In Medias Res Read Online Free PDF

my sexuality didn’t seem like something I could forget. Yet I was as much in the dark about it as I was about everything else.

Chapter Five

    Being surrounded by water put me in the mood for seafood. I headed to Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville for some blackened mahi-mahi. While I ate, I was entertained by diners performing their off-key renditions of Jimmy’s greatest hits. After dinner, I walked the length of Duval Street to burn off the calories. I did a little bit of window shopping but not much. I didn’t want souvenirs. I wanted memories. My memories.
    I felt drawn to Sloppy Joe’s but resisted the urge to go in. When he lived on the island, Ernest Hemingway had made the bar his favorite hangout. The six-hundred-plus page book in my backpack told me I was a Hemingway fan. If that were true, logic dictated that the legendary establishment was one of my favorite hangouts, too. Which meant, more than likely, that they knew me there. I couldn’t take that chance. Not until I was myself again. Sipping a rum and Coke in the Hog’s Breath Saloon, I wondered what I’d do if that didn’t happen. Would I return to my old life or try to forge a new one?
    Yet another thing for me to figure out. Good thing I wasn’t on a timetable.
    The sun set while I was sitting in the Hog’s Breath, but I headed to Mallory Square anyway. I wasn’t expecting—or hoping—to run into Marcy. At least, I didn’t think I was. I simply wanted to get a feel for the place. To see if all the eccentric behavior I’d read about was real or an urban legend created to sell visitors’ guides and lure gullible tourists.
    Walking into the square, I was greeted by the sight of a homeless man sleeping on a wooden bench. His right hand held a firm grip on the handlebars of a battered blue bicycle. The bike’s kickstand was up, which meant the bike could crash to the ground if its owner rolled over or let go. A white bulldog wearing heart-shaped sunglasses sat panting happily in a basket attached to the bike’s rear wheel.
    So much for urban legends.
    I joined a crowd that had gathered to watch a man and a woman covered in gray body paint juggle daggers with eight-inch blades. The knives’ sharp metal edges glistened in the lamplight. To enhance the sense of danger even more, the painted pair tossing the weapons back and forth were shirtless. The silver rings that pierced their nipples pealed like tiny bells each time their taut arms moved.
    A few feet away from the topless twosome, I listened to a one-man band play songs from Madonna’s catalog. His rendition of “Like A Virgin” was one I’ll definitely never forget.
    Considering my present circumstances, perhaps I should rephrase that.
    I moved over by the water so I could watch the waves roll in.
    “Looking for me?”
    Marcy’s voice in my ear made me jump. I took a step back. She felt too close. “No, I wasn’t.”
    “Are you sure?” She was wearing the same shorts I’d seen her in earlier, but her bikini top and flip-flops were gone, replaced by a form-fitting cycling jersey and a pair of Nikes.
    “You don’t give up, do you?”
    She smiled. “Not when I see something I want.”
    “Something you want or something you can’t have?”
    Her smile grew. “We’ll see about that,” she said. “Having fun?” She indicated the wide variety of performers that dotted the square and their captive audiences.
    “Yeah, it’s pretty cool down here, but I’m about ready to call it a night. It’s been a long day for me.”
    “Ready for that ride yet?” she asked. “My pedi-cab’s right over there.”
    She pointed behind her to a three-wheeled vehicle that was parked near the entrance to the square. So that explained both her tan and her great legs.
    “How much is the fare?”
    “That’s negotiable. Why don’t we figure it out when we get there?” I didn’t bite. “Okay,” she said, holding up her hands. “It’s twenty-five dollars an hour, the base rate’s fifteen.