Breakfast
This morning at breakfast a man crosseyed in a Yankees camp spoke of cinema from the kitchen.
That movie I saw, he said. Don’t go see it.
What did you see? someone said.
I saw that detective movie. The one with the Iron Man. Don’t go see it. Don’t even go.
No good?
The crosseyed man shook his head. Teardrops tattooed at the corner of his eye.
Someone asked if he’d seen the first detective movie.
Yeah, he said. I saw it.
Did you like it?
I don’t know. I can’t remember.
Down the row of tables a man with a very expensive watch read an old edition of A Moveable Feast. The owner and her friends made a crossword. A man showed a woman the best trails to take on a certain mountain on a windy day. A child used a laptop to look at pictures of imaginary animals.
In the courtyard the rain on the black steel tables. The rain on the banana trees, the leaves fat and greasy.
A boy came in shaking his slicker. Soon it was revealed he used to have long hair but had recently cut it short. Everyone spoke to him and touched his ears.
At the counter a bald man was helping the chef frost a birthday cake. He asked the boy if his girlfriend still liked him.
It’s interesting, said the boy.
It was revealed that some of the people had been to a party on a boat the night before. The party had featured a game involving a model train set. Finding hidden things within the model. A red boathouse. A snowman with a missing arm. A house with a blue door.
I ate my blueberry pancakes. The child found photos of animals that did not exist.
When I left outside the man with the very expensive watch was reading under an umbrella in the courtyard. I had not seen him leave the cafe and now a retriever in a red bandana slouched at his feet.
I told him he had at least two good things in his life. Hemingway and that dog.
The man smiled and held out his hand. I shook it.
I got her in Nicaragua, he said. They don’t treat dogs right down there.
I said it looked like her life was alright now.
Sure, said the man with the expensive watch. When my wife got a hold of her it was all spa treatments and aromatherapy. Now I think if she saw Nicaragua she’d turn right around and get back on the plane.
It was Saturday. Day of days. The ocean gray. The hotels wet and the patios empty. A garbage man in a reflective vest leaned on a garbage can reading a beauty magazine he’d pulled from the trash. The pages were glossy and wet and he turned them without pause. He turned the pages and did not look up as I went on by.
