Payback is, well … you know what payback is.
Since 1993, the year my beloved Red Sox moved from Winter Haven to Fort Myers, I have fled Maine for various periods of time, to find the sleaziest (and cheapest) motel in the southwest Florida area. Task Number One in those circumstances was to watch the Weather Channel at first light. You checked your local temp (75-85), checked the Maine temp (6 below to 12 above), and for God’s sake, don’t forget that wind chill.
Task Number Two was to connect with every frozen Maine eskimo you know, friend or foe, and make them … suffer. It was half the reason for the trip, that and the Red Sox.
Here we are. The Florida tables have turned. For a variety of reasons, the trip this year was called off, maybe the third or fourth time in 23 years. Those $45 motels (with pool) are now $164. And we are talking the sleaziest motels I could find.
Last year, it was a biblical trip. No locusts, true. But the tire blew somewhere (I had no Idea what state I was in), then I got the Georgia Plague on Jekyll Island. Could have been the restaurant meatloaf. First, I was afraid I was going to die in that beachfront condo. Then I was afraid I was going to live.
I pity the fool who rented that condo after I left. When I finally got to Florida, someone smashed in the rear window. Yes, the rear window.
All right, this winter has been the easiest in years and years and pales in wind-blown comparison with last year, which we like to call “Snowmageddon.” But it’s still cold here. There is no daily bike riding or swimming in the condo pool.
My “friends” who made the trip south have turned on me. I am a victim.
Don’t answer the phone.
Yesterday it was Belfast Neal calling from Matlacha, Florida, my favorite spot on Earth. (The kayak guide there still has my column on his trailer.) If there is a nicer place on Earth, please introduce me. Neal was talking about his photo class and all but the subtext was obvious: I am here. You are not.
Markie Mark is not only a former resident of Bangor, Maine, but a former resident of Cobb Manor. He brought the concept of “snowplowing” to the house. Radical. He calls from Florida every time the Maine temp falls below 12 degrees.
Avoid the phone.
Facebook is no better. Jefferson Gwen likes to send pictures of the beach in St. Simons Island, like I used to do. She is a cruel woman. Irish Jane went all the way to Panama to post those damn cottage pictures. I hope she stays there.
Thomaston Davene used to be considered a friend. But she too, is intent on posting those beach pictures from Florida. I used to like her. No more.
Avoid Facebook.
The radio is no help. All of a sudden the sports shows are doing hourly interviews from Fort Myers about the new Red Sox kids and how far the team is expected to go, after two last-place finishes in the past three years. I hate the Red Sox, I hate the announcers.
Avoid the radio.
Television is worse. They not only feature the players but they do it in front of the swaying palm trees. I hate that. I hate those trees. The announcers wear short-sleeved shirts and shorts … outside.
Avoid the television, except for Netflix.
It is not that cold in Maine, true.
But while I feed the wood stove and turn up that thermostat, I almost wish that I had not plagued my alleged friends for the past 23 years with my Florida weather reports.
Almost.
Payback. Well … you know.
Emmet Meara lives in Camden in blissful retirement after working as a reporter for the Bangor Daily News in Rockland for 30 years.