Homemade Sin

Chapter One

Drunk And Stinky In Key West

If the entertainment tastes of the American public are any indication of average I.Q, Roland slurred at the bartender, ninety is the new one-twenty. He was staring at the framed, Life magazine picture of Ernest Hemingway hanging on the wall in Sloppy Joe’s Saloon in Key West. The bartender continued to cut limes and listen, distracted, as Roland babbled. The whole culture is swirling around the rim, muttered the bartender.

Have you seen the New York Times bestsellers’ list? Roland said. Romance novels and diet books, I doubt even Papa Hemingway could get published nowadays.

Yeah. The bartender and dumped a handful of limes into the stainless steel fruit tray on the bar. ‘You’ll never go broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public.’ I think P.T. Barnum said that.

The whole culture is devolving. Roland took a gulp of his third Rum Runner and returned to staring at the picture of Hemingway. He wasn’t sure why he had chosen Key West. He had just headed south for some serious life reevaluation and even more serious drinking and, somehow, he had wound up in Key West.

He had set out from Saint Petersburg, headed for Miami, but for some reason he didn’t exit the interstate as he passed through Dade County. Something kept telling him to keep going south. He felt he was in some way chasing his destiny as he accelerated past Miami and picked up the Dixie Highway toward Homestead, Key Largo and all points south.

Glancing toward the bartender Roland caught his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The face staring back at him still looked good at thirty-five, albeit a little rough around the edges. His normally pale green eyes were ringed with red and his sandy hair stuck out on top, as if he had just awoken from a rough night’s sleep. There was a three day growth of dark blond whisker stubble on his jaw line and his clothes were stiff with dried sweat from driving with his windows down to let the sea breeze blow through as he sped down A1A. Arriving in Key West he had checked into Duval House, dumped his suitcase in one of the poolside cottages and set out to find a bar.

Roland turned his face from side to side in the bar mirror and examined the damage from steady drinking for the last three days. Not as bad as I expected, he thought. Normally he could pass for thirty but today he looked washed out and old, like a has-been actor headed for a stint in rehab. Physical appearance is the first casualty of heading south, he thought. It was easy to spot people who just up and headed south: they had the same hard, traveled look. The same combination of burning desperation and cooling hope in their eyes. The same general look of apathetic fervor.

No matter who you were, or where you live, sometimes things just plain go south. When that happens, the best course of action is to follow things southward. When things go seriously south, it is always best to light out of town for a while until the situation blows over. Slip away to somewhere – anywhere other than where you are – while you bide your time until the debt collectors collect themselves, or the ruffled feelings of jealous girlfriends, or the boyfriends of those girlfriends, are unruffled. Roland had lived long enough to know that in this kind of situation, usually a serious reevaluation of life looms large and the best thing to do is to head south, always south.

It’s a tradition dating back to the founding of the old US of A. Back to when the New England midwives who mixed potions, fashioned charms or threw an odd conjure or two, found themselves looked at askew while their zealous neighbors whispered words of witchery, they knew south was the compass point to embrace. In such situations the practitioners of colonial holistic medicine hastily became citizens of the Virginia or North Carolina colonies, places where trials for witchery were rare.

South has always been synonymous with any place where the liquor flows freely, the night life is raucous and the general population is a little more weird and a little more wide open, and a lot more forgiving than the place you left. Wherever you live, there is a preordained southward destination, depending on your point of departure. Roland raised his glass and said aloud, When the ominous, dark clouds gather and the situation calls for a beat-feeted retreat from any location south of Bangor, Maine, there is only one destination. Key West.

Some travelers to Key West find the answers they seek; others wind up sporting dusty beards after a few months of searching and end up and folding palm fronds into rosebuds on the street. Either way, nobody leaves Key West unchanged.

Key West, where, on a steamy evening in mid-August, sunset worshipers crowded into Mallory Square to watch the angry Florida sun, red as a rock lobster, boil down into the cobalt blue waters of the Gulf.

Where, on the boardwalk a man shouted ‘OOOSSSCCCAARRR’ as tourists tossed dollar bills into his hat and watched him encourage tenacious tabbies to tiptoe across tightropes and fearless felines to fly through flaming hoops. And where Roland Van Owen sat – frustrated, would-be writer and owner of a failing hotel and restaurant in Saint Petersburg Beach – on a bar stool in Sloppy Joe’s, while the salt-rimmed evening breeze wafted its way east from the harbor through the narrow streets and through the open door of the tavern.

From his perch on the barstool Roland watched the band set up on the small stage at the far end of the room and sipped his drink.

Another Rum Runner? the bartender said. Roland was forced to drag his gaze away from the picture of Hemmingway and focus his blurring vision on the man mixing drinks.

Sure, why not? Roland said. And pour yourself one, on me.

Roland stared back at the picture of Hemingway. Sloppy Joe’s was the place where Ernest Hemingway had spent many happy hours imbibing and if it was good enough for Papa, it was good enough for him.

He’d always liked Papa but he felt inadequate staring at his picture on the wall. Papa had done it, he had made a good living writing books. But where Papa had driven an ambulance through mortar and machine-gun fire in World War I, run with the bulls in Pamplona and hunted big game in Africa, finally settling down to rest his fingers on his typewriter to write novels, Roland had drifted through most of his life and finally settled down behind his own bar to make drinks for other people. Roland sighed and took another gulp of his Rum Runner.

The bartender noticed a pall of depression cross Roland’s face as he gazed at the picture of Hemingway. Having seen that look before, on many would-be writers who had ventured into Sloppy Joe’s to pay homage to Papa, he knew the proper course of action. He poured two shots of tequila and placed one in front of Roland, Here’s to Papa, said the bartender, lifting his shot glass in salute to the photo of the grey-bearded man.

Roland raised his glass in a united salute. His funk dissipated and a thin smile crept across his lips as he took a long drink.

Roland Van Owen, Roland said to the bartender, extending his hand.

Travis, said the bartender. He grasped Roland’s hand and shook it vigorously with his right hand while he removed the empty shot glasses from the bar with his left. Travis looked to be in his mid-forties, with milky blue eyes and threads of silver shot through his dark hair. The three days of stubble on his own cheeks and chin matched Roland’s. Tourist? Travis asked.

Reevaluating my life, replied Roland.

Yeah, I came here to reevaluate my life too, Travis smiled a knowing smile as he attended to making Roland’s next drink. I’ve been down here reevaluating about fifteen years now and I’m still reevaluating.

Farther down the bar a puffy man, wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt stretched over his large pot-belly, bellowed Hey, barkeep! We need another round over here. Move your ass! The man’s face was a carcinogenic sunburned red and he was seated beside a heavily made-up, suicide blonde in a very unfortunate halter.

Tourons. The bartender shook his head and rolled his eyes. He drifted down the bar to the loud man and began busily making his drinks.

In the bartender’s absence Roland turned back to the picture of Hemingway. Papa, I wish I had your talent and your time. I should have been a writer … instead I’m stuck running a bar. It was nice to be on the receiving end of the bar for a change though, Roland thought, which brought him back to the problem at hand. His hotel and bar, the Blue Flamingo, needed a serious make-over. He also needed a gimmick.

Another Rum Runner? Travis had returned to his position across the bar from Roland.

Sure, why not, said Roland. He was just sober enough to keep from falling off the bar stool but drunk enough not to care if he did.

I agree with you about the devolution of the culture, said a voice in Roland’s head.

What did you say? Roland said to the bartender.

I didn’t say anything, said Travis, placing a tall drink in front of Roland.

Did you ever see Cats? asked the voice in his head. T.S Eliot and I wrote a wonderful book of poems, Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats. Maybe you’ve heard of it? Anyway, did you see what pop culture did to it? Simply awful. A bunch of humans dressed in silly costumes singing and dancing. Dreadful. Old T.S is probably spinning in his grave.

I must be hallucinating, thought Roland, ignoring the voice and looking back at the picture of Hemingway.

Earnest Hemingway was a friend of mine, you know said the voice in his head.

Roland continued staring across at the picture, ignoring the voice.

You know all that alcohol isn’t good for you, said the voice, a little louder. And those sugary drinks are going to make you feel like scat tomorrow morning.

Where is this voice coming from? Roland said aloud.

Down the bar, the puffy, sunburned man bellowed, Hey asshole, I ordered a Mango Daiquiri – this tastes more like peach – and I wanted it frozen, not on the rocks. Jesus, you’d never make it in New York. Back there bartenders know customer service, they ain’t inbred southern yokels.

The bartender gritted his teeth and slipped over to the other side of the bar to wait on the obnoxious tourist.

Where did that voice come from? Roland wondered. He stared over at the picture of Hemingway on the wall. Couldn’t be you, he slurred at the picture, you were never opposed to a bit of rum.

Down here on the floor, said the voice in his head.

Roland bent over as far as he dared without losing what was left of his balance and peered into the gradient of shadows beneath his bar stool. As his vision adjusted to the upside down point of view, he began to make out two pairs of glowing green eyes. The eyes peered back at him with a disturbing mixture of intelligence and insanity as they floated above the beer-stained floorboards. Through the alcohol-saturated blood rushing to his head Roland managed to identify two thin black cats, their onyx bodies, barely visible in the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, Roland could make out two white feline faces with odd black markings, resembling eyebrows, goatees and little Hitler mustaches.

Is that you two in my head? Roland slurred.

Yes, it’s me in your head, replied the voice in Roland’s head, My name is Stinky and you’re having a telepathic conversation with a pussycat. And I’m only one cat. You’re seeing double; you’d better sit up before you pass out.

I must be losing it, thought Roland, taken aback as he grasped the bar and hoisted himself upright on the barstool. How am I hearing your thoughts in my head?

It happens. Stinky climbed out from under Roland’s’ barstool and positioned himself in Roland’s direct line of sight. Not often, just every once in a while, two creatures from different species connect. Maybe they’re attuned to the same frequency and they can communicate with each other without actual words. I’m not sure … I think that must be what’s happening here. I can hear your thoughts in my head and you can hear mine, a sure sign that we are meant to be friends. And as your friend I have to advise you to go a little lighter on the rum. That stuff is bad for you.

Roland tried to wrap his inebriated brain around the possibility the cat was somehow communicating with him telepathically. Impossible, he thought, I must be hallucinating. Hallucinating or not, he rationalized, it would be bad manners to ignore him and, like my mother always said, ‘good manners cost nothing.’

How do you know rum is bad for me? said Roland. You ever tried it?

Alcohol is an abomination, Roland heard. I’ve seen what it can do to people on the street, lost souls who have fallen into the drink.

Well, how can you knock it if you haven’t tried it? Roland slurred at the pussy. He faced the bartender and winked. The bartender was staring at him, slack jawed.

Ignoring the bartender’s raised eyebrows Roland tilted his head down to address the cat. Tell you what, Roland proposed. What if I buy you a drink? If you don’t like it, I’ll close my tab and leave.

The midnight-black mouser seemed to ponder the proposition. Sounds fair, said Stinky’s voice in Roland’s head. But make it something with cream in it; I like cream. I hear brandy is a classy drink. And put it in a saucer, please.

Roland motioned to the bartender, who gave him a cautious look, as one does with crazy people.

Gimme a Brandy Alexander, Roland said to Travis, and put it in a saucer.

That damned cat must be back again. Travis shook his head as he poured brandy, cream and ice into the blender.

Down the bar the red-faced, puffy man slammed his hand down hard and yelled, Hey, Goober, you want to put some alcohol in this drink? Tastes like watered-down cat piss. God, you rednecks are inept.

Tell him to go light on the ice this time, said the voice in Roland’s head, and to use the good brandy, the Napoleon, not the bar crap, I’ll be right back. Roland watched as Stinky crept along the floor down along the bar.

Can you hear him too? said Roland.

Hear him? the bartender said. You’ve had too many Rum Runners. And the shot of tequila I gave you was a bad idea. No buddy, I don’t hear him; but that little black rummy comes in here a lot and mews until I pour him some cream in a bowl; he mews even louder if I don’t add a shot of something. He likes brandy best … he spits and hisses at me if I use cheap brandy.

You don’t hear him talking to you in your head?

Travis gave Roland a ‘here goes another crazy, drunk tourist’ sigh. Nope, he just meows at me. Are you sure it’s not aliens talking to you? Would you like a little anti-voices hat made out of aluminum foil? It wouldn’t be the first one of those I’ve made for a customer.

I’m back, said Stinky from beneath Roland’s barstool. Now where were we?

You conned me, Roland said as he placed the saucer of milk and brandy before the cat.

You’re a writer aren’t you? Stinky ignored Roland’s accusation. I can smell it on you, stronger than my own musky aroma. I can even see it in your aura, a crazy quilt of swirling patchwork colors. I’m looking for a new writer to be my friend, someone to inspire.

So you’re some kind of feline muse? said Roland.

Yeah, you’ll do, purred Stinky, again ignoring Roland, as he furiously lapped up the creamy cocktail.

I thought you said you didn’t drink.

Not at all, purred Stinky as he finished his drink and licked the brandy-laced cream from his whiskers. I said you shouldn’t drink, I didn’t say I shouldn’t. We have a big day tomorrow.

What do you mean ‘we’?’ Roland said.

Down the bar, the red-faced man, drink in hand, stood and headed for the restroom. He took one step and toppled to the floor. On the way down he helicoptered his arms, trying to gain his balance, and tossed the entire contents of the sticky drink in his own face. He landed on the hardwood bar floor, flat on his face, mango daiquiri dripping down his cheeks. He rolled over and looked at his shoes and saw the laces of his topsiders were tied together. The other patrons in the bar were laughing and applauding.

Who’s the wise guy? the man bellowed, rolling around on the floor like an upended turtle.

Roland heard the sound of a kitty sniggering in his head

You did that didn’t you? Roland said.

Rudeness is the weak man’s imitation of strength. He needed to be taught some humility. Stinky rubbed a paw along his whiskers to catch the last lick of Brandy Alexander.

So it was no accident, said Roland.

‘A gentleman doesn’t hurt anyone accidentally,’ came the feline’s voice. My friend Oscar Wilde said that.

Are you telling me you knew both Oscar Wilde and Hemingway? Roland said.

And Nabokov and Tolstoy and John Steinbeck, Stinky said. Ever read The Black Cat by Edgar Allen Poe? I was the inspiration. Tennessee Williams once kicked me down a flight of stairs.

You’re telling me your previous owners were some of the greatest writers of all time? Even hammered Roland found this hard to believe.

I never said ‘owners.’ Stinky’s voice again. They were my friends, and I was their muse. ‘You can’t own another creature, but another creature can own you.’ My friend Truman Capote said that.

I’m losing it, Roland thought. Enough for me. When I get hustled for drinks by a delusional kitty cat it’s time for me to go sleep it off. Roland dropped enough cash on the bar to cover his tab and the cat’s Brandy Alexander and started for the door.

Wait, wait, said Stinky in Roland’s head as the cat fell in behind him, following him at heel, where are you going? It’s early and we were just getting to know each other.  

Who are you? What are you? said Roland.

I told you, I’m Stinky, the Fierce Feline of Fatalism, the Caustic Cat of Cataclysm, I am the Kitty Courier of Catastrophe. Through the centuries I have gone by many names; Bast in Egypt, Quetzalcoatl in Mexico and Bossu in Port-au-Prince. Over the last five hundred years I have known kings, queens, conquerors, despots, presidents, potentates, assassins and serial killers. I was once a powerful god but I was defrocked. Not that I actually had a frock. I did have a nice necklace and kind of a tiara thing in Egypt. Anyway, I was demoted to muse; now I provide inspiration to novelists, artists, poets and playwrights. You can call me Stinky; it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.

I’ve got to go sleep this off, Roland muttered to himself, stepping out of Sloppy Joe’s into the darkness of Duval Street. He turning left and headed for Duval House.

Where are we going? Stinky stayed hot on Roland’s heels.

There’s that we again, said Roland. I’m going back to my motel room to sleep until I no longer hear a talking kitty in my head. I don’t care where you go.

Hey, don’t be like that, said Stinky. I’ve decided you and I are going to be friends. And leaving me on the street is no way to repay that honor. Where is our hotel?

Just go away and leave me alone, said Roland as he weaved his way up the street. As he passed the Aqua Nightclub, a famous drag-show dance club, one of the drag queens stationed by the door, dressed as Cher, noticed Stinky chasing Roland up Duval Street and commented; That’s the first time I’ve ever seen pussy chasing a man in Key West. You go get him Stinky!

Roland stopped and stared down at the tomcat trailing along behind him. Do you know everybody in this town?

That was Jeffie. He a makes a pretty convincing Cher don’t you think? You’ll meet him soon.

Roland shook his head in disbelief, which caused him to list a little to the left as he continued up Duval Street.

Stinky followed Roland back to Duval House, a quaint little Old Key West hotel which consisted of a large main house with small cottages nestled around a swimming pool in the rear courtyard. Stinky strode beside him, dodging his weaving feet, as Roland staggered past the wooden picket gate, around the pool and to the door of his courtyard cottage. Roland fumbled with the keys finally turning the lock and stumbling through the door. Stinky slipped through his legs, leapt upon Roland’s bed, curled up into a furry ball on his pillow and began to purr like a chainsaw being molested like a bear.

Roland told himself he would deal with the wayward puss in the morning. He rationalized that he was too drunk and too tired to try to eject the animal from his bed tonight, so he followed Stinky over to the bed and fell across the mattress beside the feline. It took about ten seconds for the smell to reach his nose and penetrate the drunken fog and register in his olfactory senses.

Jesus you stink! slurred Roland as the smell of rotten fish assaulted his senses. I couldn’t smell you in the bar but now … phew!

Stinky continued to purr.

Roland rolled off the bed into a kneeling position. He used the mattress to push himself erect and trod an erratic path to the window. After some fumbling he managed to turn the window lock and raise the window about halfway before it stuck.

Tomorrow we part company, Roland informed Stinky as he stumbled back to the bed.

An hour later, with Roland snoring sotto voce, Stinky opened one eye and stared at his new friend’s sleeping form, making sure he was asleep. Stinky ran a soft paw across Roland’s cheek and when Roland failed to react, Stinky leapt from the bed to the window and slipped away into the moonlit courtyard. He weaved purposefully through the side streets and back alleys of Key West, under a gibbous moon. Finally he stopped at the rear entrance of a fish restaurant, slipped in through an exhaust vent in the back wall and disappeared. A few minutes later he returned to the alley through the same exhaust vent and crept to the dumpster behind the restaurant. Stinky crawled through a gap below the dumpster and retrieved a small plastic vial of green powder with his paws. He had acquired the power from a local voodoo shop earlier and hid it away in the dumpster for just such an occasion.

Securing the vial between his teeth he trotted back toward Duval House.

Chapter Two

The Buzzards Of Destiny

Why are we doing this? whispered Cutter Andrews to his girlfriend, Hussey Paine, as the buzzards of destiny swooped in low and slow. The birds made lazy downward spirals as they searched for the recently deceased. Hussey and Cutter’s two motionless bodies lay supine on the edge of Lake Helen. I thought we outgrew buzzard bingo years ago.

The lake separated the little villages of Cassandra and Lake Helen, Florida. Cassandra, a sleepy little town tucked away amid the mangroves and palm trees, between Orlando and Daytona, was a close knit community. It consisted of a hotel, a tourist center, and the largest collection of psychics, spiritual healers and mediums east of Berkley.

One last time before we go, Hussey whispered back. I need some more of those little purple mushrooms that grow out of the vulture puke. Now shut up and lie still, they’re circling in.

It is a known fact that when frightened, buzzards vomit. Hussey and Cutter had played this game since they were kids. Growing up in rural Florida you had to find your fun where you could, so they had made a game out of lying very still on the banks of Lake Helen, pretending to be carrion until the buzzards circled and landed. Once the buzzards had settled, and mustered enough courage to approach their potential meal, Hussey and Cutter would spring up, screaming and waving their arms, startling the birds trying to make them puke.

The lake, bathwater warm, was good for a quick dip if they failed to dodge the regurgitating raptors.

Cutter resumed his impatient silence while Hussey watched the buzzards descend through eyes closed to slits. The couple’s arms were spread out in crucifixion positions, outstretched hands inches apart. Hussey was dressed in shorts and a cut-off T-shirt, showing off her athletic, five-foot eight frame. Her dark chestnut hair was fanned out around her head. At twenty-three, Hussey had a face beyond childhood. She didn’t have the kind of beauty that caused heads to turn when she entered a room, or eyes to follow her as she crossed. Men would glance up at her, look her up and down and then revert back to what they were doing, having summed her up as pretty, not beautiful. But if they took a second look, caught that spark of mischievous intelligence in her large hazel eyes, laugh lines radiating from the corners of her eyes like quotation marks, they were compelled to heed what those eyes were saying. Looking from her sparkling eyes to the small spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose, to her slightly parted lips displaying the faintest wistful smile, a smile that caused a small dimple to dint her chin in silent laughter, they sensed she knew a secret joke. A joke, no matter how she explained it, you would never get. And her face, beaming with secret laughter, was beautiful.

Her boyfriend, Cutter Andrews, stretched out beside her was more pretty than smart, with broad shoulders, ice-blue eyes and an IQ mirroring, if not below, the entertainment tastes of the American public. He had the face of a California surfer: tanned, smooth with sun-bleached hair and a simplistic expression, as if nothing ever crossed his mind but the anticipation of the next wave. When Cutter was vexed or angry his mouth drew down to a cruel line, a shadow of potential malevolence, otherwise he maintained the simple and harmless visage of a child at play.

Mid-August in Central Florida is usually as hot as the hinges of hell. Waves of heat rose off Lake Helen and settled on the two buzzard baiters, causing sweat to run down their faces and pool in the crevices of their bodies. The dense, humid air made breathing seem like sucking air through a wet, wool blanket. Occasionally, a wispy cloud would pass across the sun giving them some respite as they tried to lie without moving in the pounding heat.

They’re coming closer, whispered Hussey through side of her mouth, not much longer now.

Moments later a large molting buzzard landed a few feet from Hussy’s prone body. The butt-ugly bird dipped its bald head and poked its sharp, hooked beak toward her to investigate.

Don’t move a muscle, said Cutter, barely audible, let’s see if we can get a few more to land.

Two more buzzards settled down beside the motionless bodies in a flutter of feathers, one at Cutter’s feet and one near Hussey’s head. Hussey squinted through eyelids open in paper thin slits at the movement of the bird. Lying perfectly still, she watched the buzzard inch closer, closer, moving its long featherless neck back and forth and cocking its pink head in curiosity.

The carrion bird leaned over Hussy’s face and moved its head down, eyeing her like a tasty morsel. Hussey screamed and leaped from the grass waving her arms furiously. The buzzard, surprised that its meal was still moving, took to the air in a great flapping of wings, leaving a snowfall of small feathers drifting down on Hussey. As the bird ascended, it let go a stream of sickly pink bile from its screeching beak. Hussey dodged the stream of buzzard vomit that rained down toward her. Cutter wasn’t so lucky. The buzzard which had been examining Cutter’s crotch when Hussey launched herself from the ground had taken flight and, before Cutter could jump out of the way, let out a torrent of vomit on Cutter’s pants and boots.

Hussey saw Cutter stand and watch the great bird fly away, buzzard puke all over his crotch and legs. Bingo! she yelled and burst out laughing.

You lose, said Cutter. You moved first.

Yep, I lose, but at least I’m not covered in buzzard puke.

I told you this was a stupid game. Cutter stared at the mess on his clothes. Now I have to go home and change.

Hussey was still pointing at Cutter’s crotch and laughing.

And staring at my crotch and laughing isn’t exactly good for my self-esteem.

You already have more self-esteem than you need, said Hussey. She dropped back to the grassy pasture in the lotus position.

When Hussey’s laughter subsided and her shoulders stopped shaking with glee, she sighed and looked at Cutter with sad eyes. I’m going to miss this, she said.

Are you sad about leaving Cassandra?

Yes and no, said Hussey with downcast eyes. "I got my degree in organic chemistry so I can go on to med school and get the MD. And this summer living at home has been great but it’s time to move on. Cassandra has been my home all my life, and it’s sad to think I may never come back here to live. I’m going to miss all the weird, quirky people.