Chapter 21. Strangers in a Strange Land (pt.1)

Upon arriving in Miami, Dennis parked in front of a Salvation Army thrift store. He didn’t bark orders, but he might as well have, because the rest of his demeanor reminded me of NCO's greeting recruits getting off the Bus at the Camp Decatur's gate, “Take a break everyone. Scoop up as many pairs of blue jeans you can find. It don’t matter if they fit. Don't dirt-grab them though. Max can pay for them.” 

Stan whispered in my ear, “What the fuck am I gonna do with jeans that don’t fit?”

"What the fuck. You could've asked me first, captain."

Dennis explained, “Sorry Max, I'll cut in my share when I sell the car. Blue jeans are better than currency in the Cockpit Country where we’re going. If we’re robbed, no one’s likely to take our pants. It's an investment. Is that okay with you, Stan?”

 “Sure, I guess so.”

 It would turn out that Dennis wasn’t wrong about that. Jamaica had some sort of import tariff that made them worth twice what we paid for them.

“I’m gonna drop you guys off in Coconut Grove at the Park, get some gear we’ll need from home, and Peter knows someone that will buy the car. If that’s okay with you, Stan?

I didn’t trust Dennis, or his tone. He was getting more condescending as we got closer to our goal. But, he swallowed some of his pride. Why not? After all, I had the giant's share of the ready cash; so, he submitted to me, "And how about you, Max?”

“We’re in this together, Dennis. Don’t try to bullshit a bullshitter, damn-it.”

“Okay, okay, sorry, I didn’t know everyone was so touchy.”

Steve had been quiet but diffused the situation, pleading, “Peace, man! We’re all tired…guys. Three fuckin’ days in that sardine can.”

I was content to wait in the park with Jamie and Steve. After all, no matter what Dennis was up to, I had the money for tickets and it didn’t matter to me. Though he was our guide, Stan and I could get along without him. My problem in figuring him out was whether his intentions were cynical or harmless.

We were new to the scene at the park and several panhandlers approached us. After that, two or three others came by where we were sitting at a picnic table offering pot, acid or speed. One panhandler with crazy eyes asked us where we were from and where we were headed.

Jamie offered proudly, “We’re headed for the Cockpit Country in Jamaica.”

The guy stepped back and ominously said directly to me, “Whatever you do, stay away from the Great Hoss Bozz. Y’know, Hoss, as in Big, like Bonanza, and Bozz, as in Boss.” 

I felt uneasy after that but let it slip. The uneasy feeling I had in my gut was relieved only when Denise and Stan showed up a couple hours later in a big Cadillac driven by Dennis’s dad.

It was just the two of them so I asked, “Where’s Peter?”

Dennis started to say something but Stan took over, “He didn’t have any money so I told him to get fuckin’ lost.”

I looked at Dennis. He bitched, “You didn’t have to punch him out, Stan. The fuckin’ car was still moving.”

“Oh yes, I fuckin’ did. The car was moving because you didn’t want me to eject his sad ass.”

Dennis’ dad was waiting patiently while they argued and Dennis must not have wanted to upset him so he shut-up and held the door open, “C’mon, let’s go everyone.”

We piled into the Caddy, anticipating the shower and clean clothes.  His dad drove us to an upper-middleclass neighborhood typical of Miami. We were welcomed by Mom when we arrived at Dennis’s folk’s house. We each took a turn in the shower and put on clean clothes chosen from Dennis’s closet. All of us were similar in size except for Jamie, whose waist was so small his belt had to have extra holes punched in it. We were so clean, with our hair tied-back, and so well dressed we almost looked straight: straight enough to go to the airport and buy tickets with cash.

Dennis and I distributed the money left over evenly amongst each other after purchasing the tickets. He gave all of us props for customs; fishing and camping gear, and we were all decked out like sportsmen on the way to a great adventure on a tropical island.

Jamaica Airlines was one of the few that could fly over Cuba so it was the only airline to take from Miami at that time. The round-trip ticket was all that was needed for a tourist visa as there was no passport required if our plans were to stay less than three weeks. In the Miami FLA airport, I had to go to the bar to stiffen my resolve with a shot and a beer. I came out of the bar and took a picture of myself in one of those 25 cent photo-booths that were everywhere in those days. I wanted to have a picture to see how straight I looked with my hair tied back and wearing a clean and pressed shirt.

Stan caught up with me there. “Hey Max, where you been?”

“Oh, I get nervous flying… had to get a drink.” I did feel a little better. Seems like every flight I took was a resignation to fate. I don’t know if everyone else goes through it but I just figure I will be on the wrong side of the stats on air-travel fatalities someday.

“How about you, Stan. You ready for this?”

“Hell yes!” Stan was bubbling in anticipation, “Man, I can’t believe we’re actually on our way.”

‘Yeh, it’s pretty amazing.” 

Despite my reticence about flight, I love this part of any adventure … just before launching off. That place in time where I know I’m going to step into an entirely unknown experience. It’s that same feeling that got me into trouble in the Navy. Before hitting the beach, I looked forward to the dark alleys and bars in off-limits territory where I met people from places outside of my world. I also liked the way Stan was whole heatedly into the adventure too. I would find Stan to be a valuable asset in some pretty tight spots in the trip ahead. I remembered a line from On The Road: “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time…” That was Stan, with no pretenses.

I must have been saying it out loud because Stan interrupted, “What you talkin’ ‘bout, Max?”

“Oh nothing, I was just appreciating the moment.”

The plane flew over Cuba. I peered through the cotton ball puffs of cloud cover and wondered what it was like down there in the land of Castro and Hemmingway. I could just as well have been flying over any other place on the planet but I felt a certain sense of the exotic to be thirty-thousand feet over the terrain of the Cuban missile crises of less than a decade before. It still seemed that the flight climbed until it reached altitude and then as quickly descended to land in Montego Bay, even though it was a five-hundred mile flight.