Amy agreed with the tone of the song. She agreed that such a rhythm--a waltz--was the best, the best pace. She sipped her beer chewing it a little before swallowing. It tasted good. Having a bar to herself enhanced its flavor. Having a theatre to herself could save a bad movie, and almost any beer was made better by drinking it alone, near dusk on such a typical autumn Florida day as this.
Florida was easing out of the season of twenty-four-hour heat and into warm days and cool nights. Southerly breezes rustled palm trees and Spanish moss swayed lazily.
The Milltop is a bar in St. Augustine sitting atop a fake 17th century grist mill, complete with a big waterwheel, rotating constantly, dripping water. The ground floor is a shop for tourists--“turistas” Amy called them with a sarcastic tone. Postcards of all the city’s landmarks, lighthouse shaped ceramic salt and pepper shakers, plates with all the state’s attractions noted on a green and orange map, handbags, hats, sunglasses, disposal cameras, soft drinks, and a stock of identical tee shirts with one of a dozen phrases and graphics with the name of the city: St. Augustine. The entire inventory of what Amy thought of as turista paraphernalia was once sold in shops advertising “curios and souvenirs.” Now they are sold in gift shops and galleries and cost much more. Amy liked the poetic sound of “curios.”She could tell she’d arrived at the Milltop during customer shift change. From when it opened at 11:00am, the bar’s day customers were tourists looking for a sandwich and fries and a beer, drawn up the stairs by live acoustic music. Nearly everyone there during the day is from somewhere else. Close to 5:00pm, quitting time, when tourists slipped off the street and towards restaurants and motels rooms with HBO and the Disney Channel, the Milltop is transformed into a local bar with live music. But for a few hours between the two shifts, the bar was near empty. It was the time Amy most fondly remembered about the place.
She hadn’t sat on that porch for almost three years, since finishing college and moving to Tallahassee in search of secure employment. Her trip to St. Augustine was a spur of the moment one. She hadn’t planned it. She had been at her desk in the agency when a familiar sensation brushed her. That was mid morning; mid-afternoon she was on I-10 eastbound for the coast, and now, at 5:10pm, she sat in the Milltop, conjuring up images and emotions and a spirit she’d known three years before.