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You know how sometimes, if you’re really lucky, you’ll end up decades and centuries later with friends?

I mean, real friends.

Friends like that maybe you ignore or don’t see or don’t seek out for months and months and take for granted and tell yourself you really gotta call and get together with, but you don’t, and then all the sudden, for one reason or another, it suddenly comes together and schedules mesh and you have dinner with them and BOOM! you’re right back to it with them. The time apart drizzles away and it’s like you saw them Tuesday.

That happened to Miss Carol and me the other day.

Friends we hadn’t seen in awhile invited us over, again, for dinner. And this time,  it all worked out and all came together, and what’s cool is that with friends like these there aren’t any uncomfortable silences, no strained conversation waiting for the alcohol, the social lubricant, to kick in.

You just take up where you left off, ‘ya know?

Surprisingly, seemingly, one of the places we’d left off was Christmas. Like two years ago. But our friends, our buds, had carried the gift they’d bought us through the years, carrying it in the trunks of their cars, moving it around and wrestling it from the jaws of their dogs so that, one day, they could give it to us.

Miss Carol and me, we’re really lucky.

I was headed back out to the island this morning and I had to stop at the farmer’s market on the way in to drop off an invoice for some work I’d done for him and pick up some tomatoes.

So I’m waitin’ to turn left  and looking down the road I see something big moving across from right to left.

It’s a turtle, big as a pizza.

I grinned watchin’ him.-head up, yearning and proud, he’s trudging full speed turtle speed across the road. He’s safe crossing my lane ’cause I’ve got traffic backed up behind me while I’m waitin’ to turn into the market and it looked pretty good from the other direction as well.

So I watched him trudge, determined and wanting and just tryin’ to get to the other side of the road.

He was a little more than half way across the oncoming lane when a little station wagon came around the bend in the road.

But it wasn’t going that fast and Mr. Turtle was workin’ and movin’, and I was sure the driver would see him and slow down a little so’s he could finish his journey across the road to life on the other side.

A car passed and I turned into the crush and run parking lot of the market, watching as the turtle, head held high, thick legs churning, made it three-quarters of the way across the road.

I was sure he was home safe.

I stopped and parked and looked over just as the station wagon, piloted by a little old lady, ran right over Mr. Turtle smashing him into bloody shards of shell and turtle parts exploding down the side of her car.

It was like a kick in the gut.

WTF?

What was her problem?

Was she maybe turning her iPhone back and forth trying to remember how to bring up the keypad so she could text someone? Was she maybe looking at pictures of her grandkids?

Was she drunk?

Was she maybe just a mean old shitty little woman pissed off and lonely ’cause her husband died and left her with too many years on the bitter side of life?

Whatever the reason, I honestly, physically, stopped myself from diesel duelly burning rubber after her, chasing her down and yanking her from her car and punching her in the face until my hand got tired ’cause I remembered I’d probably go to prison forever if I did that and never see Cutter and Tug and Miss Carol again.

Still.

I was in a hurry.

One of the real estate agents I’d been trying to work with needed some work done at the last minute. Tourons were comin’ in and they’d be flowing until Labor Day and the owners wanted a couple of things before the herd arrived.

I was working replacing the rotted trim on a bay front window on an eight foot ladder and as I was coming down I hurried and forgot that there’s one more step on an eight footer than a six footer.

I stepped off, stumbling the additional foot or so and fell backwards hitting the newel post for the stairs heading down off the deck and onto the concrete.

A couple a inches to the right and I’d a gone down the fifteen foot flight of stairs backwards making for a really sucky day. But I didn’t and it wasn’t and as I stood there sweating and rubbing the small of my back I got to thinking about the almost’s of my life.

There was the weekend shark fishing trip that I climbed drunk up the outside of the bridge in the middle of the night in the middle of the ocean looking for a place to sleep at the helm and almost slipped into the water while everybody else was asleep.

There were the weeks me and my crew had to ride up on the roof of an exterior construction elevator each day ’cause the union fuck head wouldn’t allow us in the car and I almost fell 32 stories.

There was the whole motorcycle racing thing. Don’t get me started.

I think men are, for the most part, ruthlessly uncaring and unafraid but you know what? Standing there on that deck in the afternoon sun I realized I’d changed.

I’d scared myself in the past but nothing and none of that set me back like that almost fall down the stairs. I stood and looked out at the bay and breathed deep and thanked whatever gods kept me from that backwards plunge.

And I slowed down.

Jesus.

I guess I musta blinked and somehow another nine months has slipped by and once again it’s Memorial Day and the start of Touron Season.

Seems like just yesterday it was September and they were all leaving.

Almost overnight our sleepy little island has been afflicted herpes-like with herds of frantically vacationing sun-screen-slathered tourons noisily packing our beaches and parking lots and leaving them strewn with garbage, half-eaten food, and dirty diapers.

But enough about them for right now.

Memorial Day means many things to many people. If you’re in the military or have lost a loved one fighting far from home it is a special day of remembrance- as it probably should be for all of us. For too many of us though, Memorial Day just means a Monday off and burgers on the ‘barbie.

Shallow and sad, but true.

So, being fairly shallow and sad ourselves, after we endure another day today at our touron clogged beach, Miss Carol and me are gonna make us some Jucy Lucy’s.

It’s easy- simply roll out two very thin hamburger patties for each burger, quarter a slice of American (its Memorial Day, remember?) cheese and place the quarters in the center of one patty, covering it with the second patty, and crimping the edges to seal in the cheesy goodness.

Then grill ’em, pop ’em on a bun with pickles, mayo, and grilled onions, garnish with a cold beer and enjoy while you gaze out over the hordes of sunburnt and sandy tourons and dream of Labor Day.

(photo courtesy(?) of Flickr)

Miss Carol likes talking the way the Pope likes praying and Tiger Woods likes sex.

And I’m used to it.

Really.

But, lately, it’s getting maybe a little bit over the top.

We took off a half day the other day and went up to the strip for lunch so we could use up a Christmas present before it expired. We don’t get out much and ’cause we’re lazy and don’t go NEAR the strip during Touron Season we had to take some time off and just GO.

The whole way in the truck Miss Carol alternated between talking and texting on her Crackberry. While at the restaurant Miss Carol kept checking incoming whatevers and, well, talking. Sometimes to me, sometimes to work, sometimes to the people around us.

Same thing on the ride home. Constant and mind bendingly headachy.

She calls me on her way home from work and wants to talk about her day even though she’s on her way home from work and we’ll talk all about her day when she gets home.

And now tonight, after we’ve both been working 13-14 hours and she’s making dinner and me, I’m waiting for dinner and sipping cocktails, Miss Carol’s once again on the phone and talking.

Jesus. Give it a break, maybe.

Ya gotta realize, I work by myself and can go days talking to no one but myself and listening to a book on CD.

It’s jarring sometimes.

Or maybe perspective?

I was tellin’ Miss Carol the other day that maybe I need to change the way I think.

We were walkin’ Cutter and Tug and talkin’ and I’d got to wonderin’

That maybe instead of dreading it as a twice daily mile long herky jerk wrestling match that maybe I should think of it as the boys being just so proud to be showing me off, wanting to parade me along the streets of the island, tugging and pulling me, strutting their stuff.

Miss Carol beamed at me.

So I pushed it up another notch and figured that maybe their wrapping themselves around me, tying me up in their leashes wasn’t so much that they’re completely stupid retards but that they’re just wanting to get closer to me.

And yearning to believe, I thought that maybe, just maybe, their yanking 8 foot yearning at the end of  7 foot leashes is simply wanting to smell the roses.

‘Cause really, shouldn’t we all do more of that?

So.

As I’m dragged behind them, pulled to my knees, cursing and screaming, I’m gonna hold onto the sunny, overly optimistic perspective (or is it perception?) that maybe they’re better than I’m thinkin’ they are.

Mostly ’cause Miss Carol beamed at me.

Miss Carol and me attended our first ever Mormon wedding this weekend and no, that photo is in no way indicative of Mormons or Mormon weddings. It just  makes me laugh. I mean. Really.

So I’m thinkin’, what the hell, right?- just another wedding, another reception, more cake eating and garter throwing. But then I learned that Mormons don’t drink and since celebrating diversity is pretty much a one-way street, there wouldn’t be any alcohol at the reception ’cause Mormons don’t seem to want to celebrate MY diversity.

Whoa.

Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I have to have alcohol at every social event but it sure does help my enjoyment of the event and let’s face it, it is a social lubricant, greasing up the gears of conversation.

So we were wonderin’ what we were gonna do when Miss Carol came up with a brilliant plan. She mixed up a batch of vodka tonics and poured them into empty Dasani water bottles and put ’em in the freezer to chill.

Then us and our normal, non-Mormon friends, all stood around at the reception sipping chilled, crystal clear vodka laughing and having a good ole time while our dour, super-straitlaced, Mormon hosts pondered fun.

It was like being in high school again and having to sneak around. And ya know what? Drinking surreptitiously we probably drank more and probably got a little drunker than we ever would have just drinking openly.

Weird how that works.

So I was watching House Hunters International last night and this amazingly obnoxious couple was looking for a vacation home in Roatan, Honduras.

Moving from house to house and clutching their clipboards like shields they tallied ambiguities. They’d devised an absurdly numbered rating scheme to help them choose their vacation home and as I watched and listened to these nerdy number oriented turds apply numerical values to beach and ocean, slowly squeezing all the fun out, I slowly got pissed.

How dare they?

Ya know what?

If you feel you can somehow quantify and qualify your idea of island life then maybe you don’t belong, maybe this lifestyle ain’t for you. Maybe you should stay in your land-locked hellhole and spend your life making lists and ratings and numerical rankings for all the silly shit in your life.

Whew.

I gotta stop watching TV.

Before Cutter and Tug there was Boca and Largo.

They were my buds and my first dogs as the adult, grown-up me.

Boca was a free-to-a-good-home-lab-mix that we found in a want ad and Largo was a full blown goofy yellow lab that stumbled and tumbled across the  breeders yard and slammed into Miss Carol’s leg, panting and waiting for us to take him home.

I loved them with all my heart but somehow some kinda way something happened and before I knew it they got old right before my eyes. My buds grew up and blasted right past me, leaving me.

Towards the end, Miss Carol was traveling a lot and missed stuff.

I would yell and scream at Largo and Boca ’cause they were getting old and dying on me and Miss Carol told me I’d regret being the asshole me and she was right.

But I yelled and screamed at them anyway, frantic what I’d do without them and wanting and needing them not to get old and die on me, but they did.

And there are times, like tonight, that I still miss them and wish I’d been better.

Fuck.

And there are times, like tonight, that I’ll wake in the middle of the night with Tug leaning against me and gently snoring and Cutter curled up around my feet and I’ll think.

Fuck.

So I had this killer weekend planned.

Miss Carol had to work at the hospital on Sunday and so I’d planned a quiet, comfy, little weekend were I could work and write and drink and hang out with Cutter and Tug. Even the weather was supposed to cooperate- the forecast was chilly and rainy.

Beauty.

But then.

We went with some friends over to a bar on Friday and as we were headed over on his boat he said, why don’t we tow your boat out tomorrow?

Did I mention Una Mas has been having problems?

So. As I got drunker, I agreed and that killed Saturday, what with the towing and the trailering and the logistics and what not. But I was hopeful and hoping for a quiet Sunday thinkin’ that gettin’ the boat to a mechanic and having the mechanic fix it would take days or maybe weeks.

Boats are like that.

Enter Jerry.

Turns out there’s this local guy that not only knows everything about engines and mechanical stuff but understands the underlying theory to the point where he not only fixes shit but makes his own parts. He’s amazing.

I dropped the boat off on Saturday and on Sunday it was fixed. Damn. Meaning I had to pack a cooler and run her down the bay and back to her anchorage.

Which was great, but.

I’d really been wanting my quiet little weekend and I know this sounds like whining but it’s not. It’s more a like a plaintive screeching.

Which is better.

Right?