Clandestine

It was 1980 and I was nineteen, barely into what my mother quaintly referred to as the Prime of My Life. From what I’d learned up to that questionable apogee, there will never be enough time before bony-fingered Decrepitude sinks her yellowed nails into my skin. Feeling pressured, I knew I had to drive fast. To pay for my accelerated youth I got into something good girls don’t usually do: smuggling weed. I presumed my new career would be a cakewalk, but it soon became obvious I would be doing more dodging than cake-walking. Dodging gung-ho cops eager to lock me up. Dodging bandits hell-bent on robbing me. Dodging monster freighters bearing down on me in the night. And there were perils I never suspected.

I’d been living on the east coast of Florida since high school when out of the blue my father calls. Says he’s on his way to Miami and wants to stop by for a short visit. Based on the directions I give him he makes a quick calculation and says, “See you in about three hours.”

Nice advance notice, Pops.

This will be the first time I’ve seen him since I traded my childhood home in Ohio for eternal summer in the Florida mangroves, but it’s a truly bad time for Dad to be stepping into my world. Tasha and I are smack in the middle of preparing for our next “clandestine”—that’s her word for these risky jaunts we’ve been doing for the past year. After he hangs up I race around trying to make the place look like what I hope he considers “normal.” I call Tasha to warn her of his impending arrival and to wait for my call before she comes over. Then I sit by the front window and wait.

When his four-door Chevy pulls into my driveway, I see Dad reach over to the passenger’s side and grab something. Then he emerges holding four dangling beer cans by that turtle-killing plastic yoke. He’s wearing a tucked-in shirt, khakis and aviator. He’s not smiling.