Walk Home Together

Tony

Tony walks his two yippy Pomeranians (?) twice a day like clockwork. He’s in his sixties and wears his longish hair slicked back as though permanently wet. It’s mostly black with silver streaks on the sides. He’s deeply tanned, barrel chested. Tony wears what was once a button-down dress shirt in his former life with the sleeves unceremoniously cut off at the shoulders. There is a good bit of gold jewelry on his fingers and wrists, and one thick, heavy chain around his neck, peaking through an impressive wall of chest hair. More often than not he’s mumbling into a cell phone as he does his best to masticate a cigar. My thinking is he won the witness protection lottery and ended up here instead of say, suburban Minneapolis. I will not be swayed from this theory.

Michelle

She goes by another name at work, dancing at the Red Garter. But she introduced herself as Michelle as we stood in line at Fausto’s, when she asked me about my Auburn T-shirt. She’s from Oklahoma but her brother played football briefly at Mississippi State. She has that clean air, old fashioned beauty. She’s tiny, 5 feet at most, which begs the question of how she manages to stand upright with her very large, very fresh breast implants. She is buying stuff to make cupcakes for her roommate’s birthday, which she says they will have after they watch an episode of Schitt’s Creek. They were late to the party as far as that show goes, she tells me. And they know there are no more episodes, so they dole them out one at the time on Thursdays when they are both off. She smiles as she does her impression of Alexis: “Ew, David!” and I can see two little sparkles from the tiny diamonds she has embedded into each of her canines.

Laurence

Laurence is Haitian. An enormous person with a booming voice. This comes in handy on Duval at night. This is his hustle:

He backs himself into a little nook between semi-quiet buildings. Then he mostly conceals himself behind big palm fronds he brought downtown for this purpose. He waits until some promising-looking tourists come past. Usually a laughing couple, or a big group of various ages. Never a young kid, no one on a bike, never a drunk bachelor party. He has his reasons, and the right mark is key. He waits in hiding until the mark walks past and then he jumps out in full pirate attire yelling “BOOOOOOOOO!”

The tourists scream, and then inevitably burst out laughing. Then they tip him. It’s brilliant.

During the day you’ll see him riding his bike to his other job at the Half Shell, singing songs in Creole, leaving the strong scent of weed in his wake.

Fran

Furious Fran. She hates tourists and locals and all animals except for birds. She has birdcages stacked three high on her porch on Eaton Street. She sits out there, no matter the temp, in her faded tropical print muumuu, smoking cigarettes. She screams at everyone; it’s nothing personal. I was walking the dog my first day here when she yelled out “Your stupid-ass dog is scaring the chickens you stupid fucking bitch!” I couldn’t help but laugh in surprise which made her angrier. Whoops. She knows me now, so I get a colorful cussing every time I ride my bike to Strunk’s Hardware.

She is either fifty or eighty; it’s impossible to tell. I think she was probably married once, moved down here from somewhere else, then he booked it soon after. I’m betting she has rented this house for decades for basically nothing. In order to raise her rent her landlord would have to converse with her and that’s not a pleasant prospect. Best to leave well enough alone.

Billy

Billy likes to sit on the bench at the seaport with the statue of Henry Flagler. His clothes are shabby, his hair and beard have gone past white and are yellowing with each passing year. His skin is the color and texture of a cigar. He doesn’t say much but will give you a cheerful return “Good morning!” if you greet him. Occasionally you’ll see him, still on the bench, eating something out of a styrofoam container, a paper napkin tucked neatly in his lap. Most people assume he’s homeless; it’s a logical conclusion.

But every night he returns to his immaculate 40 foot Hinckley that he bought new in the 60’s.