The Journalist (3 page)

“Put all that in past tense and it would be a
nice obit,” he muttered. “And two dollars and fifty cents will get
you a cup of coffee at McDonald’s. End of bio.”

Easing
Veracity
toward her mooring, a
yard from the wharf’s pilings he reversed the engines then slipped
them to neutral. She touched like a feather. Pleased, he turned the
engines off, stepped to the dock and, tying off, began sparring
with his dinner palate. Lemon chicken at Gum Do, or arroz con
camarones at The Bimini Road? It took only seconds. Rice and shrimp
it was, at his favorite spot, The Bimini Road.

After hosing salt water from
Veracity’s
decks, stowing gear, a shower, a shave, he pulled
on a pair of faded Wrangler jeans, a clean black T-shirt and his
dine-out brown deck shoes. Walking the narrow dock’s weathered
planks to the marina, he stopped to note the stillness in the late
afternoon air. Cirrus clouds hung high in the winsome sky. A
feeling of anxiety came over him. He shook that off and, at the end
of the wharf, stopped at a row of metal dispensers that offered
various local Florida publications. Noticing that
The Boca
had sold out, he smiled and ambled across the white crushed-shell
parking lot to his sun-faded 2010 silver Subaru. The windows left
down a quarter-inch to dissipate heat, he got in, cranked the
rebuilt engine to life, turned the air to max and headed, just
north of Little Haiti, to The Bimini Road cafe.

Weaving in and out of traffic, he worked on
that endless draft-editorial in his head:

Analogous to the famous falling tree that
supposedly makes no sound in a peopleless forest, would time cease
if Homo sapiens were not around to notice? That is, the evidence
seems to suggest that the sons and daughters of Adam, Eve, Noah’s
three sons or a monkey’s uncle are in deep doo-dah-day. That is,
the human race is prepared to become extinct over religion, sex,
oil and lines on a map. Some incestuous hate seems loosed in the
world, and where did that come from? Gene pool regressing.
Evolution in reverse. Entropy full tilt. Stuff is making us
nuts.

He tapped his steering wheel and made a
mental note: Do an Internet search. Animal kingdom, species,
territorial, lines on a map, territorial something, some urinate a
line on or something. What species kill for love? There’s mating
season. Hummm. Do they hate? That’s more sophisticated, requires a
higher awareness. What about religion? I think we homo sapiens have
a corner on that. How far we have come.

His cell phone began to ring. Ninety percent
certain who it was, he didn’t look see or answer. After around
twenty rings it stopped. His editorial thoughts hopelessly
scrambled, he concentrated on the upcoming week: Wednesday, finish
that editorial on Benny’s E.I.C. ;
Boca
’s advertising
revenue could be better, always could be better

his thoughts went to this evening, the speech by
President Armstrong at seven o’clock

this
whole week promises to be cockeyed. Anything else?

“O’Brien,” he said aloud as he pulled to a
familiar newsstand, lowered his window and spoke to a Miami icon,
“Afternoon, Gus.”

“Mr. Zackary, beautiful Sunday.” Gus handed
him
The New York Times
and, familiar with Zack’s weekend
routine, asked, “Catch anything?”

“Naw.” He paid for the paper. “Gonna listen
to the President tonight?”

“Ah, that Benny, Mr. Zackary.” Gus smiled.
“Ah, that Benny.”

“Have a good day.”

“Yessir.”

Zack pulled away. “Gus knows more than he
lets on.”

Chapter Four

Twenty minutes after leaving Pompano Marina,
Zack squeezed his car onto the crowded sand parking lot of The
Bimini Road and parked between a white van and a vintage Chevy
pickup painted orange.

The café occupied the first floor of a cement
block two-story building, with a two-bedroom apartment upstairs.
The exterior’s stucco, painted chalky white, flaked to the ground.
A purple neon sign above the entrance, blinked: THE BIMINI ROAD
CAFÉ. Many people called the tiny restaurant a dump. Zack had seen
haute cuisine as the guest of bishops, cardinals and wealthy
widows. He preferred dumps.

Another reason for the The Bimini Road
allure, belly up to the bar, he enjoyed the cafe’s notorious
reputation as the hangout for a group called The Pi Underground.
Sometimes referred to as 3.14-Under, the Pi were abhorrers of
“clearly” so called “true” political arguments which they believed
were, not only what they called “bull shit” but the product of
circular reasoning. Neither liberal, conservative nor in between,
Pi members envisioned a world void of religion, isms, and lines
printed on maps, Google, Rand McNally, or otherwise.

Pi members (a few rumored to be in military
and government positions), worshipers of, located fifty miles due
east of Miami Florida, the mysterious underwater stone formation
just off the coast of North Bimini Island, espoused a connection to
lost Atlantis relatives, the Bermuda Triangle, and UFO’s.

Even though he was certain the walls of The
Bimini Road café emitted strange vibrations, Bermuda Triangle UFO
mulligan stew or not, he would tolerate Pi members espousing the
nonsense if, for no other reason, to get at The Bimini Road café’s
matchless zesty shrimp and rice specialty of the house–arroz con
camarones.

Almost as important as the culinary delight
itself, Zack revered the vigorous intellect of The Bimini Road’s
owner, cook, and dishwasher, Joe Case. Despite the widespread rumor
of Joe’s crackpot reputation, in Zack’s mind Joe’s sense of urgency
and mission could be summed up in two words–penetrating bluntness.
More so when the discussion went to politics.

Standing a little over five-eight, Joe beamed
pride when talking of his mother. From Tampico, he had learned his
culinary skills and fluent Spanish from her. His father, one time
Commander of Fort Sam Houston, San Antonio, Joe's military career
flowed out of family tradition. A graduate of West Point, Joe rose
to Colonel, Special Forces, wrote the book on desert survival. On
his way to becoming a General, he was recruited and joined the DIA
(Defense Intelligence Agency). But after a TV interview in which he
condemned U. S. military intervention in foreign affairs (he
pointed out direct ties to capitalism and sleazy monetary interests
leading to the overthrow of “non cooperative”foreign governments,
accusing the White House of “hypocrisy and crimes in high places”),
U.S. officials branded him a renegade and he officially
“retired.”

In a subsequent book

Spy Diary,

Case cited
misdeeds against Latin America’s so called “leftists” and included
a list of purported U.S. government operatives. The list created an
uproar prompting the State Department to strip Case of his U.S.
passport.

U.S. officials continuing to pile on, branded
Case a traitor linked to foreign intelligence agencies. Case denied
the allegations and said he thought of himself as carrying on the
American tradition of the Declaration of Independence authors.

Zack, in chats with Case learned that Joe,
made frequent trips to Bimini Island as part of what he called
“business.” Married to Kim–blond hair in a long pony tail, more
than not, pulled through the back of a black Pi baseball hat, horn
rimmed glasses, brown eyes, narrow nose, mocha complexion–they
lived in a one bedroom apartment above The Bimini Road café.

In chats with Kim Zack learned that the
couple had meet while scuba-diving around the Bahamas. In the U.S.
Navy for six years, she had inherited The Bimini Road café from
some distant relative.

***

Approaching a sign on The Bimini Road’s front
door–THIS IS A SMOKING ESTABLISHMENT, there are no no-smoking
sections, if you don’t smoke or don’t like smoke, go someplace else
--- tener un buen da

–Zack entered the café
and stopped. All thirteen eating booths brimmed with customers. Not
only were the booths full, but to his chagrin, the previously
natural wood booths had been painted Pepto-Bismol pink.

He looked to his left. At the far end of the
sweat-rubbed wooden bar, sitting on the last three of thirteen
red-topped plastic bar stools, three males sat. They wore black Pi
baseball hats, sipped beer and, between words, teetered on the
wobbly stools.

Calling to mind a few alcohol facilitated
late-night arguments with Pi members, Don’t get involved with those
guys tonight, he thought and sat on the first barstool near the
entrance.

Waiting for a booth to open, anticipating
other changes in the decor, he cased the surroundings.

One thing unchanged, separating bar and
booths, a four-foot wide strip of avocado green linoleum rippled
like waves on a small pond. Also, hanging from rusty chains,
flyspecked fluorescent lights cast a familiar yellow glow. And
there, glowing in the aged haze, balanced on a triangular platform
over the last bar stool, the same ancient TV flickered a baseball
game. He sniffed. The familiar odor of beer, tobacco, garlic and
humans blanketing everything, also hadn’t changed. He glanced
upward, whispered, “Thank You,” and waved to, busy behind the bar,
Kim.

Kim: “Zackary, how are you?”

“Great.”

He started to ask about the booth’s new paint
job, but noticed people at his favorite far-end booth standing.

New York Times in tow, he ambled over the
rippled floor, settled behind the booth’s greasy table, pushed the
dirty dishes aside and laid out the paper. In a moment, Joe Case,
in stained white polo shirt, navy shorts and crusty Reebok
sneakers, came table-side with green check-pad and pencil in
hand.

“Champ,” he said.

“Case, you painted the booths.”

“What you eating?”

“Why did you paint the booths?”

“Kim thought they needed it.”

“Pink?”

“What you eating?”

“I liked the warm feel of the natural
wood

”

“What you eating?”

“You waiting tables tonight, too?”

“Butch called in sick. You want your
regular?”

“Bohemia, yes, and arroz con camarones.”

“You had a call ‘bout an hour ago

your editor, Mary O’Brien.”

Ignoring him. “See you’re very busy tonight,
that’s good.”

Joe grinned and left.

A tall skinny male arrived, cleared Zack’s
table, left and a young female wearing a black Pi baseball hat,
arrived, served his Bohemia along with salsa and a basket of hot
tortilla chips.

Not recognizing her, Zack said, “You’re new,
how’s it going?”

“Busy.” She smiled and left.

Awaiting his shrimp and rice entree, Zack
drank the cold Bohemia straight from the bottle. As he savored the
clean taste, his intense eyes worked
The Times
like he was
searching for semicolons in a reporter’s piece. Devouring,
scanning, skimming, he absorbed various sections at differing
points of interest. Twice he slapped back to page one. One story,
above the fold, top right, sparred with his thoughts. The article
concerned the man whose thinking he had great difficulty with
(actually, despised), the current President of the United States,
Benjamin P. Armstrong. The article a topic in news circles for
days, various reports indicated profound Armstrong related things
were happening on Planet Earth, but nobody knew for sure what Benny
was up to. “Whatever it is,” Zack whispered to himself, “I don’t
trust the silver-tongued sonofabitch.”

He browsed around the
Times
’s
advertising, inserts, editorials, politics, business, technology,
sports and opinions. In the middle of an opinion piece, the young
female with Pi hat arrived and presented , on a large white
platter, his arroz con camarones and a second bottle of
Bohemia.

“Kim said Bohemia is on the house,” she
said.

“Thank you, you’re new here...”

She hurried to another table.

The Bohemia chilled just right, he slapped
back to scan the
Times
’s Armstrong headline:

President To Outline
Thousand Year Peace Plan


Zack shook his head in quiet amazement,
chewed a shrimp and read the article a third time.

Sunday, July 6,
2020

Washington, D.C. — After spending what his aides
describe as “countless hours in thought, prayer and meditation”
President Armstrong is scheduled to address the nation tonight at
seven o’clock EST.

Billed as a special address, the speech is reported
to contain the President’s final and definitive foreign policy
position. Armstrong is reportedly distraught over the recent
terrorist attack in Paris. He would not comment on specifics of his
plan, but did say he had prayed about the matter for countless
hours and truly believes his speech has been divinely inspired.
White House media guru Dr. Barbara Lande promises the address will
offer “dynamic hope” in the face of “cowardly acts by international
outlaws.” Major TV broadcast networks, cable and direct satellite
plan live coverage.

Zack slapped the paper and repeated Lande’s
quote:

“‘
Cowardly acts from international outlaws.’” He
wiped his face with his palm, mumbled, “What do you morons expect
after cruise missiles in the night, drones in the teeth

an invitation to dinner?

He spoke to his estranged God. “Benny, cruise
missiles, drones

dangerous mix, don’t You
think? Or do You care?” He paused, “Silence, that’s what I
thought.” He picked up a shrimp with his fingers and, waving it in
the air, continued the conversation with the Almighty. “Did You
ever think, somewhere back before You did the rough cut on this
fifteen-round thrilla, You might be making a mistake? You knew the
outcome

wasn’t there a better way? And
another thing

never mind, free will,
right?”