Year in Palm Beach (10 page)

Pam and I decide we'll wait for a slower song. Lou comes over and says, “I didn't know you guys had any friends.”

“We don't,” I say. “We got those two from an escort service.” Lou points and says, “Well, I'd take the guy back.” We turn around. There's Theo doing the chicken-walk thing in the middle of the dance floor. Pam starts laughing. I just shake my head.

Friday, November 6

Over breakfast in the morning, Theo and Deborah cannot stop talking about last night. “We had the most fun we could without getting arrested,” Theo says.

“Theo, you should have been arrested. You're way too old for that chicken-walk thing,” I say.

Deborah says, “Way too old. But no one minded. Everybody was cool with it. I thought Palm Beach was snooty and stiff and formal, but everybody was so friendly. How come?”

“How come? Honestly, we don't know,” Pam says. “Everybody seems nice. It's like a small town.”

“What small town do you know where you can walk to restaurants like Bice or Renato's and dance to live music at ten thirty on a Thursday?” Theo says.

“Actually, the walk around town last night was so peaceful it would have been wonderful all by itself,” Deborah says.

“I think we'll stay another few nights,” Theo says, and pauses. “Just kidding. We're out of here, but we will be back.”

I hope so. The late Harry Chapin wrote a song called “Let Time Go Lightly.” In it, he sings something about how old friends know who you really are and know where you've been. Theo and I were kids together. We've watched our own kids grow. We've been to each other's weddings and to too many funerals together. We've helped each other for a lifetime. I don't have many friends, but the ones I do have are the best.

Saturday, November 7

This morning is my daughter Samantha's birthday. Amusingly, or perhaps frighteningly, she is about the age I was when I fell in love with Pam. She'll be down in a few weeks for Thanksgiving. I can't wait. We'll call her later with birthday greetings, but first, and for the first time in weeks, Pam and I actually have to get in a car and drive.

A bathroom light fixture has strange bulbs. When the first bulb burned out, we didn't care. When the second one went, we looked for bulbs at Publix. No luck. The third one burned out last night, so this morning I look in the
West Palm Beach Yellow Pages
and find Light Bulbs Unlimited on Okeechobee Boulevard.

Pam drives us over the bridge. “Man, it's a shock to leave the island,” she says.

“You mean because first it's tall buildings and then strip malls, car dealerships, and lots of traffic?”

“Yeah, it's just a whole different feeling.”

The store has the exact replacement bulbs so we stock up. As we are leaving, I notice a billiards store. I say to Pam, “Look, pool tables. I really miss playing pool with you. Let's just go in for a minute.”

Pam says, “Sure.”

“Maybe we'll rack 'em up and have a few games of strip pool.”

“Perfect,” Pam says. “I have on my leopard skin thong today.”

Inside there are some impressive pool tables on display. We're walking around looking at them when I see a bumper pool table over in a corner. Pam sees it, too, and laughs.

When we were first together over twenty years ago, we bought a bumper pool table. The two of us had hours and hours of fun playing with friends and with my daughter Samantha and her friends.

A saleslady comes over. “What's the smallest room you can actually play bumper pool in?” I ask her. She looks at me like this is a normal question. Pam looks at me the way she often looks at Barney. I catch the look, and confess, “I was thinking maybe one could fit in the guest cottage.”

Pam says, “What about guests?”

“We can just move it. We had hours of fun playing bumper pool, remember? Fun is good, and it's Samantha's birthday.”

“Fun is good,” Pam says, “but do you think you can fool a Corleone into thinking Samantha's birthday has anything to do with this?”

“I guess the birthday idea was a bit of a stretch.” The saleslady is back with a copy of the dimensions needed to play bumper pool. When we get home, I measure, and there is enough room.

“Let's do it. It'll be our Christmas present to each other,” Pam says.

“I'll call and order it right now,” I say. “Merry Christmas.”

Monday, November 9

Tonight as we're walking to The Chesterfield, Pam says, “Are those Xs chalk?” She's pointing at two big Xs scrawled across two squares of the sidewalk.

“I don't think so. Maybe kids playing with spray paint.” As we continue walking, I notice more whites Xs drawn across some of the squares, four or five on several different streets. It looks like too many to be just some kids playing with chalk or paint.

We get to The Chesterfield. It should be a fairly quiet night with Bill on the guitar. We'll hear a couple of jokes from Lou or John, have a few dances, and head home. As we walk through The Chesterfield's courtyard, however, the place seems noisier and more crowded than usual. Just inside the door of the Leopard Lounge, a lady is sitting at a table, collecting money.

“Has to be some kind of private party or special function,” Pam says.

“I think so,” I say. “Want to try Café Boulud or just head home?” We turn around and start back out. Candy, tan and perfectly coiffed, is bartending tonight. She spots us and waves us in.

“We're open, you two,” she says.

“Not a private party?” I point to the woman at the table.

“No, no, no,” she shakes her head and laughs. “This is just the Millionaires Club.”

Pam and I look at each other. “Candy, if this is the Millionaires Club,” I say, “we are definitely in the wrong saloon.”

Mark, the Restaurant Manager, comes over and says “No, no, no. Come on in. Everybody's welcome. There's room at the bar.”

Lou brings us a drink. “So this guy comes into the bar. I look at his pants and say, ‘Is that a steering wheel in your pants?' He says, ‘Yes, and it's driving me nuts.'”

I ask Lou and Candy about the Millionaires Club. The best anyone can determine, it is an eclectic assemblage of singles who have get-togethers at local bars, organized by the club's founders, allegedly two of the early Doublemint Twins. These ladies have the table set up at The Chesterfield tonight, and they collect ten dollars from each of their members who come into the bar.

I say, “Lou, members have to pay ten dollars to get in here and non members like us get in for free? Does that make any sense?”

Lou wrinkles his forehead. “It doesn't make a lick of sense to me, but it's making the twins ten bucks a head.”

On the walk home, we pass Club Colette. Eight or nine Bentleys are parked in front. I'm thinking maybe it should be called Club Bentley instead of Club Colette.

Wednesday November 11

This morning I awaken with what is known in our family as “Dick's wing-thing.” This is a partially frozen and painful shoulder blade condition that I have somehow acquired while sleeping. I used to be a decorated student athlete, a man of steel. Now I can injure myself when I'm asleep. Sleep-related injuries?

Sometimes I can work it out with heat and ice or by lying on a golf ball. If not, it takes a few visits to the chiropractor. Today, no luck with home remedies, so this evening I say, “Pam, you think Bobby would know a chiropractor?”

“Let's walk to Taboo,” Pam says, “perhaps have a cocktail and ask him.”

There is room at the bar. Bobby greets us and brings us a drink. When he has a free moment, I say, “Bobby, I've got a question for you tonight.”

Pam says, “Actually, I've got one, too. We'll pay the usual fee.” He laughs. “You said two questions. I'll have to double the fee. But I guess two times zero is still zero.”

“Okay, first, do you know of a good chiropractor in town?” I ask.

“A great one,” he says, “but he's not in town. He's in Lake Worth. Dr. Keith. He's helped me. He's helped Cindy. Heck, he's helped most of the people who work here. He's the chiropractor for the U.S. Olympic and National Triathlon teams. He's really good.”

“Sold,” I say. “How far away from here?”

“About twelve or fifteen minutes,” he says.

Pam says, “Okay, we have a chiropractor. Now do you know where can we find a fresh fruits and vegetable stand, fresh produce?”

He smiles and nods his head. “Don Victorio's Market is right on the way to or from Dr. Keith's. Really fresh produce at great prices,” he says.

We finish our drinks, thank Bobby, and start home for dinner with all the pertinent information safely recorded on a bar napkin.

On our walk home it is a little cool and just misting a bit. Fall must be on its way. We both notice more and more sidewalk squares with large white Xs drawn across them.

Pam says, “These Xs are not from kids, and they're not chalk, they're paint.”

“Are you ready for this? They seem to be only on the cracked squares of sidewalk,” I say.

“You mean you think the town's actually going to replace all these squares?”

“Looks like it to me,” I say, “but who knows. We'll see.”

Thursday, November 12

My wing-thing is better this morning, so I put off making an appointment with Dr. Keith. Almost pain-free, I'm enjoying an espresso.

Pam says, “The Shiny Sheet has a calendar of the season's upcoming events. It looks like there's something every day, balls, luncheons, you name it. Do you think the town will be different with all these events happening?”

“I don't know. Maybe there'll be more traffic. We'll wait and see,” I say.

On an afternoon walk, we come upon two men with a jack-hammer and a wheelbarrow, breaking up the X-marks-the-spot sidewalk squares.

Pam says, “Amazing.”

Later, we see two guys with rolling cement mixers pouring, spreading, and smoothing the new portions of sidewalk. The ones not being replaced are being pressure washed.

I tell Pam that I'm walking to Scotti's to pick up some beer. On the way, I pick up a stick and etch a heart with an arrow through it and the initials “P” and “D” into one of the damp squares. I drop the stick, pick up my beer, and go back home.

Friday, November 13

Pam and I are watching a Knicks game at Bice. We still haven't done anything about hooking up our TV. A small entourage of thirty-something “area people” is finishing up their drinks and discussing where to go next. The apparent leader of the crowd exclaims, “Okay, okay, come on, we're going to go to the Zebra Lounge at The Colony. We can dance there.”

Well, yes and no. There is no Zebra Lounge at The Colony or anywhere on the island. There is the Leopard Lounge at The Chesterfield, and the Polo Lounge at The Colony. No Zebra Lounge. But since it is a weekend night and there is dancing at both The Colony and The Chesterfield, they'll be able to dance wherever they end up.

The Knicks are depressing me, so I suggest we walk over to Amici. As we approach the restaurant, I stop next to a certain section of sidewalk.

“What are you doing?” Pam says.

I sort of nod my head towards the sidewalk.

“Dick, why are you stopping?”

“Look down.”

She looks down and sees the heart with our initials. She laughs and puts her arms around me. “When did you do that?” she says. I just smile.

We walk on to Amici and take a seat at the bar. Two men next to us cash out and leave. As they hit the sidewalk, Beth, the bartender, comes over with her wonderful smile. “Do you guys know who you were sitting next to?” We look at each other. “That was Jimmy Buffett,” she says.

Pam says, “We had no clue. None. And actually Dick and I are big fans of Mr. Buffet and his music.”

His songs were the sound track for our escape from Manhattan to the Caribbean several decades ago. I can still see Pam dancing crazily by herself to “Cheeseburger in Paradise” on the aft deck of
Maverick
, the boat we were living on then.

“Well, it could have been Warren Buffet next to us for all I knew,” I say. “Jimmy got by us this time. Won't happen again.”

Tuesday, November 17

This morning the Shiny Sheet informs me that a lady in Palm Beach has notified the police that her flatware is missing. She last saw it in May. What's with these people?

Our cottage problems are a thing of the past. I'm even adjusting to the Lilliputian doors and ceilings. But the longer we live here, the more the lack of storage space becomes an issue. My clothes closet is packed so tight I can't even get a jacket off the rack. The cabinet under the sink is so full it takes me five minutes to find the Windex.

I'm in the kitchen, thinking, why don't we just turn this little room and tiny bathroom off the kitchen into a closet? Get a clothes rack, a few shelves, whatever will make it work. There are two other bathrooms in the house and one in the guest cottage.

I tell my plan to Pamela, and after work we head out for supplies. By the end of the evening, Pam and I have put shelves in the shower, a rolling clothes rack in the utility room, file holders on the walls.

“Seems like a great solution,” I say “At least for a while,” Pam says.

Thursday November 19

We walk over to the tennis courts. It is now mid-November, and trucks fill every available parking space: air conditioning repairers, security system installers, plumbers, painters, electricians, and wallpaper hangers. People are actually going to be coming to Palm Beach. It looks like all the houses will soon be full.

Pam and I have hit tennis balls for almost an hour and are now sitting by the courts, sharing a bottle of water. A woman who seems about our age (which means she is ten to fifteen years younger) is on a rapid and direct approach to where we are sitting.