Gentleman Picaresque

At Marina Jack’s on the deck he eats, looking out across the bay, blackened grouper, a little smudge on his Hawaiian polo and white khaki shorts. He must have been down to the keys, bouncing from bar to bar in his yacht, he must know the ins and outs of the social tide, the late night champagne parties on 3 million dollar decks over the Gulf, he must have stories to fill a treasure chest. Little black flies dance around his gray hair and the thousand docked white sailboats reflect in the mirrors of his aviators. The buxom girls he’s fucked sit in the back of his head like trophies laughing and moaning, remember the blonde at Lido Beach? The redhead at Islamorada? It must be thirty years since retiring when the toe of his sandal bumps his partner’s foot under the table, “Can you smell that Gulf air Charles? What’s on the tip of the evening?” Both ex-navy types, men like tunneled waves lined with memories, they’re running from running. And you know he drives a Mercedes and you know he swoons to Sinatra with a lady and a 1961 Cab parked in the cove of some island over crystal clear water that glimmers in the moonlight, cuts straight to the bottom, and you know you’re catching just a glimpse of his lunch, a slice of a life you know you would kill to live.