Reef Perkins - Sex, Salvage & Secrets

Sex, Salvage

and

Secrets

(Must Be Present toWin)

Reef Perkins

Born-1946Published-2012

Contains 100% recyclablethoughts

The New Atlantian Libraryis an imprint of

ABSOLUTELY AMAZINGeBOOKS

Published by Whiz BangLLC, 926 Truman Avenue, Key West, Florida 33040, USA

Copyright 2012, 2013 byMark T. Reef Perkins.

Electronic compilationcopyright 2012, 2013 by Whiz Bang LLC.

Allrights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned,or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic ormechanical, including photocopying,recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, withoutpermission in writing from the publisher. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy ofcopyrighted materials in violation of the authors rights. Purchaseonly authorized ebook editions.

Thiswork is based on factual events. While theauthor has made every effort to provide accurate information at thetime of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumesany responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur afterpublication. Further, the publisher does not have any control overand does not assume any responsibility forauthor or third-party websites or their contents.

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Dedicated to my son,Quincy

Foreword

T his volume was originally intended to be aone-copy book of vague reminiscences for my son. I got into it. Mystory jumps around; one thought triggers another; different colorsapplied at different times on the same, rapidly wrinkling canvas.It is an admittedly vague and dazed recollection, a mixed media ofmemories. Told through a worn kaleidoscope, time is the mirror andbroken glass the memories. Some things are true, some are almosttrue, and some things are not quite but they are all sincere. Itsjust a book. Everyone likes his own version of thetruth.

Those in search of intellectual stimulation will find theyare drawing from a shallow well, diving into an emptypool.

This book began late one night, four years ago in my Key Westbackyard.

During a conversation with Curtis Gillespie, a well-knownCanadian writer imported duty free from the provinces, I began bysimply asking, How do I write a memoir?

You must regress. You must go back to find the beginning.It might not be easy, a small cumulus nimbus lingered nearby, foryou ... ah, Curtis looked around ... ah ... wheres thewine?

It wasnt easy.

The sky was so dark I could see my thoughts. Rememberingwas harder than I remembered . Like aChinese finger trap, the harder I pulled the tighter it got. Ipondered

To get stoned

Or not to get stoned Whatwas the question?

I wouldlike to thank my wife, Roberta, for graciously enduring thisendeavor and giving me some of my best unwritten memories; my sonQuincy for keeping me almost broke so, as he put it with the voiceof a saint, You can suffer more fully Dad and therefore beinspired to even greater undertakings (I knew I should not havesent him to prep school) or something like that; Curtis Gillespiewho bravely traveled from the vast lands of the north, insisting ona full TSA pat-down both ways, to listen patiently for days andnights to my ramblings. He added some semblance of dignity to mypleadings. Mrs. Nancy Butler-Ross a writer herself, who encouragedme even when she knew better and patiently undertook to teach me,among other valuable concepts, the rudimentary elements of diction,punctuation and the value of literary sanitation. Ms. DianeSavicky, who boldly undertook the first reading and is stillconvalescing. The ladies from my writers group, Robin Robinson(leader of the pack), Nina Nolan, Joan Langley and Leah Benner fortheir generous criticism served with great food. Young MichaelHaskins for his quirky insights. Also in the parade of luminariesis Brewster Chamberlin a generous man and wise counsel, CarlPeachey, a writer himself, who after reading a few pages of myearly work suggested I seek counseling. Jane Newhagen and MarkHowell for creative insights and Miss Kathy Russ who, on silversteed, along with her faithful Indian companion Steve, rode to myrescue and guided me out of a self-imposed ambush. Ms. Russ is theonly person I could find in the Key West literary world who knewhow to spell dingelberry correctly. My agent, Joyce Holland whoadvised me to Stay in the game and dont whine. And theeffervescent Ms. Carol Tedesco for undertaking the finaledit.

For Mr. Shirrel Rhoades whoshowed me the crack in the cosmic egg and finally to Milford HighSchool that gave me my diploma which I have heartilyabused.

This book was also madepossible in part by a grant from the Anne McKee Artists Fund ofthe Florida Keys, Inc.

Then theres White, and forall the words I know I cant find the right ones.

Thank you all for stickingwith me. Any tendencies or habits of an excessive nature presentedin this story have, of course, been since corrected.

I wouldlike to thank everyone and everything I have come in contact withon this planet, especially myself who has allowed, if notencouraged, me to experience many things and finally to The GreatSpirit, Hona Gona , who kept me around so I could be Present to Win. You havemade me what I am today. Better luck next time.

- Reef Perkins

2013

If I tell you somethingis a lie, youll know Im telling the truth.

- George Burns

PROLOGUE

I lay awake listening to a pair of Bufo toadsmaking more Bufo toads in the swamp Id built outside our bedroomwindow. It was not a pleasant sound. Six hours of grainy grunts andbellows took their toll. I flipped. I snapped. I was backin-country. I wanted a beer.

I grabbed my BB gun, puton a black Navy Divers T-shirt, which took longer than it shouldbecause I instinctively grabbed the gun first. I donned a blackwatch cap and with a black heart went out the back door,camouflaging my face with soot from the BBQ grill. I smelledchicken fat as I jacked a BB into the chamber. Locked and loaded.The old ways returned.

Creeping stealthily aroundthe rear of the house toward the pond and avoiding toad detection,I slipped silently into chilly water. I squatted semi-naked in thepuckering darkness. There was no time for full battle gear and nowmy stimulus package was floating free, causing a dangerous tiltingmoment as I duck-walked across the unforgiving algae. I stifled anOoo-Rah! as my equipment settled slowly below the surface. Myonboard periscope rapidly changed dimension and headed for warmerclimes. Without the benefit of camouflage my pod was magnified bythe water and looked too much like an albino Bufo on a bad hair dayfor my comfort. I hoped it would not appear to be a decoy, a toadof interest or a blond to the other Alpha toads. It was a chance Ihad to take.

Hunkered low behind a slimypond plant I waited and tracked the Bufos down for the kill. I hadto be in the pond because, as I learned from an earlier mission, ifI shot a Bufo from above and missed, the rubber piercing BB blew ahole in my pond liner.

I had to be one with theBufo. It was them or me, a showdown at the OD corral. Mostly bysound, it was hard to miss, I located the mating crooners.Struggling against aggressive tadpoles gumming my submergedobjects, I targeted the amphibious humpers with my tactical nightspotting device (TNSD), a flashlight duct-taped to the barrel of myBB gun. The flashlight was heavy and slipped to the side of thebarrel. When I moved the gun to sight on the Bufos they went out ofthe light. I worked hard; I tried to think what they were thinking,got a cold-water faux-boner, a feat in itself, and eventuallydelivered a single round that nailed both, at once, in the middleof their noisy love fest. It was good way to go. Old skills diehard. So do old toads.