Dream Me(8)

“Are you alright?” A friendly-faced woman with glowing brown skin and French-braided hair looks out at me with . . . alarm?

“I’m fine, thank you.” Pretty embarrassing to know a passerby in a moving vehicle thinks I look like I might need 9-1-1.

“Are you sure I can’t give you a lift somewhere?”

“Oh no,” I laugh with false bravado as though this ride is a daily and pleasurable event in my life. But panic starts to set in as the window slides back up. “Excuse me please!” The window goes back down. “Could you tell me how far a piggly wiggly is up ahead?” I hope with all my heart she knows what I’m talking about.

“It’s about a mile up the road. Is that where you’re going?”

“Yes,” I lie. If I tell her I’m going even further, I think she’ll call someone to lock me up. “I heard it wasn’t far.”

“It’s not far if you’re driving,” the friendly lady says, “but it’s pretty hot to be out here on a bike. We can put your bike in the back of my truck and I could take you there.”

But my independence (or is it stubbornness?) won’t allow me to accept her offer. Scratch that. I think it’s plain old embarrassment.

“Oh, just a mile? No, I’ll be fine but thanks for the offer.”

“Alright then,” she looks doubtful. “Have a nice day.”

“Same to you!” I use my most cheerful voice while doing a quick estimate of how many minutes it will take to travel the half mile before I could stop for my next bottle of water. There has to be some kind of relief at this “piggly wiggly,” or at least I hope so.

__________

The Piggly Wiggly turns out to be nothing more than a big supermarket. It’s out there in the middle of what appears to be nowhere, but probably is somewhere. There’s nothing else in sight, just a huge concrete building surrounded by a huge blacktop parking lot which could fit a thousand cars, but only has about twenty. Seeing no bike rack, and having no kickstand, I lean my trusty transportation against the wall of the shopping cart corral. No bike lock—I didn’t think I’d be stopping anywhere on the way so it hadn’t occurred to me to look for one. But I take a leap of faith and decide this bicycle isn’t going to be a magnet for a bicycle thief.

I can’t wait to get inside and even the shocking temperature differential doesn’t bother me this time; in fact, I love it. I feel the redness of heat drain from my cheeks as I wander through the aisles, eventually picking up another four bottles of water.

“Can you tell me how far the Crystal Point Resort is?” I ask the cashier who looks like she’s only a few years older than me.

“Oh, it’s not far,” she smiles at me. “Just down the road a bit.”

By now I know enough not to trust the term a bit. Should I let her know I’m on bike and then ask the question again? Maybe a bit would mean something different in that case. But I decide to go with it. I’ve come too far to turn back, so what does it matter?

“Visiting?” she asks.

“No, I just moved here.”

“Oh, I thought . . .” she hands me change for my twenty-dollar bill.

She doesn’t have to finish the sentence. I know what she thought. My clothes are strange and I have no trace of a southern accent. I don’t look like anyone else in the store.

“Have a great day!” she chirps.

__________

People are nice here, but will I ever belong? Can I?

Comments:

Sandman: Sweetness r u here? never mind

Sweetness: haha you dont know what a piggly wiggly is? and also your diary is strange the way you write it like its happening right now. my diary is totally different than this but i still like yours too.

Babe: Thanks?





Three


Finally, a little bit really was a little bit, and just in time. With my first glimpse of the golf course greens, the sky turned dark with monstrous black clouds that appeared out of nowhere, ominously bumping up against each other to blot out the sun.

When the first fat raindrops splashed against my back, it felt good. The temperature didn’t drop much, but at least the sun was temporarily neutralized.

A few minutes later, I got my first introduction to a Florida summer storm. With no advance warning, and before my mind could process what was happening, the storm illustrated the meaning of the phrase force of nature. Water was basically dumped from the sky. In California, it never rained during the summer, and when it did rain, it never fell with that intensity.

Puddles turned into ponds in front of my eyes. The thunder was earsplitting. Golden daggers of lightning cut through the sky. I knew enough to know I should be scared, out in the open totally unprotected and sitting on a metal bicycle. But the rush of being in the middle of a show like that . . . I had to talk some sense into myself to hurry up and get out of it.

I pedaled furiously toward the columns that marked the entrance of Crystal Point Yacht and Country Club. A small uniformed man in the guard house motioned me under an eave. And just when my initial excitement was turning into anxiety, the storm stopped. Just like that.

The heavyweight clouds rumbled off like bullies looking for someone new to pick on. The sky was nothing but blue and the sun came out of hiding, hissing like an angry snake. Pools of water disappeared into the ground without a trace.