Wooden Ships free porn video

Wooden Ships By Dimelza Cassidy The t-shirt slogan reads, "If I have to explain, you won't understand." Our marriage had grown toxic and I had had enough of the incessant bickering and arguing. In her mind I had lost my manhood and reminded me of it many times because I no longer possessed a business card that stated, Vice-President in Charge of Plant Operations. Management mandated a reduction in force due to budgetary cutbacks and opportunities for employment had been bleak for a man in his middle fifties. She knew it and didn't care. I'd supported her two failed attempts at an internet business; and after my out placement funds had disappeared and my investments were deemed un-touchable due to tax consequences, she was ?forced' to return to work as, in her mind, a lowly legal secretary. "I'm out of here," I said in disgust. "If you don't hear from me within a year one of two things have occurred. I've either committed suicide or I've found my place. In the mean time, you'll hear from our lawyer. He'll transfer everything to you including my investments, I.R.A., and pension." "You're joking," she said between roars of laughter. "Watch me," I groaned while fumbling through the closet in search of my soft luggage and motorcycle tank bag. "You're serious," she said as a tear came to her eye. "Yes I am," I said with ever growing anger. "I've had enough of you, this place, and this life. All you ever did was to take, and take, and take. It's all yours now and the attorney will make it legal." With the two pieces of luggage spread upon the floor, I went into the bedroom closet and selected a sufficient amount of clothing to last seven days. I'd be traveling light, low drag, no strings, and no attachments. As I packed, she threw my riding boots at me, nearly hitting me in the head. "Take these with you as well," she said, tossing my expensive breast forms at me. "You thought that I didn't know about the contents of that tool cabinet. You should've been more careful. Brenda saw you prancing around in that rather un-attractive floral robe. She told me all about how you would sit out on the patio, after I'd left for that stupid law firm, wearing it while you smoked your wretched cigarettes and sipped your morning coffee." She went back into the garage while I continued to pack. I heard boxes falling to the floor and cabinet doors and drawers slamming. "Barbara, what are you doing," I demanded. "Looking for sex toys," she screamed. "They have to be here somewhere. If you dress like a woman then you probably want to act like one in bed. There have to be some here somewhere." I left her with her rage. There hadn't been any sex toys. I knew that she wouldn't understand I had simply worn the clothes and not acted out a fantasy to be a woman. No, she wouldn't understand. For that matter, she wouldn't really try. Since she knew about the cross-dressing, there'd no longer be a need to hide, so I went into the garage and packed a seven-day supply of female attire. We'd packed for weeklong motorbike trips in the past, so packing two wardrobes wouldn't present a problem. I carried the two bags to the garage, and then began to strap them to the bike. One on the passenger seat and the other onto the gas tank. "You can't leave now, Steve. It's after midnight. Leave in the morning after you slept on it. Maybe things will look different in the morning." "Do I hear concern?" I asked, "or are you fearful that I won't make your morning coffee, or do your wash, or clean up this wretched dump. I'm tired of the taking. I'm out of here." I rolled the bike out of the garage, donned my riding gear, started and warmed it up, and then headed out. Prudent riding practices suggest that a rider should not start out if not in the proper state of mind. Anger, a very intense emotion, should be left behind before a ride. With caution cast aside, I began. With no route in mind, I headed south. Perhaps to Virginia, maybe the Carolinas, maybe to Florida, and maybe the Keys. Some place where there would be water. Stream, lake, river, bay, or ocean. It didn't matter, but it would be within eyesight of water. Thoughts of nearly twenty-five years of marriage passed through my mind as I rode on. It hadn't always been the misery it had become. There had been weeklong bike trips when she'd hold me from behind with her arms and legs. Long weekends had been filled with candlelit dinners, and extreme intimacy. It all began to unwind when her business ventures failed and the constant threat of corporate downsizing began to rule our lives. Barbara's mechanism to deal with the insecurity of it all had been to build a fort around herself and her possessions that no longer included me. The further we grew apart the more the bickering and taking grew. The woman that I'd called a wife faded away. I looked to the watercourse way of the Tao to sooth me. Despite my anger, it had to run its course. It'd been bottled up too long and my refusal to take it with me as my search for a better life began would destroy any chance of it. Near Alexandria, Virginia, I stopped for gas, a meal, and a cigarette. With no one to nag about my smoking, it would be all the more satisfying. Plus, if I chose to stop, it'd be my choice and not someone influencing me. The twenty-year old Harley droned on as we headed southwest on Route 66. I hadn't been on this section of road, or, for that matter, this section of the country since the bike had been new. Thoughts of a motel, "The Mansion" located in Luray, Virginia entered my mind. It hadn't been from nostalgia or memories of a happier time with her that I sought it out. The aura of the "Old South" and the "Southern Way" captivated me. At "Luray Caverns," the search began and it didn't take long to find it. The circular drive lined with manicured shrubs, outlined the route to the three-story brick building with its white pillars, and its divided light oak doors. I dismounted the bike and entered the lobby. It hadn't changed. The center facing mahogany reception desk, the dining room to its left, the formal ballroom to its right, the game room down a flight of stairs, and the magnificent hand-carved railings of the grand staircase that ascended to the second floor and the guest rooms -- ten feet wide, carpeted, rising to a landing, and then curving to the left and right. "I'd like a room," I said to the petite middle-aged receptionist dressed in a Civil War era costume with the nametag, "May," pinned to it. "I stayed here twenty years ago while vacationing" "Thank you and welcome back, sir," she answered in a melodic southern drawl. "Do you still serve dinner?" I asked while filling out the room documents. "Yes, we do. It's family style and we start seating at seven o'clock. I'll put your name in the book." "Please do," I said With my luggage strewn about the floor of the room, sleep came fast as I'd been awake for nearly thirty hours and had been riding for nearly twelve. After a refreshing nap, I went down for dinner. Seated with nine other diners, we faced plates of ham, turkey, chicken, roast beef, peas, corn, beets, string beans and mashed potatoes. Strained conversation consisting mostly of "Please pass the whatever." coupled with "More sweet tea." and "More lemonade." echoed about the room. Waitresses dressed in Civil War costume replenished the rapidly emptying serving platters. "Excuse me sir," a woman in her mid-thirties asked. "Are you taking a motorcycle trip?" She had apparently made the assumption based on my riding boots, and leathers. "Yes, I am," I said. "That sounds exciting," she said with a quiet clap of the hands. "Have you taken motorcycle trips in the past?" "Lots of times. My trips have taken me to the Keys, Maine, Canada, Atlantic Canada, and South Dakota. It's an interesting way to travel?" Despite my present state of mind, I tried my best to be cheerful in my response to her questions. She meant well. "Do you stay in motels?" "At times," I said "Sometimes I camp." She paused for a moment and looked at her spouse. "Honey, maybe we should learn to ride and take motorcycle vacations." "It's not as romantic as you might think," I cautioned. "The road can reach up and bite you. One time a truck passed me and the tire cap blew off. Metal from the cord and rubber bits pelted me. I also got caught in a tropical storm and one time had to hide out under a bridge to avoid a tornado, and another time had to ride in the snow." "My god." "If you really want an adrenaline rush," I added through the beginnings of a smile. "You should try racing motorcycles. Triple digit speeds can be addictive." We ended our conversation with handshakes. After dinner, I ascended the staircase that led to my room, showered, put on my nightgown, and then went to sleep. With a full tank of gas, an empty bladder, and a continental breakfast in my system, I continued south. The Weather Channel and the cloudy sky warned me that it would be a wet travel day. I doubted the rain would be occasional. My bones and years of motorcycle travel told me that it would be an all-day steady rain. The rains became heavier and vision became distorted by the spray of the passing traffic. I chose to follow an eighteen-wheeler to block some of the wind and spray and also to guide the way. The truck turned off at a rest stop, but I chose to press onward, deciding to at least try for the Tennessee border and Bristol. At Bristol, motels would be plentiful as it was a stop on the NASCAR circuit. A decent meal might await as well. After check-in and with all of my clothes now hanging from the shower rod, I searched the room in anticipation of finding an ironing board, an iron, or a hair dryer. None had been available. "Room 112," I said. "Do you have a laundry room on the premise?" "Mr. Barnes," the young female voice responded. "The laundry room is behind the pool shed. You'll need a key. I wiggled into a damp t-shirt and jeans and then headed off to the reception area in search of the laundry room key. The teenaged receptionist busied herself with an issue of "People" magazine. "Excuse me," I said. "I called a bit ago and asked about the use of the laundry room." She looked up and smiled. "Here you go, Mr. Barnes. The dryer takes quarters. Do you need change?" "No thanks." I returned to the room gathered up my damp clothing, and then headed toward the laundry room, to shove everything into the dryer. Thankfully, my nightgown hadn't gotten wet or damp. I removed my jeans and t-shirt, put on my nightgown, and made an additional trip to the laundry room. A sudden cloudburst once again drenched me. Back in the room, I removed my nightgown, took a hanger from the closet and then hung it over the heating/air conditioning unit to dry. Lack of food and dry clothing caused a chill to run through me. I crawled into bed and covered myself in an attempt to return some heat to my body and attempted sleep. More thoughts of the watercourse way filled my mind. I wanted my life to be stream like. Ever flowing, finding the least resistant path, not fighting the relentless flow to a river, to an ocean, to evaporation, to rain, and then back to stream. A never-ending cycle of renewal. I had to learn to forget what I knew and not force things or myself on others. Things had to happen naturally and not through cause. Life had to come from living. The better part of two hours had passed since tossing my clothes into the dryer. The nightgown had dried so I put it on, and then headed off to the laundry room. Tempted to remain in the laundry room to fold them, the cold damp air on my lightly-clothed body drove me back to the warmth of the room. With everything folded and repacked with the exception of my riding gear and my nightgown, I once again called the receptionist. "Is there a place to eat that's within walking distance from here?" I asked. "There's Barna's Grill about one quarter mile from here." "How's the food?" "Glorified race track food, if you ask me, but the locals seem to like it." "Thanks." * * * I entered Barna's and made my way to the bar. "What'll you have?" the middle-aged, overweight, cigar-chomping bartender asked. "Budweiser and a menu." A moment or so later, a waitress approached. "Ready to order?" she asked. I glanced at the menu and looked back at her. I took a sip of beer. "I'll have the blackened catfish, hushpuppies and coleslaw, please." She jotted down my order on her pad, and then headed toward the kitchen. The bar resembled the inside of a race shop. Autographed dented car parts, "Welcome Race Fans" banners, and NASCAR sponsor banners hung from the ceiling and walls. Trophies stood along side bottles of liquor and the beer taps resembled racecars. The waitress served dinner and the bartender offered to re-fill my beer mug. With a fresh mug of beer I ate what turned out to be a most excellent meal. The waitress returned to take my plate. "Excuse me," I asked. "The cat fish ? farm or caught?" "I caught it," the bartender stated, quite proudly. "Outstanding," I said. "It hit the spot." The bartender and waitress took the exchange as an invitation to a conversation. "Where you headed? By the way, my name is Hilary and this here is Bill. We own the place." "I'm Steve," I said, while reaching to shake their hands. "I'll bet you get a lot of teasing about that." "Not so much any more, but we got our fair share a few years ago" "Care to hear a Bill, Hilary and Monica story?" I asked. "Sure." Bill said while he smiled at Hilary. "In my former life my boss whose name had been Bill, and married to a woman named Hilary, and I had to interview a woman named Monica. Her last name had been close to Lewinsky. Anyway, she shows up for the interview wearing a blue dress. My boss and I look at each other and start laughing. So much so we had to sip coffee to keep from revealing it. We asked her why she left her former job and she comes out with something like it didn't work out. I felt a bit sad because it occurred to me that she might have suffered abuse. We offered her a job and she turned out to be a very dedicated worker. Fate can sometimes be cruel." "We got our share too," Hilary said. "To answer your question, I'm headed for Florida." I decided at that moment that I'd try to make a new life in the Sunshine State. "Did you find work down there, or are you one of those snowbird people?" Hilary asked. "No, I don't have a job waiting for me and the last thing someone would call me is a snowbird." "Do you have a trade?" Bill asked. "No, not really. I spin a wrench on occasion." "If it doesn't work out down there, come back up here. The race and repair shops are always looking for a wrench." "I'll keep that in mind. Listen, thanks for the great meal. I'd better get going so I can get an early start." I paid the bill, and then headed out the door. Back in the room I went to sleep wondering if Bill and Hilary had found the way. Had he found it in the quiet moment of meditative fishing? Had Hilary found it with in the preparation and presentation of meals? Had they been drawn closer to one another due to accompanying fallout of sharing the same first names as infamous people? I awoke to a clear dry day. Some of the distance that had been lost because of the rain could be regained. It would be un-eventful riding with the exception of the Atlanta traffic. Residual anger lingered, but counter thoughts of the natural flow of a stream replaced them. With Atlanta behind me, and Leesburg, Florida, in front of me, it would be a six hundred-plus mile day. Keeping my stops brief, it could be attainable. With my feet positioned on the passenger pegs and my chest resting on the tank bag, I streamlined myself to take pressure off my spine and to cut down on the wind buffeting -- sport bike style. I arrived in Leesburg after just two short stops along the way. After checking in and showering, I made my way toward the restaurants. Given the choice between a belly bomb from McDonald's and allegedly well- cooked food, the Cracker Barrel won out. The service, as usual, was courteous and prompt, and the food good; however, I felt guilty about eating in a place that at one time had been charged with racial discrimination. I headed back to the motel room intent on rewarding myself for riding six hundred-plus miles, with an evening stroll en femme. With under-garments and make-up in place, the freshly ironed floral- print dress raised over my head, I reveled in the joy of having it cascade down and around me. My wallet and room key safe within the clutch bag, the dimly lit motel parking lot lay ahead. After sitting on the bike for almost thirteen hours it felt good to be walking in the temperate night air of central Florida wearing a favorite dress and heels. Despite the reward, sleep escaped me as thoughts of the argument with my wife came to mind. I allowed the taking by giving. If it had gone on any longer it would've consumed me. The thoughts of the past drove me onward to change my life's way. The following day I poked along through the Everglades on the Tamiami trail. Air boats, shallow watercraft powered by high mounted automobile engines connected to enclosed airplane propellers, displayed signs advertising discounted swamp and backwater tours dotted the landscape. After traveling nearly one hundred-twenty miles, a gas stop loomed. With the bike refueled, I headed inside to pay. The day had grown hot and my fluid level had become a priority so I purchased two bottles of water. "Sir," I said to the proprietor while placing a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. "May I use your water hose to wet my shirt and bandana?" "Sure thing, help yourself. Where you headed?" "Key West." "You better get a move on if you expect to get there today." "Tomorrow is soon enough. I may spend the night in Largo or make the run over the bridges under the stars." After waving off his attempt to hand back the change, I headed toward the bike and the wooden benches to have a seat, wiped my face with the wet bandana, and savored one of the bottles of cold water. With my mind clear of thoughts of the argument and filled with my new life's way, I noticed a twenty-something, dark-eyed, raven-haired, bronzed beauty dressed in well-worn riding gear, approaching from the gas pumps. "Excuse me," she said. "You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette?" She and her BMW "air head" boxer twin looked road weary. "Did you ride here from Minnesota?" I asked, as I noticed the bike's tags. "Yes." "Good for you," I said, as I looked in her glazed-over eyes, caused by too many miles and lack of sleep. "I have enough money for gas to get me to Key West, but I haven't sufficient funds to buy cigarettes," she said, expressing embarrassment. I handed her my half-smoked pack. "Care for some water," I asked, pointing to the unopened bottle. "By the way, my name is Steve, Steve Barnes." "Sorry," she said after accepting the water and swallowing a mouthful of it. "Mine's Stacey, Stacey Reynolds." "So, Stacey Reynolds, what has you headed toward Key West?" "I'm a musician; and I'm down for the season. I've six months of gigs booked." I glanced over at the bike. "I don't see a musical instrument." "I'm a pianist and a singer." "Really." "What type of music do you play?" "Blues, jazz, pop, standards, and classical." "I'll have to look you up and listen to your music." She looked startled. "Are you headed to Key West?" "Yes." "Are you a musician?" "No, I have all I can do to play the radio, let alone an instrument. I'm headed there to play Ernest Hemingway." "Are you a writer?" she asked with great interest in her voice. "No, I don't write," I sighed. "Key West is a place to go when there's no place else to go." "That sounds sad." "Not really, I'm intent on changing things around; and Key West will be the jump off point. "Where are you staying?" she asked "I don't have a place. I'll look for an apartment when I get there, but you may have to stay here." She looked puzzled, as I gestured to her bike. "Your rear tire is flat." We walked over to her bike, and then I lifted it onto its center stand. The tire had become worn to the cords and it appeared to be leaking through them. "I can't afford a tire. What am I going to do?" Her emotions bridged anger and sadness. "I'll front you the cost of the tire." It occurred to me as I spoke that it sounded like a search for the same approval that permeated my marriage instead of the way. Could helping her and the way be one and the same? "No you can't give me the money for a tire. I'll not have it." "What do you intend to do? You won't get far on that. Pay me back when your gigs start." "That's fair," she relented. I walked back to my bike, pulled out my touring handbook, two cans of fix-a-flat, and then headed back into the store and its pay phone. She had tagged along. "Why are you calling a Harley dealer when I own a BMW." "It's the closest dealer." "How are we going to get there? The tire's still flat," she asked in a slightly panicked voice. "Let's see if the fix-a-flat will buy us an additional fifty miles," I said, while emptying both cans into the tire. We mounted up and headed toward Hialeah at a reduced speed. As we approached the city limits, the dealer's billboard advertised that it would be two miles away. I pulled into the drive of the first available motel. "Don't say it," I said during my dismount. "You look like you could use a shower, a meal, and probably a good night's sleep. Plus this is about as far as I intend to travel today anyway." "I am going to say it, I'm paying you back." While she showered, I removed the rear tire from her bike. Once again, thoughts of seeking her or anyone else's approval for my deeds flooded me. Escape from that syndrome, haunted me, but despite the anxiety of sliding back into its clutches, leaving a fellow motorcyclist broken down by the side of the road seemed heartless. Stacey emerged from the shower wearing a towel -- looking and probably feeling a lot better than she had earlier in the day. She looked at her bike in shock. "What did you do?" she asked, seemingly agitated. "Saving you some money by doing the grunt work. We'll ride to the dealership tomorrow, they'll mount and balance the tire, I'll put it back on the bike and then we'll be on our way." "You're crazy. You're doing all of this for someone you just met. How do you know I won't rip you off while you're asleep?" "You could, but I'm guessing that you won't." She lit a cigarette, shook her head, and walked back into the room. "I'll run across the street and get us a pizza and a couple of beers," I shouted into the room. As I waited for our meal, the belief that my actions had been honorable absorbed me. Giving with feeling, and not from obligation, seemed to be life's way. Back in the room, I watched her devour five of the eight slices. "Thank you," she said sounding very relieved and satisfied. "When did you last eat?" "Two days ago." "Listen," I said. "I'm going to take my shower and turn in. It's been a long hot day. I'm not into sex with strangers," she said, "no matter how generous they are." I consider discussing my philosophies with her, but merely said, "You're good-looking, but I just dumped a load of trouble and I'm not looking to replace her." I reached into my bag and removed my toiletries and my nightgown. The thought had crossed my mind to forego sleeping in it, but then I thought, "It's natural for me to wear it." My appearance momentarily startled her. "Sexy," she said. "Very sexy." She pulled the sheet over her head and attempted sleep. I opened the door, checked the bikes, and then called it a day. After a restful night, I dressed in my riding gear in anticipation of repairing Stacey's bike, and then heading for the Keys, but first, coffee. A stop at an ATM machine to check the balance in the account that had been funding my trip would be the second order of business. It had been amassed over years and had been always referred to it as my "screw you" fund. I headed back to the room with coffee for Stacey and the knowledge that there would be sufficient funds to draw against for up to six months. She'd awakened and dressed. "Here's a cup of coffee for you. It's black. I hope that it's okay." Thoughts of seeking approval flooded me. That would have to stop and I'd have to continue to learn to do things because they'd be natural and not attached to a reward. "Thanks," she said accepting the coffee. "How long do you think it'll take to fix my bike and get to Key West?" I sensed an urgency in her voice. "Well, if the tire's there when they said it would be, and they mount and balance it right away, we should be there no later than four o'clock." "I have to meet with the manager of one of the clubs at six o'clock. It's important that I do so. It may mean additional work." The urgency had become laced with concern. "The parts guy said ten o'clock, so let's get going. Keep your fingers crossed." After a short ride to the dealership we learned that the tire had arrived and their personnel would perform the service while we waited. While they took care of the tire, I roamed the dealership to learn that it too fit the Harley Davidson corporate look--sterile, no personality, and no local flavor. Stacey helped herself to an additional cup of coffee. I glanced at the various magazines located in the service area's waiting room and noticed a real estate flyer. I leafed through it, and then headed for the pay phone. I rejoined Stacey, and then we both headed outside to smoke a cigarette. "What was that all about?" she asked. "I made a call to a real estate agent to try to line up an apartment." "The club manager told me that he might have a room for me. I'd have to share it with two other musicians." "Sounds good, but if it doesn't work out and mine does. . . ." "No. Absolutely not. You're nice and I'm very thankful for all that you've done, but I'm determined to do this on my own." Something lurked within her, to have fired off such a defensive comment. I decided not to pursue it. We finished our cigarettes, and then went back to the service department to pay for the mounted tire. With Stacey seated on the passenger seat of my bike, I handed her the tire which she placed on her lap. I mounted, and then we headed back to the motel to install it. With the tire back on her bike and both bikes loaded down with our luggage, we headed for Key West. As we headed out over the bridges, I again thought of the natural cycle of stream, river, ocean, evaporation, and rain. Over and over the cycle played out. Would the ocean help me to evaporate to rain, and then start my life again? Stacey and I took turns leading. I watched how she rode. It seemed mechanical and lacking in a flow. The Zen analogy of the horseman becoming one with the horse came to mind. Thoughts of her music came to mind as well. Did she merely play notes and sing words, or did it come from her heart and soul. We exchanged places mid-way over the seven-mile bridge. Who was I to comment on her riding and possibly her music? Her style was her style and natural -- for her. We arrived within our respective time frames and pulled into a motel parking lot to make a proper separation. With helmet in hand, she gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Good luck," I said. "Maybe I'll catch you in one of the clubs" "You better show up. I haven't forgotten that I owe you money." "You've got a deal." Stacey headed off to the club manager while I headed to the real estate office. The agent greeted me and the two of us went to the apartment. She explained that the building had been a converted motel and that all of the rooms had sufficiently outfitted kitchenettes, tables, chairs, bathrooms, and beds. Linen would be furnished, but it would be my responsibility to launder. Utilities would be included. I accepted it, and then we headed back to the office to sign a lease, write checks, and exchange idle chitchat. With the short ride to the room behind me and a new life in front of me, I drew a glass of over chlorinated tap water, and then sipped it while savoring my surroundings. My first order of business would be to unpack, shower, dress, and take a stroll. It would be a hike to "Old Town" and night life, but the ocean would be in sight and that's what mattered most. * * * Dressed in a red and gold paisley dress, sandals, and a floppy sun hat, I made my way to the beach. Seated on a bench with the ocean waves breaking against the shore, my thoughts of a new life escaped me to be replaced with thoughts of nothing. It hadn't been meditation, but merely sitting quietly and doing nothing. My suspended state had been broken by the sound of a siren. Not having realized how long I'd sat on the bench, it had grown dark. My body felt refreshed and my mind felt relaxed. I walked back to the room and called it a day. My first priority the next morning would be to grocery shop and then look for mindless employment -- perhaps as a grocery clerk, a deck hand on a fishing boat, or cleaning fish in a restaurant. I needed something where management wouldn't care what I wore on any given day. With groceries in hand, I headed toward the room. My path took me past one of the marinas. A "help wanted" sign had been nailed to one of the posts. I noticed a man working on one of the boats and headed toward him. "Excuse me," I said. "Is the position still available?" He looked toward me. "It's not a job for a wo?. What do you know about boat engines?" The floral print halter dress, sandals and floppy sun hat startled him momentarily "I can spin a wrench, if that's what you're asking." "Can you repair antique boat engines?" he asked. "I've got to get that old wooden boat docked over there running by tomorrow." Gesturing toward the boat that appeared to date back to the late 1920's or early 30's. "Tell you what. If I get it going, is the job mine?" "You'll work for nothing?" he asked. "What if you get it running, and I don't hire you?" "I'll take a chance, if you'll take a chance," I said, believing that my actions had been honorable and natural. "Go ahead. The tools are in the shed. You going to work in that outfit?" "Clothes are clothes." "Suit yourself." "Do you have a cooler or something that I can put this in?" I waved my groceries in his direction. "In the shed." "I'm Steve, by the way. "Walter," he said. I put down my bags and we shook hands. With tools in hand I boarded the boat. The cover had been lifted off the engine and it'd been partly disassembled. I noticed boxes of parts scattered about the deck. The gauntlet had been dropped and picked up. Work at first progressed slowly, as I hadn't worked on four-cylinder side valve engine since my teen years. Without the benefit of a shop manual or the source of the engine, I relied on generic knowledge, which hopefully hadn't left me. The person that had worked on the engine before me had removed the cylinder head and most of the intake and exhaust valves. Someone had begun what in the old days would be referred to as "a carbon and valve job." A cursory look through the pile of parts revealed a head gasket and eight new valves. Further investigation revealed a hand held valve-lapping tool. I removed the remaining valves and then began the task of hand lapping each valve. Clean each new valve, apply the grinding salve, stick the suction cup end of the tool on the valve, stick the valve into the valve pocket in the engine block and then spin the tool with the palms of both hands until the valve surface and the block surface matched and sealed. Once matched, each valve would be cleaned and then installed. Thankfully, the pile of parts contained a valve spring compression tool. The process would be completed eight times. With the valves installed and adjusted to the measurement taken before removing the remaining valves, I placed the head gasket on the engine block and then placed the previously cleaned cylinder head on it. When all of the head bolts had been set in place, I began the tightening sequence from the center of the motor to the outer edges. Each bolt tightened in twenty-pound intervals to eighty-pounds. While toiling away, I attempted to duplicate the thoughts of the engine designer. What guided his hand and mind? Had he been in a bad mood after arguing with a spouse or a supervisor? Had he been rushed by a superior or by the time constraints of the workday? Had his hand been forced by budgetary constraints? Regardless of his mindset the design proved functional. The magic of my memory guided my hands across the engines various surfaces. At times I felt that I'd responded to what the engine had asked. Had I become one with the engine or had the engine adopted me as its own? Or, had we worked together? After installing a new carburetor and starter and in the glare of a florescent droplight, I attempted to start the engine. It spun over and then backfired through the flame arrestor. An advance of the ignition timing and another attempt resulted in a running engine. Slight adjustments to the timing and the fuel mixture done by "ear and feel" smoothed it out. I leaned back against the side of the boat and listened to the engine's rhythmic language. Suck, squish, bang, and blow. Together we had been renewed. Walter ran down the dock shouting, "You got it running, you got it running." "Yes, it's running," I said, with tones made weary by over twelve hours of work without a break. "Pumping water as well." "We'll take it out tomorrow to see how it runs while under way." "I guess that that means I got the job?" I asked. "Yes, you do. Twenty dollars an hour, make your own hours. You've made a mess of that dress; can I pay for the cost of a new one?" "No," I said. "It's not all that important." I said goodnight, after we shook hands, and with groceries in hand, headed back to the room for a well-deserved shower and a night's sleep. It had been a successful day -- groceries, employment and further along the way. My two wardrobes merged as days became weeks. The only real challenge had been to adopt the correct mindset for the task at hand. By placing myself in the task, I became the task and worked to renew myself. It became the perfect job and life. No supervision, no pressure, no performance appraisals -- just peace, quiet, and seeking, feeling and believing the way. One evening while walking back to the apartment, thoughts of Stacey came to mind. I'd forgotten about her as my quest for living in the natural flow grew. Dressed in a t-shirt, jeans, and sandals, I headed off to the nightlife of "Old Town" Key West and the "Green Parrot." The slogan posted on the entrance made me chuckle. "First bar in the U.S." on one side and "Last Bar in the U.S." on the other. Dinner that night would be from their bar menu. After "dinner," I hung around a bit to sample the evening's entertainment. I didn't see a drum kit or mountains of amplifiers on the small stage, merely an electronic keyboard, the house soundboard, and a solo microphone. At about ten o'clock or so, the jukebox went dark and a spotlight lit the stage. I turned to face the stage and watched with mild surprise as Stacey, dressed in a 1940's style yellow satin gown appeared. I'd have thought that she'd have gigs on the heavily traveled Duval Street instead of a local bar. "Good evening," she said in a very Eric Clapton like manner while taking a seat at the keyboard. Her first set consisted of songs considered standards. Ones that had been recently covered by the likes of Rod Stewart, Linda Ronstadt, and Carly Simon. Although the material sounded familiar to me, the presentation had a uniqueness to it. She had an easygoing style that she coupled with voice as smooth as the satin she wore. She made little or no attempt to involve the patrons. Her presentation appeared to be for herself. As she sang her songs her eyes remained mostly closed. It didn't seem to bother her audience, because they too seemed to be in a dreamlike trance. After her set, she rose from the keyboard, bowed to the moderate applause, and then left. I decided to hang around for the second set, so another beer laced with a shot of Jack Daniels had been ordered. With the jukebox once again turned off and the spotlight back on, she re-appeared. Dressed in a black leather jumpsuit, she took her seat and began a honky-tonk piano set. This set would be nothing like the first, as she worked the patrons with the skill of a veteran performer. She even opened the microphone to the patrons. Levels of inebriation made for interesting renditions of "Blueberry Hill," "Stormy Weather," and "Piano Man." With each attempt, she offered encouragement and accompaniment and always led the audience in congratulation. She closed her second set with Hoagy Carmichael's "Hong-Kong Blues." The patrons roared their approval as she took a bow or two and then invited everyone to stay for her last set. Despite the invitation many of them made their way to the exits. I motioned the bartender to set up another round. I'd approach her for possible payment for the tire and one half the cost of the room after she completed her third set. "Steve, Steve, over here," her voice rang out. She apparently spotted me during the set. She greeted me with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Where've you been? I thought that I'd see you sooner rather than later. I have your money. Let's get together after my last set and get a bite to eat." "Wow, slow down. I've been working at one of the marinas. Seems that there is a need to repair antique boats down here." "Are you having fun?" she asked. This time giving me a peck on the lips. "Yes, I am, but apparently not as much as you are." "News got around town that I start slow and demure and then let-r-rip. Most people come for the second set." "Do I dare ask what the third set is like?" I lit her cigarette. "It's a mix of the first two. I change the pacing a bit. It makes the people that stay settle down a bit. I try to send them home smiling and mellow. I'll be back, it's time for my set." She blew me a kiss as she headed toward the stage and her keyboard Midway through her third set she started to play a riff. "Folks, I'd like to tell you a story about a person that I met during my trip here from Minnesota. I had no money, no charge cards, and a flat tire. With no questions or demands, he fronted me cigarettes, dinner, a room for the night, and the cost of the tire. Plus he did most of the repair work himself. Tonight is the first time that I've seen him since my arrival and I'd like to publicly thank him. Steve, stand up and take a bow." I reluctantly rose from my bar stool and waved to my fellow patrons as they applauded. She stopped playing, stood up, and applauded as well. "Thank you so very much," reverberated through the sound system. She took her seat and then began playing Carole King's "(You've got a) Friend." Between the verses, she'd blow me a kiss to the delight of the patrons. Even in a moment of sincerity, she worked her audience. After the song, the patrons turned to me and applauded. "What would you like me to play, Steve?" she asked as the audience urged me on. I wrote a note on a napkin with a pen supplied by the bartender who in turn gave it to one of the waitresses who delivered it. She looked at it and sighed. "Are you sure, it's kind of a sad song?" I nodded. She then began to play "What's Become of the Broken Hearted." When the song ended, she addressed the patrons. "Would you like me to try and cheer him up?" Her question received applause. She began playing "(Love is like a) Heat Wave." The intensity in her playing and singing surpassed what had gone before and did not go unnoticed. Cheers and applause greeted the end of the song. Everyone knew that she had asked me to make love. She ended the set with "Don't Smoke in Bed." After the set, she approached me, put her arms around my neck, and kissed me with a passion that I'd not felt in a long time. I returned her passion with mine. "Let's get something to eat," she said, after our kiss. "I'd better not. It's going to be a long day tomorrow. I've got to get a boat done. How about you coming over to the apartment tomorrow evening? I'll fix dinner for us, and then you can come back here and do your gig." "I play at ?Kelly's Caribbean Bar and Grill' tomorrow, but it doesn't start until ten o'clock. After dinner, you can join me. "Maybe. Let's have dinner, and then see what happens." I handed her my address on a napkin, we kissed, and then went our separate ways. After a day filled with rewiring running lights, I headed back to the apartment having purchased a fresh caught mahi-mahi and vegetables. As I prepared dinner, I thought of the Tao and references to food and the pain that a plant had to endure while another species ate it. We, as an eating society, caused wars and other distortions to the nature of things. It saddened me momentarily, but there wouldn't be much that I could do to try to change that order of things. The fish would be broiled when Stacey arrived. While waiting, I showered, shaved, and then put on a royal blue cocktail dress that had been recently bought. Before leaving the bath, I checked my appearance. It pleased me much more now than when my reflection wore men's suits, Dockers, oxford shirts, and blazers. Near six o'clock, Stacey arrived. "Well," she said in mild surprise. "I guess that it's more than a nightgown thing." "It's a lot more than a nightgown thing." "Do you want to talk about it?" she said while taking a seat at the table. "Sure," I said. "But the real question is, do you want to hear about it?" "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to." "I'll give you the short version," I said. "I simply got to the point where I couldn't live my former life any longer. I hated what I'd become. On the surface I'd been successful, up until down sizing. Great job, administrative assistant, company car, country club membership, wife, big house, cars, motorcycles, and time-shares. It all fell apart when the money stopped rolling in. The bickering between my wife and I became constant. Everything became my fault. Add to that, I couldn't look myself in the eye when I looked in the mirror. I started to believe my wife when she started to call me a failure." "That doesn't explain the cross-dressing." "I tried to become someone else. I tried the ponytail and the beard, but still saw the person that I grew to hate." I spoke without making eye contact. "So you decided to cross-dress, and now you like yourself?" "I wish that it was as simple as that." "I'm still waiting," she said with concern and encouragement. "I started reading the works of Alan Watts. ?The Way of Zen,' ?Tao, The Watercourse Way,' and ?Taoism: Way Beyond Seeking,'" I said, as I began broiling the fish. "So Zen and Tao caused you to start cross-dressing?" she asked through laughter. "No, not at all," I said defensively. "Years ago, back in my college days, I dated a theatre major. We'd arranged to have dinner after a production. While I waited for the performance to end, I looked around the costume storage room. An ornate Elizabethan costume caught my eye. My girlfriend asked if I would like to try it on. Thinking nothing of it, I agreed. She helped me put it on, and said I looked good in it. After looking at myself in the mirror, I agreed." "You're still not telling me how all of this fits together." "With the thought of that cross-dressing incident and memories of that pleasing image, I went out and bought a complete outfit. Skin out if you will." While I spoke we took our seats at the table and began to eat our meal. "With practice, I achieved a level of skill and when I looked in the mirror, I liked what I saw. "Over my life I continued to dress off and on with the need to dress growing after I lost my job. The failure that I felt and presumed everyone else saw had disappeared. The more guilt about failure that I felt, the more and more I cross-dressed. At the same time, the more of Zen and Tao that I read led me to the point that I had to connect the person that I hated and the person that I created. You met both people." "Well, I like them both," she said with a warm, inviting smile. "I don't, so I'm working to be a whole person. Somewhere between what you see now and what you saw a couple of months ago will be the comfortable me. I try to emulate a stream, and not fight what I feel and believe." "I guess that this battle you fight explains the song that you requested last night," she said expressing concern. "Thank you for sharing. One day I'll share my story." "I'd like that," I said returning her affectionate smile with mine. We quietly dined on the simple meal of fish, vegetables, and bread sticks. "Thank you for dinner, but I have to get going. I have to be at ?Kelly's' by eight o'clock. I'm opening for a touring band, so I have to go over my material with their manager. Will you be coming to the show? There'll be a cover, so I'll leave a pass at the door. Consider wearing something less formal though," she said, as she walked through the apartment doorway. "See you later," I said, laughing. At ten o'clock I appeared at the door of "Kelly's." "You're holding a pass for Steve Barnes?" I asked. The bouncer/doorman looked in his book and then waved me past the line of patrons awaiting their turn at the door. He hadn't batted an eye at my appearance. With the anything goes attitude of Key West, I'd been just another guy dressed in a skirt and blouse. With no seats available, I found a place along the wall after ordering one of the house beers laced with Jack Daniels. The master of ceremonies introduced Stacey to polite applause; she then began her forty-five minute set. It had been nothing like what I experienced at the "Green Parrot." -- no costume changes, no audience engagement. Workmanlike. Familiar tunes. Contemporary, pop, standards. She ended her set with the theme from "Hill Street Blues" and moderate applause. Stacey found me and we gathered ourselves into a vacant corner. She kissed me. I returned it with a hug and a kiss. "That's different," I said. "I can't do my act when I open for other bands, especially touring bands. When I play at the Howard Johnson's you will see an entirely different act." "Really," I said with surprise. "Listen," she said. "I'm done for the night. Let's go to your place. We can take a pedal cab." "I have to get up early tomorrow. Walter and I have to deliver a boat to Marathon. We'll be on the water most of the day." "You don't mind if I spend the night, do you?" "I only have the one bed." "I know," she said through a wry smile. When we arrived at the apartment, we took turns using the bath. I returned wearing my nightgown. "You won't be needing that," she said as she swept back the bed sheet to reveal her magnificent inviting bronze body. Our lovemaking, awkward at first, became filled with intense passion and it seemed that we couldn't stop pleasuring each other. We pushed ourselves to complete exhaustion, yet neither one of us could stop holding one another. It had been as if we ever let go, one, or both of us, would vanish. At first light, I awoke, showered, and then headed off to the marina to meet Walter. I would pilot the antique while Walter followed behind in another customer boat. We'd drive back in Walter's truck. After starting and un-tying the boat, I headed out while Walter pulled up to the gas dock. We'd meet up and he'd take the lead while under way. As I waited for Walter to catch up, thoughts of natural and man-made power came to mind. When boats had been powered by wind, sailors became one with it and had been subject to its fancy. So too with the tides. They sailed with them and not counter. The wheel of the power boat that received my hands could go counter to wind and tide; therefore, making it receptive to the adverse actions of wind and tide. I shut off the engine and allowed the boat to drift. Without the sound of the engine, I listened to the sound of the water against the sides of the boat. Gentle interference as the water surrounded the boat. While I drifted along with the tide, I watched as the sea birds used the air currents to propel them to their next meal. The sound of their wings disturbed the silence as they occasionally flapped their wings to move to the next pocket of air. Time and space ceased to exist while we drifted. My tranquil state became interrupted by the sound of Walter's voice. "Steve," he shouted through the boat's P.A. system. "Are you okay? Is there something wrong with the boat?" "No," I yelled while re-starting the boat. "What kept you?" He motioned me to fall in behind him and travel along in his wake. While complying with his instructions, I realized that nature's way would be broken. Thoughts of limitations possessed me as we journeyed to Marathon. To name things would be to limit them. The more adjectives used the more things become limited. I looked at the sky and realized that thoughts of "blue," "cloudy," "overcast," and "stormy" created bounds. If thoughts of Stacey included words like "talented," "sexy," "goddess," "bronze," or "beauty" then she too would be limited and caged. So too, "the overall clad me," and "the evening gown clad me" had limits. Strip away every thing and there stood Steve. Even the name Steve or Stacey or Walter became limits and bounds. As I navigated the boat into the Marathon marina's boat slip, the way became more apparent. My life going forward would be an attempt to free it from limits and bounds. Our trip back from Marathon passed in silence. Stacey's knock at the door awakened me. "Hey you, I'm off tonight, want to hang out?" "I'm beat. After last night and being on the water all day the last thing on my mind is to go out partying." "We don't have to party or go out. We could hang out here." "Let's do that." We didn't make love, but ended up holding each other as if we tried to become one. No food, no drink, no cigarettes. Sitting quietly, doing nothing. We awoke the next morning refreshed. I headed to the marina while she headed to her shared room to work on new material. After spending nearly seven hours on a motor, I headed over to "Sloppy Joe's" to catch the remainder of Stacey's three to seven o'clock gig. While Stacey played the "Peanuts" song, the bar maid served me an ice water with a beer back. She ended her set by playing the "Layla" piano riff. She greeted me at the bar with a hug and kiss which I gladly returned. "Since we're both here, why don't we eat," she said. "My treat." "Sounds good to me." She looked at me, and then laughed. "What's so funny?" I asked. "I had an idea for a set and wanted to run it past you." "That's funny?" I asked. "Your sets are ever changing. Why would you need my help?" "I want to add you to my act." "That would be a bad idea. I can't sing, dance, or play a musical instrument. What would I do? Walk out with a tool box and bang on it with a hammer?" "No," she said, laughing. "My idea is for you to come out while I perform a song, dressed in an incredibly sexy gown and then take a seat on the piano like the old Burt Bacharach and Angie Dickinson Martini and Rossi commercials." I fell back against the bar and dropped my head. Unsure of how to react to her request, my initial thoughts had been to lash out in anger and accuse her of using me as the brunt of a joke. At the same time, she'd asked for help. If this action would be a step along the way, it would be a bazaar one. "Do I have to give you an answer now?" I mumbled. "You'll think about doing it?" she asked tentatively. "I don't know," I said as rose to leave I walked out of "Sloppy Joe's" ignoring her shouts of "Wait, please wait." As I headed back to my apartment thinking that my attempts at a new life free of bounds had been fragile, I detoured to the ocean to search beyond where ocean meets sky for the reason for my mixed reaction to her request. It occurred to me that my struggle with her request had been caused by limits and adjectives. The longer I clung to joining the two persons within me, the longer it took to join them. Understanding that there had been pleasure in my pain caused me to believe that holding things could spoil them. I'd have to let go. "Steve, could we talk?" Stacey asked, when she found me at my apartment. "What about?" "Can I tell you something about me?" she asked, as I nodded. "My battle stems from believing that people want to consume me. I felt like that when you offered to help me. I thought that you'd be like everyone else, but you're not. At times I feel that you're so self absorbed that the last thing that you'd want is me, and then there's other times when I want you to consume me." She began sobbing uncontrollably and fumbled her pack of cigarettes to the ground. I picked one up lit it and handed it to her. She drew deeply against it. "When I started to play the piano, my parents and teachers took my life away. I lived by the relentless tick of the metronome. Everything had been planned. They wanted me to go to Julliard and give recitals at Carnegie Hall. Scale practice in the morning followed by the endless classes in classical music study. My only relief came from sneaking off to play at parties and the occasional club. The pressure became so intense that I had a breakdown. So, I ran away. I borrowed a friend's bike and left my parent's charge cards behind. I didn't want them to find me." I looked deep into her tear filled walnut-colored eyes. "The hardest thing in life is to let go. If you can do that everything in life will unfold before you. I spend every moment struggling to let go. It's easy to say, but so hard to do. If you are willing we could work together to let go." We held each other as we did when we made love. Time and space ceased to exist. Stacey spent the night in my bed, while I spent it in a wooden chair. I watched her sleep. It had been a restless one filled with the demons that drove her to what she defined as an independent life free from what she termed consumption. My night had been filled with thoughts of my next move. I recalled my words to my wife when I left her. "If you don't' hear from me within a year I've either committed suicide or found my way." Suicide represented defeat, but finding my way represented hard work. I'd worked long and hard for others, yet never worked hard for myself. With new resolve and determination I'd let go. "You're awake," I said as I watched her shake off her restless sleep with arm and leg stretches. "Mmmm," she said between the stretches. "When do rehearsals start?" "What?" she asked through residual signs of sleep. "When do we start rehearsals for your set?" I asked in matter of fact tones. "You'll do it?" she asked, as she sat up in bed with the bed sheet covering her breasts. "I'll give it a try." "You'll be fine. If it works out the way I intend, it'll be easy." "Well then, where, and when?" "I'll arrange it with the ?Howard Johnson's' entertainment manager to use the piano in the ballroom. It's only used on Saturdays so we'll have a day to rehearse. You won't need that much. Meet me in the ballroom at eight o'clock tonight." She hopped out of bed and hugged and kissed me. We dressed and went our separate ways. I left the marina and headed toward the "Howard Johnson's." She'd already arrived and upon my entrance, she stopped her practice. She'd been playing "I Go to Rio" We hugged each other. "Okay, this is how it will happen," she said. "You'll be standing off to the side, out of sight. When I give you the signal, you'll glide out onto the stage and lay across the piano and say, ?yeh' after the song and then we'll face the audience. I'll then play the last song of the set and then we'll take a bow and walk off. They'll be the last two songs of the night." "What songs do you intend to use?" "Could it be a surprise?" I nodded. The signal would be she throwing her head back and looking at the ceiling. We tried it a number of times and it seemed to work to her satisfaction. No songs had been played, just scales and fills. "Do I have your permission to pick a costume?" she asked cautiously. "Sure," I said. I spent the day of the performance wrestling with the ignition system of a mid 1930's ski boat and thoughts of the show. Without a talented bone in my body visions of tripping and falling on my face while walking to the piano filled me. I headed over to the hotel and arrived at six o'clock thinking that this event would be another step along the way. "Good, you're here," she said, as I walked into the ballroom. "Meet Ginny. She's the make-up artist for the Key West Drama Festival. She'll do your make-up and help you with your costume. Don't worry, you'll be great," she said after a quick embrace. I followed Ginny into a storeroom and took a seat in the makeshift dressing room. A merlot colored chiffon dress hung from the door and I presumed it to be the costume. As I sat in the chair wearing my briefs, Ginny began work. She glued bits of rubber on parts of my face and injected saline in others. The application seemed endless. The work ended with the placement of a mid- back, loosely curled, raven-colored wig. "Let's get you dressed, it's getting late." She'd spent the better part of three hours working on my face. I couldn't imagine what had been done. "Stand up. I have to put this waist cincher and this padded bra on you. Put these stockings and heels on while I get your jewelry." She returned with rhinestones. Earrings, rings, and a bracelet to be worn over black satin gloves, an ankle bracelet over the black fishnet stockings, a three-rowed necklace, and a tiara. I imagined myself glowing in the dark or at the very least blinding the audience. "Put your hand on my shoulder to steady yourself and then step into the dress. It's extra long so you'd better practice walking in it. You'll have to pick up the front a bit so you don't trip over the hem." I moved about the confines of the room without incident. "You're ready, knock'em dead." As she spoke, Stacey entered the room wearing a black sequin gown. She looked radiant. "You look beautiful," Stacey said. "Have you looked in the mirror, yet?" "No. It's not necessary. I'll trust the two of you." I didn't feel it necessary to examine my reflection. I felt and believed that the image would be secondary to the one my mind's eye. That image would be one of no limits, adjectives, floating on waves and air currents. "Come on," Ginny said. "Take a look." "I've got to go it's time for my first set. You two work it out," Stacey said, as she headed toward the stage. "Okay Ginny, let's go have a look at your handy work," I said, as we made our way to the ladies room. My thoughts had been to show appreciation to Ginny for her efforts. My reaction to the physical reflection would be a tribute to her. Once inside, she left me standing alone in front of the full-length mirror. The image reflected back was one of extreme beauty. I looked like nothing I'd ever seen. I appeared to have the look of Rita Heyworth, Ava Gardner, Angie Dickinson, and Elizabeth Taylor rolled into one. Each time my focus changed I looked different. "Well, what do you think?" she said as she added her reflection to the mirror. "You have magic in your hands." "It's not in the hands, Steve," she asked, as we headed back to the room. Left alone in the dressing room, I became convinced that that this act would be another step in letting go. Any significance to my actions would be limiting. I'd go with the flow. Stream-like. Between sets, Stacey came in to check on me. "How's it going? You're not too uncomfortable?" "No." I said quietly. "I've been dressed like this before. Little more jewelry than usual, but I'm quite content." "I'm nervous," she sighed. "We'll do it together. We'll be fine," I said while I hugged her. After the second set she suggested that a cigarette would calm me. I declined it. "Come on, it's time." We walked toward the makeshift stage. I held back out of sight while she walked up to the piano. Beneath the glare of the spotlight she began her set. I had to pay attention due in part to not knowing the song she'd picked. The wait seemed endless. She began playing the tune "Stage Fright." She gave me a quick nod that this would be the tune. I smiled as I thought of the words to the song "?see the man with the stage fright; he got caught in the spotlight?." She spoke to me through the song that she'd be fearful of letting go, but would try. On her cue, bathed in a spotlight, I slithered across the stage, and then up onto the piano, laid down atop it, rested my elbow upon it, placed my chin in my hand, and then faced the audience. The song ended and I said my line. Stacey rose and took a bow. The audience applauded. She began playing the Bertolt Brecht, Kurt Weil "Alabama Song" made famous by the Doors -- the last tune of the set. When it ended, we both took bows and headed off. The audience's applause signaled one more song and she obliged. I stood off to the side as she sang "Bridge over Troubled Water." She took her final bows, and then headed off stage to greet me with an incredible hug and kiss. "Thank you so much," she said between kisses and hugs. "By the way," I said. " ?The Doors' do a better version of the ?Alabama Song.' " She punched me lightly, and then kissed me again. "Let's get changed and head over to the ?Green Parrot' for a drink." "If you don't mind, I'd like to stay like this a little longer. We could have a drink here if that's okay." We kissed and held each other as we made our way to the bar. Ginny joined us and the three of us enjoyed a congratulatory drink. After helping us change out of our costumes, Ginny left while we headed back to the apartment. We made love as we had that very first time. Our lives in the Key West became joined. She found herself and over time I became more comfortable in life's way. Clothing had lost its importance and the only time that I'd wear anything feminine would be for the Saturday night gig. Stacey elected to stay after her six months of engagements. She'd developed a local following and had ample off-season gigs. I continued to work on the old boats and branched out to service more modern ones. One day as I worked, the sound of my name startled me. "Excuse me, are you Steve Barnes?" I looked up to see a police officer and a professionally dressed woman. "I'm Steve Barnes." "I'm Sheila Oaks, and I'm a private detective," she said while displaying her credentials. "Your wife engaged my firm to find you." "Well, you found me. What is it you want?" "Mrs. Barnes wanted my firm to determine if you were living or dead." I stood silent for a moment torn between thoughts that my wife had a concern for my well-being and that she wanted my remaining assets. "How is she? Is she well?" I asked. "I wouldn't have that kind of information Mr. Barns." "You can report to her that I'm alive." I managed through sudden hoarseness. "Add that I'll not be seeing her ever again. Let her know that I've found a new life for myself here." "She asked that you sign these documents, if and when we discovered your where-a-bouts," she said while reaching into her briefcase to remove a folder. I looked through the folder and discovered what I'd thought. Divorce papers and power of attorney over my remaining assets. I wiped a tear from my eyes. "Do you have a pen?" I asked. With a few strokes