Think of getting back to work and finding people. Worry about finding yourself later.
3
Sarasota High School was within walking distance of my office-home. I took the car. There were places to go, people to see, things to do and concentrate on.
After I had shaved, washed myself and brushed my teeth in the second-floor rest room six doors down from my office, I put on clean tan slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt and one of my basic bland ties. I’ve got one brown, one blue and one gray with Mickey Mouse embroidered on it (a gift from a client with a sense of something he thought was humor) and a Salvador Dali tie with melting clocks and distant rocks. This morning I wore the basic brown. I wore my glasses. The only time I normally wore my glasses was when I was driving, but sometimes I wore them in the belief, mistaken or not, that they made me look more like a professional something.
Before I left, I called the office of Geoffrey Green, M.D., psychiatrist to the well-to-do. I wondered what a conversation between Green and Ann Horowitz would sound like.
The receptionist who answered was pleasantly sympathetic when I said I had a problem. She asked me who had referred me to Dr. Green and I said Melanie Sebastian. I told her I needed only a few minutes of his time.
“One moment, please,” she said.
I stood at my window waiting and watching the morning traffic on 301. Across the street was a bar called the Crisp Dollar Bill. It was in a sagging building and the once bright-red sign, according to Dave, had long ago faded to a sickly pink. Next to the bar was a small two-story building with a dance studio on the second floor. The studio had large glass windows. Once in a while I would stand on the balcony, maybe lean on the railing and watch people waltz.
South of the bar there was a consignment shop and a few other stores. Behind these businesses were the last vestiges of the wall of the old White Sox spring-training stadium.
The Sox had moved to Ed Smith Stadium on Twelfth Street before I broke down in Sarasota. In the summer, the Minor League Sarasota White Sox had played at Ed Smith and the town had boasted that Michael Jordan had briefly lived in town, a one-season drawing card. The Sox had moved out and the Cincinnati Reds had moved in. I still hadn’t gone to a baseball game.
“Mr. Fonesca?” the receptionist chimed.
“Yes.”
“Dr. Green can see you for a few minutes at one o’clock today. Can you make that?”
“Yes.”
“Come about ten minutes early to fill out some forms.”
“Okay. I’ll be there.”
I hung up. I’d let her hold on to the illusion that I was a potential patient until it got to the point where I might be billed. I couldn’t afford that bill. If I had a leg and one arm in the door, I knew how to squeeze my way in.
The DQ was dosed. Too early. I walked to Gwen’s Diner at the corner. Gwen had retired four years ago. Her daughter Sheila had taken over. Regulars started calling her Gwen Two. After a while they dropped the “Two.” Sheila had a teenage daughter who waited tables after school. Her name was Althea. I wondered if she would become Gwen Three. Maybe it would become a tradition, like the Phantom, the Ghost Who Walks. There would be a Gwen to replace the last Gwen until some developer like Carl Sebastian decided to have a giant step on Gwen’s Diner, sweep it away and build an office building or more high-cost and high-rise apartments.
The place was crowded with people who stopped by on the way to work and the marginal and long retired who had their daily ritual breakfast to be near people and be recognized.
I was becoming a more-or-less regular. I came when I had to get up early. If I got up late, I picked up something at Dave’s DQ. Gwen’s opened at five in the morning, before sunrise.
There was an opening at the counter between a guy who looked like a truck driver and an old man who looked like a gray stick.
Gwen, who wore a morning smile, an apron and a minimum of makeup on her pink round face, placed a white mug of coffee before me.
“Eggs scrambled soft, two strips and rye toast?”
I nodded. She nodded too and hurried off, coffee decanter in hand.
People at the five tables behind us talked softly, respecting the morning, slowly waking up.
“Seen you here before,” said the old man on my right.
I nodded and drank.
“You from the North?”
I nodded again. Drank some more coffee.
“New York?”
“Chicago.”
“I’m from Steubenville, near Cleveland. Dean Martin was from Steubenville. I knew some of his people.”
“That a fact?”
“Fact,” he said. “Been down here fifteen years. Thinking of going back but… nothing up there for me anymore. Wife died six years back. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t feel like engaging in the art of conversation,” he said.
I smiled. It wasn’t much of a smile, but it was something.
“Sorry,” I said as Gwen who had been Sheila returned with my plate. “I’ve been here about three years. My wife died too.”
“Sorry to hear that,” he said. “She must have been young. Caroline was seventy-two, not so old anymore, with the medicines and all, you know?”
“Yeah,” I said, starting to eat.
“So, my name is Tim and you’re…?”
“Lew.”
“What do you do, Lew?”
I gave him a small shrug. What did I do? I got through each day. I watched movies. I took work when it came my way or I had to eat, drink and survive.
“I’m a process server.”
“That a fact?”
“No brag, just fact,” I said.
The eggs were fine, not quite raw. The bacon was crisp. I was feeling a little more human. The coffee was helping.
“Dangerous?” Tim asked.
He had swiveled toward me on the round blue counter seat.
“Not usually.”
“No offense, but I don’t think I’d be able to handle a job that made people mad at me.”
“The hours are good,” I said.
“I’m a welder,” said Tim. “I mean I was a welder. Don’t do it anymore. I liked it.”
“Corky Flynn,” came a voice from my left.
I glanced at the trucker type on my left. He was bulky, probably a few years younger than me. He was looking at me now, chewing something.
“Corky Flynn,” he repeated. “You remember? Wasn’t that fuckin long ago.”
I looked at him as I ate. The face and name didn’t ring a bell.
“You served papers on me. Divorce. You came to my garage, handed it to me right in front of Earl and Spence.”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
I kept a folder with the names of every person I served papers to and the time I served the papers, and I made a note about where I had served the papers.
“Never served papers on you, Mr. Flynn,” I said.
“It wasn’t you?”
“Nope. Maybe someone who looks a little like me. Lots of people look like me. When was it?”
“Right after New Year’s.”
“This year?”
I ate while I talked. Tim the welder was listening, waiting for some violence he could talk about with his friends over an open campfire.
“I only served papers on two people in January,” I said. “Both women.”
That was true.
“I could swear…” Corky Flynn said, examining me closely.
“Ever make a mistake before, Corky?” I asked.
He sighed.
“Too many times. I married three of ’em. That’s why I work a double-hour day. Got to pay them off. Used to drive trucks, big rigs, but my back… never mind. Sorry. I’ll pay for your breakfast.”
“I accept,” I said.
He got up and pulled two tens out of the pocket of his jeans. He dropped the bills on the counter, patted my back and said, “Sorry. Been having a bad week.”