Rio Retardo: My Struggle to Stay Mildly Sane in a Wildly Unsane World.

FOREWORD

Over the past twenty-five years I have scratched out ten books, scrawled dozens of articles and scorched hundreds of blog entries. In no particular order, here are snatches from some of the worst pieces.

Some of these eggs were hatched in places like Hays, Kansas and Boston, Massachusetts, some in Bangor, Maine and Dallas, Texas. Others originated in Germany, Morocco, Malta. Turkey, Greece, and a dozen other places where I still have no idea why I was even there in the first place. But, unless other wise noted, all the following words originated here in Florida, either along the Myaka River or on this sand bar settled in the Gulf Coast.

Some of the stories have much to do with travel, biking or observations while traveling or biking, since I do quite a bit of both. Others are about some of the unusual, bizarre or fuggin’ freaky things that take place all around me.

Unlike most books, the reader may open this one to almost any page and begin reading immediately. One may begin at the end and end at the begin—there is no ending or beginning here in the traditional sense.

As always, thanx to my main flame, the squeeze that pleezes, the babe who floats my boat, Michelle, for pitching in and lashing me every step of the way to hurry up and finish the stupid thing. Truly, a man without a good woman is a man not much worse off than a man with a bad woman but that is not so good as a man with out any woman and a man with too many women is only half a man or a quarter of a man or . . . whatever.

To my dear, sweet, nagging wife, Michelle.

Tom Goodrich

Manasota Key

Coot Creek

Geezers Gone Wild

There has been precious little sun in the Sunshine State during the past several weeks. Maybe that explains why old folks down here are acting crazier than normal.

Went for my daily bike ride today and was caught in a tropical deluge. Too far along to turn back, not far enough along to find shelter. And so, I just gutted it out and hoped like hell that all vehicles could see me clearly. One individual saw me all too clearly, I allow, and he could not resist the great temptation to hit a large puddle just as I passed. No big deal really—I was already drenched—and what’s a few more buckets of water, more or less? I did, however, give this mirth-minded miscreant the universal symbol of contempt and disrespect. Cold comfort. The good news: Although the road was filled with puddles, everyone else I encountered went out of their way to avoid splashing me.

Getting caught by an act of nature is one thing; getting splashed by an act of a scrotum is another. Both, however, are nothing compared to what happened to one old bucko just down the road.

__________

Over near Punta Gordo (fat point, in Spanish), 75-year-old Raymond Haskell was riding his bike back one evening from bingo night at the American Legion. Unfortunately, about the same time as old Ray was saddling up, eighty-four-year-old Irene Flora was also calling it quits at the same bingo parlor. Of course, with a combined age of 159 years on the dark, narrow road, the recipe for disaster was already in motion. As soon as Irene got her car rolling the first thing that she did was run over and kill poor Raymond.

Ray Haskell, who had just recently given up driving (mercifully) and opted for a bike to save some dough, was not wearing a helmet at the time of the accident, sniffed one sanctimonious little reporter. For the young lady’s benefit, it might be added: "Nor was old Ray wearing a coat of chain mail and a full suit of body armor that night, nor was his bike equipped with an air bag, nor did the bike contain a Buck Rogers ejection seat like those used on fighter jets. A helmet looks pretty silly, my cheeky young twit, sitting up there on one’s totally undamaged knot when a two-ton car has just crushed one’s chest, one’s pelvis, one’s liver, one’s spleen, one’s heart and when it has also just fractured five leg bones, four arm bones, three rib bones, two back bones, one head bone . . . and a partridge in a pear tree. Not wearing a helmet!"

__________

But anyway, about the same time, up the road in nearby Nokomis, 77-year-old Walter Crosby was boiling with a red rage. Seems a former friend’s wife had stolen—or criminally borrowed—a bracelet from Walt’s wife. Sitting in his trailer, ready to explode over the incident, Crosby finally grabbed his pistol, pointed his wheelchair toward the door, then rolled away into the night, gunning for some old time revenge. Walt Crosby was coming to town . . . and hell was coming with him. To Walt’s Old West way of thinking, sometimes a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do and sometimes he has to stand up—or in this case, sit down—for what he believes in. One can almost hear the theme song to High Noon wafting in the background.

Rolling his wheelchair up to the wretches’ house, Walter, in no uncertain terms, angrily demanded return of the jewelry. When the accused mocked the old dude and refused to cough up, Crosby whipped out his shootin’ iron and began blazing away. Between steering his wheel chair through the house and trying to aim at the flying targets, Walt missed his mark every time. When cops finally arrived on the scene they arrested Walter Hell-on-Wheels Crosby without incident. The culprit now sits in the county calaboose without bond.

Thought: Do they let people like Walt keep their wheelchairs while in jail or do they force them to crawl around on the floor like amphibians?

__________

Meanwhile, over at nearby Englewood the other day, a 77-year-old woman had just received a new bed. When the deliverymen cleared out, it finally occurred to the old gal that she had hidden several envelopes filled with $8,000 between the mattress and box springs of her old bed. Moving as fast—or, in this case, as slow—as possible, she checked under the old bed and realized the money was gone, Gone, GONE. Calling police, the woman said that the deliverymen did it, adding that the two had left in a hurry. When cops contacted the men, they denied even seeing, much less stealing, any such envelopes.

But really? Just a moment! If a person is so addled that they forget they even had eight grand hidden under a bed, can they really be trusted to remember anything? Did a thieving neighbor, a treacherous relative or a trusted friend get to the money first? Did the bonkers old bag remove the loot long ago and give it to the first drug addict she met because little green men in space suits were coming to take her away to the planet Zydron-35? And if the deliverymen left in a hurry, as the woman stated, well hey, yoo-hoo, what deliverymen do not leave in a hurry? Every deliveryman that I have ever seen was in no mood to loll around, have a long smoke, maybe swap yarns and reminisce with a total stranger after their business was done.

__________

The above mental case reminds me of yet another senile senior down here who fell for the old phone scam a few days ago of wiring money to a bogus address to get her dear, dear grandson out of a Mexican jail. Only when the fool lost her first few thousand did it even occur to her that she might CALL her grandson to find out the truth for herself. You can almost here the You did WHAT, Grandma? From that point on the irate lady was on the phone hourly, cussing and hounding—who else?—the cops to get her money back for her!

What a place! With dumb suckers like the above, no wonder Florida has such a crop of greasy scammers and oily con men crawling all around.

Geezers Gone Wild #2

Way back when, way back to my days of green gullibility, back when I was filled with romantic nonsense and all aglow with naive moonshine . . . well, anyway, way back a year or so ago. . . .

. . . I once foolishly assumed that with age came peace; that as a person grew older they gradually left impulsive and rash behavior behind and settled into some sort of golden bliss. With years and experience, I reasoned, came maturity and wisdom; with age came a cooling of a once-fiery soul. And as animal passions chilled and the libido mellowed, I surmised, reason would at last gain the throne and tranquility would reign supreme.

Well, Bull Sheet! From my observations down here at Senior Central, more people than not seem to grow old disgracefully.

The other night, over at some miserable swamp clearing in central Florida, seems Doris and Chester Smith had a tiff. Nothing rad here. What couple doesn’t have a spat now and again? Well, this little argument escalated until the wife grabbed a knife and let her husband have the business end . . . over and over and over. When cops finally arrived they found Chester dead as a log at a saw mill and Doris distraught and disoriented.

Now, awful as it is, even a spousal argument that ends in murder is really not that big a deal here in depression-era Florida. It seems to happen every day. What makes this incident noteworthy is that Doris is 87-years-old and her hub, now newly deceased, is 93 forever! My God! Is there no limit? Are some humans murderous all their existence? Now, I am assuming that Doris did not kill Chester for his insurance money (what would an 87-year-old person do with sudden wealth? Go to Vegas? Buy a new boat or sports car? Party 24/7?) And so, the only answer I can come up with that makes any sense is that Doris was a victim of domestic abuse. Domestic abuse! At that late stage—180 years of cumulative living—and two people, with virtually all four feet in the grave, yet still fighting and resorting to violence as if they were empty-headed teens.

If ever there was a case for easy divorces in this country, this is it. Imagine: A man seven years short of the century mark working over his 87-year-old wife! How did he even find the strength to beat her? And why did she not flee from him, or, in this case, why did she not just creep from him on her walker or in her wheel chair? If this has been going on for long, why did they not just get a friggen divorce fifty or sixty years ago?

Horrible.

__________

Boca Beat Down—Down at Boca Raton the other day, several local trouble-makers were playing a game of eight ball at the Palm Beach Country Club. When tempers flared an argument erupted. Grabbing for something to throw, one of the thugs, David Hartstein, found some pool balls handy and bounced a few off the block of one brawler. When another hoodlum stepped in for his friend he too received a couple of conks on the coconut, just for good measure.

When cops arrived Hartstein was charged with aggravated battery with a deadly weapon and taken to jail. The two knob-headed victims were wheeled away to the hospital for treatment. David Hartstein is 61-years-old. His two victims are 91 and 79!

Unbelievable.

__________

Another young demon, 61-year-old Edward Frederick Glowitz of across Lemon Bay in Englewood, was in a foul mood the other night. Actually, like the pit bulls he probably owns, and the meth-addicted wife he probably beats, Ed Fred is always in a foul mood. Tonight, the more beer the outlaw biker guzzled at the Time Out biker bar, the more pissed off Ed became with life, the world in general, and a fellow biker in particular. Anyway, the verbal spat quickly amped to a physical spat and Ed Fred threw a punch (which missed), then tossed a bar stool (which didn’t). Now thoroughly roused, Ed finally broke through several booze bags trying to break up the fight and managed to grab by the throat the object of his rage. What followed was pretty gruesome.

No mention on how old the victim was but whatever his age, whatever his mental and physical condition, whatever his race, religion or sexual orientation, he got a beating he would never forget for as long as he lived. The beater first knocked the beatee down behind the bar. Then, as he straddled him, the attacker ripped off a soap dispenser from the counter and hit the man over and over again in the face and on the head. The dispenser finally shattered. Grabbing an empty wine bottle, Glowitz continued the vicious assault until that too finally broke.

With the victim now totally unconscious and perhaps even dead, Ed heard that the barkeep had called 911 and he decided to seek safer surroundings. His Harley didn’t get him very far, however, before he was arrested without incident and escorted to jail. No mention yet on the condition of the victim.

Stuff like the above, as well as the great many childish-acting old people I see all around, convince me that most folks may indeed mellow with age but for others, young fools become old fools, and hearts filled with rage in youth are generally hearts filled with rage in fossil-hood.

Depressing.

__________

Dr. Who?—A while back, 73-year-old Fred Gronkowski was having memory problems and sought treatment at a local clinic. Fred mentioned to a friend that the treatment seemed to be working well but when the man asked what the name of the clinic was, Gronkowski drew a blank. Fred thought and thought, then finally a smile broke across his face.

What do you call that red flower with the long stem and thorns? asked Gronkowski.

You mean a rose?

Yes, that's it!

Fred yelled into the kitchen to his wife.

Rose, what was the name of that clinic?

__________

Over Miami Way—Old Ida Ginsberg celebrated her 100th birthday or