Beyond Coincidence

Chapter 1: Key West, Florida – 1948

As he cradled his son and shielded him from the rain-swept winds, Viktor hurried to find shelter.  It was dusk – and because of their exhaustion during the past couple of days traveling, he was eager to find a place for the night.  They were on the outskirts of Key West and had just come to the end of their journey on Old Dixie Highway. The Greyhound Bus Service driver had pulled into a one-pump filling station that had no canopy (which apparently sufficed as a terminal). There were no other passengers on board and it appeared the bus would be parked there for the night.  The driver wasn’t helpful with any directions, was not interested in the slightest bit of conversation, and the one attendant inside the station was deeply engaged on a phone call, turning his back on them.

Viktor set Vlad down inside out of the squally weather and looked around for a taxi.  Not seeing one or any other local activity and not wanting to spend the night in their present surroundings, the two weary travelers started out on foot. Vlad couldn’t keep up…he had just turned four and the winds were strong enough to hamper his attempt at walking alongside his father. Viktor lifted him up and carried him as they headed toward Key West. Trudging through the downpour along the road adjacent to the ocean, Viktor could barely make out blinking lights in the distance, which he hoped would be a motel.  The surf was furiously crashing against the shoreline and the wind sprayed them with a biting torrent of the ocean’s fury making it all the more difficult to distinguish what was ahead.

After hiking at least two miles, both of them got soaking wet and gripping their suitcase, finally got closer to the isolated establishment.  Hope for lodging faded as he saw the blinking neon sign “Conch Bar.”  Several cars, trucks, and boat trailers were scattered about the gravel parking area.

With no other option, he entered the smoke-filled tavern. The walls were covered with fish mounts netting, crab traps, and old bait buckets.  His eyes burned from the stale air inside, not just from the smoke, but from the heaviness of the muggy brackish air trapped there by the closed windows.  Vlad was now sleeping on his shoulder – and as Viktor came through the door, he could feel all eyes on him.  The bar was about half full, maybe 15 or 16 people there.  An old jukebox was playing, “Pistol Packin’ Mama,” and a few couples were dancing wildly in the cramped and dimly-lit saloon.

“Com’on in here outa th’ rain, young feller,” bellowed a crusty old salt sitting at the bar counter.  “Set ya-self down an’ hav’ som’ beer.” As Viktor made his way to an empty table, wading through the peanut shells on the floor, he pushed a couple of chairs together to create a make-shift bed for Vlad. Being so worn-out from their journey, the brusque voice of the bar patron didn’t awaken him.  Viktor was somewhat relieved at the friendliness, which appeased his mood a little – but when a barmaid came over full of questions, he was immediately annoyed at her.

“Hi, stranger, ya look like ya jes came outa th’ ocean, all wet like that.  It’s really pourin’, ain’t it?  An’ yer baby thar, whar’s his mama?”

He ignored her queries and replied, “I’d like a double shot of Smirnoff, uh please, with a chaser of beer, and for my son, a glass of milk.”

“Well, now, ain’t they cute!”  She left to get the drinks.  Within moments she was back with his order and, also, a pillow that she placed under Vlad’s head.

“Thank you, mam…that was very kind of you.”

“Ma name’s Lucy an’ ya’ll can call me that.  Whatsa matter, cat got yor tongue? We’s frendly foks in here, man, an’uh I’d like to git to know ya.”

“Lay off it,” shouted the old salt.  “Can’t ya see the man’s tired and don’t want yor comp’ny?  Damn it, leave ‘em alone!”  With that, Lucy stomped off and Viktor eyed Old Salt, giving him a nod of thanks.  Vlad stirred but remained asleep.

The people in the bar took notice of the duo, whom they had never seen before.  The tall good-looking man was oddly formal but at the same time gave the impression of being a sociable sort.  The gentle way he took care of the boy elicited warm feelings and a buzz of speculative chatter could be heard among those eyeing him.  His dark eyes were partially obscured by his wet brown hair which was tousled from the storm outside.  They figured the boy couldn’t be more than five years old.

Listening to the next song, “Sentimental Journey,” brought back emotional thoughts of what Viktor had recently left behind even though the words were in English and not his native Russian language.  It seemed ironic that such a tune would be one of the first songs he heard upon arriving here.  His familiarity with American music was entrenched in his subconscious mind as he reminisced about the years of the rigorous training he had undergone.  Slowly drinking his vodka, which wasn’t the custom in Moscow (as they tended to guzzle it all at once), he needed to fit in here and didn’t want to attract undue attention.