Free Middle Men by Jim Gavin

roughly the same size as LAX.
    â€œI usually sail from Hingham,” he said, “but things didn’t work out this year.”
    We said goodbye on the tarmac, but after I walked out of the terminal and found the bus stop, I heard him calling my name. He was in the backseat of a taxi.
    â€œAre you going to Hamilton?”
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œGet in.”
    It was a cloudy evening. Going over the causeway to themain island, I saw yachts in the harbor and black seabirds rising from the breakwaters. The taxi swerved down narrow streets that were lined with stone walls. The hillsides were green and dotted with pastel houses, each one with a white limestone roof that rose in steps like a Devo hat.
    Streetlamps glowed along Front Street. The taxi pulled up next to a hotel and the driver told us how much. The banker got out his wallet.
    â€œSplit it?” he said.
    â€œI thought you were treating.”
    â€œI never said that.”
    â€œI would’ve just taken the bus.”
    â€œThe gentleman’s waiting.”
    â€œI don’t have any Bermudian money.”
    â€œThey take American money.”
    â€œI don’t have any of that either.”
    The banker paid the driver. I got out of the taxi and helped him get his golf clubs out of the trunk. He took a deep breath. “Well, I’m sorry for the misunderstanding,” he said. “I just thought we were a team.”
    We shook hands and said goodbye again. I looked at my map and started walking north up one of the main streets. Everything was smaller in Bermuda. Cars, buildings, people. Karen now owned a metallic blue 1969 Vespa Rally. She’d sent me a picture of it, back when she was still sending pictures, and I had held it aloft to my roommates, proving once and for all that Karen was the queen of the mods, the iciest of crones. I passed a little park and saw two private-school kids in blazers, sharing a cigarette and cursing in their dainty little accents. It started to rain.
    The school was in an old colonial building, lime green withwhite shutters. The front door was locked. Through the windows I saw a chubby little blond girl being led down the stairs by her mother. They opened the door and I asked her if Karen Kovac was there. She said the only teacher left inside was Mr. Hadley-Rowe. She opened an umbrella, took the little girl by the hand, and they jogged to their little car.
    At the top of the stairs I saw a young man with wispy brown hair and fashionable glasses. The nameplate on his door read “Jeremy Hadley-Rowe.” He was my age, but wore nice clothes; he was the first hyphenated man I had ever met. I told him that I was a friend of Karen’s, and went on to explain in carefully planned detail that because of some miscommunication she missed me at the airport and I just needed her address, that’s all.
    â€œYou must be Brian.”
    â€œI am.”
    â€œShe said this might happen.”
    â€œWhere is she?”
    â€œShe lives in Somerset now,” he said.
    Back in November, I had sent my last letter to her Hamilton address, but it got returned. He didn’t know her new address in Somerset, but he had been there before.
    â€œHer scooter breaks down a lot,” he said. “And her neighborhood’s a bit crap. I often give her rides home.”
    I got out my map and he showed me where she lived and which bus to take. The rain continued as I walked down to Front Street. When my bus came, it was crowded and I had to stand in the middle. The windows fogged up and I couldn’t take in the scenery. With all the stops it took forty-five minutes to get into Somerset. I got out and started walking, checking my map over and over. The streets were narrow and lethal. Kids zippedaround on Vespas, laughing and screaming. When a car passed, I had to inch along the mossy stone walls to keep from getting hit. It was completely dark when I finally found her street. She lived in a house at