Cart Boy

I don’t know why it was always Florida for me, but it was. Something about it was beckoning. Maybe it was because I grew up in Minnesota, land of 10,000 lakes. You know, a lake beach is really not the same as an ocean beach. I can say that with certainty now. I never thought I’d stay here. Of course, I had dreams of New York or Los Angeles, but life happened for me here.

It was an odd chain of events that landed me here. I was young, 27, working at a rural family resort nobody had ever heard of. It was on a small stretch of land that sat on a little lake. Rustic log cabins were settled around a central lobby building. It was lost in its own time. Every Tuesday night we performed a hootenanny for the guests. During the last number of the show, we all rushed out of the lobby and jumped into the lake, fully clothed. The guests all scrambled out to the deck to watch us nearly drown. They loved it. We loved it.

I found myself working there as a “cart boy” for the small golf course they managed. I drove golf carts around all day, serving rich men alcohol and cookies. There was this one particular spectacle of a man I encountered. His name was John, but friends called him Johnny. I guess I never learned his last name. He was completely reckless with his money, but he could afford to be. We became close as he often needed a constant flow of alcohol from my cart. I didn’t mind though. He would hold up a game telling these wild stories. He told a story once of how he saw a massive turkey right off the side of the highway. So, he pulled off the road, got out of his truck, and shot the bird right there. He hauled it home for - wouldn't you know it - Thanksgiving dinner that night. Nobody ever believed his stories, but it didn’t matter. He was so good at storytelling that nobody cared. He was standing there somehow speaking poetry to us about killing a turkey on a golf course in a long forgotten part of northern Minnesota.

I guess I got to talking to him one day about the far off land of magical Florida and he laughed right in my face. It was always Florida for me. He looked me right in the eyes, pulled his keys out of his pocket, and placed them tightly in my hand. I didn’t know what to do. What did it mean? Surely he wasn’t giving me his car. “She’s all yours, kid. Go to Florida.” Then he simply smiled and walked away. I insisted he take it back, but he wasn’t having it. Moderately reckless myself at the time, I left. I chose to believe him. I saw how he was with his money. He was well enough off. This car meant nothing to him, or so I convinced myself.

I was halfway across the country, headed toward my dream, when I found the money: two thick stacks of cash accompanied by a small black notebook in the glove compartment. It totaled around $20,000. For a brief moment, I hesitated. Should I drive back? Part of me felt like this was all still his plan somehow. Certainly a product of his carelessness, but the romantic in me considered he might have known it was in there. I chose to believe him.

The notebook was full of his poetry. He was a poet. Of course he was a poet. Each poem was darker than the last:

So people keep saying

I make you whole

Nobody tells you

How it makes you half

Halved, then fourthed

Take your piece

I love it for you

I’m a piece of a part

Falling apart

But you feel whole

Who gives it back?

If we’re all composed of parts

You won’t find mine here

They’re kept safe in others

But I pay my rent, so all’s fair?

Paid with his parts

Until I’ve emptied him out

He’s better without

Wants to feel numb

Or wants to feel pain

Sever his parts

Serve him up

You’ve all been deceived

Didn’t the meal look delicious?

It’s all empty calories

Sits in your stomach

Makes you feel full

But you’ll starve soon enough

He’s nothing for you

I never told anyone about the notebook, the poetry, the money. I was young and I made it here: sunny Florida, the dream. For the first few nights I slept in the car and didn’t spend a dollar of his cash. It was warm. It was what I needed. I fell in love with the beach, a woman, my life. I sprawled out, sank in my roots.

Fifty years later, I'm here, looking back at his poetry. Did he know what he did, how important it would be to my life? I choose to believe him.