I Miss Maggie

I Miss Maggie

By: Don Winfield

      Lying here in my hammock, I open my eyes and squint out at the blue Caribbean, and then up at the green parrot squawking in the palm tree above. I don't think about it as much as I used to, but now and again my mind takes me back to the tragic events that brought me to this beach. You ask how it is that I'm retired at forty-one, living in an island paradise I bought rock cheap from Jimmy Buffett? Jimmy had never seen it. He claimed he'd picked it up as an investment, back in the '80s, after he sold the charred land under the remains of his burned out hotel over on St. Barts. He said he wanted someone to have it that could make a home there.

      As I swing gently in the shade, I often find myself thinking about Maggie. She was my wife and best friend for eighteen years, until the day we drove into St. Pete to do our weekly shopping and banking.

      Our on line sales business was providing us with a comfortable living. We figured if we kept salting away a little tax free money, in small amounts each week, we'd beat Uncle Sam and be able to retire while we could still enjoy it.     Of course, American banks have their crazy rules about disclosure, and lots of unnecessary IRS scrutiny. So, American banks would not be friendly to our long term plans. That's how the incident began.

The Incident:

      At first glance, and even after a long, hard look, it didn’t seem like a place where such a catastrophe could happen. It was a towering seventeen story glass and steel building, vaguely shaped like a giant lizard standing on its hind legs. Its tinted windows were placed so as to create the illusion of a multicolored scaly reptile. Due to poor planning, cost overruns, unpaid bribes, and typical bureaucratic ineptness, the completed building was a clumsy looking affair. I always laughed and told Maggie it looked like a hung over Komodo dragon having a rough Sunday morning. As ugly as it was, it was ironically constructed so solidly no building inspector or civil jury could find cause to tear it down and replace it with a more attractive office complex.

It was Tuesday afternoon. Maggie and I always did our banking after lunch on Tuesday. Like most people, we'd fallen into a routine that meshed with our other needs.

      The small, cramped office on the 16^th floor, had “TWBSA, LLC.” (which stood for Third World Bank of Surreptitious Accounts, Limited Liability Company), stenciled in gold leaf on the narrow, opaque glass window. This unassuming office seemed an even less likely place for what happened.

      I'd left Maggie there for about ten minutes, while I went to the rest room. It wasn't far but I had to follow a few mostly obscured arrows, and go down to the 15^th floor. When I returned to TWBSA, she was already gone.

      Actually, she was still there. However, a religious person might tell you that what remained of Maggie was the earthly shell of a soul now departed. She had completed our off shore wire transfer and was leaving the bank. From all accounts, a pirate had suddenly appeared. Brandishing an 18th century cutlass, sporting an eye patch and a tri-corn hat, he had flung the door open with a violent shove. The rampaging rogue burst into the tiny office, shouting, “Arrrrr! Don't nobody go fer yer buzzers! Face down on the floor or ye be shark bait! I'm here fer yer booty!”

      To the pirate's amazement, nobody moved. The huddled bankers stood like statues. With wide eyes and gaping mouths, they just stared at the door behind the pillager. The only sound was that of retching, as Robert, the bald, bespectacled teller, puked into his open cash drawer.

      Coincidentally, Monday had been FWBSA senior teller Jolene’s, 37^th birthday. The bank manager had crowned her ‘FWBSA Queen for the Day’. The traditional “birthday tiara” was too small for her enormous head and, embarrassed, she'd set it aside. By quitting time, she'd forgotten about it and left it behind.

      The tiara was left on a shelf beside the coat rack, and was still there after the bankers went home at the end of the day. That's where Willy, the office cleaner, found it. Having an eye for Jolene, he attached a sexually graphic note to the fake crown before fastening it to the inside of the door. The crown's spikes hung about eye level to a 5’7” person, and protruded about eight inches from the door.

      Maggie was reaching for the knob, when the door flew open and the pirate burst in. One of the tiara’s spikes caught Maggie in the right eye. When her nose hit the door, the spike had gone completely through her brain. Maggie was dead. She was still standing, held up by the tiara. Willy had super glued the fake crown to the wood door, just above the fogged window. It turns out that though cheap, Wal*Mart brand “Instaglu” bonds exceptionally well.

      I was shocked, heartbroken, and devastated. My life partner, soul mate, best friend, and lover, was snatched from me. My happy marriage had ended unexpectedly, in a high rent, under sized, commercial space on the 16^th floor of a hideous downtown lizard.

A Land-Farin' Man:

      There were 16 witnesses on the sidewalk outside the “Gecko Power Tower” when a cutlass waving, eye patched, buccaneer, ran through the lobby and into the street. Those present watched as his tri-corn flew off and landed near a fire hydrant. Most recalled seeing him skid to a stop, reminiscent of Wiley Coyote. He quickly retrieved the plumed hat, resumed his stride, and continued southbound on the pedestrian mall. Most ignored him, thinking he was some kind of one man “flash mob” who would be expecting a tip. A few who kept watching him thought he may have gotten into a waiting vehicle and sped away. A lady pushing all of her belongings in a stolen Wal*Mart shopping cart, signed an affidavit stating he'd, “flown into the sky like Peter Pan.”

      Of course, no two witnesses told the same story. Some said he headed south down Salamander Boulevard. Others swore he disappeared into the sun, heading west up Island Parkway.  The cops put out an APB for the entire city.     

     Police have to use whatever information that's available, to create a composite of many the things happening in the midst of such calamity. Deputy Dan Frain’s All Points Bulletin stated that a red or maybe blue, or silver, or orange, two or four door sedan, mini van, or topless sports car, had whisked the bandit away. He could have gone either south or west, or some other direction. The police had nothing to work with. Everybody saw a pirate but nobody came close to identifying the escape vehicle.

      The car the whacked out pirate wannabe used was a 1979 VW Rabbit Cabriolet. The owner had begun restoration and had installed junk yard doors, fenders, hood, and trunk. Each replacement part was a different color. This eclectic array of hues had confused and bewildered the eye witnesses into a total lack of observational accuracy.

Justice:

      The traces of a crime can disappear quickly in South Florida. Before sunset, the stolen getaway car was abandoned, re-stolen, disassembled, and the parts delivered to an array of waiting VW Rabbit convertible aficionados.

      The sword wielding pirate, having learned the hard way that the Third World Bank of Surreptitious Accounts, LLC, held no appreciable currency, returned to a tattered tent behind a Motel 6 in the Florida Keys.

      My sweet Maggie's killer would never be punished. The following Tuesday, needing to clear his desk clutter, Dave Ortiz, a busy Pinellas County Coroner's assistant, labeled Maggie's death accidental. The investigation ended.

      The inept pirate, who’s name was Rutledge, would eventually be sentenced to 90 days in the county jail. There, he would tell a fellow inmate about his attempt to rob the TWBSA in St Petersburg, and how he'd made a clean getaway. It was a jailhouse confession to a crime that was officially never committed, but his story would never reach the authorities.

      Several points below a genius IQ, Rutledge had never figured out how to make it safely from his ragged tent behind the Motel 6, to the 7- Eleven on the other side of US-1. Speeding vacationers traveling up and down the Keys at 4:00 PM on a typically busy Friday, kept him marooned on the yellow line. A passing Monroe County Sheriff's deputy rescued him. Since it was the eighth time he'd saved Rutledge from the same spot, the deputy roughed, cuffed, and stuffed him into his cop issue Crown Victoria. Rutledge was booked into the Monroe County lock-up, for habitual J-walking.

      Sixty-one days into his 90 day sentence, Rutledge was being released early for good behavior. He was about to step into the lobby and regain his freedom, when he noticed that his left Reebok was untied. In front of the heavy steel exit door, Rutledge bent over to knot the flapping lace. Just at that moment, a hungry three hundred pound guard, in a hurry to enjoy his triple-decker ham and cheese sandwich and Diet Coke, barreled through the metal door. Rutledge's head cracked open like a fresh egg, and his brains splattered all over the gray tile floor.

      After a brief, neck-rubbing investigation, the floor was cleaned with Sure Save discount bleach.   The previously homeless Rutledge found a home three days later in the Monroe County paupers cemetery.

Coping:

      Maggie's one million dollar life insurance policy was doubled by the accidental death determination. A big check comes every month, and I've set up a diversified investment portfolio to insure my continued solvency. A couple of months after Maggie's funeral, I sold the small bungalow 10 blocks from the beach, and burned the furniture in the front yard. I scrapped my 1988 Taurus, and didn't even make a victory lap through town before I left. It was straight from bonfire to airport in a taxi, and off into the friendly sky.

      Now, I'm living in this little piece of paradise. The island is small enough to afford, but big enough to be safe in a tropical storm. I spend my days looking out on my private Caribbean beach from my front porch or hammock. 

     Am I lonely way off here in the middle of nowhere? Well, I've got the sun and the palm trees. I've got the pristine white sand, the warm ocean, and a thirty foot sloop that I can sail around on all day. Sometimes I just go fishing in a calm inlet, enjoying the peace and solitude. Then, after a day of sailing or fishing, I come home to a tropical drink and a good meal.  My companion, Marita, was a bartender when we met, and is an excellent cook.

      Marita is no Maggie, mind you. Yet, I was pretty lucky to find a beautiful, always tanned, 22 year old island girl, who was willing to come tidy up my tiki hut, and clean up the various messes she frequently helps me make.

      I truly do miss my sweet Maggie. It's not easy, but I feel I owe it to her to keep working hard to adapt.