St Ambrose Fair

Keeping my promise to Carla, I pulled on my big boy pants and went to the St. Ambrose Fair yesterday afternoon. By myself. It's an annual event here in St Augustine, held at a very small, historic Catholic church that sits on a shady 10 acre piece of old Florida land, complete with huge live oaks dripping with Spanish moss that goes horizontal in stiff winds. Carla would have gone with me as she has every year, but she had to work this time. That's all she does right now. Five weeks ago, Carla told me that she had been solicited by a former patient to come and work for her exclusively, Monday morning through Saturday morning, 24 hours a day in her home at the beach. A live in position. But Carla also has no plans to give up her Saturday and Sunday job with another company either, helping with client needs in a group home, 9am to 9pm on both weekend days. Pointing to the fact that most married people live together made no difference with her. She's got her hand caught in the monkey trap and I've learned not to waste my breath when her mind is made up.

So that's it right now, married life. My wife is gone all the time except for late Saturday and Sunday nights when she crawls into the bed with me, exhausted at around 10PM. But knowing what I like, and feeling guilty at so drastically altering our time together, when I see her for those few brief hours, she gives me a few toe curling, eye rolling blow-jobs, and $1,500 cash. Am I supposed to be upset or delighted with this arrangement? Anyway, this year she couldn't go to the fair with me and challenged me to go by myself. Carla is outgoing, an extrovert. I'm the opposite, happiest at home. When left alone, I go to work and to the grocery store, period. The dogs and I go out into the park behind our house, but as far as the car goes, it's work and Publix.

“I don't know how long I'll be working these two jobs. You need to get out and do stuff without me”

“Why?”

“Because it's good for you, you can't just stay here at home!”

“Yes I can, I'm happy right here. Go to work.”

But in the end we agreed. I need to be more independent and outgoing. Push myself to go to events, eat dinner in a restaurant alone, walk in the historic district downtown. She said that the St Ambrose Fair would be a great way to start, and I promised to go.

So there you have it. A crisp, bright Sunday afternoon found me walking around the church grounds in my big boy pants, along with about 3,000 other people. Did I mention that I hate crowds? Well, I hate crowds. Skirting the perimeter, trying to get to the Chowder booth with minimal human contact wasn't easy, but I did, and the line when I got there was ridiculous. About 3 city blocks long, winding a serpentine path all the way across the lawn and back toward the main entrance. All for a five dollar cup of their famous “Minorcan Chowder” that frankly, I make make better than they do anyway. So fuck that. I wouldn't stand in line if Jesus had returned and was giving out signed 8×10 prints of himself posing with Kim Davis. Hell, I didn't even walk across the street at our old house on the island to see Jackson Browne and Bonnie Raitt at the Amphitheater. Too many bodies in a tight space. Gingivitis and farts in the air. It was the same deal with the booth for the famous pulled pork sandwiches. Miles of bodies. Fuck that one too.

Before I even went to the fair though, I had told Carla that I would text her a few pictures of myself while I was there, just to prove that I went. “Just look for the guy in the pictures, standing alone, head down, no wifeypoo to cling to.” With that in mind and having given up on chowder and pulled pork, I decided to walk the perimeter some more and find the five best looking girls in the crowd. I would tell each of them about my pledge to Carla and ask them to pose with me, arms around my waist, head on my shoulder. Hell, their boyfriends can take the picture, proud that some old guy said that their girlfriend was the prettiest girl at the fair. I planned to text the pictures to Carla to show her just how miserable I was without her. But guess what? Three thousand people and no good looking girls. None. Zero. The entire crowd was divided into two groups intermingled: old people with oxygen tanks attached to their scooters or perhaps taking baby steps on three headed canes, or young heavy girls, boobs falling out of stained Rebel flag T-shirts, tramp stamps touching ass cracks, dragging a screaming three year old in a small dust cloud behind them. OK, fuck that idea too.

A local country band screamed over the din the whole time I was there, finishing up with a third encore of “Freebird”, and announcing that they were going to take a break. Thank god. The lead guy said that we were in for a treat. Nine year old Debbie James was going to sing. “You won't believe this little girl is only nine!” Debbie came up to the mike, adjusted it like a pro, and immediately started to sing the National Anthem. Three thousand people stood up, clutching their beers, and each other for balance. Old veterans saluted as others put their hands over hearts. Little Debbie didn't need a mike, she was a cringe worthy powerhouse of shrill patriotism that ripped at my eardrums like a school of tiny Piranha swimming on the wrong side of my eardrum, determined to break through to the middle ear.

That was it for me. I ignored the sea of piercing looks, did an about face and walked in the opposite direction toward the safety of my perimeter. Done, wrapped up after an excruciating 42 minutes of disliking myself for being a human, just like all the other mouth breathers there. The whole time, all I did was think negative thoughts about the people, the food, or lack of it, the music, and the “Get to Know Catholicism” booth.

My main take-away? The image forever burned into my occipital lobe of the ass of a 16 year old girl in yoga pants sulking along slowly three steps behind her parents, who apparently were being fattened for slaughter. Their daughter's ass, however, didn't look that way at all.

After a very pleasant, breezy, drive back home, with all the windows down, listening to Mark Knopfler, I was at my nest. No one there other than Rufus, Chica, and Sasha to greet me. Perfect. I went to my Volcano vaporizer, filled a balloon, and headed out to the deck. I kicked back on the lounge chair that had been waiting for me and scanned the lake, listening to the high cries of Ospreys circling overhead, staring down intently for a carry-out fish dinner to pick up and take home for the family...unless they plan to eat out alone.

All in all, the afternoon was good for me after all, a learning curve. I know now with absolute certainty that other than trips to work or the grocery store, I may never go out again.