Bumming in Florida

By Ed Lowe

Room rates at the oceanfront Hampton Inn on Route AIA in St. Augustine Beach in Florida were reduced during the last week of April and the first week of May.

I’d reserved that week almost accidentally and took full advantage. I sat by the pool and read books on the sunny days; took my favored place at the bar of the Sunset Grille across the road on the cooler, cloudy days. There, I watched several televisions simultaneously, all of them absent the annoyance of audio.

Seated next to me on the second of three cloudy days of my week’s respite was a man at whom I tried not to look, for fear I would commit the unpardonable faux pas of bursting into laughter. The pink, squishedfaced man wore his blonde hair over his collar in a pageboy flip, reminiscent of two television characters in my distant memory: one, a Jim Henson Muppet from the original Sesame Street program; the other, a hand puppet created by Topo Gigio, a frequent guest on the Ed Sullivan variety show that ran from the late ’40s to the early ’70s.

“Fordh you, iss easy. Fordh mee, iss deeffeecult.”

He looked at his mostly finished pitcher of beer through thick, white plastic, darklensed sunglasses.

“Whar y’all frum?” he asked.

“Little town called Amityville,” I said.

“Up in Long Island.”

“Lohng ah-lind,” he repeated, dragging out the name as if to savor it. “Grayt Stayt, Lohng ah-lind.”

He shook my hand. Weak handshake.

I sipped my Guinness and nodded in agreement. Twenty-five years ago, I lost a full hour’s energy to a debate in a Fort Lauderdale bar. Aging expatriates of Brooklyn ferociously held to the conviction that Brooklyn was not part of Long Island. Brooklyn was “The City.”

You believe Long Island is a great state? Be my guest.

“Do yew think yew maht hep a po’ feller with some food?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Food. Somethin’ t’eat. I ain’t had none in three dayes.”

“Well, yeah,” I said, “now that you ask. We might be able to help each other out on that score. I sat here, yesterday, and watched a man enjoy what looked like a terrific grilled chicken sandwich, but it was too much food for me. Half would have been more than enough. Suppose I order a grilled chicken sandwich, and we split it?”

“Blass yew, sir.” He shook my hand, again. “May the Lorrd blass yew. Ah knew raht from the start that yew were a kahnd mayun. It was in your atta tude. Like the mayun who bought
me this beer.”

I didn’t see any other man, but…whatever.

“So, grilled chicken?” I asked.

“Blackened,” he said, pointing to the other option on the menu, under “chicken sandwiches.”

A quick, one-burst guffaw jumped out before I could catch and swallow it. The guy was bumming a sandwich but wanted it cooked to his preference. I ordered a blackened chicken sandwich from the bartender, Sarah, and asked for an extra plate and a sharp knife.

“Where’re you from?” I asked.

“Tennessee.”

“Delta? Low Country?”

“Nope. Mountains. I’m thinkin’ it’s time to git back home, too. Back home to the mountains. Havn’t been home in a wahl.”

“How long you been here?” I asked.

“Too long. Too long. Tahm to git back home to the mountains. Fella there is down on his luck, folks jis say, Beau [or, Bo], come ohn. Set down heah. Have somethin’ t’eat.’ Ain’t like that around here.” He looked straight at me, straight through those Jayne Mansfield-era, Muppet sunglasses. I held my breath.

“Yew ever been hongry?”

“Not three days worth, no.”

“Ever dream about food?”

I stifled another laugh. Whenever I eat ham or pork chops for dinner, I dream about beer.

“No, not that I can recall,” I said. “Hey, did you come east all this way to get work?”

“I trahd work,” he said somberly. “Trahd it several times, in fact. It wasn’t for me.”

“I hear that. Don’t much care for work, m’self.”

The sandwich arrived. I cut off about a third of it and placed the smaller piece on the extra plate. Beau [or, Bo] reached for it, and I stopped him. “That’s mine,” I said. “I shoved the plate bearing the larger piece and the French fries toward him, saying, “I don’t eat French fries.”

He shook my hand again. He took the plate and stared at it. I bit into my third of a sandwich and noticed that he wasn’t eating.

“Somethin’ wrong?” I managed to say through a mouthful.

“I’m just lettin’ my stomach calm down a bit.”

Then, abruptly, and rudely, he yelled for Sarah, barked at her. He wanted his food wrapped, right away.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him.

“I got four kids at home,” he said, staring down at the plate. “I cain’t eat ‘afore they do.”

A man emerged from the kitchen—darkhaired, stout like a former high school wrestler or football player. Mike Rosen, formerly of East Meadow, introduced himself as the owner and asked if I was having trouble. I said that, no, I was having a little weirdness, but no trouble. He sandwiched himself between me and Beau [or, Bo] and ordered him to leave, though giving him time to get the package with the sandwich and fries.

Rosen turned to me. “He pulled that on one of my staff last week, outside, down the road in front of his house,” Rosen said. “My guy came in to work, made a sandwich and brought it back to him. I don’t want him in here any more.

“Sarah,” Rosen said to Sarah, “that sandwich is comped. On me. No arguments.”

“Oh, great,” I thought. “Now, I’ve bummed a sandwich.”