Key West, October 1993

It was one of those planes where everybody gets a window seat, where the slightest turn or turbulence or drop in cabin pressure makes you clasp your hands and pray. The guy next to me called it a puddle jumper. Nine other people were on the plane from Miami to Key West and I was sure we were all going to die.

I was ambivalent to the whole crashing and burning thing.

Sure, it would have been cruel to meet my demise at 23 after making the hardest decision of my life. But probably poetic as well. On that day I didn’t particularly care.

The plane glided low over salt ponds, the water nipping at the runway. I was pleasantly surprised when we landed on the tarmac and came to a safe stop. The flight attendant opened the hatch and the air conditioning was a memory. We all gathered our belongings and descended the stairs.

I had awoken that morning to Massachusetts frost and an eerie chill. With one step off the plane I was sweating in South Florida. I saw Jamie approaching with a smile on his face.

“Welcome to Key West,” my college roommate said cheerily. Or maybe it was “Welcome to Key West, Bitch.” Jamie wore the white uniform of his airline company.

I have scattered happenings in my head from the rest of that night. The smell of salt water as we entered our new apartment on Bertha Street. The bartender at The Casa Marina giving us a free “local’s welcome” beer. The Sam look-a-like piano player doing a rendition of “As Time Goes By’ just minutes after saying the place reminded me of Casablanca. Deep feelings of uncertainty mixed with an excitement for a new adventure. Drinking bottles of Coors in the darkness with the warm wind off the water. The emptiness of the house and the hard, bare floor as I laid down to sleep.

The intense duality of joy and sadness that first night when I heard my girlfriend’s voice some 1500 miles away on the phone.

Let’s call her Jessica for the hell of it . . . and I did not mind being woken at two in the morning. I was so happy to hear Jessica’s voice. I had asked her to call, but I was not expecting it.

The next day Jamie and I walked to Duval Street, the main thoroughfare of Key West. It was hot and the tropical plants emitted a fragrance I had never smelled before. We went to the upstairs patio of a place called Rick’s. I remember sipping a Margarita and looking past the white wooden planks on the deck. Large letters spelled the name “Sloppy Joe’s Bar” across the street.

Jamie and I talked about Jessica, probably to the point where he wished I would shut up about the subject. I told him no girl was worth putting your life on hold, even if you were in love. I was 23 and I needed to have a Hemingway type experience. I had come to this island to write my novel.

Those were all fine and romantic reasons on that October afternoon.

Back then I still had hope Jessica would move to Key West and we would get married. I sipped my Margarita on that patio and smiled at the possibility. We went across the street to Sloppy Joe’s, and with each cocktail I became more certain Jessica and I would reunite.

That would never happen.

At four-thirty I stumbled back to my new apartment alone, Jamie having left a few hours earlier because he had to work in the morning. I grabbed some beers from the fridge and walked one block to the beach. I was determined to watch the sunrise over the ocean. I had never done that before.

-Michael Ostrowski