April 3, 2013--Snowbirding: Livin' the Dream

“Welcome to our little bit of paradise,” Seth, grinning, said, seated across the counter from us. We hadn’t seen him thus far this year but were not surprised to find him at Sam's.  It was one of his early morning hangouts.  Unlike the other regulars, insomniac older folks who can’t wait for Sam's to open so than can linger over a cup of coffee and bask in forgetfulness with their sleepless comrades, Seth was just twenty-one and probably had been up all night partying. Though, from what I knew about him, he too would have a few things he might want to forget.

For example, he had been alone since he was twelve.  His father disappeared up north when Seth was five and his mother died of breast cancer just as he was about to become a teenager.  And thus, unlike more fortunate and fun-seeking teens, his life since then had been one of struggle—mainly for money and the things for which one needs money: places to live (in his case there had been at least five), walking-around money, and for food, though from the looks of him through the years we’ve known him this apparently was not much of a priority—he was and continues to be thin as a reed.

“What you been up to, Seth?” I mouthed across to him.

“Livin’ the dream,” his grin grew even broader, enough so to convince me he had convinced himself of this.  Considering his life circumstances how could he be thinking about this place as paradise—even a “little bit” of one--much less a dream. Unless by that he meant a nightmare.  But his radiant look suggested that he was either sincere or taking some form of controlled substance.  Knowing what I thought I knew about Seth, I suspected more likely the latter.

He’s bright but not surprisingly had done poorly in school; and since he was also frail and uncoordinated—no coach would allow him to sit on the bench or even handle the water pail--there was no respite from the bullies.  He had the worst of all worlds and so had grown up pretty much alone, scrounging for places to crash and a little understanding or compassion.

On the other hand, I’ve known other youngsters who grew up this way and none of them wound up with Seth’s sense of grace or self-confidence. So I felt comfortable asking him to tell me a little more about what he had been up to.

“The last time I saw you guys, I think I was for the third time trying to get back on track in school, but was about to drop out for the last and final time.”

“You shouldn’t say that,” Rona began to say, but then thought better of it.

“I know what you’re saying—that it’s never too late and all that stuff.  I know you’re right, but from where I sit, that’s the way I see it. I’m not what you would call academic material.  I like reading and all, but not when they make you do it and then you have write about it and stuff like that.”

I nodded though I hated the idea that at such a young age he was already giving up on himself.

“With due respect, I know you guys are all about school and such.  And I know you you know what you're talking about.  In today’s world where are you if you don’t get at least a high school education?”

“Actually,” I was about to say but like Rona cut myself off.

“I tried that.  Like I said, I’m a three-time loser.”  He winked.  “I know it’s not that bad, but if I’m honest with myself I know the score.  If I wasn’t good at that I wouldn’t have gotten this far.  Like I said, or think I said, I know others in the same boat and most of them haven’t done nearly half as good as me.  And I know you’re thinking, ‘That’s not very good at all.’  I mean ‘this far,’ which incidentally I agree with.  I don’t mean with myself—I’m not like that—agreeing with myself all the time.  Quite the opposite.”

I was getting confused.  “You’re losing me Seth.”

“Sometimes I get all tangled up when I talk about myself—when I look back on my life.  I’m not looking for any sympathy, mind you.  Really.  I’m past needin’ that.  I know I’m still young, but I’m young beyond my years.”  He laughed at that.  “And I sure know how to get by, wouldn’t you say?”

“And you still think you’re living the dream?”  I probably should not have asked that.  After the words came out of my mouth I wished I had held up.  He was entitled to think about his life any way he wanted.  And I didn’t have the duration or depth of a relationship with him to ask something so intimate.  Especially not in Sam's, in public.  But at least no one was paying attention.  The regulars continued to be lost in their coffee, scratching at their crossword puzzles or staring at Headline News on the TV.

“That’s OK.  It’s a fair question.  I don’t mind it at all.  I ask myself the same thing all the time.”

Let off the hook, I looked directly at him and by shrugging encouraged him to share more of his thoughts.

“I worked for awhile bussing in a diner but that didn’t work out so well and I felt it was going to lead to nowhere. I’m not that ambitious—I have to be realistic—but I wanted something with more of a future.  I thought maybe I could learn a skill.  Roofing, for example, there’s lots of work for them—but I’m scared of heights and they have Mexicans down here to do that for less than minimum wage.  I’m born in America and proud of it.  Though I like your guy Obama,” he winked again, knowing something about my politics.

“Or maybe learn how to cook.  I thought about that too.  There’s always that kind of work in Florida with all the tourists and snowbirds and whatever.  But look at me." He pointed at his bird-like chest. "I hate food.  Give me eggs all day and I’m happy, though I know that'll kill me.  But anything else?"  He made a face.  "What can I say?  I even thought with all the old people here—no disrespect intended—I could get trained to be an aide or something.  They make good money and all.  And I get along with them.  I seem to get along along with you, for example.”

“And I with you,” I said, hoping he agreed it was reciprocal.

“So that leaves digging ditches for the county, though those jobs, believe it or not, are hard to come by.  Or becoming a mechanic.  Or body-and-fender work.  You know, bangin' out dents, fillin’ ‘em with Bondo, sandin’ 'em down, repaintin'.  Lot’s of need for that kind of thing here with all the crazy driving. Old folks doing 25 on the interstate or hopped-up Latins going 100. So that’s what I decided to do.  Look for work in a body shop.”
I nodded since this was beginning to make at least some sense to me.

“So you’re asking, how does someone like me find that kind of work?  Fair enough.  Got no training, got no experience, it’s hard to fake this kind of work if you don’t know what you’re doing.  Well some kid I went to high school with—‘went’ in a manner of speaking as you know—has an uncle who has a shop down toward Boca.  A broken-down sort of place.  Not one of those fancy ones where the Boca babes bring their BMWs they scratched up.  We’re at the other end of the food chain, but there’s work for us too.  And so this Uncle Smitty took me in.  He’s an OK guy.  Began me workin’ with his painter, Louie, whose brain’s shot from inhaling all that solvent for twenty-five years.  But he’s got enough marbles left to show me a thing or two and Smitty tells me that soon he’ll teach me to weld and after that I’ll know enough to be a regular mechanic and make good money.”

“That sounds pretty good to me,” I said, a little half-heartedly since, to be honest, I thought Seth might still be able to get his GED and who knows . . . ?

“You’re giving me that look again,” Seth said with his hands cupped around his mouth as if this was meant for only me to hear.

“What look is that?”

“You know, the one that says doin’ this kind of work, worse, thinkin’ about it as something long-term, is beneath me.”
“That’s not what . . .”

“It’s OK.  I get you.  I know where you're coming from.  And,” he assured me, “I respect that.  I really do.  All I ask is that you do the same thing.”  That felt fair.  “Your way isn’t the only way.  You have to remember where I come from and where I’ve been.  Being alive in my case is an accomplishment or not being strung out or in the slammer.  Believe me, that’s a real accomplishment.  Something I feel pretty proud about.”
“And you should,” Rona said, getting up off her stool and heading toward the other side of the counter where Seth was perched, “You really should.”

“You asked me before—doubting me, weren’t you?--what kind of paradise this is and also what could I possibly mean when I’m saying that I’m livin’ the dream.”

“I can see that . . .” I stammered.

“Well a long time ago I gave up thinking about paradise, this one or the next one.”  I was pleased to see that he was smiling again.  “But I’m not about to give up the dream part.  There are dreams and then again dreams.”  He paused.  “Mine is right for me.  At least that’s what I’m thinking.  Though I know you think there has to be much more than that for it to be a real dream.”

“Not really,” I said, not telling the entire truth while looking down into my coffee mug.  I realized I needed to do some more thinking about this.  I was already suspecting he might have figured out more about this than I.

“What's a dream after all?” he asked.  Ken sitting next to me lifted his head from his puzzle and looked directly at me.  He had been taking in more of this than I had imagined.  As had Charley who was sitting a couple of stools away from Seth, playing with his eggs.

By then Rona had slid in next to Seth.  She put her arm around him and lowered her head softly to his shoulder. 

He sat there, looking across at me.  His smile growing bigger and bigger.