You’re either gay or in the CIA part 2
This story is a continuation of You’re either gay or in the CIA part 1.
Mr lethargic took out a strange flat metal pipe and we did a little puff puff give. He was stingy and put it back in his pack after a couple puffs. This would probably put me in a more advantageous condition to get through the evening.
I found myself in another conversation with the doctor. In sum, we discussed politics and had a mostly positive conversation about the need for national unification (or so I thought). But to re-traverse the strange streets and blind alleys of our conversation further would only serve to confuse both you and me, so I’ll fast forward to the end.
“You’re a pretty boy” he said, looking at me from across the couch.
“Why thank you.” I was already not taking him seriously. He hadn’t been logically consistent for a while.
“If they try and take my guns, they’re going to get” :::raises eyebrows and nods slowly::: “But there’s nothing to see here, so why don’t you go tell your spook friends that you didn’t find anything on the boat.”
“Umm…” I wasn’t sure how to reply. He stared at me intensely. I probably started fidgeting. “You don’t think I’m spying on you, do you?”
“Sure I do. Why the fuck else would you be on my boat? You’ve been acting weird this whole time. So why don’t you just take off?”
“Uhhh…” I looked around. Everyone was busy chatting animatedly and not paying attention to us. “Look man, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not spying on you.”
“Sure you are. That or you’re gay. Why else would you be acting so weird?”
“How am I acting weird?”
“You’re either gay or in the CIA.”
Laughter exploded from my gut. I couldn’t help it. It was part sincere humor, part needing way to cope with the insanity of the situation. But, also I was painfully aware that he was serious.
I looked around the party to see if anyone heard him, hoping to get a laugh or explanation from them. My boat mate was looking over at me blankly from across the room. “Did you hear that?” I called to him. “What?” he shouted. He hadn’t been paying attention. “Were you monitoring that?” I asked.
Why did I have to use the word “monitor”?
“Oh!” The doctor looks at me with wild eyes. “Is he ‘monitoring’ us?”
A woman on the other side of me who knew him whispered to me “it’s an issue he has, it’s like PTSD.”
I looked over at him and asked, “you want me to leave?”
“yeah, why don’t you get the hell out of here and never come back?” He said it in a kind of flat and mocking way that was hard to take completely seriously. Was he trolling me? Didn’t matter, I stood up happily and shook his hand. “Thanks for the party! I hope you feel better.” “Yeah, just get the hell out of here” he said, shaking my hand with his outstretched calloused bear paw. Yikes.
I said some jolly goodbyes. Not only was I relieved to get away from him and the party, but I also thought it was hilarious to be getting kicked out. Felt like a badge of honor. If you ever find yourself at an awful party, the best exit is to be ejected.
Soon I was off the boat, shoes on, walking down the beautiful, glowing Fort Lauderdale riverside path.
“This fucking thing is in my way!” I hear from inside a dinghy below me. I look down to find Mrs. Austin and her silent husband. She was fighting with a rope hung over their little inflatable boat. “Have a good night guys!”
Striding, staggering, I pondered what had happened. It started to feel sad and awkward. The sad part wasn’t my behavior (although of course I could have been nicer), or anyone else's, particularly. It was just the listlessness of the people there. Some deep part of me was contrasting them with the people I used to live with in Costa Rica on farms, people who were also ‘alternative thinkers’ and serious travelers. They were alive, the alternative communities they created were fertile and healthy and full of life.
But, although I hate to say it, there was something rotten about some of these ones, at least this night. Their conservatism was all jumbled and angry. They were hostile. They had a distrust of the mainstream like many of the hippies I’d met in my travels, but didn’t seem to be building an attractive counter-culture in response. Quite the opposite. They all had money, even the young Austin couple that hated Californians and New Yorkers were able to travel because they owned property in Austin and rented it out. But their money just seemed to fuel their psychological isolation from society. It seemed like an abrasive reminder that you can have everything: the boat, the passive income, the community, all of these blessings amounting to almost perfect freedom. And at the end of it, just wind up a sort of black hole, or sucking drain, all of your resources swirling around you as you pull them into oblivion, leaving nothing behind.
Looks like living on a boat in paradise and surrounded by plenty, you still have to look after your psychological and emotional health. Maybe it’s not easy to stay balanced on eternal vacation.
Disclaimer: Although my portrayals in the story were accurate, these might be great people having an off night. I don’t actually hold negative opinions or judgement. We were all wasted after all. I feel bad for whatever mental disorder the man is struggling with (although it’s on him for getting wasted and exacerbating it.)
