Martin Felix

I get so much joy from writing, I can hardly contain myself sometimes. The task of writing my father’s obituary gave my no pleasure but I did feel as though I could honor his memory by giving it my own touches. I am thankful to the people at the paper, they were very nice to us and ran the whole thing, poem and all. My grandfather wrote the part at the end, it was rather appropriate. I’ve already received 3 emails from people who knew him. I cant express how nice it is to hear from people whose lives he touched.

MARTIN FELIX

1942-2005

Martin Felix, a longtime resident and authentic Conch, passed away in his sleep last Wednesday, March 16, 2005. Martin was born and raised in New York City. In 1980, he found his way to the end of U.S. 1, looking for what most people come to Key West seeking: a lost shaker of salt. Martin spent his tenure in paradise working with his hands, restoring houses, building fences and creating art. Over the years, he made many friends and collected many stories. Martin was a colorful character who lived for a good, hard day of work in the South Florida sun. He often started his day with a small cup of Cuban coffee and a trip to see his friends at Strunk. His evenings were spent with his girlfriend and partner, Susan, watching a documentary, reading The New York Times and contemplating the state of the world.

A private memorial has already been held. Martin had great affection for animals great and small and would be honored by a donation to the World Wildlife Fund in his name. He is now a part of the storied history of this small and vibrant island. He will live on in our hearts and memories, looking out for the people and place he called home. As a man with a colorful history, many of his stories have left with him. His family would like to hear from his friends. Either condolences or a story would be appreciated in putting together a personal history book in celebration of his life.

The Kid’s Last Flight

By Dan Felix

When my motor cranks at three thousand, and there’s nary a place to land,

I’ll know that it’s all over, ‘Twas done by God’s own hand.

In his mind he must have said, “This lad has flown enough”,

For year and years he flirted with death, the going’s been very tough.

And now I bid you all farewell, my ship is about to crash.

In front of me I picture, all the things I’ve done in the past.

Goodbye to you all, my dear, dear friends, God says it’s for the best,

If anyone asks for Martin Felix, just say that he went West.

For as long as I can remember, I have always been concerned about my father. He would come and go from my life abruptly, leaving me to wonder if and when I would see him next. On the day my mother told me about his drug problems I knew his presence in my life would be at the mercy of his disease.

I spent a great deal of my childhood wondering where he was, if he were alright, if he was in a bad way. He cleaned up quite a few times, more than enough times to know the bursts of sobriety were never long lived. 12 years ago he cleaned up and stayed clean. In spite of having HIV he pulled himself up by the bootstraps, got fit, worked hard and made money. I felt as if I had a chance at having a father I could count on.

At some point 2 years ago, his health began to fail him. He descended into a depression, rarely ate and spent all of his time in his little cubby of an office in the back of the house. His girlfriend Susan, a nurse, had saved his life a number of times. This time it was more difficult to get him back on the road to recovery as the disease was in his head. He just couldn’t get out of his funk.

During the last year there had been some close calls but when pressed, he ate more, and got out of the house a little bit. That didn’t last very long. Last summer he decided life was too painful to endure with a clear head and he started abusing pain killers, first as pills then through a needle, just as he had done thirty years before. Susan was besides herself and wanted very much for me to do something. What I knew was a simple fact that has no caveat, if he doesn’t want to get clean, he wont. That’s it.

I used strong words, told him to get his shit together and be a mensch. Those little talks did a little at the time and nothing in the long run. My fathers problems were deep in his core and he was too old to let the demons go. This life was unfair to him and he never lived up to fight to the end. His flaw was he gave up to easy. Only a few weeks ago Susan informed me of his stellar return to the bottle. It didn’t take me by complete surprise, I had secretly known that this scenario was not out of the question, ever.

I had a very frank conversation with him, that this was a death sentence and if he didn’t get help, which was available and offered, he would surely die in short order. I think he wanted to die, not directly at his own hands but he knew he had to help it along. I had one last conversation with him over a week ago saying that I didn’t have room in my life for a drunk father. I didn’t have money to support him or get him out of the trouble he is causing. He said he was sorry and that he would change. I heard it in his voice, he didn’t mean it, nothing would change.

I have mourned my fathers death many times in my life only to find him alive again, reborn from his own self-made hell. When my wife called me and said that Susan had left me a message and sounded serious, I knew that the death of my father was possible. That option was never off the table when the phone rang.

Sitting in the airport about to board a flight Susan blurted it out through the phone. I appreciate the fact that she didn’t wind me up for the hit, she just hit me with it and I fell apart. Getting that news sitting at the gate at the airport was particularly bad as I was surrounded by strangers and getting out of the airport, to my car, up the highway and home was a daunting hour of travel I would endure while coping with the initial shock of what had happened.

As much as I am very sad about him being gone, his road has always been leading to this. His pattern, however erratic had a shape to it. The last thing I ever wanted is for him to become ill and linger in a hospice for years while life slowly leaves him. He left on his own terms, with a fresh new York times, a bottle of vodka, his pack of camels and a Deladed. He sat down, had a drink, took 2 pills and took a nap as he had done many times before. When he woke up after that nap he may have found himself in a wholly different place. I don’t know how I feel about the afterlife but I’ve decided to talk to him. That’s what I will mist most, our talks. I think he might hear me, it makes me feel better to think he could. I know he would want to. Perhaps he’ll talk back and give me some of his sage advice.

I’ll start off with this. Dad, I miss you already, I’m not mad and I love you very much.

My father was a good man with a sad heart. He was loved by many people and will be missed.

As much as I hate rushing while driving cross country, the circumstance surrounding this trip require our immediate arrival. Having to pick up the personal effects of my father which include a tool trailer, it was best to drive. The drive to Key West from Austin takes a person along the 10 through Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama before being graced by the beams of the sunshine state. I had been enjoying telling Gill about how Mississippi was a terrible place where terms like racial intolerance were mild and for all intents and purposes, that state was the third world. Even my father was hijacked by a Mississippi sheriff, robbed of his tools and van, beaten up by prisoners and sent home with $10 and a bus ticket. I have no love for the deep south and its hillbilly heritage. As we drove through the night hopped up on energy sodas we chattered like two housewives on diet pills. By the crack of 4 it was hard for me to re-focus my eyes on moving objects and I “witnessed” some rather strange object vectors on the roadway. It was time to stop. Being just inside the Florida border about 30 miles east of Pensacola, I thought we were rural enough to find a safe motel on the roadside. I had warned Gill about the Florida white trash accent, a slippery use of mashed together words tangled in randomly variations of pitch and inflection. As we pulled into a well lit parking lot adjacent to a holiday inn express I was hoping to snare a specimen of this accent I so glibly espoused about for mile and miles. Tammy or Tracy or whatever her name was had to repeat herself 3 times before I got the gist of what she was saying.

incoherent Gibberish

“Sorry?”

incoherent gibberish

“I didn’t get that, what?”

“No vacanci, bin liyke thaht siannce thahur-kiene”. Ah, got it.

“So what the other places around here?”

Incoherent gibberish

“Where?”

“up round penscola, some places bout there, not much in these parts”

“Ok, thanks”

back in the car Gill was expecting me to return having been too late at night to check in. I informed her of the language barrier and the lodging of hurricane displaced goobers hogging up the beds. We tried another joint, a comfort inn, they had the courtesy of putting out a sign. Not on the road where it matters, in the lobby where I had to hunt it down. Our third choice was red carped inn, a brand I am unfamiliar with as its not a Hilton or Starwood family of hotels beckoned us with its lit sign saying vacancy. As we pulled into the parking lot it reminded me of those places I would see on TV in LA at the end of a high speed chase or hostage situation where the bad guy tried to get back to his flea bag to do one more line of meth and say goodbye to his hooker girlfriend before heading down the road to some jail in the 909. I approached the “lobby” and rang the outdoor bell for service. About 30 seconds later emerged a very annoyed and freshly awoken man whose hair was licked up on one side as if he were being cooed by a very loving cow. He slid a greasy register card to me to fill in, asked me just to sign it, and give him the $59 in advance. As I stood there counting out the money in front of him he let loose a rather loud fart without changing his facial expression or anything close to an ‘excuse me’. I quickly signed and vacated the small room in fear of inhaling any of his vaporised fecal particulate matter. Gill had a sour lemon look on her face as we got in the car and headed over to the room. The fart anecdote helped ease our reticence about staying at the flea bag inn. The walls were stained, the floor was peeling and neither of us wanted to touch anything let alone get in the bed. Unfortunately, we had no choice. Sleep came quickly with the promise of a more scenic drive the next day.

I was hoping that the daylight would paint a nicer picture of the landscape but the Florida panhandle is pretty boring to look at. Our hunger was in full swing so I had the stroke of genius to find the nearest Waffle House. Gill had never experienced the modern Americana that is the Waffle House. Its the culinary equivalent of NASCAR. Fast, greasy, socially unredeeming but in a weird way, sort of satisfying. She was less than enthusiastic about the prospect of this until 30 seconds ago. I assured her it would be an palette pleasing delectation.

We found the waffle house without any trouble as they are on every off-ramp where you might find shady truckers coming off a nasty speed binge. As we pulled in to the parking lot she was still unconvinced but that all changed when we headed into the diner which was a page pulled out of a stylized fictional tale of a truck stop diner. Vera, Vicky and Unis were all there, bottle-bleach blond locks plastered up with an unholy mixture of adhesives propelled onto their hairdos by the meanest and probably illegal by Kyoto Accord standards, greenhouse gases.

We sat at the counter as one must do in such an establishment. The veterans were barking their orders at the cook like a scene out of Mel’s Diner. All the corny diner slang included. I ordered cheesy eggs with grits toast hash browns and bacon. Of course. Gill opted for the sausage and egg wrap, for a healthier breakfast. The food was exactly what I expected, greasy and perfect. Gill was too busy cooing about the sausage to talk. As we were finishing up, one of the waitresses standing right near us barked something in response to a comment by the cook”At least I WASH my hands sometimes”. I instantly had the vision of her in the lav, vigorously scratching at some yeast infection and leaving the bathroom having only wiped her hands on a cloth rag. What kind of bacteria was I ingesting? Only time will tell. The comment must have come because of the home office sent inspector working through her checklist. I’m glad they were on their best behavior today.

It was not until the funeral director came in to tell us that we could view my father that I started to feel real dread. I’ve had many very painful moments in the last few days. My family has been so supportive. My wife has been by my side every step. As soon as we walked into the room to see my father I lost my breath. I turned the corner and saw the gurney and the shape of a body under the blue blanket. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see him, I knew it would hurt, I knew it would trigger me. I saw his face briefly and turned away. That was not the father I knew. His lifeless face was a death mask. I wanted to run and fall at the same time. My uncle asked the funeral director to cover him up. It was too painful, it wasn’t right. I can’t articulate how important it was to have Stuart there. After he read a few prayers and said a few words, I knew it was time for me to say something, I barely got anything out. I don’t know what one can say and convey something above what everyone is feeling and witnessing. I walked over to my father and told him that I loved him and already missed him. Thats all I think he wanted to hear. He was honored today by his brother, Stuart, Nadine, Susan, Gillian, Laurie and his son. I have to write his obituary now. I don’t know what to say. I know he was liked, loved, and will be missed. Perhaps thats all I will say. My usual sardonic style just has no place on this one posting.

We packed up all of his tools into the big trailer he had here. It will be a long drive back to Texas. I have mixed feelings about having all of his most treasured things. I know he would have wanted me to make good use of them. Susan gave me his watch. He was wearing it when he died. I’ve been looking at it all night, it’s been a strong connection for me to him. He loved it and its weight reminds me of him. I needed a memento, something I could have with me at all times. I’m unfamiliar with loss like this. It’s new to me but I think I’ve made him proud and have done what he would have wanted. I think he’s guiding it, maybe I just know him that well. Good night dad. I’ll talk to you again tomorrow.

Since before my own birth, I have loved hardware stores great and small. Home Depot quickly became a favorite place for me if only to go and look at new 18V DeWalt screw guns. Oh, how naive I was to believe that HD was the end-all be-all. It took a trip out to the city outskirts to a place called Tractor Supply to show me just how much more there was. Home Depot is all about home improvement, Tractor Supply is about the working farm. Now I had no idea farms were “cool” but Bright Coop, Inc. seems to be helping make chicken ranching almost as exciting as working at the Chicken Ranch.

Tractor supply has not only good hardware, a full selection of welding gear, but also carries every caster you could ever want, pumps, hoses, joints, fasteners, equine supplies AND a fully stocked western wear center. It’s pretty much a 1-
stop cowboy shop. They even have freakin LASSOS! I KNOW!

http://www.mytscstore.com/default.asp