December 12, 2017--Snowbirding: Top Spot (Originally Posted January 3, 2013)

"I know what you're thinking."

We were at our usual table by the window waiting for our cortaditos and Eggs Bohio.

We'd seen her before, always at about 9:00.  I squinted into the sun, didn't say anything back to her, but nodded acknowledgement in her direction.  But never previously had she come over to us. "Maybe," she said, "you're thinking--What kind of a job is this anyway?" 

That was not what I was thinking. Maybe just that it looked like it was a hard way to make money, standing at the highway all day. "Not really that," I said. I was happy when the coffee arrived and hoped I could turn my attention to sipping it while it was still hot.

"But do I look to you like someone who should be doing this rain and shine?" I couldn't think of what to say to that. "I never thought I'd wind up this way. But you gotta do what you gotta do."

I mumbled something to indicate I agreed. To what exactly--not wanting right then to know too much more--I wasn't sure.

"I'm not complaining, mind you, but just want to let you know."

I also didn't follow what she was trying to say about whatever it was that she wanted me to know. Since I had had a sleepless night I needed my caffeine before I could figure any of this out or engage her, or anyone else for that matter. So I gulped down more of the cortadito and in the process burned the roof of my mouth. "Shit," I muttered under my breath.

Undeterred she said, "Take a look at this." She held up a large yellow and black sign, on end taller than she, on which in bold letters it said--

                                                   Top Spot
                                             Bahamian Restaurant
                                            Lunch Special--$5.99

It also included an arrow directing potential customers, when she held it across her body, to the Top Spot in the same plaza where El Bohio is located.

"Looking for customers. That's my job. I stand out there on Federal Highway," without turning she gestured behind her toward the road, "all day, from now until 5:00. Then I'm done. They pay me in cash, and that's it. My job." She shrugged and shot us a that's-it smile.

"It's going to be hot today," Rona said, trying, for the both of us, to be empathetic.

"You should have been here in the summer. Humid too. But as I said, I gotta do what I gotta do."

"True for sure," Rona smiled.

"You guys from here?"

"When we're in Florida we have a place in Delray. South of here."

"Nice there. Real nice. I'm originally from Alexandria. Up in Virginia. Worked in the hospitality industry. Catering. Special events. That sort of thing. I liked it well enough but when it dried up my house slipped under water and I walked away from it." She tried to smile. "Then my sister, who lives in Boynton, just down the road from here, took me in. Real decent of her. But a big strain. She has two kids. Nine and eleven. And to tell you the truth, we don't always get along all that well. Especially now when we're living on top of each other. So I'm making plans to find a place of my own." She shrugged again, leaning on her sign. "Though from what they pay me doing this it could be ten years before I can do that."

"Maybe . . ."

"I know what you're about to say," she said to Rona, "It's true, I'm making things worse than they are. They're bad enough that I don't have to do that."

"That's not really what I meant," Rona said, "But from the look of things between here and Delray, especially in Delray, it feels like there's some more activity in the hotel and restaurant business. There are a lot of new places on Atlantic Avenue and at least one new hotel so maybe . . ."

"Do you have any idea how many people like me are looking for whatever jobs there are? Probably at least hundreds. I consider myself lucky to have this."  She pointed to the Top Spot sign and gave it a loud smack.

"But it sounds like you had, I mean have good experience, so maybe that would make you stand out. From what I hear having worked up north gives one a leg up down here."

"I've heard that too. But from me you'd never know that's true. So I'm thinking maybe it isn't true. I mean the value of experience up north." Sounding resigned, she took a deep breath.

With coffee flowing through my system, I finally joined in and said, "No matter how hard things are it's important, don't you think, to retain an optimistic attitude." As soon as the words came out of my mouth I wished I could have retrieved them--to myself I sounded so insincere and banal.

She looked skeptically at me to let me know she too felt I was spouting cliches. "You try this for a few days," she said with muted aggression, "and then tell me how optimistic you feel.  But don't mishear me," she added to be sure I didn't think she was giving me that hard a time, "I know this is a get-by strategy--doing whatever I need to do to get back on my feet--but it does get you down after awhile."

"How long have you been doing this?" Rona asked.

"Not long enough for me to feel that this is it; but too long for me to delude myself that things will be better soon."

Not knowing what to say but wanting to be helpful, I suggested, "Have you thought about getting into the health care field? Down here, or for that matter back up north, aren't there lots of opportunities for that sort of work?"

"In hospitality, it's true, your job is to take care of people's needs. So I can see a connection. But it's not that hands on."

I noticed her eyes beginning to flutter. What had I inadvertently stumbled on? I thought about re-concentrating on my eggs and coffee, but was in too deep in whatever that might be to again turn away from her.

"My mother . . ." she said, struggling to complete the thought.

Rona reached toward her through the open picture window. She took a half step back and let the sign fall out of her grip. It clattered on the asphalt of the parking lot.

Half turning from us, she swatted at a tear that was forming on her cheek. "For eight years, until about the same time I got laid off, I worked at the hotel evenings and nights--when events were scheduled--but during the day, I took care of her. All her needs. We couldn't afford aides and she didn't want to be put in a care facility. We couldn't live with that either. My other sister and me. So we did the best we could. 24/7. We had no other life.

"She weighed nearly 300 pounds and any time my sister or me would go out, even for just an hour, or tried to get some sleep--my sister worked as a waitress at the hotel at special events and catered parties--when we'd come back or wake up, we'd find her on the floor. It was if she waited for us not to be with her or when we were catching a nap that she would try to rouse herself and get herself to the bathroom, or whatever. And with all that weight plus the Parkinson's, she couldn't walk or pick herself up off the floor. So we had to do that too. I'm strong, but it's so hard to lift someone that heavy up off the floor and then into bed or the wheelchair. I was afraid I'd cripple myself."

Neither of us could think of what to say. We looked back at her and nodded with as much understanding as we could summon.

"Did I tell you we did that for eight years?" We nodded in tandem. "Eight." We kept up the nodding. "That felt like a lifetime. I had nothing left when I was let go and, although I knew we would have big money trouble, to tell you the truth, I wasn't half-sorry not to be working. I mean at the hotel because at home things only got worse. Especially when she began to stiffen up from the Parkinson's. That can happen too. Do you have any idea what it's like to have to take care of someone with all that heft who's becoming stiff as a board?" As if to illustrate, she kicked at the signboard she had dropped at her feet.

"So when you suggested that I go into the health field, I . . ."

"I was just trying to be helpful," I said, feeling guilty, chocking back a cough, "Not that . . . I mean, I didn't . . . how could I . . . know? Sorry."

"No need to say that," she looked right at me, "I know you were trying to help." She paused to take a deep breath and looked around as if to check to see if the Top Spot people who hired her to bring in customers would notice she hadn't yet set herself up on the highway.

"Did I tell you she died? My mother."

We mouthed, "No. Sorry."

"It was a blessing. For her and, to be honest, for us. She wasn't going to get better. Only worse. So this was a release."

"I wish . . ." Rona began to say.

She waved away the thought and, bending to retrieve her sign, said, "You seem like good people. I see the way you talk to people who come here for coffee and breakfast." I wasn't feeling that good about myself--how I wanted to ignore her when she approached us. "That's why, I suppose, I came over to talk with you. Just to have someone who could understand my situation before heading over there," she again gestured toward the corner where she was about to spend the day, "just someone I could tell a little of my story to."

"We come here once or twice a week," Rona said, "so I hope you'll feel you can stop by and talk with us whenever you want."

"I promise not to bother you," she said, "You're here to have a good time. Not to be brought down by the likes of me."

We shook our heads to disabuse her of that thought.

She held up the sign so we could see it again. "That's me all right. At the top spot." She laughed at that. "But, not to worry. I'll be OK. I'm still getting myself back on my feet. Things could be a lot worse."

And with that she trotted over to the highway.

January 24, 2017--Cortaditos at Bohio

Back to the road trip breakfast stories. This is the last in the series--

We were up at Bohio in Lantana, our favorite Cuban breakfast place where they serve a world-class cortadito--a scalding mix of dark Cuban espresso topped by a layer of steamed milk. It's worth the 10-mile drive up Federal Highway.

Before I could take my first sip, from the next table I heard someone say, "The news these days, man, is all about entertainment and distracting us from what's really going on."

Ah, I thought, there might be some good political conversation to go along with the cortadito.

"I couldn't agree with you more," I said, turning toward two men who were sharing the scrambled eggs special. "And I like your choice of food," I smiled to break the ice, "That’s my favorite. The onions and peppers and tomatoes and crisp pieces of bacon mixed in the eggs are wonderful."

"Man, what are they feeding us?" From his serious tone I knew he wasn't talking about the food. "And what do they take us for? They think we're children or something? I wish they'd treat us serious." I was nodding. "Now it's the Whitney Houston business. And contraception. How long do they think they can get away with those?"

"Until they have the toxicology report or gasoline is $5.00 a gallon," I suggested.

"In the meantime, man, look at Whitney’s record sales. Off the charts. And you know what?" He didn't pause for me to jump in, "they jacked up the prices. Doubled them. Can you believe that?"

"That I can believe."

"I'm all for capitalism, man. I don't have a problem with any of that, but I do have a problem with what the media are up to."

"What's that?" Rona asked.

"To keep us from knowing what's really going on." Neither of us said anything. "I'm in IT, man, I mean I used to be. I got laid off more than a year ago—it’s tough out there--but the things I learned I'm not sure you want to hear about on a beautiful morning like this." He gestured toward the east where the sun was shining through Bohio's wide-open windows.

"For example," he slapped his cell phone on the table, "they know where you are. From this." He tapped the phone. "Wherever you are on the planet. And I mean the whole planet, man.

"Why would . . . ?" Rona began to ask.

"Obvious, man. To control us better. Like I told you, I had this IT job. A big job down in Miami. Evaluating mortgage applications for a bank. One of the really big ones, man. No need for you to know just which. One day my boss called me in to let me know what the bank was really about. He said to me, 'Man, you've been here long enough and have proven yourself. I trust you, man, so you should know what’s going on.’ He told me my job, the bank's job, was to gain all kinds of information about everyone. Everyone, man. From the Social number and bank statements and taxes. From all of that and then to pass it along to the government, To a part of the government that you never heard of." He gestured toward me. "As I said, man, you don't want to know. You just want to enjoy the rest of the time allotted to you. To enjoy the sunshine and the good food and your lovely lady." He was smiling broadly.

"I can tell you from experience that the government knows everything,” he went on, “and I mean everything. And with that they control you and everything else."

"I find this hard . . ."

"I know, man, ‘to believe.’ Right?" I nodded again. "At first I too didn’t believe what they were telling me. So let me give you an example."

"I was just going to ask if you could do that."

"No problem, amigo. Do you remember the savings and loan scandal? From back in the 80s? You seem to be up on things. To most folks it looked like your typical banking scandal. The big boys, man, and this including a half-dozen senators, taking advantage of the government cutting regulations on the banks. And what happened? I mean from what you read in the papers?"

I tried to recall but while I was struggling to do so, he continued, now in part propelled by the two Cuban espressos he had downed, "Well, like recently, when these banks came crashing down and seemed to threaten the whole system, what happened?"

"The government stepped in to bail them out."

"That’s what they wanted you to think. The government I mean."

"I'm confused," I said. I truly was. "What did they want us to think?"

"That it was just another bail out. That's what they wanted you to believe. The truth is that this gave the government a chance to look into everyone's bank account. I mean of all these banks’ customers."

Squinting at him, Rona asked, "For what purpose?"

"It's part of a much bigger thing. About the government wanting to know, man, where we are every minute, who we're with, what we're reading, soon even what we're thinking. One of these days they’ll be able to plant a tiny chip in your brain,” he tapped his temple, “so they can know what you’re thinking. This isn’t science fiction, man. Remember, I’m from IT."

"Why do they want to know all this?"

"To sell us things. You got to realize that's government's main job. To make it easy for those corporations to get their hands on what’s left of our money. That's the whole point, man. I know you're skeptical. I used to be too until I looked into what's really behind all the new technology--these phones, our computers, our TVs, our GPSs, everything electronic, man. It's all about controlling us by taking away our freedom. Freedom is the most powerful thing. To take control of us they have to take it away. In ways, man, so that we don't notice it’s disappearing."

He paused to gulp down another shot of espresso. "Let me give you another example. Remember that Ted Kozinski Unabomber guy?"

"I do," I said.

"Well, man, what do you think his real story is? And I'll throw in something else for you to think about, man, since you're looking at me that way again. To fill out the picture. There's also that Timothy McVeigh. The Oklahoma City bomber. Remember him? Supposedly these two dudes acted alone. OK, McVeigh had that stooge Terry Nichols, or whatever, working for him. At least that's the cover story that they want you to believe. If you really look into his case, McVeigh’s, you'll discover that he was part of a big network. Guys who supposedly hated the federal government because of Waco, man, and Ruby Ridge. Remember them?"

"I do."

"And did you read the long confession he wrote while he was waiting for them to execute him?”

“I have a vague memory of that.”

“I recommend it to you. But in the meantime, I can tell you that the official stories in their cases are about these terrorist types--supposedly American terrorists--acting on their own. Unabomber, right? You know, man, what una means. One or alone, right?"

"About that I don't know," I confessed.

"Well, you can trust me on that one. But here's the real story, man,” he looked around and then leaned forward to whisper, “they were actually working for the government."

"Really? I find that hard . . ."

He put a finger up to shush me, "I know you do. That’s the whole point. For you not to believe this. As I said, trust me on this one, amigo. I know from where I speak. It was the plan for the government to make it look like these were militia-types. Hating the federal government. Acting on their own. And after doing their deeds they gave the feds the justification they needed to take away more of our freedom. They provided the excuse to order up more surveillance.”

“This seems s little far fetched to me,” I offered.

Waving me off, he said. “And if you think this is far out, do you know that McVeigh and Kozinski were both working with the al Qaeda terrorists?” He paused for that to sink in and then continued, “I can tell by the way you’re both looking at me that you don’t believe this.” He was right about that.

“As I said, man, at first neither did I. But I came around because what I’m saying is true. It's all tied together because after al Qaeda attacked us on 9/11 what happened?" Rona and I just looked back at him. "Well you know about that Patriot Act, don't you? That let’s the government listen in on our telephone calls and emails. You think Bush could have gotten away with that one if he hadn't allowed the Israelis to attack us?"

"The Israelis? Now you're going too far," I said. “Actually, that's been charged before, investigated, and dismissed as, frankly, anti-Semitic."

"That's not who I am, man. I love the Israelis and the Jews. To me they're the best people in this world. I wish we here in this country were more like them."

"But you just said the Israelis were behind 9/11." Quoting him back to himself, I asked, "How does that make them 'the best people in the world'?"

"Well, some of them, man, are involved in what I'm trying to explain to you. Like I said, Americans for the most part are good. And most Israelis too, But all these good people here--and that includes all of us--and in Israel are at the mercy of their governments. It's the governments that I have my problem with. Not the people, man. Get me?"

"I think I do," Rona said, wanting to begin to bring the conversation to a conclusion and to get back to her cortadito. It was getting cold. “I know we have our problems, but about what you’re saying I’m not so sure.” She picked up her cup and turned back to her eggs.

“Sorry if I got you all upset, man” he said, extending his hand to me. I shook it.

“That’s OK,” I said, “We like hearing all points of view.”

“One last thing,” he winked, “If you haven’t, you should read Kozinski’s Manifesto. Some of it’s crazy, that I’ll admit to you, but most of it's worth taking seriously. Especially how technology is taking away our freedom. And that McVeigh, who was in Desert Storm, was pretty liberal about foreign policy. He was against all these wars in the Middle East. Check them out, man.”

One the drive home, Rona wondered out loud, “How does someone as well informed as he come to such conspiratorial conclusions? You would think that after spending so much time reading he would see things in a much more balanced way. Sure there are problems with the government. Even most liberals would agree with that. But to see us and the Israelis conspiring to attack the World Trade Center just to help corporations make more money? I don’t get how someone that well informed would believe that.”

“I agree. We hear all sorts of anti-government things from people who really don’t know what they’re talking about. Who simply make things up and won’t accept any facts that contradict their beliefs.”

“Maybe the next time we run into him we’ll ask him about that—how he gets to his conclusions.”

“As for me,” I said, “the next time I think I’ll just pay attention to my cortadito.”

July 30, 2014--POW/MIA

El Bohio, our favorite place in Florida for a Cuban breakfast, is right across the road from the Lantana post office.

Sipping my cortadito, I noticed that right below the American flag, the post office was flying the POW/MIA flag.

"Is that legal?" I asked, pointing.

"I'm not sure about the legality," Rona said, "The post office is no longer an official part of the federal government and so I don't know what rules they have to follow regarding flags."

"I don't know exactly why I'm saying this, but it gives me the creeps. Look at the image--a silhouette in black of a prisoner with his head bowed and behind him a guard tower and a string of barbwire."

"It gives you the creeps?"

"That's how I feel. I mean, I think this flag was designed and first flown during the Vietnam War when the North Vietnamese held many prisoners and certainly there were bodies of soldiers that hadn't been discovered or their remains expatriated. But . . ."

"That was, what, 40 years ago and you still see lots of these flags all over. What's that about?"

"I don't know, but I know it's not flying in downtown Manhattan,"

"You hardly see American flags there. Somehow any show of overt patriotism to some--I hate to admit it, liberals and progressives--is considered suspect. Too pro-America. Minimally not cool."

"Remember how when Barack Obama was first running for president he was criticized for not wearing a lapel flag?"

"Or covering his heart when reciting the Pledge of Allegiance?"

"Or," I added, "excoriated by rightwing extremists for not saying 'under God' during the Pledge."

"Crazy. Since there are lots of videos of him saying just that."

"So that's in part why the POW/MIA flag agitates me."

"And what's the other part?"

I thought for a moment. "You know, I don't know."