We breakfast at Clara’s and, later, stroll on the wide Collins Avenue whose downtown is full of Jewish boarding houses and dilapidated hotels. Saturday is religious for the Jews so it is un-crowded. I note the architectural motif is 2-story Spanish stucco mostly commercial storefront with small eateries and tropical juice bars and gift shops. The sun is cleanly bright, no cloud in sight and a fresh, tangy sea breeze puts us at ease. I wear tan cotton slacks above brown moccasin shoes and open-neck orange short-sleeve shirt while Ali is gamorous (Pardon, my word play on gams, or as they say in Hollywood, a nice pair of lady's legs) in fashionable mid-thigh, belted white shorts & sandals, pink pullover rayon shirt and a wide-brim straw hat to protect brain from sun.
Ali says, “Let’s walk bay side, I wanna see the Causeway.”
We reach it: a fading white stucco bay-crossing bridge, two lanes for cars, sidewalks along each lane, and white banisters at edge over water. We stop on it and look south over smooth blue-green bay. Ahead, a kid fishes with hand line.
“Hey, whatchya catchin’?”Ali asks. I see the kid is a tomboy girl.
“Nuthin’ bitin’,” she answers, glancing curious because of me.
I note open-top small cardboard box of blood-red squirming worms in olive black seaweed. Hand line is green string, crisscrossed on a tic-tack-toe frame. The green line runs over the white top of the bridge side and down into the water. Ali leans over on right, snapping pictures while I on left follow the conversation. The kid is Kay, 9 years old, lives in Miami and informs us her father, Phil, is a writer. My attention piqued I make a note of Kay: short brown hair, white pullover on flat chest and with ‘Kay’ in Gothic script sewn over left pocket; she sports green elastic shorts, and her feet bare in toe-thong yellow sponge rubber sandals.
Minutes pass and no bite from a fish. Ali suggests nearby juice bar. We sit street-side at white, round table in the front of Monte’s Tropical Papaya and Monte, a pleasant colored gentleman has just delivered a gigantic salad of tropical fruit – a plate, centered with yellow mango & papaya pieces, and surrounded by cubed pineapple and wedged orange & grapefruit chunks, and topped by strawberries, blueberries, blackberries and white slices of apple artfully arranged on bed of palm leaves within circle of candied dates.
We eat all from the same big plate, sitting with view of bay and bridge, Kay between me and Ali.
Kay asks Ali, with turn of head at me, “Where’s he from?”
“Japan,” I reply.
“Oh! Phil don’t like Japs. Says they take over everything.”
I laugh. “Well, your father has a point. But we are not all the same. I like America and Americans. And I am a writer too. What does your father write?”
Kay is busy chewing papaya. She swallows and says, “Ever heard of When Worlds Collide? Dad did that with a pal.”
Ali registers surprise in characteristic Bronx way: “Wha? Did you say When Worlds Collide? I'm a scientifiction buff and that’s a classic. Is your last name Balmer or Wylie? Wait. It must be Wylie 'cause you call your dad ‘Phil’.”
Kay, busy eating, nods her head Yes. Even I who am a rare reader of science fiction know of Philip Wylie and admire his experimental Finnley Wren because of its expressive and often mysterious vocabulary that sends one off to dictionary on enjoyable journeys of new word collection. Wylie is a word magician – a writer’s writer. He pleasures by his meaningful reverberations.
“Suppose we deliver you by taxi, home? Will it be OK?” asks Ali.
Kay is busy chewing papaya. She swallows and says, “Ever heard of When Worlds Collide? Dad did that with a pal.”
Ali registers surprise in characteristic Bronx way: “Wha? Did you say When Worlds Collide? I'm a scientifiction buff and that’s a classic. Is your last name Balmer or Wylie? Wait. It must be Wylie 'cause you call your dad ‘Phil’.”
Kay, busy eating, nods her head Yes. Even I who am a rare reader of science fiction know of Philip Wylie and admire his experimental Finnley Wren because of its expressive and often mysterious vocabulary that sends one off to dictionary on enjoyable journeys of new word collection. Wylie is a word magician – a writer’s writer. He pleasures by his meaningful reverberations.
“Suppose we deliver you by taxi, home? Will it be OK?” asks Ali.
In taxi I engage Kay in conversation, explaining Japan and myself. I believe I am making an impression on this young mind because I am different and thus am memorable and also because I fill her with information that hitherto has been exotic and incomplete. Chance encountering with stimulating person may affect a child importantly, and since my dream in Winona I feel the importance of influencing young minds. And here is Kay; and I hope from this meeting to make a good swerve in her life.
Our taxi pulls up to a white stucco 2-story private home surrounded by a green hedge of well cut bushes and an ordered lawn and tropic garden behind.
To read next, click 2.(76-78) The End of Us All
To read next, click 2.(76-78) The End of Us All
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