Alpine Dolphins
Surreal performers
on'the bitter stage
illHi...... ofDaytona
Meanwhile, literary whims
whisk windy thought back
jto Daytonaland.
This does, however, present a
problem.
The first story I wrote about
Daytona Beach, Fla., where I intro
duced the character Anomie, ended
up thrashed about like a K-mart
kite in a rip-tide winter wind by the
Powers That Be, the editorial staff.
My editor said the article was vul
gar and that it didn’t quite convey
the meaning I was looking for.
Well, since no one really read
the original; rathdr, a butchered
remnant, I don’t need to apologize
for offending anyone.
So I am not sorry.
Though I need to tell this story,
and as such I think it would be best
if I clued everyone in on my per
spective of Daytona Beach.
Did you ever see “Escape From
New York”? Kurt Russel as Snake
Pliskin, the ultimate criminal, sent
in by the U.S. police force to rescue
the president of the same, or die.
m. -hi j niiMl
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It’s quite a thriller.
As a wonderland, Daytona was
sort of like that to me. Not that I
was Snake Pliskin or anything. I
never had to save the president or
die while I lived there. It’s just that
the place was wondrous, awe-in
spiring and vile. All this contained
on one 23-mile-long sandbar.
Daytona was filled with all the
runaways, neurotics, psychotics,
petty thieves, walking assault
charges, kleptomaniacs, nympho
maniacs, voyeurs, exhibitionists and,
of course, the dreaded and se
verely over-prosecuted drug-users,
abusers and misusers, who fled
their home towns which were places
like: New York City, Chicago, At
lanta, Boston, Washington, Balti
more, Pittsburgh, Cleveland and
last, Lincoln, to come and live out
their lives in a perpetual state of
hazy-lazy violent decadence.
Decadence, debauchery and surf
ing are what Daytona is all about.
And the surfing sucks.
Let me give you one quick ex
ample - Jim and Tooley, newly ar
rived from New York and newly
settled across the street from where
I lived at the lime with two other
traveling buddies. Tooley was not
the second kid’s real name. I didn’t
know his real name.
When we were poor, which was
all the time, the five of us would
live off this restaurant directly on
the Halifax River called Marker’s.
We’d cat hors d’oeuvres and drink
beer and Jim would slap Tooley on
the back of the head and say “Eh,
Tooley?” like one of the three
stooges.
A couple weeks later, Jim got
pulled over and arrested. I never
saw him again. Tooley told me
why.
“We pulled these jobs up in
New York,” he said, “stereos, VCRs
and stuff. I used to carry the tools.”
Hence, Tooley.
So my dilemma is this: How to
f COLOR
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tell a story about this collection
forenamed and not talk about sex
in anything other than sterile terms,
and, most difficult, writing like no
one in Daytona Beach ever used a
swear word.
I might create the same vivid
picture ofjapan using nojapanese
references. Though, in the interest
of stale journalism I will try.
And another thing, stop reading
this story right now if you feel at all
uncomfortable about the hard car
nal nature of war-zone neighbor
hoods where extremes like vice
and virtue fight for the whole of the
glorious mad kingdom It’s some
where the feint-hearted don't want
to go. If so turn the page, before
■you are reminded of -* and of
fended by — similar morally bank
rupl notions that hide in the shad
ows of your heart.
“Have another drink.” I said
"You need another drink.”
"1 don’t want another drink Not
here at least.”
"What’s wrong with here? What’s
wrong with Crooks Den?”
"Here puts me to sleep,” Ham
per said. "I'm tired of watching
Kelsey jiggle.”
Kelsey was the bartender at
Crooks Den, a bar that was one
large irony. Kelsey looked as if she
just finished doing aerobics. Al
ways. She usually wore outfits with
high waistlines and no neckline
whatsoever. This pleased most of
the customers, the fact that her
breasts were covered with nothing
more than an inch-and-a-half of
stretch fabric. On the walls of the
bar were portraits of criminals gone
famous: Al Capone, IJonnie and
Clyde.
The underlying theme of the bar
was this:
CRIME DOESN’T PAY!
This was the great irony in that
most of the patrons of Crooks Den
were criminals in their own right.
Actually, most people are criminal
in one form or another. Most of
these criminals, outlaws if you prefer,
made their living scamming odd
jobs, selling stolen goods, what
ever to make a buck. That’s the way
it was there.
"Let’s go find a prostitute,”
Kamper said. “I feel like I want a
woman. A brown-eyed, H-year
old, Mexican girl would be perfect,
but I’ll settle for a thin, black crack
addict from Daytona.”
"We’ll need a bottle of tequila."
"Of course we will.”
We walked the night through an
alley and out onto Ridgewood
Avenue. We passed the hotel where
Kamper and I were roommates^
The hotel was primarily lor old
folks, but we were young, and they
liked that. There was a 7-Eleven
directly next door to the hotel. I
think they put it there so the old
guys wouldn’t have to walk so far
to get theirsoda and cigars at night.
But it was a different story tonight
because the 7-F.lcven was freshly
robbed. There were police officers
and police dogs running about and
two black guys talked nervously to
three serious-looking white police
men. The old men from our hotel
sat on the porch, rocking peace
fully, smoking cigars and watching
the action. We kept walking.
“Kamper, we need to keep that
convenience store crime spree in
mind, I mean, if ever things turn
ugly and we want some sort of
steady income to fall back on.”
“Nah. If things ever turn as black
as that I’ll head to Mexico. Find a
nice village girl, sit in a bar, drink
tequila and write novels.”
Down the street we waiKeu past
another convenience store. I his
store was not being robbed so I
went intobuya pack of cigarettes.
Kamper waited outside. I was paying
the elderly Greek woman at the
counter when I noticed a picture
on the wall behind the cash regis
ter of a girl whom 1 immediately
labeled as the "most beautiful
woman ever photographed,” as if
she had won the Miss Universe
Pageanlor something. She had me
dium-length brown hair and blue
and white-cap-white eyes, and she
looked happy and thin.
I walked back outside, rejoined
Kamper, we walked down Second
Avenue to the liquor store.
“What choo boys want, man?
What ‘choo need?” asked this tall
and lanky black man, seemingly
popping out of nowhere. “Ya’ll
want smoke? I got some herb that ’ll
knock ya on your butt!”
"Nan, we’re OK,” I said.
“Ah, man, 'choo want coke? Got
some real fine blow, fresh off the
boat."
"Nah, thanks for offering,
though.”
‘‘Man! I mean, what choo need
anyway?
"I want a bottle of tequila,” I
said, and we walked into the liquor
store. We bought a pint of tequila,
walked out of the store ana the
same man walked up to us again:
‘ I’m sorry,” hesaid, ‘‘we seem to
have gotten off on the wrong foot.
My name is Vincent, I am newly
arrived from the Bahamas. Now, I
know you don’t want anything at
the moment, but I wanted to let
you know that I am a good man to
know around here. All these boys
work through me. You do need to
watch yourself, you know. There
are some people you can’t trust. If
you need anything, you find me,
and I know 1 can help you out.”
Know where we can find child
slaves?” Kamper asked.
See alpine on 15