Jeffrey Tucker

THE FORTY-MILE COMMUTE: A PRIMER

I am a restless, a peerless, a man who follows few—laws or paths or grammars, for none of the above I claim—except State Road A1A, my course and career; and the bank holding my beach house mortgage, the drummer to whom I march, when I march, which often isn’t, because, by march, I mean obey, and I don’t march much of anything, except that which affects my credit rating. I do, however, steal: trees, palm trees, bigger is best, and—for that alone—I write rules, by me, for me, enabling my bank account to fill nigh unto squealing. Thus:
Rule #1
When fleeing empty-handed, blame anyone. Notice a car nearby—color? model? occupant?—and call the police. Be proactive! It works as long as minutiae abound. Behold last night, while fleeing from fuzz, interrupted in the very act, no less: “No, sir—” and here I put down the cell phone “—didn’t you see the other truck, the red one, the one with all the people in the back and the loud muffler—” I had some of the license plate numbers “—they went over a bump, nearly fell out, nearly hit me, sprayed dirt all over my car!” The police left to find the truck (which had cut me off earlier—touché), left me to try a different nursery, made the evening feel like Christmas Eve, all that raw possibility.
Rule #2
Remember: Scatter salt-over-shoulder and dirt-over-hood, thereby helping excuse self from traps of fate and fuzz.
Rule #3
Drive fast. Being forty miles of seashore from Palm Beach—the beach house—to Pompano Beach and its palm nurseries, I drive State Road A1A like a skinning knife, the coastal highway dividing golf course and seawater clean and quick, thirty raw minutes flat. Yes, like a razor: The fuzz undetects me until I am long since drawn past, loading a tree, readying round two.
Rule #4
Think big, when it comes to stealing palms, for Palm Beach real estate appreciates while not appreciating its denizens, requires ever—larger!—trees to feed its landscaping needs, and its boarders need ever—larger!—coffers to abide mortgages. As I said to girlfriend Sylvia: “Look, it’s risky, sure. But all these mansions going up need palm trees, and every nursery is backordered six months. We gotta pay for our house somehow, since you’re not working. A Canary Island Date Palm is good for $20,000—if I land of couple of those, we’re good for a couple of months, and I’ll go back to sales.”
Rule #5
Plug leaks. What Sylvia desires, I desire, desiring the potential snitch’s placation. When says Sylvia, “I like this, here on the beach,” I keep the house. When Sylvia cries, “Fur!” I coat her. Once, after fighting: “Well, we’d better stay in the house. If you don’t treat me right, I’ll call the police.” And I went, and stole more trees, paid the mortgage, and Sylvia never made the call—but she may, and, really, after all, I do love her.
Rule #6
Avoid the opposite sex for a month before beginning thievery, and stay single throughout the—hopefully short-lived—career. Alas, my regret: Sylvia, with her ash-blonde hair, her lithe legs like the slender trunks of Queen Anne Palms blowing in the Palm Beach breeze, Sylvia: at first my support, now my flat tire—her demands! The risk of exposure! But, again, I do love her.
Rule #7
Remember the old: the acceptable job, the ulcer-free stomach, the sedan or coupe or convertible or anything but a pickup truck with a power lift for large pots, for stealing trees seduces with its easy money, the adrenaline. But, ah, those days before, memories which make me exhale like the seashore breeze that aerates the house every noon—Ah!—memories of days when every night didn’t bring a forty-mile catapult south, a forty-mile caffeine ride north.
Rule #8
Make a rulebook: Instances emerge in my life when everything screams—tires against pavement, sirens behind my truck, the nursery owners as I peal away, Sylvia. When voices and cars and all sound tends to shrieking, this rulebook—silent, plain—keeps me. Even if its words fade away, atrophy, lose themselves in my overloaded brain—no worries. The rulebook, its structure, remains, speaks to me of control, or, rather, its possibility amidst the noise; I vise onto that.
And off I go again, looking for the Canary Island Date Palm, my ticket out, the lure that keeps me in, the jewel of Sylvia’s eye, all such baggage loaded onto that one tropical stalk, and I tell myself that forty miles isn’t that long, though I don’t believe it, because the road doesn’t lie.