lumpy bumpy roads would make for the ideal place to go running.”

“Well, you’re right about that. I was jogging down a less congested side street and decided to take my chances on St. George’s as a shortcut to the main drag to resume jogging there. I literally just ran into the accident,” per Antonio.

“Okay, so I’ll do the guy thing… do you come here often and what is a nice runner like you doing in a tourist trap like this?”

Forever Young – Bob Dylan

“Similar to you, I just came to escape for a bit and to get in some running. I get up here about every five years. It really does not change much, but is still a nice place to visit. The weather has been beautiful for the past few days and my feet just could not sit still any longer. I walked, ran, and bummed a few rides because I left my car at home. I plan to do the same on the return trip.

“Let me show you a great place across the street near Ponce de Leon’s famed Fountain of Youth. I go there every time I come here in hopes that at some point the returned youth thing will actually work. I could really tolerate most aspects of being 25 again and running marathons through Miami and surfing off Daytona. So far, I have not entirely given up hope and try not to let little things like logic and science get in the way.” Antonio stood up.
We crossed the busy street and strolled into a park setting. I sat under a tree to take in the view of the St. John's river and stay true to my mission to relax and ‘be.’ This appeared to be just the place to accomplish that. The grounds were peaceful, serene and gave the impression to be home of a vortex of timelessness. It was perhaps the mellowest place on the planet.

“My turn. Tell me something wonderful, unique and different about yourself. Something no one else can do. Something magical and inspiring. I could use a healthy dose of inspiration right about now,” I said.

Antonio looked pensive. He stood, took a few steps, and turned around with a faraway look spread across his face. Before a backdrop of sailboats and fishing schooners upon a shimmering waterway, he transformed quite suddenly and unexpectantly into someone else.

“Behold – the rime of the ancient mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge,” he announced in bold steadfast terms.

It is an ancient Mariner,

The bridegroom's doors are opened wide,

On and on he went. He recited every line with precise and articulate clarity, with purpose and convincing character. His rhythm was unrelenting; his diction was sure and strong. His soul was in that boat and upon a painted sea.

"And a good south wind sprung up behind;
The Albatross did follow,
And every day, for food or play,
Came to the mariner's hollo!

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,

`God save thee, ancient Mariner,

Antonio made the motions of shooting the hapless bird – giving the action less thought than reality. He was definitely in this for the long haul and I was amazed one brain could contain such protracted content. For the first time, I actually enjoyed this poem and watched it come alive through another.

“Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, everywhere,

He barely took a breath between stanzas and my eyes hardly blinked. I was under the beguiling spell of a mad man who was possessed in his performance. Yet he continued in his rendition that made the adventure of Gilligan’s Island look even more like the fairy tale it was.

Then like a pawing horse let go,
She made a sudden bound:
It flung the blood into my head,
And I fell down in a swound.

How long in that same fit I lay,

He spoke in different voices as surely as the characters of the story. They conversed from the one person standing before me as if separate actors.

Despite the length of the poem his energy and fervor never waned. He remained in character and animated until the end and I was concerned that the entire ordeal may be exhausting for him. Nonetheless, I was sad to realize the show was nearing its finale. I enjoyed the impromptu presentation of an ancient mariner in an ancient town on a glorious day. The ground under the tree had given way to comfort me and I truly could think of no place I would rather be.

‘He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all."

The Mariner, whose eye is bright,

He went like one that hath been stunned,

“That was truly the most amazing thing I think I have ever seen another human being do. You are human – aren’t you?”

“Thanks to private schooling, we had no choice but to regurgitate long poems and scripture in Catholic school. I favored the poems,” he said.

“That was incredible. How do you find your way home with all that crammed inside that head of yours?” I asked.

“That, my friend, has proven to be a problem at times. Home is such a nebulous place – more conceptual in existence rather than in geographical reality. Home should not be a spot on a map but more a contentment in the soul, don’t you think?”

“I’m thinking you are either very serious or you should receive accolades for the most creative avoidance of yard work ever - but I tend to believe the former.”

“Think about your home and think about where you are truly the most comfortable. Are there moments when the time and space just don’t match up?” he replied.

“OK. I have farkeled enough synapses over the past 20 minutes to last for at least twelve more ice ages. You simply must tell me more about yourself. For example, what do you know of Shakespeare?” I inquired.

“Would that be personally, or limited to just his work?”

He rested quietly as we sat on the ground admiring the St John’s River slowing meandering before us. It felt as if time and space had converged right here into a previously undiscovered utopia.

Eventually his wondering eyes could not avoid my right ankle.

“Looks like the home of some serious hardware,” he said.

That pesky illusion known as reality slammed back into existence but not without some denial.

“Yeah, Lewis and Clark expedition. Got clobbered by some unimpressed Native Americans on my way through the jungles of Nevada.”

“You know, Nevada was designated as a state 58 years after the completion of that expedition. So how would you know you were in Nevada?” He retorted.

“So, here at the Fountain of Youth, you of all people are telling me that time is a linear unalterable entity after all? It just happens to be the same ill begotten mishap that occurs when you are in front of a few rabid Rambo’s anxious to exit a military helicopter that is still 12 feet above the landing area. Put an end to my aspirations to join the Ballet Battalion.”

“Sounds like they were in a hurry,” he said.

“Yeah, they were, but I am not sure why. Everyone was already dead. It wasn’t like they could change that situation.”

“What happened?” Antonio asked.

“We were tasked with the Jim Jones clean up following his Kool-aid caper in Guyana several years ago. If there were only someway to exit this world without leaving behind a mess for others, it might be a more appealing option for more people. Bodies in the heat, in the insect infested tropics. Great fun. …. Com’on, ancient mariner, where is that fountain? I feel like a swim.”

He led me to what appeared to be a small ancient well with a sign proclaiming its claim to being the Fountain of Youth from 1513. It was hardly the impressive place of my imagination but a hole in the ground. It was no doubt full of the endless hope of thousands of former lives who loved life enough to want to extend it and put their trust into that which cannot be seen or explained by logic be accepted by science. Nonetheless, I figured this less than glamorous, underwhelming, questionably accurately designated landmark had room for a few more wayward aspirations and added a few nondescript requests of my own.
“Tell me about the part of you that is not Superman or poet. Where are you headed to?” I simply had to pry at this point.

“Truthfully, I don’t know the exact details yet. I have to head back home and it likely take me a couple of days to get there. It would be nice to hit Daytona though for Biketoberfest and see the bikes and the alien life forms that pilot them. I am part vagabond. I like to wander and fit in by being part of the overlooked generic crowd of backdrop. I have found that I need almost nothing and can find a way to survive almost anything and anywhere. It is not so much a search for adventure as it is the desire to experience life at its roots. To see it in person and feel it as it happens. Years of forced social life, while more comfortable comes at a cost of being completely contrived and motivated by only greed.”

“How does your family feel about this? I mean are there others like you – brothers maybe?” More prying on my part.

“My son has learned to accept it. My ex-wife and dog however - that is another story,” he said without a hint of either regret or joy.

“I’d like to get to Panama someday. Big structures with working mechanisms of engineering genius are just fascinating. And maybe Europe again to check out more castles and caves and artwork.”

“You know, you have hit nearly every far reach of every spectrum I can think of. You are the poster child for every conflicted characteristic created all in one person. Are all of your belongings in that fanny pack or do you have a suitcase back at some camp ground?”

“Nah, I travel light when I take off like this. The fanny pack doubles as a pillow. It works well on the top of park picnic tables,” he replied – seriously.

“It is getting cooler as we speak. OK, Panama Tony, let’s go get you some long pants and a sweatshirt proclaiming your visit to St. Augustine for all to see.”

Soul Man – Sam & Dave
I gathered the money that had collected at his site of oratorical mastery and gave it to him. He looked bewildered and unaccustomed to such rewards and then placed it into his fanny pack. The wind had picked up and grey, low clouds were making their way into the outer edges of town. What was left of the beautiful October day was about to head south and take hordes of tourists with it. Traffic, which was already stressed on small one-way roads with frequent intersections, had slowed significantly. Actually, this made crossing the road easier but not less hazardous as motorist’s patience diminished inversely to the growing tonnage of stationary steel per inch on the roadway. It all appeared to me a very clear and ominous warning that November was about to invade the calendar.

As the Fountain of Youth retreated in the background, I for one felt the effect of revitalized vigor and a broadened horizon.

We found a souvenir shop full of the usual and more so of the common bait that snags tourists. It was not a difficult search. Outside were scads of tee shirts, pirate hats, plastic swords, talking parrots, annoying wind chimes, toy cannons, candy, and advertisements for tickets to tours and promises of great times. Surely, this guy did not appear to be a slave to fashion, there must be something in here that will keep him a bit warmer while not damaging his non-conformist, yet non-attention seeking dictates. Moreover, his size should not make the matter any more difficult. Truthfully, we were about the same size – he had two inches and maybe 10 -15 pounds on me. We were about the same age – he may have a year on me – maybe not. He apparently was not a connoisseur of ample gourmet food either. Actually, I was not sure what or how he ate or if for that matter.

As predicted, he was all business. Nothing in the overly stuffed store full of odd, evens, and non-descript in-betweens distracted him in the least from his assigned duty. He had no outward desire for much of anything other than the bare necessities. He found nothing there of interest save a talking blooming plastic plant that greeted visits at the front of the shop.

He asked where he could find some sweat pants to be most efficient and headed directly to that spot and got to work. He sorted things according to size. Period. He asked if a bright pink pair of jersey cotton pants would fit him. I told him no and questioned his ability to distinguish color. I went over and assisted with the selection to save the man from himself. His poor wife, I thought.

Finally, we found some dark navy pants with a white stripe down the side of appropriate size and a matching hooded sweatshirt with a white stripe around the chest. Both strategic for sleeping unnoticed at night and something for headlights to pick up while otherwise blending into the crowd. Thankfully, the artwork and verbiage displayed on the sweatshirt he selected (with help) was not obnoxious. Nothing like, “I am really 106 years old. Thanks to the Fountain of Youth in St Augustine I am able to rock climb again!” Or “I escaped from Jail in St Augustine, FL.” Both of which I think he would wear, especially if they came in bright orange counter-camouflage - if allowed by others. The poor guy really had no concept of a visual ability to judge the book by its cover. Then, he was the perfect example of the folly in the myth to begin with. What in the world had life done to this man? The humbleness, the intellect, the humor, the absence of social status, the outlook, the immersion into humanity - and what was he escaping? He paid cash for his purchase. Without any trace of pride, he chose to wear this new designer clothing out of the store – complete with the price tags flapping in the stronger breeze that was now lightly sprinkled with small mists of rain. The generosity Mother Nature had freely allowed the day was about to be reclaimed without regard to her huddling subjects below. I had thought of looking for a plastic albatross to hang from my rear view mirror on the Torpedo… but decided it was a lost cause.

If You Like Pina Coladas – Jimmy Buffett
I was getting hungry. A fruit smoothie can only go so far. In addition, the dinner rush of folks for a Tuesday evening was starting to ramp up.

“I could use some food. Would you join me for dinner?” I asked.

“Yes. I would like that very much,” he seemed honestly pleased.

“OK! What is on your menu?”

We walked generally south, toward the restaurant area of town.

“I am thinking…Ahhh there it is” as he turned toward the Columbia Restaurant.

“Would this meet with your approval? Have you been here before? It is Cuban food and is very good.”

“It may be overly civilized for the likes of me,” I responded. “But if you think you can get me through it, I am willing to give it a go. Do they have anything on the menu I can actually read?”

“Did you catch that?” he asked.

“I don’t speak Portuguese or Cuban,” I said.

“Well I started out in French before I realized it wasn’t quite working when my Spanish kicked in.”

“What else do you speak?”

“Arapahoe.”

“OK, I should know better, but I am learning,” I said.

“And you?”

“Let’s see. During my high school years, computers had not yet created any of their legions of languages. Therefore, I spent three years learning Latin. Today I can successfully communicate with millions of people except of course they died a few centuries ago. It was pretty much a total waste of time,” I said.

“So it works out well that I brought my own guide to translate this menu. Otherwise, I may be ordering grilled tourist flambeau with a side of yak.”

A courteous waiter filled our water glasses and presented the menus. After a cursory glance, I stated this might take a while to decipher and then another while to decide.

Antonio only needed a second before closing his menu and laying it aside. “What may I help you with?’ he asked.

“Let’s see, the only thing I understand on this is Mojito. Perhaps I should start and end with that. I do not see anything from the military marked MRE – for meal ready to eat. I am not sure I can eat anything that was not processed on some Iowa farm more than 20 years ago. Do you think I will survive this?”

“How about a sandwich? They have chicken and Cuban – and it really is very well done. I promise you will not leave here hungry. I am getting the Boliche, which is a beef meal… and a Mojito,” he said.

The meal went well. Antonio told me about is time spent as a child in South America, hence his learning of Spanish and appreciation for the food. He also spent two years in France as a teenager in a student exchange program, where he quickly learned to speak the language to get through the day.

Some wandering minstrels were playing Spanish music and singing unfamiliar tunes which added to the delightfulness of the experience.

Following the meal and after a cup of coffee, the waiter presented the check. Antonio instantly whipped out a platinum Visa from his functionally utilitarian fanny pack.

“I have full intentions of covering this. You don’t owe me dinner,” I said.

“But I do owe you dinner and I enjoy the company. Please, let me get this.”

“Antonio, I don’t even know if you have a job.”

“I don’t,” he said. “But the job certainly has me.”

“I’m afraid to ask,” I replied.

“Please don’t. It is not what this day is about. Perhaps I’ll explain later,” he said.

From the window, it was hard to miss the now strong and damp wind blowing in a cold front and doing its best to erase all the previous warmth and sunshine from its path. Even the palm trees seem to question what they had done to deserve this significant change of events. I changed my focus to Antonio and asked “where is home? I will drive you there. My car is parked about two blocks away.”

“I may just take you up on that. Do you mind? Home, or rather the houseboat I own is anchored at my property on Hontoon Island - on the west side of Volusia County. How far is that from where you are going?”

“Volusia County is home. I live closer to Port Orange but I am quite familiar with the Westside as well. No, it is not a problem; in fact, I would feel a lot better if you would allow me to do this. The weather is getting nasty.”

“You drive this? This has all the characteristics of a bulletproof Soviet tank or perhaps an anti-ballistic guided missile as evidenced by the Wi-Fi label on the window,” he said.

“Well, she is not known as the ‘Incognito Torpedo’ without cause… and she is a guided missile at that. As promised, Antonio, meet Antonio, my slightly displaced backseat driver, and persistent nag who doubles as my fantasy pool boy” as I introduced my Garmin for their mutual acquaintance.

I backed the car up, incidentally without incident, and we left the parking lot and headed in the general direction of I-95.

“Would you mind if I made a phone call before it gets any later?” He asked.

“No, of course not. Go ahead.”

He retrieved his cell phone from his somewhat damp fanny pack that was now on the floor and dialed.

“Extension 1452 please. Yes, John Michelson regarding the trauma patient who presented from the tourist district about two o’clock this afternoon… John, this is Tony. I was just wondering what kind of job I did on the pedestrian versus equestrian this afternoon……… yeah; somehow they seem to find me and no matter where I go………. I am glad to hear that… oops, missed that – sorry. This guy could probably benefit from a couple of banana bags as well… As I would’ve guessed… Okay, tell him I called – I think his name is Frank, if you have not determined that yet. Also, tell your Case Management to contact Earl Jones at Sterling Enterprise. He is in town but I don’t have his phone number memorized quite yet. At any rate, tell Earl that I asked they contact him and see what he can put together for some follow-up care for this guy………… Okay, that sounds great… I will and you too... Give the kids the wife a hug… thanks John. Appreciate it. Bye.”

There was a moment of silence before the following name slowly escaped from my lips without mindful interference, “Tony J. Peterson” I said, eyes looking forward out the windshield.

He was looking at his phone and dialing again.

“Guilty, as charged. I have one more call to make. Sorry. Then I will quit.”

Bohemian Rhapsody – Queen

I was almost defensive and angry because on my front bench seat with his homelessly humble outlook on life was a legend of humanity and medicine. From what I knew of Dr Peterson, he had quietly created his own revolution of targeted, effective, cheap, and underground health care.

“So how do you know me?” he asked while looking out the passenger window.

“Know you? How can you know a rainbow or capture the imagine in a twirling kaleidoscope?” I asked.

Catching my wits, I explained how his name came up often with impossible problems in search of desperate solutions at the free clinic I volunteered at in Oak Hill. There, I try to help where I can with the working poor by applying for and managing grants for the center. These were people I could feel for – they were trying; they had not given up on their dreams.
His phone rang. “Tony, Frank wants to know if he could see you and the girl who was at the accident too. Are you still in the area, and if so, can you make it by this evening? I don’t know how to contact the girl,” John said.

“Hang on a second. Cindy, can we make a slight detour side trip?” he asked me.

“No problem, if Antonio knows how to get there.”

“John, on our way --- be there in about 10 minutes. What room?........ Ok, thanks.”

He turned to me and said, “Off to St Augustine General. There is someone there who wants to meet you.”
True to his GPS named keepsake, he provided directions to the parking lot main entrance to St. Augustine General Hospital. Within moments, he led me down old poorly lit halls and to a creaky elevator.

“Just as we thought, Frank has a decent pneumothorax or a collapsed lung caused by several fractured ribs. He also managed to break a clavicle – actually, I guess the horse should get credit for it. He is going to be fine, and wanted to meet us. I know John who works here as the Emergency Room doc from noon until midnight. We did some field training together with some Native American tribes 15 years ago. Nice guy with a good heart. By the way, don’t let Frank cough on you; Tuberculosis is rampant among the homeless up here.”

We entered a quiet hospital room. It felt so cold and desolate and the stormy weather outside had darkened and dismayed a small window’s meager attempt to allow in any outside worldly influence or sites of stellar wonder. But then, a weak mostly toothless grin came from a thin, aging hospital-gown dressed man that brightened the grayness. “He told me you’d come.”

“Hey Frank. Rough day, Buddy. How are you holding up? You are sure looking better than when I last saw you. By the way, this is Cindy. She was the first one there,” Antonio quipped.

“They done to me just like you said they would. I have this garden hose sticking in my chest and boy, does it smart to breathe or move…. But they gave me stuff for that too. They even gave me some good food and hot coffee and used real dishes. I’d recommend this place to anyone if the cost of admission wasn’t so painful,” Frank was obviously feeling better.

“And you, young lady, don’t think I don’t know what all ya done for me. Heck, if it weren’t for you, that horse woulda come back for round two and then they woulda hafta pick me up with a shovel. And to think I use to own horses – loved them in fact.

I am so happy you gave me the chance to say thank you in person. You saved my life and for that I am most grateful,” Frank managed to get out between short, swallow breaths.

“You just managed to get yourself into the wrong place at the right time. I am glad we were able to help. It looks like you are going to be just fine. But I would stay away from horses for a bit if I were you,” Antonio replied.

“Ah,” Frank smiled, “don’t make me laugh. It hurts so good!”

“Frank, what have they done with your clothes?” Antonio asked.

“In a bag, in the closet. Wouldn’t let me keep them on with this garden hose and wrapping up my shoulder,” he said.

“Mind if we take them with us for a bit? We’ll go get ‘the horse’ off of them and bring ‘em back.”

“After what you folks have done for me, there is no way I’d say no to anything you wanted to do.”

“OK, so I’ll tell you what. You rest up, we will go take care of the clothes and come back. How does that sound?” said Antonio.

“Is there anything we can get you while we are out?” I asked.

“…Yeah. God, I would love some Fig Newton’s. That would make the whole world right again. Do you think you could find me some?”

“We will see what we can do. Rest up, Buddy. You’ve had a big day.” Antonio said.
Every time I thought I could not be more in awe, I was amazed to the degree that I proved myself wrong. What planet did this person come from?

A coin operated laundry mat was not far away. It was not some place I would want to go by myself at night though. Thankfully, it had vending machines for soap, bleach, and fabric softener. I used a little of some and all of some others. The pants, shirt, socks, underwear were all in serious need of major long-term sudsy agitation. His shirt was slightly torn from the impact, his pockets where empty, his socks beyond thread bare.

His shoes where in fairly decent shape in comparison.

“Why don’t we just go hit Wal-Mart and start over with this for him?” I asked.

“Because it would be without his permission or input. These clothes are who he is and he is comfortable with that familiarity. Change is not always appreciated among the homeless anymore than it is for anyone else. They are dealing with enough without inflicting more stress. Besides, if he showed up in all new clothes, the others would beat him. His clothes may be his only remaining physical connection with life. Those politically promoted social ills you mentioned rob these people of every ounce of hope – the least we can do is protect what little is left of their self-esteem.

“When the clothes are done, we will hit a convenience store and pick up the cookies and then Wendy’s for a $5 gift certificate. How’s that?”

“You think he likes Wendy’s?” I asked.

“I think he was headed that way when a horse had other plans for him. 2:15 is about the time of day when Wendy’s starts to dump their incorrect orders of various hamburgers and chicken sandwiches during the post lunch rush. You don’t want to show up late to such things.”

“Somewhere, someone is missing an angel,” I said.

“Not if that angel has ever hoisted people up to eat from dumpsters.”

“Just recycling the love,” Antonio said to no one in particular.

The rain had let up but it was a good 10° cooler when we arrived back to the hospital. Down the dingy hallways and up the creaky elevator we arrived back to his hospital room. There, Frank was sound asleep and actually snoring. Antonio quietly placed the clean clothing with the Wendy’s certificate and package of cookies onto an unfinished wooden chair next to the bed. He then removed his sweatshirt and hung it on the back of the chair.

Taking one last look at Frank, both of us turned and quietly walked away. I found I had left any apathy or disdain for my previous concept of “social freeloaders” somewhere far removed.

Upon returning to the car, I open the trunk and removed a small blanket that I kept there for an impromptu picnics and times when the grass was just too inviting not to sit down among it and enjoy it. I placed a blanket around Antonio and unlocked the passenger door.

“I am speechless and quite beyond the capacity for rational thought or coherent questions at this point,” I said. “Except - where to, Antonio? At this point, I would make every effort possible to fly you to the moon if that’s what you wanted.”

The Long and Winding Road – John Lennon & Paul McCarty
Life IS a grand illusion after all and a self-deluding attitude is the only salvation. Is it true that the universe is quite adept at accommodating and justifying one’s concept of reality and we look for what will justify what we want to believe? The problem was, I had no idea what it was I wanted to believe or why. Hasn’t modern society put goals, desires, hopes and dreams physically closer and seemingly within touch - while making the road to it much more torturous and much longer and filled with potholes, pitfalls, blind alleys, lions, tigers and bears? It has lengthened our vision but shortened our reach. I was at the starting to believe that problems caused solutions. Solutions, in turn, cause problems. But, it is the causes that trip you up because causes create both.

“Can you make it to Hontoon Island?” he asked.

“Yes.”

The car left the parking lot of the hospital with one much disoriented driver whose compass in life had just spun in circles. Thankfully, through the darkness, the Torpedo knew the way to Volusia County without pilot interference. Before we reached the first stop sign, snuffled snores were coming from the passenger side of the vehicle. Antonio Jameson Peterson, M.D. was wrapped under a blanket with seat belt in place and sound asleep.

I had no idea that he was his work. He lived it, he ate it, and he dressed it. I knew he was instrumental in getting health services for the downtrodden – that he helped anyone and everyone at any time. Somehow he managed to coordinate miracles and find ways to provide services and funding that the entire US government could not. His name was well known throughout the state, yet I could not say for whom he worked. Despite his name and reputation, he was something of a vaporous entity. I had never seen a picture of him anywhere, attended his lectures, or seen him at any of the clinics nor had anyone I worked with. I never saw an article written by him. No one knew much more about him other than his name and unspecified ability to bring together resources to help others. He was apparently just as comfortable in bureaucratic boardrooms full of politicians as he was tending to the overlooked and ignored in the gutters of society. After today, I discovered someone whose entire essence defines his mission in life in every regard. He was quite unique in so many ways.

On reflecting on the day, I was amazed how much we crammed into something that was meant to kick back and relax. I could think of nothing I would have rather done and no place I would have rather been – or with. Meanwhile, I was silently enjoying creating a tune around his rhythmic whistles and snorts… ‘I’ve been driving an email load, all the livelong way. I’ve got my socks sewed, just to pass the time away… Can’t you hear the Tony snoring….’

In reality, I so wanted to talk with him, pick his brain, find out how he did what he did and with what and I wanted him to list one thing he did not know, one thing I could teach him, what was his perspective on getting through the day, what did he do for fun and how does his family adjust to his unconventional lifestyle.

We made it out of St Augustine about the time the rain had completely stopped. Cold, wet weather – yup the bikes from Michigan will be here tomorrow and camping in mud holes and they will be strangely grateful for what we consider to be sloppy awful weather. Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink but then that is why Budweiser makes a killing. Oh, to be younger and carefree.

Just My Imagination – The Temptations

In the spacious backseat large enough to go pitch a tent, there she was.

Swell.

It is dark, I had some idea where I was – in a vast expanse of nothingness between St Augustine and Daytona. It is an area on the map that is littered with plenty of swamps that make great places to hide bodies and feed gators. I was reluctant to turn on my chattering Garmin and wake Antonio, that brilliant health care savior in my car whom I had just met and who had some tendencies not too far removed from strangeness if not perhaps sharing a few molecules with madness. And now I am the one hallucinating. Wow, it just could not get much better.

She was so familiar and I imagined, my assumed younger self with such interest in life and aspirations, such love for life and all others. She thought she could make a difference, that good was the basic ingredient of all things and that hope was everlasting. She was gentle, playful, and kind. What happened to her and then I wondered - how do I get back to being like her?

About that time, the ride suddenly became violently bumpy. The road was no longer smooth and flat because the road was no longer a road at all. We were headed for the tall pines on the side of the road. Getting lost in the vision of her resulted in the Torpedo losing its direction. The agricultural driving woke up Antonio.

Swell. Again.

“I am so sorry. I must have dosed off. I am ok now. Please go back to sleep,” I said knowing full well that would likely not put things back to where I wanted them.

In truth, we had not left the road by very much or for very long – just long enough for a serious reality check and shot of adrenalin. There was no way Antonio was going back to sleep.

“OK, my turn to drive. You get into the back seat and stretch out.”

OOOOO – what if matter came into contact with anti-matter in the backseat? That may result in a fate worse than a slight side shoulder sojourn.

“Here’s the blanket – all warmed up, broken in and ready to go,” he said tossing it into the back seat. “Pull over. I want to see how this thing drives anyway.”

I obeyed. I am guessing he knew how to drive and I knew he was sober. Let him have at it on a straight quiet road. Lord knows I managed to mess up on the same piece of asphalt, but then I was distracted by the Cinderella in the back seat, who incidentally was still there and had gone unnoticed – at least so far. I need to work on these psychotic breaks later. Just maintain the illusion of sanity for now.

“Wow, no power steering or brakes. Reminds me of a rickshaw I had once. This is going to be fun. Look out ahead. Manned (and Womanned) missile coming through! Hey, from the looks of the mileage on the odometer, automated Antonio does not get out much” he said as he adjusted his seat belt.
“I’ll activate the warhead from the backseat,” I added as I closed the back left side passenger door. “And on occasion, I do my best to get Antonio, the Garmin, lost and challenge his ability to get me back home – which he does extraordinarily well. He was a gift from my co-worker and at most times, he lives in my other car.”
While Tony was acclimating himself to where he was and how to operate a 40+ year old car, I was looking at my backseat partner. She had a gentle, accepting smile with an inaudible whispered hint of compassion. She reached her hand toward mine and placed it atop. The connection was one of the love of a mother for a child and of a child for a mother but without distinction as of who was who. Both of which were something totally foreign and previously completely unexperienced by me. It was a dimension I had entirely shunned from the life and decided long ago to get through each day in a perpetual state of numb. Yet her unabated admiration and acceptance abounded without question. I could see where hallucinations could become sanity saving addictions to the anguished and why schizophrenic patients refused to take their medication.

I briefly closed my eyes to sense the ride without interference and immerse myself fully to become one with a sensation of wholeness. All of that, along with my backseat companion disappeared when I opened my eyes again.

I allowed a few moments of both quiet loss and unrestrained albeit brief joy before confronting Antonio.

“Hey, its lonely back here. Not to mention it looks like an empty aircraft hanger is missing a squadron. I had no idea this back seat was so cavernous,” I announced to the front seat.

“Well, there is certainly room enough for you and a few dozen of your closest friends up here. Can you slide over?”

With one final look for my visitor and finding nothing of no one real or imagined, I needed no more prompting to do yet another something I had never done in this car in all my years of ownership and slid over the back of the front seat before plopping myself all cozy in the front passenger side of things.

“So what you think? Does she drive OK for you? There are some attributes in common with a navigating a Sherman tank, but there is nothing like it if you want to be in touch with your environment and experience travel on a more visceral and metaphysical level. Depending upon the road, she was been known to remove fillings from teeth and stones from gallbladders while delivering babies or she can air lift you through clouds on majestic fins of black steel. She is a health mobile for the psyche and soul,” I said.

“I can understand that. This is a remarkable ride. Thanks for allowing me to try it out. This brings me back to the cars my Dad drove. I can see why you enjoy it. Has it been in the family?”

“I guess that depends upon how you define family. A dear friend of mine bought it new and gave it to me as a gift about 15 years ago.”

“That is some friend. Where is your friend now?” he said.

“Arlington Cemetery.”

And so, we drove … plowing through dark upon dark with occasional head and taillights streaking by. It was late and both of us about were an equal amount of tired.

“You know, nature is going to require some attention soon,” I said.

“Shall I pull over here?”

“Not quite that degree of nature…. There is a gas station up this way just north of Ormond. They are usually good for such things.”

“Why subject yourself to plentiful public pathogens when you can have a tree instead?” he asked.

“Why subject myself to unpredictable wild animals and sand spurs when I can have access to some single ply euphemism and running water – or at least one or the other most of the time?” I responded.

“We can stop but there are no guarantees that the wildlife component may not be alive and well at the gas station. It is the middle of the night during the start of bike week and personally, I would take my chances with the wild boar that Flagler County is so famous for” Antonio quipped.

“Drip dry is a term best left to laundry besides my ride, my rules. Sorry. You lose, Buckwheat.”

“Where are you from, Cindy? I am guessing you are not a farm girl from Kansas.”

“Funny you should ask. I wish I could tell you. Generally, it is assumed I am from this planet and country. Otherwise, the trail back to my birth is filled with missing documents, forged information, rumor, innuendo, and multiple tradeoffs. I am guessing it was somewhere in or near Florida but truthfully, I have no real evidence to support this just stories of unsubstantiated fact.”

“How could there be no record? What does your birth certificate look like?” he asked.

“Place of birth unknown, probably Florida. Really. The whole idea of being born was not my idea to begin with mind you. I do not recall being consulted on this at all.

I paused to test his interest in the story before continuing. He turned his briefly to look at me as if asking if it was Ok to hear more.

“I come from a long line of marginally fertile or dead relatives. The story goes when my mother was 15 years old, she was quite a bright girl. Princeton University had already talked to her about a scholarship. I have that letter. It was framed and on the living room wall when my grandfather died. Actually, it was the only thing that mentioned her that I found in the house. If there were any other pictures or family documents, he managed to lose them all somehow.”

I privately debated sharing more of my history and questioned whether he really wanted to hear it. Nonetheless, it was a way to fill a long and otherwise quiet ride through a long stretch of dark road.

“The story goes according scant records and years of hand-me-down hearsay versions; she ran away from home after my grandfather beat her one evening. Hospital Case Managers records said he disagreed with something my mother had to say, and convinced she was lying, he did the only thing he knew how to do – he clobbered her. My grandmother had passed away 10 years previous of pneumonia and left my mother as an only child to maintain household affairs – so my mother had no one else to turn to.

“So she allegedly ran away from home, never to return. She bummed rides in whatever manner she could and there is some evidence that she was as far west as Arizona where she worked as a waitress, health care aide in a private newborn nursery, and private school teacher. I am guessing life became more difficult when she figured out that she was pregnant and her resources to deal with this on her own were limited. There are no records we could find to indicate that I was born in a hospital and with her nursing experience, she may have delivered me by herself That would go with the documentation we could find in Ocala, Florida when she collapsed in the stairwell of the dilapidated apartment building in which we were living. She presented to the Emergency Room recently postpartum, septic, and with a subdural hemorrhage from the fall. She was three weeks past her 16th birthday when she died.

“Social Workers documented in what records I could find that she told them about my grandfather, running away from home, her newborn baby - me, and a husband named Randal in her few coherent moments before lapsing into a coma. They were never able to find Randal and given the circumstances, history, and environment of my mother, I doubt they looked for long or considered him suitable to care for a newborn. There never was a marriage certificate found. I searched for it myself in every database I could find myself.

“The police were called to out apartment and someone brought me to the hospital wrapped in a small towel with the start of a simple hand embroidered “SM” or “WS”- depending upon which way the towel faced - on it. I am guessing it is my first and middle name. Had she finished the “P” for Peterson, we would have a better idea of which way was up for the remaining two letters. I still have that too. However, the nurses could not make sense of it, decided to name me Cindy – something allegedly about Cinderella and eventually finding my savior Prince, and judged me about two weeks old. Eventually, they put me on the foster care circuit. My biological dad was a list of clandestine suspects. Grandpa, who they did locate in DeLand, Florida thanks to her learner driver’s permit found in her apartment, was a hopeless alcoholic and died a few years later.” I paused.

“I have often wondered why it is everything on this planet is recycled or transforms and lives on in some shape forever except the souls of the most important and precious people in our lives and how is it I can so miss someone I never recall meeting?”

“So where did you grow up?” Antonio questioned after a brief pause.

“I grew up in many homes – some better than others, but all with the specter of contrived care and concern guided by a paycheck. Some genuinely tried to do a good job but the whole, ‘you are not really my child’ colored everything and favoritism reigned supreme toward home grown kids over the temporary rent-a-punk varieties.”

Antonio just looked silently my way.

“But I made it and here I am today… Hey, the next exit is a cat box. Can we make a quick stop? I’ll make it fast – promise.”

“I am in no hurry. Please take whatever time you need.”

“So tell me, please,” he said returning to the previous topic and picking up where it had left off, “if you don’t mind, how did you manage to survive all that? How did you get yourself through school? How has all this impacted you?”

“Well, I found therapy was too expensive but you know popping bubble wrap is cheap,” I grinned as a test if he was sincere about hearing more.

“OK,” I stopped for a moment. “I got through high school with a few short lived friendships because of being moved around so much… and decided to join the military so at least I had a stable place to live and food while continuing my education. I liked school and I got my Physician Assistant license there and practiced in clinics and in the field mostly in Southeast Asia, but did some time in Germany too. I got out 10 years ago and started working at Bayfront Medical Center. I was there for five years and spent a few hours on my days off at a free HIV clinic not too far from home. I worked with some great people there.

“Then I landed a corporate job in Lake Mary, east of Orlando, helping the Emergency Rooms decipher electronic health records. That morphed into some programming work. I bought a house in western part of Port Orange. I live there with four madly insane yet adorable cats – Sophie, Sagan, Muse, and Laszlo and a litany of wild animals out back. I could probably be judged fairly as a loner probably on account of being lonely. I found avoidance is an effective way to prevent the pain. I do some volunteer grant writing work with a local free clinic and I write a few things when I get inspired and that is about it. I did think about adopting once but figured between my paltry maternal instincts and randomly hired role models, I’d do a kid the biggest favor by staying out of the mix.” I left out the parts about longing for a real mother or a real childhood for that matter.

“What is your mother’s name, if you don’t mind me asking?” he said.

“Sophie – no relation to my cat.”

“No boyfriends or others?” Politically correct to the end.

“I had one boyfriend while in Germany for a bit. He showed me a lot That is where I learned about cars and flying and a bit of engineering. We seriously had some significant fun. That was before I discovered he was using me to deliver his packages of dope. I asked for a transfer back to the States and got it. I did not say so much as good-bye and I did not want him to know where I was going. I am not sure what became of him. I thought it best not to pursue it at the time. He was working on law school and I did not want to create any problems. Besides, I worked too hard to escape much of what I saw growing up to allow this self-centered jerk to mess it up for me. Sometimes I feel like it is my job to take care of the entire world. I must have that tattooed across my forehead because it has rung true too often…. That helped my decision to get into informatics. Computers have a logic that is refreshing and predictable and while they can be temperamental, they generally do not go out of their way to use and abuse your gullible good nature.

“So, now it’s your turn. I want to hear everything.”

“Well, let’s see – I was born at a very young age…” he said.

Me and Bobby McGee – Janis Joplin

“We don’t get to see each other often anymore, but email is a wonderful thing. We are yammering back and forth a few times every month. My mother wanted to stay in the beach house when Dad passed away a few years back, so she is nearby yet.

“When I grew up I started out in pharmaceuticals and once I became disenchanted with the way the pharmacy corporations were ripping off patients and the industry, I jumped ship and finished up in medicine. Went to Michigan – brutally cold place incidentally – totally incompatible with life as we know it. I finished up my residency and fellowship in Public Health and despite being desperately, chronically and outrageously broke as a result, loved every second of it.”

“You know you are not what the average person thinks of when you mention doctor.” I said.

“I don’t count some docs as real doctors. Docs should be living life with their patients; they should see what they deal with, how they cope, and what life does to them on a ground level. Medicine should be about maintaining health, not pushing pills to cover up problems. Population health is about the prevention of illness and maintenance of wholeness.”

“You won’t get any argument from me on this one. I have been researching databases to determine how we can do a better job collecting population data and putting together information to determine and implement best practice on a national level. It seems to me that the fight is missing evidenced based real life data and that is nothing more than a software problem at this point. We will figure it out and get things all going in the same direction soon… You know, you should teach too.”

“But I do at the University of Central Florida. I go there to speak about public health and resources and barriers out there that are determined to get into the way. I try to persuade students to recognize the need out there for intervention on a deeper level, a level that means you are going to get dirty sometimes,” he said.

“I would love to hear you lecture. I had long ago given up on there being anyone on this planet that thought in such a way. What was so obvious to me appeared to be nothing more than a revenue sucking black hole for someone else… OK – I am lost. Where are we?” I said scanning the view of the front windshield.

“Does your spacious yacht have a name?” I asked.

“Of course it does. The Professor is so named because it took me three hours and all of my wits to get it to Hontoon from the intercoastal waterway in nearby Sanford during a driving thunderstorm. So, now let me guess a few things about you.”

“Oh wow! This should be fun. Go for it,” I said.

“First, let me ask – if you could do anything in a perfect world, what would it be?”

I thought. “That is a tough one. When I was growing up I wanted to be an astronaut, or an NFL football player but I think today I could settle with being a free-lance photographer roaming around all the castles in Europe,” I responded.

“If you could go anywhere on vacation, where would it be?” he asked.

“Are you limiting me to a specific planet or the entire universe?”

“That’s a good enough answer…. Ok. I am thinking you like mostly instrumental music – intricate stuff. Your favorite food is mustard with a side of hotdog and some decent red wine. Your cats think you are a goddess but still beneath themselves. You will take organization over pristine spotlessness any day. You definitely have a creative side, but are also quite process oriented. You are prone to spontaneously dance with or without music actually audible to others and only when no one is looking, and you drink directly from the two-liter Coke bottle. How’d I do?” he quipped.

“I am considering pleading the 5th,” I retorted with a laugh.

“You’re correct about the music. I love instrumentals and jazz and some classical and definitely rock & roll and there is absolutely nothing that can elevate my yuk factor faster or higher than country western stuff. Crying in your beer, living in the truck with your hound dog after the dragon broad beat you up for losing a wrestling match with your toothless cousin makes my brain waves jump around like a meter measuring a 9.0 on the Richter scale of seismic disturbance. Country music would be the only guaranteed intervention to wake me from a coma. I am guessing my mini stockpile of Miles Davis CD’s had nothing to do with contributing to that guess? Ok, one point for the Gilligan guy.”

“And the food?”

“Favorite foods – Alfredo sauce on anything or all by itself. Watermelon. Blueberries. Strawberry daiquiris – frozen. Mexican food, provided it is no too spicy. And yes, mustard. I am really not a big meat eater. I will do it but it is usually limited to what is on top of pizza. Red wine goes well with anything especially Cheerios at breakfast on a cold Saturday morning.

“Hmmmmm – cats. Now there is something Sigmund Freud should have focused upon. They are definitely unique beasts that can be lovable, detached, and lazy – all at once. I have no doubt that they believe with all their heart and soul that I am their slave and here only to serve them. But, they also outnumber me. Four rescued, abandoned and abused cats have found their way to my home over the past three years. Each comes with a bit of psychotic luggage.

“What was next? Something about organizational preference… my clothes closet is organized by season, color, type of clothing and situation - such as painting the house, or going to work. I guess that would be organized by some standards but I will never freely confess to dancing with hallucinations or mainlining Diet Coke from the bottle. Those are closely guarded secrets requiring membership and longevity. Creative side? Hmmm. I will try to make almost anything.

“OK, my turn. You impress me as someone who leans a bit toward the kinesthetic side of things yet has never taken a cake decorating class or played rugby. You are not too up to date on NASCAR or WFW Wrestling, and if you have diamond studded cuff links, you would prefer never to be in a situation where you could wear them – although you may have some experience with ballroom dancing. You read technical stuff, yet you dream in the full color of magic. I am willing to bet you have eaten a hotdog with red wine for breakfast at some point in your life. You are driven by something beyond your conscious programming and you keep hoping while yet worrying that a complete solution to all your worries is just around the next bend.”

“Why would I worry about that?” he asked.

“Because then you would have to find something to do with yourself – instead of it finding you.”

“Interesting. Live long and perspire?” he asked in a statement. “I am a lousy dancer. Sometimes I think my feet and my head have different rhythm sections beating away that are completely out of sync. Hot dogs for breakfast would not be something I have not done but only with beer. What is your other car?”

“What would be your guess?” I asked.

“Hmmm… A pink Cadillac – older model with fins,” he said.

“Close, I guess. A US Mail jeep named Molly. I got at auction when they closed the main branch. Right hand drive, low mileage. Even came with mailbags and a free roll of 13-cent stamps. I got the transmission swapped out to make it go faster on the highway and a bit easier on gas. No Wi-Fi sticker though.”

“Have you always named all of your vehicles?” he asked.

“Don’t you? Doesn’t everyone? My computers have names. My cats have names. My plants, teddy bears. In reality though, I do not name them as much as they tell me what to call them. It’s only courteous.”

“You have something against new vehicles?” he inquired.

“New cars have no character. They have no need to be loved for who and what they are. And they have this annoying sufferance called car payments,” I said.

The landscape outside had change. There was less road and more swamp. The trees wore long scarves of grey moss sweeping by each passing vehicle. Into the west side area of Hontoon traveled the intrepid duo. I only hoped he had a clue where he was going and that Antonio, the Garmin that is, could figure a way home that did not include crossing murky water with submerged roads.

Finally, we turned off the main road, such as it was and into a winding dirt path on a heavily wooded area.