Cherries on Top

I presented this at the Ilyse Kusnetz Writing Festival: Master Class and Showcase at Valencia College on October 26.

It’s a product of my lifestyle (or maybe it’s a symptom) that I have a couple of beachside bars I regularly visit. One of them is Crackerjacks, a tiki bar perched on the edge of a small island in the shadow of the soaring bridge that crosses the Indian River Lagoon in Titusville.

Chillin' on the dock at Crackerjacks

Late on Sunday afternoons, I’m likely to be sitting on the dock, sipping a Rum Runner, waiting for the sunset. I usually see dolphins playing in the distance, and a slow parade of manatees passing under the pier.

I have come to value the time I spend there. It is like a punctuation mark that ends my week, and reminds me that a new one is to follow. I almost always see people I know, but I also take time to sit alone. It helps to stop every now and then, stop everything, and just feel alive. For some reason, it’s easy to do that on the dock at Crackerjacks. I’ll put my feet up on the old, wooden bench, and stay still long enough to feel my heart beating and my chest rising and falling with each breath.

It isn’t always peaceful bliss. I’ve been incredibly sad on that bench. Feeling sadness is part of being alive. Sometimes I think about the ways life has changed me, because change is part of being alive, too.

I used to believe there was at least some goodness inherent in all human beings. I’m not sure I believe that anymore. I used to believe love really does conquer all. I’m not sure I believe that anymore either. But Crackerjacks is a place I can contemplate these matters, and other less serious ones, as the sun dips below the horizon. It’s a home away from home.

Sometimes I stay long after sunset

Last October, that area became a home of another sort for a local family. When the father was laid off, and the mother’s income wasn’t enough to support them, they were forced to leave their apartment. They parked their van under the bridge, and stayed there. They had no place else to go.

A recent study by the Federal Reserve showed that 46% of American households did not have $400 on hand in the event of an unexpected or emergency expense.  46%. They’d have to borrow money, sell their possessions, or go without. Or worse. People living paycheck to paycheck are often only a week or two away from being homeless.

This particular household included two children. The boy looked to be about eight years old, the girl about ten. Every weekend, when I stopped at Crackerjacks, they’d be there. I can still see the parents as they tried to cope, the expression on their faces.  Confusion. Anxiety. Fear. But mostly… shame. They’d bow their heads, and look away from curious glances.

The kids acted like… kids. Sometimes laughing and playing, sometimes sitting around bored. There is alwayssomething happening on the pier. People are fishing and shrimping at all hours of the day. For the kids, it must have seemed like some crazy adventure.
 

Shrimpers on the pier under the bridge

But, in retrospect, I think they handled it so well because they knew they were loved. This was not normal, but mom and dad took care of them the best they could. They were the priority. They slept in the van. They washed in the public restroom. Their clothes were always clean.

Because they were local, there were people who knew their situation, and were sympathetic. A friend of mine is a school teacher in Titusville. Each week she would update me on what had happened.

One day, while sitting at a table in the shade of the thatched roof, she pointed and said, “Watch.”

A man she knew went over to the homeless father and held out his hand. Not to shake, but to give him something. The father declined at first, but the man insisted. It’s not hard to lip read when someone says thank you, but the look on the father’s face made that unnecessary.

“People have been helping them,” my friend said. “Ten, twenty, fifty dollars at a time.”

The bridge and pier at night

They would pull the father into shelter, behind a parked car or one of the massive support columns of the bridge, where he would not be embarrassed, and his children could not see.

I suppose I should mention that this is a black family. It shouldn’t matter to the story. But I think it’s relevant because this is a blue collar, white trash town. Confederate flags aren’t hard to find. Amazingly, neither are people willing to lend a hand.

The regulars and the staff at the bar pitched in. Uneaten sections of sandwiches and flatbreads were passed to the kids on paper plates. “Accidental” orders of French fries appeared, and were given to the young boy with a wink. The girl liked Sprite, so fountain drinks were served in a nearly endless supply.

One day, Heather was behind the bar. She was a part-timer who didn’t usually work Sundays.

The homeless girl hovered for a while, looking shy and uncertain, but she finally said, “Can I have a Sprite?”

Her mother was nearby, and, of course, provided a gentle reminder, “What do you say?”

“Pretty please.”

I knew Heather would be an easy target. She has two kids of her own. She scooped ice into a to-go cup, filled it with Sprite from the soda gun, and put it on the bar.

The young girl grabbed it, and started to walk away, saying, “Thank you.”

But Heather said, “Wait a minute!”

Heather took the cup, turned to the row of plastic bins on the bar, grabbed two Maraschino cherries, and dropped them on top of the icy liquid.

As long as I live, I will never forget the look on the girl’s face. Her smile was so wide and bright, it warmed everyone at the bar. After that, she turned and ran in the direction of the pier. No words were necessary.

Spectacular Crackerjacks sunset

The next time I visited Crackerjacks, the van was gone. I heard the father had gotten a new job, and the family had found a place to live, a home. I thought about all the people who had given them food and money. But I think the greatest gift they gave those children was the ability to go on thinking that goodness isinherent in mankind, and that love doesconquer all.

Every time I realize how simple life is for children, I wonder why adults make it so complicated. Life isn’t always easy, but it’s always beautiful. 

Maybe all you need is to know that someone loves you, no matter what. Maybe all you need is a warm hug and a cold drink. I’ll take some of that. Pretty please. With cherries on top.