The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

I got a friend who called me up asking if I had some colored glass he could get his hands on. Sure, I said, whatcha need it for? He explained that he was making mermaid sculptures and decorating them with everything from crushed seashells off the beach of Baby Island to possibly pennies as mermaid scales. He needed some glass to break into pieces and glue onto the mermaid’s tail. Okay, I said, I got some scrap glass you can use, anything to help a fellow glass breaker.

My pal is a real estate agent. Meaning, he’s in the same boat as a lot of us here on the lackadaisical South End, folks who basically are self-employed, work when we want, play most of the time. If we can handle the guilt of not embracing the Protestant Ethic, we’re fairly happy campers. But now, with this Pandemic Panic, the entire island has self-quarantined. Every manjack of us is holed up in Paradise wondering what the world will look like after the plague subsides. Whatever jobs were out there, they may not be after the dust settles and the virus leaves stunned survivors in its wake.

Whatcha making the mermaids for, anyway? I asked my buddy, thinking he was embarked on a mercy mission, maybe take a few to the nursing homes in the area since he’s a pretty philanthropic guy, the kind who takes firewood to shut-ins in the winter or organizes trash pickups alongside the roads. What do you mean? he asked. I mean what’s your plan with these mermaids is what I mean. No reason, he said, just bored.

So you got four mermaids done, now you’re making more? I was thinking about the 5 guitars I’d just made, no good reason. “You need to be careful, Zorba,” I warned. Whaddaya mean? he asked, a slight tremor in his voice. “Can’t you see, man, the thing has got a hold of you. One or two mermaids, sure, I get it. A little hobby to fill the time while the plague passes by. But the third? And a fourth? You can see where this is going. Be careful is all I’m saying.”

“It’s harmless,” he protested. “Just something to keep me from being bored. What’s wrong with that, Skeeter?

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “You’re playing with a loaded gun, my friend. Another mermaid you’ll be hooked. Sure, it’s a few seashells glued on, then it’s some broken glass, some pennies to make scales, next thing you’ll be making full size sculptures, casting bronze, there’s no telling where it leads. You’ll end up like the rest of us on this desolate hellhole of an island.”

“What do you mean? What are you talking about?” he fairly squeaked. I hated being the bearer of bad news but hellfire, someone has to speak Truth to the moths circling the flame. “What I’m talking about is falling into the trap. One mermaid okay, two, sure, but the addiction starts there and next thing you know ….” I paused to let this sink into his bald skull. “What?” he asked, “Next thing I know what??”

“You become like the rest of us, Zorba, you become an artist.”

“I’m just killing some time, Skeeter, I’m just bored,” he protested.

“That’s what we all said. If we were honest. Just … be … careful, that’s all I’m saying. We got too many lost souls here now, we don’t need some retired realtor joining the ranks.”

Next day when I took him the glass he said he wanted more colors, not just the blues he originally requested. I shook my head, sure, why not. Too late, I could tell, nothing for it but to take him the whole crayon box. Sometimes you just can’t talk folks off the ledge.

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