Hwy 714

A couple of nights in my friend's Summer and Steven's Ft. Pierce condo on the beach flashed me back to the 70's, when I was sort of a caretaker for my godfather's house on the Indian River in Palm City not far from Ft. Pierce, but closer to Stuart. My duties were to clean the pool, run errands in exchange for a place to stay, a little pay, and more pot than I could smoke. I lived in the servant's quarters. I'm not joking. The house was a sprawling ranch house on 55 acres with its own bridge going to the house. It was purchased because of its limited access and that it was on the river that goes into the ocean, by my godfather a disbarred lawyer. He'd done some time with my father for mortgage fraud. They were indicted on 154 counts of fraud, and convicted of two. There were 35 guys involved. My godfather and father ended up doing 15 months in a mininum security prison. They used Don King's lawyer. My father said they were in jail with some of the guys from Watergate. In prison they made plenty of contacts for their new career, smuggling pot. It paid a lot more than being a lawyer, according to my godfather.

Occassionally I was asked to leave the house for a few days, when a shipment was coming in. I wanted to be a smuggler. My father made sure that I didn't get involved. My life goals were not beyond the immediate. I think I wanted to be Jack Kerouac or Bob Dylan when I was 19.

I got a phone call one morning while I was staying in the servants quarters. It was really early around 5AM. My father was calling from a fish camp on Sebastian Inlet. He said you need to come get me. He gave instructions of where to park and wait for him to come out of the woods. I didn't ask any questions. I pulled up to the fishcamp, he came out of the woods wearing all black, with black shoe polish on his face. He jumped in, wiped his face off with a beach towel I had in the back seat (I was a surfer. I always had beach towels).

I want to give the ride back a soundtrack. I keep thinking Neil Young's Hello Cowgirl In The Sand was playing from my eight track player. I remember my father telling me to turn it down. He explained to me how the boat broke down a few feet from the shore. "We lost shitload of pot." I'm not sure how much a shitload is. I didn't ask, specifics seemed irrelevant. I'd remembered him telling me how he'd left a Cessna 402 full of dope on a Georgia highway. I asked him what happened when the cops found the plane, couldn't they trace it back? He laughed. "Good luck with that shit. If they can find out who the owner of Just Messin' Around Inc. is, they can, it's my Cayman Island company. The Cayman Island people will tell them to fuck off."

A few weeks later I was told to go away for a few days. I went up to my friends trailer just north of Sebastian Inlet where I had picked my dad up. I lived off of peanut butter and honey sandwiches, beer, pot and surfing.

I called my father a few days later. He said I could come back. We met up at Skyline Chili in Ft. Lauderdale or maybe it's Pompano. My father was late as usual. I didn't care. I always have reading material on me. Sometimes I'm glad when people are late, I read.

My father was visibly preoccupied when he walked into Skyline. A few minutes later, he told me my godfather was busted with some ungodly amount of Quaaludes. I keep thinking the number was 100,000. I'm not sure if that was it. A few months earlier he had been busted with 10 tons of pot. He used his lawyer training to get off on a technicality. The feds were watching him pretty closely. There were so many above the radar types in South Florida at that time. He was discreet about his business activities, yet ostentatious, and according to the IRS records, unemployed.

Like the guy in the movie Traffic, my godfather fled. He was apparently in South America for a few years living with a surgically reconstructed face and spending his days painting. He was always interested in art. He turned himself in four years later, did about four years time and became a pious Christian. I used to get letters from him. I haven't seen him since.

A few days ago I was on my way to Miami on I-95. I passed the exit for Hwy 714, Martin Hwy. I thought back to when I was 19, my godfather, me and few others posed for a photo standing in front of the Hwy 714 sign. It was the number that was on the Quaalude. We all thought this was amusing at the time. Now it seems more aligned to wearing a pot leaf on your t-shirt. I barely I want to admit to my participation in such inside joking.

Shortly after my godfather became a fugitive, I moved into my father's place on the intercoastal in Pompano. I spent my days looking for an escape. I became paranoid about being raided, I think justifiably. Suitcases of cash were stacked in my father's bedroom. If I wanted to go to the store, I opened a suitcase and took some money out.

I tried to get a job on a ship or a cruise boat or anything. I didn't have my own money. I ended up going for a last resort option. I joined the Army. It was a shorter stint than any of the other military branches. I was too young for Vietnam, but I had vowed early on if the war was still going when I turned 18, I would burn my draft card and go to Canada. I had done a book report in the 10th grade on Abbie Hoffman's Revolution For The Hell Of It. I was the most imperfect candidate for the military.

The recruiter promised me a slot in military intelligence. I was already aware of the oximoron. My father was pissed. He said it was the waste of my mind.

I barely listened to the recruiter's attempts to pursuade me. I had already made up my mind up. He took me to some equivalent to the Sizzler Steak House. It was funny, because I'd been eating at the most expensive restaurant's in South Florida.

The recruiter gave me a ride home. I don't remember why I needed a ride, my father had several cars and I had a car.

We pulled into my fathers driveway. The dark blue Cadillac limo that my father had received as a collateral payment on a debt was in the driveway, along with his Mercedes, his van and a motorcyle. He had two lots. Some bikinied beauties were wandering around the yard, some others could be seen on his 45' yacht. The recruiters jaw had started lower as we turned into the neighborhood. We sat in the driveway. A couple of women waived to me. The recruiter looked over to me completely slack jawed and asked, "you live here?" "Yeh, it's my dad's place." "Why do you want to join the Army? I'm from a poor family in Arkansas. It was my best opportunity.You're joining the Army?" "Yeh. I need a change."

I saw my father in Pompano this week. His existence is Spartan. He spent his money on drugs and alcohol. He doesn't seem bitter at all. He said to me the other day. "I've never needed much."