Palm Beach Sunday 2008

In April 2008 I lived nowhere. My apartment in the East Village had been taken over by the faceless management company. 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 considered 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 Lisa 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 three weeks and then headed south to Palm Beach. Lisa greeted me at the airport. At 55 I was almost the youngest passenger in the terminal.

"Good to see you." Lisa 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."

I had about $200 in my pocket.

That evening I sent my wife half and my mistress half. She will be having my baby in July. I took over a house near Donald Trump's Mar-o-Lago. My job required walking the owners' Airedale. She was a crazy dog. My only social contact here was Lisa and her son Kris. They were 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 lived in Miami Beach. Normally the writer resided was in the East Village, however he had rented out his flat to support his life in Florida. I called him and invited him up to Palm Beach.

"I'd love to come up." Bruce 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 the mirror loses its youth juice after 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."

My directions 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 tried to bit off my asscheek. Would have had it too if I wasn't so athletic." Bruce was wearing knee-high black sox and a Romanian soccer uniform anonymously tailored by machines to flatter his XXL frame. "Stop staring at the sox. 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 too 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. The big dog beg at his side 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. Bruce whispered his desires for the driver's wife, although only in the most cerebral of liaisons.

After lunch we strolled through a garden path to the beach. Bruce and I walked down to Rod Stewart's mansion. He confided several secrets to me. We had known each other over twenty years. I gave him advice on love.

"A man 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 dropped behind the palm trees. We swam in the ocean. I hadn't been with this many people in nearly a month. Lisa came down for a beer. Bruce taught 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, but oblivio.

"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 the Airedales's 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. Lisa beeped her horn. I walked over to her car. The sky darkened overhead.

"That was something we never see in Palm Beach. Real people. I can't wait till we get out of here." She was selling her house and vacating the USA for Paris.

She backed out on the driveway.

"Me neither." Pom Pom and I stood outside for several seconds. Rain splattered down from a black 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.

For today.