Elston Murphy eased his rental Ford F‑150 into the Chevron station on Kirkman Road just south of Orlando. As he cut the engine, he caught sight of Clint Eastwood at the pump, sleeves rolled up on a rugged flannel, his jaw set in that familiar squint. In the passenger seat, Marilyn Monroe applied a coral swipe of lipstick using the rearview mirror—her blonde curls bobbing as she smiled at her own reflection.
Elston shook his head, tickled by the morning’s surreal welcome, then pushed an aging wheeled basket into the nearby Winn‑Dixie. He needed road snacks—something to keep boredom at bay on the long drive to New Orleans. Chips and jerky, okay. Cheese and crackers, fine. Maybe a carrot or two for good measure.
At the produce aisle, he reached for a Pink Lady apple—its rosy blush promising crisp sweetness. He flicked it between his fingers, checking for firmness, when something rammed his cart from behind. Startled, he spun around to see a miniature man in a battered fisherman’s cap, navigating an electric shopping cart laden with TV dinners and antacids.
“A thousand pardons, sir,” the little man mumbled, his voice as rough as sandpaper.
Elston smiled. “No harm done.”
The stranger peered up at him, eyes narrowing. “Say, you’re that poet, James Tate!”
Elston shook his head. “Nope.”
“Sure you are,” the man persisted, leaning forward. He dug into the pocket of his threadbare overalls and produced a torn scorecard from a miniature‑golf course and a stub of pencil. “C’mon now—write me a poem. And sign it.”
“I don’t write poetry,” Elston said, surprised at his own firmness. “I don’t write anything.”
“Don’t test me, boy,” the man snapped, gripping the cart’s handlebars. “I can hop out of this thing quicker than you can say ‘metaphor.’ Golden Gloves ’76.”
Elston laughed, a slow rumble that startled even himself. “My name’s Elston Murphy. I’m a retired longshoreman from Baltimore—and I’m heading south to see my daughter.”
The sailor’s face softened for a moment, then hardened again. “C’mon, Jimmy—just a minute.”
With a resigned sigh, Elston laid the apple in his cart, tucked the pencil and paper into his coat pocket, and found a quiet spot between the bananas and tomatoes. He stared at the old scorecard, scrawled with the sailor’s shopping list—Hungry Man lasagna, Rolaids, Preparation H. Then he scribbled four hesitant lines:
A lone vessel drifts on a storm‑wracked sea,
Its bright sail shredded by the ravening gale.
Yet in the hush beneath the moon’s soft decree,
Hope steers its course beyond the darkest veil.
He signed it “Elston Murphy” and handed it back.
The sailor’s eyes glinted with triumph. “Well, I’ll be damned. I knew it was you.”
Before Elston could protest, the man revved his cart’s motor and buzzed off toward the checkout lanes, complaining about the lack of fresh spinach. Elston stood for a moment, astonished by how much lighter he felt holding nothing but a grocery basket.
Outside, he paused at a sidewalk café, where six Elvises filed into a deli next door—jumpsuits glittering under the morning sun. He watched Dolly Parton sip a grande frappuccino as she leaned across the table, chatting animatedly with Kenny Rogers. Only in Florida.
Back on the interstate, Elston settled into the driver’s seat and unfolded his map. He passed a billboard advertising the Sunburst Celebrity Impersonators Convention—though he never saw it. His mind drifted to the rush of words that had spilled onto the sailor’s scrap of paper. He realized, for the first time since retiring his oil‑stained work gloves, that he still had stories to tell.
Forty miles east of Tallahassee, the highway flattened out into pine forests and cattle pastures. Elston remembered the apple waiting in his cart—a Pink Lady still begging for attention. He pulled off at the next rest stop, paused beneath a battered sign, then reached back to unbuckle the apple. He polished its glossy skin against his shirt and took a generous bite. Sweet juice leaked down his chin, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, savoring the moment.
Then, almost on impulse, he pulled a fresh index card from his pocket and set about scribbling again—this time not for a demanding stranger, but for himself. Because it turned out that sometimes, the road itself summons our hidden talents, and a single encounter with a gnome‑like sailor was enough to remind Elston Murphy that retirement didn’t have to be an end. It could be a new beginning.
