Copyright © 2008 by Michael Thomas Mullen.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner or by electronic or mechanical means including storage and retrieval systems whatsoever without written permission except by reviewers who may quote passages in a review. For information, address Keep Left Publishing, mtbgroup@hughes.net or Post Office Box 1287, Aspen, Colorado 81612
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons or their names, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publications Data
Mullen, Michael Thomas
Keep Left: A Open Air Asylum Called St. John – by Michael Thomas Mullen
First Edition
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-0-979904-00-4 SAN: 854-6894
LCCN: 2007907007
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Book Cover Design by Robert Aulicino
ISBN: 9781483558189
To Rosa
My Friend
My Lover
My Partner
My Wife
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One: My Charitable Nature
Chapter Two: Paradise
Chapter Three: Turning $4,300,000 Into Zip
Chapter Four: Car Rentals
Chapter Five: The Commute
Chapter Six: Geography
Chapter Seven: Island Driving
Chapter Eight: Stamped $, $, $
Chapter Nine: 1, 2,3, 4 Architects
Chapter Ten: Doctor Calling
Chapter Eleven: The General Contactor
Chapter Twelve: Keep the Home Fires Burning?
Chapter Thirteen: The Stoned Masons
Chapter Fourteen: Barge Friends
Chapter Fifteen: Rachel Gets A New Home
Chapter Sixteen: Rachel Where Are You?
Chapter Seventeen: The Materials Are Here! The Materials Are Here!
Chapter Eighteen: The Last Honest Men
Chapter Nineteen: Felicia
Chapter Twenty: Captain Kirk
Chapter Twenty-One: Unexpected Drop In
Chapter Twenty-Two: Homeless
Chapter Twenty-Three: Want a Cookie Dusty?
Chapter Twenty-Four: Rusty Nail
Chapter Twenty-Five: Let Me Look Up the Pipe
Chapter Twenty-Six: Septic System or commonly referred to as: A night in the Sh**!
Chapter Twenty-Seven: She’s Right I’m Back!
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Scientific Testing – Island Style
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Hip Hop and Gold
Chapter Thirty: The Road
Chapter Thirty-One: Cash is King and Benjamin Franklins Speak “Spanglish”
Chapter Thirty-Two: Cowboys, Indians, Pirates and Carpetbaggers Too
Chapter Thirty-Three: How Does Your Garden Grow? With Silver Bells and Cockle Shells?
Chapter Thirty-Four: Daily Island Life
Chapter Thirty-Five: The Oil Baron’s Villa
Chapter Thirty-Six: Of Mice and Men
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Renters
Chapter Thirty-Eight: I Got a Secret
Chapter Thirty-Nine: What’s In a Name?
Chapter Forty: Bronco Billy and the CIA
Chapter Forty-One: Damn, It’s A Small Island!
Chapter Forty-Two: Reflections
Chapter Forty-Three: Where Are They Now?
Epilogue
Prologue
Keep Left
The Open Air Asylum Called St. John
Granddad, a self-made man from Ireland, traveled from his country home to the United States in order to escape the potato famine. During the ensuing years in America, he made a fortune in real estate speculation throughout the United States only to lose a vast portion of his wealth during the Great Depression. Not unlike me in life, he consistently went for it, the venture, and the risk, win, lose, or draw.
My parents were divorced and at the impressionable age of eight, I was shipped off to my grandparents. Fortunately, Granddad became my beacon of knowledge, courage, and intellect. At this tender age, growing up in the warmth of my grandparent’s stately rural New York State home, I came to appreciate Granddad’s wisdom, humor, and intelligence.
Many times over the passage of our lives together, he imparted amazing insight garnered over his seeming many years, most often while slowly sipping a generous finger of straight up Bushmills Irish whiskey. On numerous evenings, Granddad would invite me into the cozy private library warmed by the burning embers glowing in the massive stone fireplace.
Musty smelling leather covered books lined the shelves of the walnut paneled walls, inviting readers to immerse themselves. Curling in one of the high wingback worn plaid chairs with a warm glass of milk in hand and chocolate chip cookies in my lap, I sat awaiting Granddad’s gems of wisdom. I always longed for those times of silence between us, listening to the rhythmical ticking of the ancient gold-faced mantle clock and an occasional crackle of burning logs.
It was during these occasions that he would regale me with stories of Ireland when he was a lad or impart sensible decisions and judgments accumulated in life, like, “Mikey, what do you do with cash?”
I reverently replied, “Never Flash the Cash!”
Or he’d ask, “What president is on the ten thousand dollar bill?”
“Salmon Chase, but he’s not a president, he worked for Lincoln! You didn’t believe I would know that, did you?” I replied in a quiet little boy voice of pride.
One such occasion, a windy snow blustering evening with a blizzard raging, sitting sleepily in my usual place, toasty in pajamas and holding tightly to warm milk and cookies, I watched Granddad intently. He, ensconced in his respective plaid wingback chair, was mesmerized by the crackling roar of the blazing birchwood log fire. The fire spewed vivid dancing colors red, yellow, and green stretching far up the chimney from the four-foot log on the hearth. I watched his gaze wander up to The Mullen Coat of Arms prominently displayed high above the smoky marble mantle with the Gaelic inscription of “Above All Honor Loyalty.”
Slowly, from the pipe stand at his elbow, Granddad extracted one of his favorite briar pipes and packed the bowl from the silver tobacco decanter. Soon the red glow of the well-worn pipe produced wisps and circles of smoke rising to all corners of the room, and I deeply inhaled the distinct and rich odor of the cherry fumes. Even to a child of eight it was apparent this evening was to be no simple lesson or story. He drew deeply on the pipe again, sending sweet plumes deeper into the room. Lifting his Baccarat crystal highball glass emblazoned with the family coat of arms, filled tall with twelve-year-old Bushmills, he took a small sip, and after what seemed like an eternity to a small boy he spoke in his rich quiet voice that always demanded respect and attention.
“Mikey, when your father was your age, we sat in this very room sharing the principles of what the Mullen Clan has lived by for more than five centuries. Five simple rules of life have served us throughout the generations. Thus keeping the family’s name alive for eternity with honor and loyalty, it is now your responsibility to learn and understand these basic rules and principles and follow them as your life unfolds.
Rule One – Never be a warrior. The Mullen Clan has always been merchants, landlords, or politicians, but never soldiers. Not a single Mullen in five hundred years has served in the military. We always believed there was a peaceful solution to any conflict or confrontation. A war produces death and destruction leading to the annihilation of entire families; it results in the total and absolute loss of the family name for perpetuity. Always follow a path of peaceful resolution to each and every conflict, stand by your conviction, never waver in the face of all others, and you will preserve the Mullen family name with honor.
Rule Two – You should have a great number of children. They may do you right or wrong, but the Mullen name will never disappear from history especially if they are all boys.
Rule Three – Make one hell of a lot of money or marry someone very rich. Remember, there are as many rich women available to you as poor ones, except the rich are just a little harder to find. Marrying rich, people will always remember your wife, and probably for how much money she had before she met you and how you increased or squandered it.
Rule Four – Get your name in print by creating your own fame through financial or political success or failure. You, Mikey Mullen, will become a man of renown.
Rule Five – Write great novels that people will continue to enjoy long after your demise, still enjoying your tales of humor or tragedy, laugh at what amused you or made you sad, and all the while vicariously experiencing the events you describe, lived through, and survived.
For a number of weeks our discussions focused on the virtues of the five rules and what they meant to life until I could recite them verbatim and express understanding of their meaning. He would then gently lift me from the high wingback chair and carry the four stone weight to the down feather mattress with its cool sheets, laying me under a warm comforter.
As an adult, I well remember my Granddad’s words and have taken on the five rules in order to pass this legacy onto the next generation thus perpetuating the Mullen lineage.
Granddad, you were right,
First, I continued the tradition of never serving in the military.
Second, my first marriage resulted in the birth of two children both of whom refuse to acknowledge my existence. Or more likely, believe I am incarcerated in some foreign prison somehow owing to their mother’s explanation of what a “bum” she married when in actuality she ran off with my best friend.
I do delight on occasion, reflecting on the fact that over these many years she got what she deserved by marrying the narcissistic bastard.
Third, although married three times and twice divorced, none of these women were rich or famous but nevertheless, beautiful in their own unique way, thus providing much more than mere financial wealth. Each was a gift in a time of personal need.
The first wife was Sally. She dragged me through college where I only succeeded after nine years; this was through no fault of her own. The second was Alanea, who in a short time of living together and six months of marriage taught me to be a man and face life’s challenges. The third is Rosa, who has given me my life’s dream and a good kick in the ass when I most needed it.
Fourth, over the course of my life I have been quoted in local newspapers and business journals. While never reaching the Forbes 400 Wealthiest List, I have attained a respectable degree of financial success, which is secreted and closely guarded from the inquisitive eyes of the lurking Internal Revenue Service.
However, none of my successes in life ever reached the depths of Granddad’s words and advice.
So, it appears I am left with but the final alternative, the Fifth Rule, the written word. The great novel! So begins my best efforts at portraying events in my life remembered with fondness and occasional sadness.
It is fervently hoped this light story will make you smile, occasionally cry; but most of all, allow you to genuinely laugh out loud driving your fellow passengers crazy while you are hurled through space in your aluminum cigar with restrooms smelling of ripe dirty diapers. Being served by your flying waitress, week old stale Kaiser rolls encasing ”mystery meat” and sweaty American cheese at thirty thousand feet while winging your way toward my magical island paradise.
Or just possibly, you’re taking that scenic ocean voyage you have waited a lifetime for and at this very moment are bearing down on the tiny island of St. John. The island people are ready to welcome you with open arms, the obese, middle age tourist, with cameras ever ready. Locals are looking for your wallet to be significantly lighter after they have fleeced you with the sale of unneeded straw hats, strange clothing that no one wears here, and much needed Bushwhacker or Painkiller island drinks.
Laugh at my blunders, my companions, and events, which shaped and changed my life forever on the tiny Island of St. John while always remembering my Granddad’s advice. I sincerely hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I did writing it. It is not about building a house per say, it is about the people and events that transpired.
So sit back, pop a cap off my favorite amber brew, which of course, you don’t know yet but within these pages, you’ll learn to say the word Heineken. Enjoy and listen to my tale. So begins the saga.
Chapter One
My Charitable Nature
Friends and, of course, my wife, would agree I am more than a little self-centered, egotistical, stubborn, and a control freak – wait, who wrote that?
Further, they would quickly add with my wife Rosa’s concurrence and blessings ‘shiftless’, ‘worthless’, and ‘lazy,’ often referred to as terms of endearment by my wife and friends. Can’t even begin to imagine nor print the comments from my two previous brides - Sally, and Alanea, both of whom left before large amounts of cash commenced rolling my way at a time while entering my mid-life crisis years. They must have thought better than to hang around an unstable, unreliable dreamer and at their respective points in time, one really couldn’t blame them.
In December, 1998, Rosa, my bride, and our niece Mary were invited – well actually Mary’s presence was requested, but she being perpetually broke due to excess of everything, she asked us to accompany her to a Charity Auction in Vail, Colorado. Knowing full well the true reason Mary invited her aunt and uncle was the underlying lack of funds on her part. She was certain yours truly would pick up the entire tab while she scouted for a potential boyfriend/husband prospect. It really didn’t matter as were eager to accommodate her in exchange for an anticipated fun-filled weekend.
It was a dark and stormy night upon our arrival that December eve. (I always wanted to say that). The event drew a large crowd of assorted of well heeled attendees: big jets, lots of limos, black ties, fur coats covering the beautiful bodies of high maintenance young women on the arms of the “fear of getting old” high roller men.
The charity event, not to be outdone, plied the guests with complimentary wine, Dom Perignon Champagne, and a grand display of hors d’oeuvres followed by a three-course meal and the ultimate charity event, the live auction.
By 9:30 p.m. Rosa, not feeling well (maybe too much champagne), and Mary, unable to find the perfect husband or for that matter any reasonable prospect for a twelve hour sexual encounter, retired to our well appointed suite complete with fireplace and Jacuzzi tub. Not Michael T. Mullen, no way, much too early for a man of the hour.
I proceeded to imbibe Dom Perignon and talk to the newly select, moneyed friends, actually, ego aside, anyone who would talk to me. Precisely at 10:30 p.m., the live auction of big-ticket items began! I sat at a table between two delightful couples one husband a cardiovascular surgeon and the second couple were Hollywood film producers, although the wife looked like an actress. The wives sat on either side of me.
My newly acquired, through the roof stock market portfolio had landed me in the upper one percent of the flaunted American wealthy, so while mingling with this crowd in my champagne induced, slightly inebriated state, “spending money was no object.” Bring on the Auction! At precisely midnight, I settled the immense bill with a check, sincerely hoping it would clear the bank on Monday. The four of us continued to sit at the table drinking Champaign. The movie producer’s wife slipped her left hand down to my crouch and looked into my eyes as she squeezed my testicles so hard it instantly brought tears to my eyes and said, “I really want that Harley Davidson motorcycle. If I pay you a thousand dollars more than you paid would you sell it to me?”
Her squeeze intensified, making me squirm in the seat and I looked her right in the eyes with a smirk on my face, “But of course, is there anything else I can do for you?”
She released her vice like grip on my privates, and murmured in a voice to be overheard by others at the table, “Yes, I believe there is something else you can do for me tonight.”
Now, you don’t know Rosa, she is the only individual in the world who can strike fear in my heart and bring me trembling to my knees.
Rosa could have been another Columbo, Sherlock Holmes or even Beretta, you remember Beretta, with a parrot on his shoulder who said, “If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.” Wonder if his murdered wife would agree with that statement? Rosa is the absolute master spy, sleuth detective.
Over time, I have cleverly learned to choose the narrow course of brutal honesty when quizzed about anything from breaking a dish (early in marriage blaming the cat) to checking out the blonde at the next table (using, “isn’t she a friend of yours,” more than once). Rosa has an uncanny knack of rooting out any attempt at deception on my part and certainly not from lack of trying by yours truly.
Early the next morning in Suite 241 at the Ritz Carlton in Vail Colorado the subtle question was broached. “Honey, did you buy anything last night?”
“Yes, Dear, I bought several items but nothing of major consequence.”
Ah, but then Rosa, put on her Sherlock Holmes deerstalker hat and said, “What exactly did you purchase, Michael?”
Ever ready to attempt evasion, distraction, and diversion, I rapidly changed the subject. “It was a great night and I believe the final outcome of the auction will raise a huge amount of money for the little crippled children. I sat with two couples, one husband was a surgeon and the second couple were Hollywood film producers. The female producer said her two passions beyond films were skiing in Vail and, get this, riding motorcycles!” This was my subtle attempt at laying important groundwork for what was to come.
“Michael, what precisely did you purchase?”
After several moments of fearful silence I capitulated and timidly responded, “Well, dear my purchases included two TV’s, a shotgun, two U.S. Government Savings Bonds, an outdoor barbeque grill, a pink Harley Davidson Motorcycle, and a trip to the Virgin Islands.”
Looking ashen, she probed again now more directly, “Ok, what did you really buy and this better be the truth!”
“Ok, the truth. I bought two TV’s, a shotgun, two U.S. Government Savings Bonds, a barbeque, a pink Harley Davidson Motorcycle and a trip to the Virgin Islands.”
At this admission, Rosa roared, “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FU***** MIND!”
“No, honey, they’re all great purchases and I think the charity event would have potentially lost money had your husband not been in a generous financial position to assist them in their hour of desperation by consuming vast quantities of food and drink as well as making these excellent purchases.
Additionally, by making these acquisitions we have skillfully realized an excellent, and badly needed charitable IRS tax deduction for 1998. These purchases will clearly demonstrate in future years that we have made a huge gift to mankind by my generous, yet self-serving charitable act. Further, we are now assured invitations from Vail Crippled Children Charity event to eternity – isn’t that great!”
In an attempt to smooth over my infuriated wife, I quickly added, “The real charitable act, however, was realized after my good fortune of purchasing the pink Harley Davidson motorcycle. It was delightful to assist a total stranger, actually the film producer’s spouse. Yes, she was a blonde, blue eyed, long legged with a very short black skirt cut up her thigh and one would deduce surgically enhanced bosoms by disposing of the Harley Davidson motorcycle at a very reasonable $1,000 profit.”
I, of course, did not mention this Number 10 Bo Derek look alike expressed eternal gratitude in her own special way, after her older husband toddled off to bed and my reddened testicles were again functional. I continued, “She really wanted that pink Harley Davidson motorcycle more than me to match the leather Harley Davis outfit trimmed in fur she wears in Hollywood and profoundly thanked me, isn’t that great?”
Chapter Two
Paradise
We had but one year to claim our fabulous trip, the Caribbean paradise vacation.
Late in October of the following year, we boarded an aircraft eventually bound for St. Thomas. We had three abreast seating on the flight fortunately with the middle seat empty. Immediately upon takeoff, we put up the divider armrests and began to relax. I imbibed three wines and Rosa a gin and tonic. I sank back reclined the seat and started to doze.
After a short time, I glanced to the left from the aisle seat and low and behold, Granddad had “poofed” into the center seat like Samantha twitching her nose on the TV show Bewitched.
“What are you doing here,” I murmured, as I looked over to the center seat and saw Granddad, buckled in, dressed in a new Savoy Row fine silk black suit, sipping a Bushmills Irish Whiskey in a crystal glass.
“Mikey, this is a joyous flight, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. We be embarking on a wee bit of fun and starting down the road of a mighty adventure by gully.”
“Granddad, When did you get the Irish accent? You sound like a leprechaun. You never had one when you were alive.”
“Well, Mikey, when I passed over, the next thing you be knowing I woke up and began speaking with this accent. I tried everything I know but, lord be Jesus, I speak like a eighteenth century Irishman but nothin worked, you see. Can’t help me accent, it, god be done.”
“Hey, hey, wake up, Michael, you were mumbling.” Rosa jabbed me in the ribs. The center seat was empty.
“Yeah, I’m awake,” I responded. “How many more hours is this trip? By the way was someone sitting in the center seat while I was asleep?”
“It’s a lot more hours and, no, the seat has been empty between us,” said Rosa as she resumed reading her magazine.
“Oh well, guess I must have been dreaming,” and promptly went back to sleep.
It was a dark and stormy night on October 10th 1999 – (no bull here, it really was) when we touched down on the tarmac of the newly christened Cecile E. King Airport St. Thomas after a lousy rotten fourteen hours in the air! The Ole Vail Charity failed to inform us when it included round trip airfare in the Caribbean auction package it sure wasn’t aboard one of the big plush bankrupt first class airlines like United or Delta, no – not our little sweet old ladies of charity. Can you say, “Big Brown Windowless Cargo Charter?” An experience not recommended in one’s lifetime. Big Brown like other overnight express mail companies converts from delivery trucks of the sky to passenger charter carriers by installing overhead bins complete with lights, air conditioning and seats in less than thirty minutes! No matter it doesn’t have windows, freight doesn’t care if it travels in the dark and besides windows for passengers, in my expert opinion, are overrated. Sure hope the pilots have windows!
You attempt in one day to travel from Denver to Chicago to Newark to Atlanta to Miami to San Juan to St. Thomas. What greater pay back for your worst enemy? You are guaranteed a slobbering, whimpering, crying individual exiting upon arrival at their final destination.
Don’t even think about grabbing a sandwich en route at the connecting airport cafeterias, for, you see, Big Brown lands at the airfreight terminals, not passenger terminals. You wait encased in your aluminum coffin at various unknown destinations – remember, no windows, while they unloaded then loaded cargo for the future en route stops. Ever been to the Newark Airfreight? If you haven’t, don’t go. Passengers were absolutely an afterthought, for Big Brown freight definitely came first! As a result of this trip, I could smell the odor of divorce in the air, and trust me, based on my many previous matrimonial experiences; I am referred to as an expert in this field. Johnny Carson only had me beat by one marriage and he’s dead!
Touching down at precisely 10:55 p.m. a mere one hour and five minutes late, two less than jovial, exhausted, and starving ‘fun in the sun’ wannabes descended the slippery exterior metal ramp steps into a driving rain storm. By now, we were only interested in locating the “Friendly Harder We Try” Car Rental Agency and directions to our Renaissance Hotel luxury suite.
Our first experience with “Island Time,” soon to be known as “No Problem, No Worries,” Friendly Harder We Try whose motto is prominently displayed behind the counter, “We Never Sleep” was closed. This a result of weather information relayed from San Juan Airport that wrongly predicted the last flight to St. Thomas (ours) was cancelled. Okay, what do you expect from Puerto Rico, an island belonging to the United States, where generally its citizens avoid speaking or pretend to not understand English. Then, as an U.S. Protectorate, steals more money from the U.S. Government than Enron.
We took this minor set back in stride, missing only one bag, packed of course, with Rosa’s clothes and cosmetics. What is it with women and their cosmetics anyway?
Men could care less and swiftly adapt to lost luggage and clothing by simply turning their underwear and socks inside out for a couple of extra days – But NOOO, not WOMEN!
No car? The next best thing was a taxi to our hotel. To those unfamiliar with island taxis – this does not mean a shiny clean yellow car with a nice white light on top, four doors, air conditioning and a smiling driver who spoke little or no English like most cabbies of modern U.S. cities today.
Ever taken a Washington D.C. taxi? Every cab driver goes to George Mason University and takes English as a Second Language. You have to do more pointing there than if you traveled by a water buffalo-pulled cart in some third world country, which is very likely, where the D.C. cab drivers originated.
No – you’re in the islands, Mon! A taxi means a pickup truck with red vinyl bench seats in the back – both sides open to the elements for excellent viewing of tourist sites, other islands, fauna, cute reptiles, and beaches. However, they fail to inform you, the traveler, what occurs when monsoons hit. In other words, if we weren’t already soaked after our recent escape from Big Brown, we would be drenched from the moment we put our little skinny asses in the hands of the local driver and, of course, the same for each and every bag claimed at the airport. And so, we arrived, starving, exhausted, and drenched at our first hotel destination. Forget divorce, murder then appeared in the brown eyes of my beloved.
Things soon got better as we spent seven days in paradise – three on St. Thomas at the Renaissance Hotel and four glorious days on St. John at the Westin. Now let me say, every place we go in the world, we look at real estate; this has been our life for more than thirty years. You might look at antiques, art, cathedrals, funny hats, T-shirts and clothes. You know, those little cute multicolored sarongs which when you arrive back at home, you’ll will never wear and banish to the back of the closet. We, on the other hand, look at houses and shop dirt, always have, always will.
Chapter Three
Turning $4,300,000 Into Zip
After exhausting St. Thomas real estate with little interest, especially considering that daily cruise ships dump upwards of fifteen thousand pale, overweight, middle aged United States citizens always tethered to their respective ship’s restaurant meals, we moved on to St. John. We hooked up with a local real estate agent on our first day and toured house after house for sale throughout the tiny island paradise.
Then it happened, oh no! I equate it to hooking a marlin – “Bam.” Rosa immediately fell in love with the gated community of Peter Bay. Of course, you might anticipate this had the most exclusive and expensive homes on the island. By day two (remember I am nouveau riche