I don't live anywhere anymore. My apartment in the East Village was taken over by the faceless management company. Their lawyer claimed I wasn't living there. They were right. 256 East 10th Street was basically a closet for my possessions. I lived with my wife and daughter in Pattaya until this April. We had good times and bad times. It was home, then again I consider anyplace home once you buy a roll of toilet paper. I was sad to leave, but my January arrest by the Thai cyber-crime police necessitated a change in employment.
My wife and I discussed the options.
Teaching English paid little. At tops 20,000-30000 baht per month.
My friend Leslie in Palm Beach listened to my story and said, "You can come here. I have a house for you to take care of. It's a little money, but you can get a start."
Palm Beach in the middle of a recession seemed a good destination and I kissed my wife and daughter good-bye at the Bangkok airport. I had no idea when we might see each other again. The flight was long. I stayed in New York 3 weeks and then headed south to Palm Beach. Leslie greeted me at the airport. At 55 I was almost the youngest passenger in the terminal.
"Good to see you." Leslie gave me a hug.
"Thanks for having me."
"No problems, just remember it's low season." Low season meant the rich had vacated Palm Beach for more temperate climates; the Hamptons, Duchess County, Tuscany, Switzerland, the south of France, and the more tony zipcodes of New England. "I'm not going anywhere, because I'm broke."
She wasn't the only one. I had about $200 in my pocket. I sent my wife half and my mistress half. She's having my baby in September. I took over a house near Donald Trump's Mar-o-Lago. My job was to walk the owners' Airedale. She was a crazy dog. My only social contact here was Leslie and she was bunkered down at her place. We watched Euro 2008 together and ate pasta. Life was simple, but I craved some humanity and Palm Beach is short of that commodity any time of the year.
My friend Bruce was living in Miami Beach. Normally his residence was in the East Village, however he had rented out his flat to make a little money. I had done the same thing my first 4 years in Thailand. I called him and invited him up to Palm Beach.
"I'd love to come up." Bruce was a writer. He wrote stories about his sexual adventures with young foreign men. His last book won the Prix de Flore. The French had toasted him at Cafe de Flores. He was considered a young artist. Bruce was a little older than me only my mirror had lost its young juice as it should after you hit 50.
"And I'll bring some friends. Two Romanian writers and a young New York one, I think you met at my party." Bruce had hosted a party in honor of a French artist in May.
"Young man."
"In his 20s."
"Too old for you."
"Fresh."
I gave him directions. They were simple and that Sunday they arrived in a rental car. Bruce was the first out of the car.
"Darling, you didn't tell me the mansion had a monster dog."
"Pom pom is a little crazy."
"Crazy? She almost bit off an asscheek. Would have had it too if I wasn't so athletic." Bruce was wearing knee-high black soxes and a Romanian soccer uniform aononymously tailored by machines to flatter his XXL frame. "Stop staring at the soxes. They hide my varicose veins. Yes, even gods get old."
He introduced his friends. The Romanians were my age, however Glenn was a youth. Gay too, but not in that horrible steroid Chelsea way.
"I know some of your friends," he said shaking my hand. "Scottie and his wife, Sylvia."
"They are the best people." I escorted my guests inside the house. They were impressed by the swimming pool and scared by Pom pom. She growled a little to easily to be kidding around and I warned them to stay their distance.
"Vicious, hah." Bruce was fearless. "I spend 20 years with hustlers on 42nd Street. I know how to deal with tough."
He tamed Pom pom with a slice of cheese. She wouldn't leave him alone the rest of the day. We concocted a dinner out of my left-overs; pasta, carrotte rapee, toast with cheese. Wine was out drink of choice. I took them over to the beach. Bruce and I walked down to Rod Stewart's mansion. He confided several secrets to me. We know each other over 20 years. I gave him advice on love.
"A mnan with a wife and mistress in a foreign country must know the meaning of love."
"I do when I hold my daughter in my arms."
"And when will you go back?"
"I don't know." The sun was dropping behind the palm trees. We swam in the ocean. I hadn't been with this many people in nearly a month. Leslie came down for a beer. Bruce made Pom pom do tricks. He was the master of ceremony. Palm Beach almost seemed paradise, then it was time for them to go. Bruce pulled me to the side and duked $20 into my hand.
"For some more wine."
"Thanks, I need it." I wasn't looking for veritas in vino.
"Darling, everything will be fine. You were arrested. You didn't go to jail. You came here. You still speak with your wife and mistress. You'll be a father again and________"
"And?" I hope for him to say I was a brilliant writer.
"And you're living in a mansion."
"Yes, with a crazy dog." Pom Pom ran up to Bruce seeking a last favor.
"Silly dog." Bruce patted her head. "The only cheese I have is under____"
"Spare us."
"If I must." Bruce kissed me good-night. I waved to them as they drove to Ocean Drive. Leslie beeped her horn. She was going home too.
"That was something we never see in Palm Beach. Real people. I can't wait till get out of here." She was selling her houses as soon as she could and vacating the USA for Paris.
"Me neither." Pom pom and I stood on the street for several seconds. Rain splattered from a blackening sky and we went back inside the house. It wasn't home, but I didn't need a home in Palm Beach, only a place to rest my head and this house suited that need fine.
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