“Never go on trips with anyone you do not love.” Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
“Wait, wait, wait,” I stammer. “You’re going to be in Key West WHEN?”
“Nov. 18. Next Monday,” my friend says.
“No, you’re not!” I scream. “I’M going to be in Key West on Nov. 18!”
“Wait. We’re going to be in Key West on the same day?! Why? What’s happening?”
Serenfuckingdipity. That’s what.
I’ve known Paul since the mid-2000s when he was introduced to me by a mutual friend. With our shared sense of a deeply warped and too-soon humor, we became fast friends and fell in platonic love immediately.
Then Paul met the incredible and life-changing Sally, they married and moved, and because I’m the absolute WORST at keeping in touch with people who are outside my direct line of sight, our contact ebbed and shifted, but not our friendship. Because when Paul and I pick up, it’s EXACTLY where we left off.
Paul and I were there for each other for the big things – Paul and Sal’s wedding; my wild and unexpected illness, a milestone birthday of a mutual friend in Seattle, and Sally’s celebration of life after her unfair, traumatic, tragic, and long-suffering battle with colon cancer. And this is where we pick up – Paul grieving, determining what’s next, and not working – and me, exorcising a corporate (albeit a highly, and thankfully, lucrative) demon, determining what’s next, and also … not working.
I’d put in my two weeks’ notice at my corporate communications career, a very-much strategically planned departure, and purchased a one-way ticket to Key West.
“Funemployment,” Paul deemed it.
“Happenstance!” I exclaimed.
“Meet at Hemingway’s house?” Paul asked/announced.
I couldn’t think of a better place for our reunion: Paul’s an avid reader. I’ve stolen a book (or six) from him over the years. One of my best friends has an absolute obsession with Hemingway and was currently managing his own demons, and somehow, this felt supportive since I couldn’t be there for him in-person. And me? I’m a writer who drools over a well-turned phrase or a carefully crafted run-on sentence.
“I’ll be there in 5 minutes,” I texted.
“Allegedly,” Paul said.
For once in my life, I was right on time.
What an out-of-body experience to have not seen a friend since we were celebrating his wife’s life in St. Paul, MN, few months ago. And here we are, on the literal edge of the earth, our weird worlds colliding.
Hugs, exclamations, a tour of Ernie’s writing room, cat-petting and picture-taking, and an impossibly provocative pool later, we make our way to the Southernmost point of the U.S.
A woman tries to cut us in line. Paul diplomatically puts her in her place. And this is also why we’re friends: boundaries, baby. You will not tell either of us what to do or get in our way.
We decide to dine at a taco establishment whose motto is, “Once you’ve ruined your reputation, you can live quite freely,” and while I’m unsure if I’ve murdered my professional life or not, I know in this moment that I am quite free.
We spend the rest of the night hopping from one bar to another and to twice as many $5 beachwear stores because, even after dozens of adventures to Florida, I still don’t know how to pack. “Pack twice the money and half the clothes!” the Larry Catlosism rings in my ears, but I never learn. Or perhaps I just don’t care. Because there’s never something tangible that TJ Maxx can’t fix.
We end the evening at a pub named after a vegetable and get a waiter whose brain is made of the same. We should’ve called it a day at Shots and Giggles because THAT’S a place that knows how to welcome a customer and make a decent pun.
With bellies full of boozememories, and hiccups loud enough to wake the dead, we lazily make our way back to our Airbnb, dancing away from Old Town, the sand making scuffing sounds under our sandals.
We are living quite freely.
Our reputations? Now that’s another story.
Comments