Its 1700 Somewhere
Mark was fed up with the disturbing sights and sounds of the Midwest that graced his television each evening before the tranquility of Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune put him in a solemn eight-hour slumber. The youth had taken over the streets of Chicago some 82 miles away from him and he could not stomach the thought of the violence making its way to him. It seemed inevitable. Violence was on the rise, a democrat was in office, and for Pete’s sake, the cashier he was familiar with at the local grocery store was now a man! What was a discouraged retiree to do?
As he sat in his recliner one evening, scrolling through Facebook from right-wing news articles to grandchildren’s birth announcements, he stumbled across an advertisement for Latitudes Margaritaville. The sunshine and blue waters in the thumbnail nearly made him erect for the first time in years. On the verge of shame, he clicked the photo for further arousal. He scrolled through the tropical website where he noticed a spicy looking widow enjoying a cold cerveza with an athletic looking senior. He scrolled further and saw the potential to see Jimmy Buffett in the flesh making musical pop-ins around the neighborhood. And, what the shit? Pat Sajak and Vanna White were doing a home giveaway for one of these exclusive neighborhoods? “What was the catch?” Mark thought to himself. He inspected the website further because he did not trust it. He did not trust most websites given their Russian development to sway US politics, but this seemed legitimate. Mark had found a diamond in the rough. A paradise community, filled with active adults his age, keeping the party going like he had been doing, and best of all, free fucking concerts by Jimmy Buffett! In disbelief, the iPad illuminated Mark in his recliner as he filled out the information sheet on the sidebar of the website. “This will cost a damn arm and a leg.” He thought to himself. Once submitted, his device dinged the familiar email notification. He slowly closed out of all the apps to open his email when lo-and-behold, the directors of Latitude Margaritaville had prioritized him by responding to his inquiry. He couldn’t help but blush at the importance.
The crucial delivery included the different neighborhoods he could choose from. There was a Margaritaville in Hilton Head, South Carolina. Another in Daytona Beach, Florida. The last one was in Watersound, Florida on the Gulf of Mexico. That sounded exotic to Mark. The options were endless between the Key West inspired houses that lined the golf cart lined streets. There was no crime to be had there. Hell, if anything, he was going to be the baddest person on the streets in Margaritaville. The fantasy played to him like his trip to Sturgis, South Dakota ten years ago with his late wife. They rolled up on the hog he purchased for bike week, adorning leather and a sunscreened bald head. His lady riding bitch while they strutted the bike through town. He almost smoked a cigarette that night after a couple cold boys.
The illuminated daydream from the comfort of his living room ended when he got to pricing in the promotional email. “Here we go,” he thought. “How are they going to rip me off now?” He expected the options to be less fun than the pictures and imaginative advertising copy the email had promised, but he was soon surprised. Margariteville/Pulte Homes were asking for as low as $500 down for their homes. Of course, he understood economics, he bought his house in 1982 for $98,000. It wasn’t that much different to how it is now. $500 seemed like a reasonable down payment, especially in today’s low-interest rate environment.
Over the course of the night, Mark sold himself further. He found himself virtually picking out a lot close enough to the action but far enough away where he could keep his boat a-rocking without too much trouble from neighbors. When he got to the paperwork, he filled out all the necessary items like his source of income, assets, political affiliation, credit score, demographics, criminal history, religious affiliations, cholesterol, next of kin. He finished his evening with a Facebook post to mark the momentous occasion where he began the next chapter of his life “Sayonara (terribly misspelled) suckers! You can reach me from a hammock drinking something tall and strong.”
***
Mark awoke in the morning to his doorbell ringing. This was a surprise because no one rings doorbells anymore. He put on a robe and shuffled his way to the company awaiting him. He greeted a young woman and two gentlemen in suits. The young woman did all the talking. She thanked him for showing interest in Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville. She informed Mark he had been accepted into the program and it was vital for him to leave for his new home soon. When he hesitated, she informed him his belongings would be packed by her two assistants that would ensure accurate delivery of his possessions and keepsakes. There was no time like the present to join the community and nothing said “go with the flow” like dropping it all for a slice of paradise. The next thing Mark knew he was in a minivan on his way to the airport wearing a floral printed short-sleeved button down with terry cloth shorts and a pair of flip-flops.
Airport security was a breeze as he was accompanied through by the young woman who had made all the arrangements in advance. They even gave him a wheelchair that allowed minimized security and advanced boarding for his flight to Savannah, Georgia which would deliver him to Hilton Head, South Carolina. The young lady gave him some headphones before take-off that had the sounds of steel drums echoing in a memory chamber that unlocked the recollection of a Girls Gone Wild VHS he had ordered disgracefully twenty years ago. Throughout the duration of the flight, the stewardesses served him rum and coke. He was told “cheers” each time in a friendly manner. The adoption of all of this gave him comfort as he took a full belly nap on the flight.
Once landed, Mark was carted off the plane in a wheelchair along with three others through the Savannah Airport. As they rode in unison with their respective handlers, they were told many things. It first started off with the fact that Savannah Airport was the last airport in the country to desegregate. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sure did fire him up. They were also told that gasoline had reached $5.50 per gallon. They rolled past closed stores and were informed that people did not want to work any more so the companies that operated restaurant services were forced to shut down. When someone questioned the tragedy that occurred around them, a handler informed them that this was the trajectory of the country. It was not specifically here; it was everywhere in the United States. The group shuddered at the thought and soon found themselves thankful to be loaded into the Latitudes Margaritaville van that would take them to paradise.
***
Mark found his new house to be the exact plot of land he had pinned when scrolling the website. He was informed that in a few days his belongings would be arriving and to start planning the adoption of his old house into his new home. This was the first real change Mark had gone through in a while. He wanted to make a layout that said, “Your shoes aren’t the only thing that have to come off.” The picture of the perpetual beach days filled his head along with ideas of poker nights with some of the boys from around the neighborhood and maybe the occasional weekly fling could fill his time pretty swell in these digs. He stretched out on the temporary furniture in bliss.
Mark walked over to the kitchen island which had a red folder on the granite countertop. When he opened it, he began to read the orientation which spelt out what life would be like on “the grounds”. The document kept referring to the neighborhood as “the grounds”. The grounds had a commissary and a post office and a public access aquatic leisure center and a coordinated department for transplant adoptive activities and a district of congregational affairs. The pictures seemed nice with town hall events where Jimmy Buffet, Alex Trebek, and Liz Cheney all came out to cheering fans of the grounds. The aquatic center held surfing lessons for visiting grandchildren. And every Tuesday, the congregational affairs district hosted a food truck loop in their parking lot. Mark also noticed an invitation for cocktails by the ocean each night at 5PM. He thought to himself, “Well nothing’s stopping me from getting my drink on tonight. Let’s see what this is all about.”
When he got to the happy hour, he was greeted by the young woman that had rang his doorbell that morning and accompanied him on the plane. She made it aware to everyone that she was thrilled he made it there that night for being so new to the community. After her announcement, he no longer had to introduce himself to strangers. They all came up to him. Some of the guys opened with their military service, others noted his Midwestern accent and teased if he was a Cubs, Sox, or Cardinals fan. However, when 5PM rolled around, the socialization halted. The crowd wavered in the setting sun as they faced down the beach and hoisted their glasses high into the air. In unison, they all chanted “I like mine with lettuce and tomato!” Following that, they cheersed their red solo cups and took a knee on the sand. Mark asked the young lady what was going on. She informed him, “It’s 5 O’clock somewhere and they are just paying their respects toward Key West.” Unabashedly, Mark joined them with his cup of Captain Morgan and Sprite. He had not felt like part of a fraternity in a while. He felt the calling of being in Rome and doing as the Romans did.
The party continued after the acapella “Cheeseburger in Paradise” ended. The attendees all rejoined to discuss things like national border security and the taxation allotment of medical care for the disadvantaged. Mark enjoyed himself as a contributor to a lot of shared opinions that garnered nods and smiles. The affirmation was another stitch in the quilt that made Latitudes Margaritaville feel like home. Despite the fruitful conversation he was participating in, he decided it was time to turn in for the night. It had been a long day of travel, and he would save the better conversations for later to really get acquainted with the neighbors.
***
Mark woke up confused. Granted he wakes up confused a lot. However, this time it took longer than normal to remind himself he was in his new home. Once he gained clarity it was time for coffee. He walked out to the kitchen and found a coffee pot. It was a score for him because it was the same one he had back in Illinois. The coffee grounds were in the fridge like he was used to, and the filters were in a holder on the countertop. The morning was off to a good start as he flipped the familiar switch. The house soon filled with the smells and sounds of percolating coffee. He took the time to examine his new home. The sun filled it well with south facing windows, complemented well with west facing windows. The ranch style home had three bedrooms, a living room, a laundry room, and a sunroom. Mark had never had a sunroom before, so he took his coffee in there. Seated on a Floridian white leather couch, he noticed a stack of books that sat on a shelf. A lot of them were very familiar to him, but he was intrigued. Brilliant authors like Tom Clancy, Glenn Beck, Mark Twain, and Thomas Sowell glowed from the spines facing the room. He noticed a title that looked, not off, but rather, not a classical name you would find on a bookshelf. It was a pink flamingo colored book that had been written by Jimmy Buffett. When he moved in closer, he read the title “I Am Here, And So Can You” – which was odd because he never took the old Parrothead for a writer.
Throughout the day, Mark found himself thumbing through the book. He took it with him to lunch at the local neighborhood café called “The Mess Hall”. He had it on the seat next to him in his golf cart as he explored the cul-de-sacs of each street. Occasionally, he brought it to the john with him so he could have something to occupy his time. Mark was astonished by the topics exhumed by the man. His impression was that Jimmy was a miraculous son-of-a-bitch. Mark picked up a highlighter from the commissary when he did his initial grocery run, and soon the book found its way to being earmarked and highlighted with important passages that stood out. By the end of the day, Mark found himself making his nightly post on Facebook with a quote from the book. He had been so invested in the prose that he realized he had not made a single Facebook post that day! It took some crafting but, lo-and-behold, he made a message to his audience that could be an official mouthpiece for the brilliant man behind the book. The post unfolded as such: “Dear friends, I have found myself in a retirement paradise. In many ways paradise is a land which many seek, but never find. It is my graciousness that I share it with you. And in many ways, I hope to find a way to bring you this salvation. Until then, don’t search too far for your lost shaker of salt.” Satisfied with his outreach, Mark shut down his iPad, one app at a time like he had seen others do. He realized he had missed Jeopardy and decided to hurry off to bed in order to get a jump on the next day.
***
Early in the morning he found himself with less confusion than he had had the day prior. He took on his routine as if he had always been in his new home. The coffee was poured, the pee was had, and his sunroom was open for some examination into the word of Buffett. Feeling fulfilled at the start of the day, he decided to call the Coordinated Department for Transplant Activities to see if there was much he could get involved in around the grounds. The friendly people said they would send someone over to his place in a few minutes so they could develop a bespoke plan on the pursuits that interested him. After he hung up the phone, Mark realized he was about to have company over for the first time. He went into a mini-episodic cleaning spree to present his new abode as sparkly and well maintained. In his efforts, he made sure to leave a copy of “I Am Here, And So Can You” on the coffee table in hopes it would inspire a conversation with the guest.
When the doorbell rang, Mark was eager to invite the representative inside. The only problem was it wasn’t one person. The cluster of Margaritaville representatives stood at his door in militant decadence soliciting an invite inside. He was happy to do so given his adoptive complex that wanted to make the growing pains of forming to a new community easy. When situated in his living room, the leader spoke with authority as the “yes men” leaned forward on his blue felt couch. Mark also listened with intent. The persuasion was simple. Mark had found Latitudes Margaritaville from a very refined search. His interest was congruent with the people and his ideals aligned with the doctrine laid out in General Buffett’s book. Their request was that Mark start a regimen where he would attend the local calisthenics classes to maintain his above-average-for-his-age figure. Following that, he would attend the grounds constructed happy hours to recruit the specific abled body, non-geriatric minded folks that he felt were capable of delivering a paradise to the beyond state. In his discipline, Mark would deliver the paradise of Eden to the rest of America when instructed by the commanding power. Not only did Mark like the idea of being in charge, but he also felt he had earned it. His responsibility as a line manager at the custom auto template factory in rural Illinois had prepared him for this type of leadership. The ideals of Messiah Buffett were critically aligned to deliver good peace on Earth such as paradise. As the get-together concluded, Mark stood with the representative and all his men, attempted to make a cordial, militant effort to show respect, and swiveled his back foot to lock his legs into place while gesturing a salute to the proud men that he had the pleasure of welcoming into his home.
***
It was difficult for Mark to find the time for leisure after training ended each day. He still woke up to his percolated coffee, had his reflective moments with the good book in his sunroom, and the regularity of evacuating his bowels to the sweet melodies of Messiah Buffett that were being piped into his house at a constant hour and pleasurable decibel. But after the morning of worship concluded, training began. It was kept slow enough as to not startle the senior citizens but maintained enough discipline that they began to refer to themselves as “troops”. The khaki and Tommy Bahama consortium would take long winded walks around the community while reiterating passages from the Gospel of Jimmy that affirmed their beliefs. The winded geezers discussed elections that they witnessed in their life and cite them as democracy’s downfall or retell moments from recent events that shook them to their core of childhood abortions and progressive principles that were permeating to the surface of the very America they wished to not lose. The triumphant troops marched on until their lunchtime at 11AM. The Community Center for the Standardization of Profundity hosted breakout sessions in which the men could practice their apologetics in their logic if ever faced with discourse that interrupted the societal fabric they were trying to save. Around rough plastic foldable tables and chairs, sandwiches would be eaten in a group of three to five men with a lead facilitator from the Community Center. Occasionally they would be given cards like the baseball playing cards they had in their youth that provided stats and unquestionably brave anecdotes that subtly provoked supremacy of major GOP figures. Other times the facilitator would ask hypotheticals in order to teach a response that would stump any political dissident. These situations included “If a man with pink hair confronts you in the grocery store about your American flag tee shirt, do you a) politely acknowledge the traitor and move on to check-out, or b) call him out for who he is in order to teach the youth of today’s America a lesson?”
After the apologetics luncheon, Mark would find himself yet again walking, but this time in the South Carolinian afternoon heat, as a surveillance crew to make sure none of his neighbors were committing crimes against the community. The handful of senile enforcement would embark from the community center and blend in with the rest of the leisurely strollers in an effort to eavesdrop on unsuspecting conversations that could be led to believe the community was impregnated with counter-terrorists. That or, they would demerit someone’s lawn ornaments or question why someone did not have an American flag in front of their house. By the time this activity concluded, Mark found himself having a quick bite at “The Mess Hall” before running to 5’oclock prayer on the beach. Despite his perpetual state of consumption, he would always manage to toast the Big Man Buffett by raising his glass to the south and taking a knee while reciting “I like mine with lettuce and tomato.”
***
The day finally came when Mark’s efforts to become a pillar of the community paid off. Jimmy Buffett himself was rumored to attend a meet-and-greet in “The Mess Hall” and it was confirmed by the Community Center’s privileged elite on the day of. The joy bubbled up in his disciplined stone face when he learned this information and Mark cracked a smile for the first time in weeks. He hurriedly went home to change his clothes into something more formal. He took out his pressed pants from the dresser drawer and laid them out on his floral bed comforter while taking note of his supple, retained body in the bedroom mirror. Next, he grabbed his stars and stripes short sleeve button down to complement the pants. Finally, he gently placed his flip-flops at the bottom of the completed outfit as the moment mounted into glory. He could see himself gracing the presence of the Messiah and he was not going to flub this up by looking like some sort of hooligan.
A tear came to his eye as he snapped the final button of his shirt into place. The shivers quaked the house when he slid his manicured foot into the flip-flop. He had found himself presentable in the eyes of glory as he admired his final form in the mirror. As the sounds of “Taps” began to play in his head he marched toward the front door and left it unlocked because the neighborhood was as safe as can be with him and his troops patrolling. Mark drove the golf cart at an easy pace to “The Mess Hall” and parked next to the thirtieth golf cart in the parking lot. “The Messiah gets a crowd,” he laughed to himself. As he walked into the room, Mark scanned to get an appreciation of the moment. All eyes were on Jimmy. He had a General’s uniform on, emblazoned with parrot decals and flowery pennants earned from operations held elsewhere. His status proceeded him. Messiah Buffett stood in a fashion that represented American diplomacy and insurance of democratic restoration. Mark was erect.
He found his way to a seat reserved for him and his troops. They gathered there seriously but not soberly. The men were fixated on the icon that stood several feet from their faces and their jubilee was held respectfully internally. As 5 o’clock hit, the lights in the room fell and a spotlight landed on the one and only Jimmy Buffett. His back was to an American flag and his eyes were on the patriots. Nothing was more important than that moment. As Jimmy spoke, he filled the room with a spirit of robustness and eternity. Nothing could stop the masses of Margaritaville with how they conducted themselves that evening. He was proud to have watched each individual grow into the freedom fighter they are today. The fate of the nation rested on the forgotten elders of yesteryear. He concluded his speech by walking off the stage and down to where the troops sat. He held his microphone close, and with an important whisper into the device, he gave Mark and his troops a mission. They were to take a bus the next morning to the Capitol in Washington D.C. and take back what they had been learning about for the past few months. The time was now for paradise to be delivered to every doorstep in America and have homogeneous expression return to the homeland. Any insistence of progressive bullshit was to be dispatched of. When Jimmy said bullshit, their hearts fluttered with an understanding of the gravity of what they were about to embark on. Who knew what was to come? But with Jimmy by their side, they could weather the storm that they were to bring to the Capitol.
***
With a patriotic boner, Mark saluted his men as he drunkenly reversed his golf cart out of the space. As he drove, his mind flooded with profound ideas and posterity that made him feel invincible. The whole world would know who Mark is tomorrow even if it led to his martyrdom. Proud and drunk, Mark got off his golf cart and approached his front door. As he stepped inside, he realized his lights were on. He would not have left this many lights on, they would have driven his energy bill up the wall! He cautiously glanced around until he heard a familiar call from the sunroom, “Dad?”
Mark approached the sunroom knowing who to expect without knowing the extent of knowing what to expect. He first made contact with his son, Will.
“Will, what the hell are you doing here?” Mark asked.
“I suppose I should ask you the same question, dad,” Will responded.
“Well, I didn’t know I would have company. And look, your sister Margaret is here too! What do I owe the pleasure? Here, let me go put some coffee on the percolator.”
“Dad, we aren’t here for fun. It’s upsetting that you left us overnight like this,” Margaret responded in the shadow of her brother.
“What’s going on?” Mark asked.
“We’re taking you home,” The siblings said in unison.
“I can’t go home. Not yet. Tomorrow’s the big day. We are going to take a bus to D.C. and…”
“Listen dad, you are too old to be making decisions like this without consulting your adult children,” Margaret interrupted. “We know you spent your life savings to come down here and for what? To avoid your grandchildren for the rest of your life? We do not want that for you or them. Plus, what the hell have you done with our childhood home? It looks like a bunch of interns with blazers are trying to auction off your stuff unsuccessfully.”
“Listen kids, I’m sorry if I haven’t called too much. It’s just…” Mark tried again.
“No, dad. You are coming home with us tonight. We are selling this place and it’s done. Will has agreed to let you move in with him for the time being until we can figure out, umm something. Umm maybe something more permanent. Yeah.” Margaret had begun her momentum.
“But D.C., and the troops…” Her dad began again.
“Your field trip isn’t this important dad. Your family is. We miss you. You haven’t been the same since mom passed. I’m putting my foot down right now.” Margaret finalized.
The children shuffled their dad out the front door in a dazed hurry. He looked confused, bewildered, and even slightly embarrassed. Will held a suitcase and a garbage bag filled with everything Mark had come down with. Margaret had a firm grip on her father’s light blue windbreaker as she led the way. Mark’s door was left ajar for all the insects to invade the quite home he had made in that short time. The quiet, sunny street in the flamboyant neighborhood sat still as the car pulled away. All that remained inside the home that resembled any type of occupancy was an overturned book titled, “I Am Here, And So Can You.”