NIRVANA

If it wasn't for the damn burglar alarm, Dustin would probably had stayed inside the cool darkness of Pizzally's Chiani Room. He would rather have broken into the St. George Tavern, but it looked as if it would have been too hard to get inside. As it was, due to the nerve-racking cacophony, he merely took a bottle of single malt scotch, a whiskey tumbler, and a cold bottle of Michelob Ultra.

The palm tree lined St. George Street, paved with smooth white coquinta, was still uncluttered by tourists, which was unusual for St. Augustine, Florida even at this hour. More importantly, there were still no police responding to the burglar alarm. Even as he cringed at the shrill ringing noise, Dustin tossed back a tumbler of Glenfiddich, and tucked the glass and bottles into the wire baskets of his trusty Mongoose bicycle. All the quint, picturesque shops were still closed and vacant. Only the increasing sunlight had changed.

He rode to the west-end of St. George Street, away from the odious alarm, to the Catholic Basilica, and crossed Cathedral Place to the deserted Constitution Plaza. All the coquinta benches were devoid of people; the gazebo and slave market were also unoccupied. Dustin parked his bike, retrieved the scotch and beer, and sat leisurely in the shade of the oak trees on one of the benches, now out of audio range of the obnoxious burglar alarm. Except for the quarter-hour and hourly chimes of the Catholic and Episcopal churches, and the chirping of birds, the entire park was blissfully silent. Squirrels frolicking in the oak trees were gleefully unaware that there no other humans present than himself.

Sipping alternately of whiskey and beer, Dustin luxuriated in the peace, almost wishing that some of his fellow street people were present to share in his good fortune . . . but not much. Some of his so-called colleagues were embarrassing nuisances, who preyed on the charity and gullibility of the tourists. One human eye-sore thrived by exhibiting his contrived persona of pathetic helplessness, despite receiving monthly disability checks, bu sitting curled up and woeful on street corners, holding signs proclaiming himself to be "homeless, please help," seeking handouts which he would then convert into cheap beer. Then he would slouch and stagger around drunkenly, boring anyone who would listen with his self-proclaimed success and popularity.

Other abominations were the "human hair-balls" who would revel in their disheveled squalor and unkemptness, proudly displaying to the world that they live and eat out of garbage dumpsters. The hair-balls believed that by parading their disgusting hideousness, they rendered themselves worthy and deserving of any handouts from the more soft-hearted of the multitude of tourists.

Worse even than the "look-at-me, see-how-pathetic-I-am" sign holders, and the "look-at-me, I-live-in-a-garbage-dumpster" street people, were the aggressive, predator pan-handlers. They would attack their hapless victims like starving curs, preying not only on tourists, but other homeless people, as well. Their greed and arrogance knew no limits, nor their sensitivity to rebuffs, often concocting elaborate and complicated scams in order to bewilder their victims into befuddled generosity.

Dustin's attitude was "don't ask, don't refuse," barely surviving as a street musician, and he couldn't help but think that those who wallowed pridelessly in their homelessness and squalor were a blight and a detriment to a dire and increasing social problem, rendering a solution that much easier to ignore by normal people by virtue of the pathetic "sign-flyers" and "dumpster-dwellers" intentional unsightliness. How much easier is it to overlook people whose very existence depends on their deliberate attempt to be unpleasant to look upon?

Toward mid-day, having moved from bench to bench only to seek the shade of the oak and palm trees, Dustin grew hungry. He chose the nearby Athena Restaurant to break into, causing another alarm to erupt, and helped himself to to a loaf of Italian bread, and several blocks of various cheeses. By now, the narrow streets would have been choked by traffic: pedestrians, automobiles, and tour trains and trolleys, the trains and trolleys repetitively broadcasting over their P.A. systems the presumed history of the numerous sites on their routes.

Despite the tourist's financial contribution, Dustin celebrated the lack of the curdle-faced corpse-things that would sneer at him for his current state of homelessness, and blatantly and obnoxiously clog up the streets and alleys as they milled around like lost, mindless cattle.

He also rejoiced in the dearth of the mobile "noise machines," particularly the motorcycles, that would rumble up and down the streets, their riders loudly drawing attention to themselves by their only contribution being the production of noxious and unnecessary noise and exhaust.

Earlier, Dustin had been afraid that he had over-slept, as it was already past dawn when he awoke. Even in his hidden bastion of trees and bushes, he felt himself to be especially vulnerable in the daylight. Nevertheless, even as he scrambled to roll up his sleeping bag, he was suddenly aware as the fact that there were no traffic noises. There were no sounds of the native St. Augustinians hurdling off to their various, important jobs all over the place. Except for the sundry chirping of birds and the rustling of a breeze through the tree branches, there was nothing but blessed silence!

Walking his bicycle out of his lair, he was amazed by the sight of dozens of cars, trucks, and SUVs, abandoned along the boulevard leading to downtown. As he wended his way past the immobilized four-wheeled "death machines," he saw that every one of them was devoid of human occupancy. He was immediately struck by the possibility that if this trend continued, he would no longer have to guess at intersections whether or not a motorist was going to turn or go straight, due to the fact that so few of them, busily talking on their cell phones, bothered to use their turn signals. Also, the motorists would no longer be blocking the intersections by stopping in the cross-walks, or parking on the sidewalks.

Since the traffic lights still functioned, Dustin knew that there was still electricity. At the Visitor's Information Center, he learned that there was still running water at the water fountains adjacent to the parking garage. The only thing missing was other people.

He had begun his "reign of terror" at Ann O'Malley's Pub on Orange Street, by helping himself to a glass of Shock Top lager. The lack of interest by the police to the alarm was his initial confirmation that something in St. Augustine was pleasantly amiss.

After dining on the excellent Italian bread and cheddar, Gouda, and Swiss cheeses, Dustin felt sleepy. Packing the remaining bread, cheese, and scotch into the wire baskets on the Mongoose, he rode north on King Street, past the vacant Government House, and the other attractive shops and boutiques. As he rode, weaving through the stranded cars and SUVs, he wondered if his miraculous good fortune was, perhaps, due to the "rapture" which the annoying Christians so frequently brayed about: that he, Dustin, as a devout Pagan, had been mercifully spared.

Continuing to bask in the blissful peace and solitude, Dustin steered toward the venerable castle-like, turreted structure of the Casa Monica Hotel. He rode up the gentle ramp to the terrace, and, dismounting his bicycle, entered the lavish, deserted lobby. He parked the Mongoose on the lush carpet in front of the desk, and marveled at the ornate splendor that surrounded him. He went behind the desk and chose a key-card for a room on the topmost floor, and then crossed the lobby to the adjacent lounge and helped himself to another bottle of single-malt scotch and a six-pack of Heineken beer. He then pushed his bicycle to the elevator and rode to the top floor.

Finding the room in the elaborate, and unfamiliar building was almost fun, like playing an amusing game. When he and his bicycle were safely inside the chosen room, he locked the door and off-loaded the whiskey, beer, and food, and turned on the wide-screen television, tuned it to T.V. Land on cable, and carrying a tumbler of scotch with, took a long, luxurious shower.

Leaving the television on T.V. Land, Dustin watched "Bonanza" (the episode where Adam is encouraged to not devolve into being a Western barbarian) while nude. With his only companionship being a glass of single-malt scotch and a bottle of Heineken, he sprawled in the comfort of the huge, plush bed, until he finally drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

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"How long do you think he's been lying here?" the St. Augustine police officer asked one of the two paramedics. Both the police car and the ambulance were parked on the nearby road, their blue-and-red lights flashing.

"Dead, you mean? Several hours, at least, I figure. But whatever it was that he died of, it must have been pretty pleasant."

"What do you mean?" the officer asked.

"Well, look at his face. I've never seen a corpse this happy, this side of a funeral home."

"If it wasn't for a guy chasing his dog, we may never have found him." The officer turned away. "Well, happy trails."

The paramedics lifted Dustin unto a gurney, and they wheeled him through the thick underbrush to the awaiting ambulance.

When Dustin awoke, the "I Love Lucy" show was on the television. Lucy, Ricky, and the Mertzes where in Hollywood, and the Marx Brothers made a cameo appearance. He stretched luxuriously, and groped for a half-finished bottle of Heineken. Feeling refreshed and serene, he rose to face a new and beautiful day.

THE END