By Cody Bond
If I die in Key West, there will be a party. They will toast me at sunset in Mallory Square, and they will play up and down Duval Street, shouting into shop corners as their hats fill with pocket change. Everyone will dance. And in the morning, when the sweat has dried, they will forget.
By Cody Bond
When it rains, Geneva’s dishes get wet. So do the coffee pots and the Coke bottles, the Bibles, lamps and bike helmets. All the wooden furniture swells; the scrap metal rusts a little more; and Geneva stays inside. During the winter, she shuffles her wares down the long lines of tables and sweeps the leaves. By the time she’s finished, more have fallen, and she starts all over again.
By Cody Bond
Traffic moves slowly around the Savannah. People tend to mind their manners. Horse-drawn carriages amble down the streets undisturbed. Strangers smile at one another. This is Georgia’s oldest city—as old as the state itself. It’s a proud place, steeped in history and tradition.
By Cody Bond
The lights are dim inside the King Corona cigar shop. It’s nearly midnight, and after two pints of Guinness and a glass of cabernet, I’m barely halfway through my cigar. It keeps burning itself out in the ashtray. The bartender has polished all the glasses and is working on the tables. I buy a copy [...]
By Cody Bond
It’s after 8 when I turn off Interstate 4—dark out in most places, but Orlando blazes with a million neon squiggles and block after block of twinkling enticements. It hums like a bug zapper. The vacationers have ironed out the wrinkles in their dinner clothes and are ambling up and down International Drive, wallets stuffed, [...]
