There was much to learn, much to do this morning.
With his lips practically kissing the ground, the straining push-ups began.
With his elbows nearly touching his knees, he struggled through sit-ups.
With his chin not quite clearing the branch, he counted the pull-ups.
He hoisted a fallen, man-sized tree trunk overhead like a weight lifter, only to have it fall heavily behind him.
He brachiated from bending branch to bending bough like a monkey, but only for three or four branches.
He ran and leaped and bounded through the woods, but more like a steer than a gazelle.
But this was only the beginning. Chance would go through his exercise regimen, almost continually throughout the day, every day. For weeks. For months. Always increasing the speed, the repetition, the strain.
He was to become a tracker and a hunter. But first he became a weapons maker. He manufactured wooden spears, sharpened against rough limestone outcroppings. He made an archer’s bow from a springy tree limb and strung it with multiple lengths of fishing line.
He made arrows from straight, hardwood branches. He wove a throwing sling to hurl baseball-size rocks – a bola of stones and braided vines.
He practiced with his arsenal endlessly and quickly developed impressive proficiency. Two things helped him. His lightning fast mathematical brain that made time/distance/trajectory analysis child's play, and telescopic vision to bring tiny objects into great detail.
He cut his torn and tattered gray pants to shorts and he ran for agonizing miles. He leaped clumsily over twisty palmettos, falling half the time. As he ran, he ducked under low branches, sometimes banging his head to near unconsciousness. He sprinted over open prairies, tiring to a ponderous gait.
He blasted his way through bushes and vines, only to become tangled like a fish in a net.
He'd have to do a lot more of this before he got good at it. He'd have to analyze deeper. Practice harder. Exercise longer. Over and over and over again.
He knew he had to do it.
This was his…chance.
Thirty
"Tell me, Mr. Shlumsky, exactly what did he steal?" Lieutenant DiSantis directed his question at the fatherly but meek-looking man in front of him. But the large, buxom, sergeant-looking wife answered, ranting. "The brand-new hunting knife me and the kids bought for Henry for this trip! $29! They saved up their allowance and chipped in! It's disgusting. I'll kill the bastard if I ever find him!"
"Agnes, Agnes!" the mild husband pleaded. "She doesn't mean it, Lieutenant, she's just very angry."
"You're damn right I'm mad. Mad as hell. And I do mean it. That maniac could have slit our throats with that knife!"
"If you do see him again, Mrs. Shlumsky, don't kill him. That wouldn't do anyone much good. Detain him somehow and you'll get a five-thousand-dollar reward." Three little boys of various ages simultaneously exclaimed, "Wow! Five thousand dollars!" Everyone was standing at the rear door of the mobile-home-trailer.
"We could buy a lot of knives with that, huh boys?" the kind father said.
"Yeah, and B.B. guns!"
"He stole our first-aid kit, too," the serious mother rattled. "What if we had an emergency, God forbid! And he stole food. Peanut butter, bread, soda….”
"And my Scout mess kit!" young Jason said. Then he ran off with the other boys.
"Now, I'd like a complete description, every detail of this person, from whoever saw him." The aluminum siding of the trailer made a plink, plonk, plunk sound.
"Jay-son! Stop with that B.B. gun and get over here this instant!"
• • •
The reflection of a man in a baseball cap was in both lenses of Detective DiSantis’ mirrored sunglasses. Both men stood near the wide drainage canal next to the Tamiami Trail.
"So you never saw him at all?" DiSantis asked.
"Nope. Never saw a thing. Put my beer can right there on that spot and then it was gone."
"And all you heard was a burp?"
"Two burps. Just two burps. Like "Burrrrruupppp", sort of. That was the first burp. The second burp was kinda like "Burraauuuuppahh!"
• • •
The Ochopee Post Office stood like a stubby monolith in the middle of the sun-bleached gravel parking lot.
"He was almost as big as that there Post Office, I swear!"
"Was he anywhere near the Post Office?" DiSantis asked.
"Well, no. Like I said, he was just over at that telephone booth, is all. Makin' a call, I reckon."
"Or lookin' for money," the southern man's sidekick offered.
"And you say you saw him two days ago? That would have been July 1st, is that right?"
"I reckon that's right. Yeah, July 1st."
"OK, gentlemen. If you think of anything, give me a call in Chicago, collect. I'll be there the day after tomorrow. If you see him again, catch him, don't kill him!"
"Gotcha covered, Sarge," the quiet one ventured. The talkative one elbowed the other in the gut.
"Lieutenant, dildo, Lieutenant!"
"Gotcha covered, Lieutenant dildo!"
Thirty-One
The sky was dark with a slight purplish glow at the horizon. The sign on the fire truck said WELCOME ALL - JULY 4th FIREWORKS CELEBRATION. The truck was parked next to the South Miami Elementary School athletic field. The spit-and-polished firemen, with required Dalmatian, were stationed next to their truck. The field was full of seated and reclining silhouettes when the first of the fireworks lit the faces on the ground like old-time photographic flash powder. A firework whistled into the black sky pulling a sparkling red tail behind it. It burst into a near perfect circle of red, white and blue, to the “Oohs” and “Ahhs” of the crowd below.
And somewhere in the black sky over the Everglades, sparks and red-hot cinders rose up from a campfire. Chance was having his own celebration. The campfire lit his face in an orange glow as his upper body rose up into blackness. He counted his sit-ups, “…110…” he disappeared and reappeared, “…111…”
• • •
The young steer broke from its stall, kicking up dust with its four hooves. The cowboy on the horse was galloping right behind, swinging his lasso above his head. The crowd cheered in the grandstands. The tinny voice echoed across the oval field from large speakers on light poles. "The South Florida August Rodeo Roundup welcomes a new cowboy this year, roping for his first time."
This very day, at this very moment, there was a new cowboy in the Everglades, too. Chance, the wrangler, spun his bola above his head. He released it and it spun through the air, wrapping itself around the hind legs of a running deer, bringing the animal down with a thud.
In the rodeo arena, the crowd went wild.
• • •
The Diaz family was gathered around three joined tables that spanned the dining room and living room. The tables were laden with casserole dishes of every size and description, surrounding a huge golden turkey. The feast was about to begin. Everyone was there…Grandparents, kids, brothers, sisters…each bowed and prayed as Armando led them in Spanish. “We thank the Lord on this Thanksgiving Day for your generosity and the food to nourish each of us.”
Chance was having his own Thanksgiving celebration that day. With a mighty thrust, his spear found the breast of a wild Everglades turkey taking its normal Thursday stroll through the brush. “Thank the Lord,” Chance said, not knowing what day it was.
• • •
"We wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas....and a Happy New Year!"
The music blared out of a loudspeaker hung from a tent pole. Under the large red and white striped tent were Balsam, Douglas Fir and Scotch Pine Christmas trees.
"That one is lopsided, don't you think, Gina?" Camille DiSantis' breath was visible in the cold air. They were bundled up.
"Yeah, it's missing a branch on the bottom."
"Try that one over there, Anthony."
Anthony Di
Santis, Jr. wrestled another tree to an upright position and did his best to rotate it for his mother’s and sister's inspection.
At that very moment, in a place that was seventy degrees warmer, Chance's eyes studied the dead, yet standing, tree before him. His eyes, like theirs, started at the top and gradually moved downward.
"That one looks good, huh Gina?”
"Yeah, Mom. That's the one. OK, Paul Bunyan, wrap it up!"
Anthony didn't seem afraid of sticky sap or sticking needles. He grappled with the green giant as any young, Italian man would for his momma.
And in the Everglades, Chance was stubbornly pushing against the perpendicular strength of the dead tree. He pulled. He pushed. He hammered it with his increasingly strong, muscular shoulder.
Anthony managed somehow to get the tree up on his shoulder. Mother and sister hurried through slush and snow to his aid. One grabbed a handful of green at the front and the other lent support at the rear.
Chance's tree was now horizontal, too. It was not adorned by green boughs, but it was massive and long. And well balanced, with Chance at the center of its weight.
Chance pressed the heavy log toward the sky. Then let it back down to his shoulders. Then again, toward the sky. And again. The muscles in his back were becoming well defined and strong. It was amazing what lifting trees could do for a guy.
"We wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas....and a Happy New Year!”
• • •
The sign in the flower shop window said MOTHER’S DAY SPECIAL DOZ. ROSES $19.95. Parked in front, Craig Mulholland and Armando Diaz were stuffing juicy take-out hamburgers into their talking mouths. The smell of onions and pickles came out with their words.
"Ten freakin' months!" Mulholland said, trying not to spit out the masticated meat. "Ten freakin' months and not a sign of 'im!"
"I'll bet you a dinner he's dead!" Diaz bit the words.
"Dinner? If it's a dinner like this one, no deal, big spender!"
"How about Casa Blanca?" Diaz offered.
“Been there too many times."
"Well, I'm not bettin' any higher than that, amigo. I'm not that sure he's dead either."
Mulholland said, "Every once-in-a-while I find myself thinking, Jesus, he must be dead. Nobody could make it that far alive. But I bet he made it. No. He's not dead.”
"Yeah, you're probably right,” Diaz agreed. He's probably long gone. He would have found a way to get into some vehicle on the Trail and either threaten or sneak his way to Naples or Miami."
"Yep,” Mulholland said, “he could be a block away from us right now."
"If he is alive, he could even be a part of this other deal we're workin' on right now."
"That's what I’ve been trying to tell you. I think you should buy me that dinner just because you know I'm right."
"I'll tell you what, gringo. I know we'll never find his body if he is dead. And I know we won't find him if he's alive. So we'll go to dinner at some nice place and I'll buy for you..."
"All…right!" Mulholland said with a ketchupy grin.
"...and you buy for me." Diaz thought he was cute.
"There is one advantage to this guy dropping out for ten months," Mulholland said.
"What’s that?"
"Let's hope DiSantis has dropped out, too!"
• • •
"Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you..." Tony DiSantis looked pleased, but embarrassed. He sat there, feeling like he was thirteen. How could they do this for a man about to enter his sixties? They must love me very much, he thought. And they did. Camille, in regulation apron, Gina, the immaculate young daughter, Anthony, Jr., the Italian-stallion son, a few cousins and piasans, all sat around Tony, smiling and singing their love and respect. Camille beamed at the one man to whom she gave her life.
"Make a wish first, make a wish first!" most of them said.
"And what do you wish, Camille?" Tony DiSantis asked his sweet wife.
"Oh, I already got my wish, Tony. It's been almost a year since you gave up on that drug bum you were running after and now, you're gonna take it easy 'til you retire. I got my wish, now you make yours!"
Tony thought for a minute, his eyes far away.
Then he blew hard across the candles.
• • •
A gust of wind blew leaves across the ground at the edge of Chance's camp. The trees fluttered and whispered. Shafts of golden light shone through blue holes in the clouded sky. Warm fingers from the heavens.
It had been a year and a half since the plane crash near Lost Man’s Bay. A year since Chance began his bone-crushing, muscle-cramping, body building campaign. A lot had changed since the day he left Manhattan. Any resemblance to Malcolm Farmer had vanished forever in the burning embers of his symbolic death. From those ashes, a new man had emerged.
Chance was standing in a clearing in the middle of a tall pine forest looking in the direction of the growing wind. One of the illuminating shafts of light from the heavens spotlighted him as if he were on stage. After a year of agonizing, non-stop bodybuilding, he went through an incredible transformation. He was now what some might call…an Adonis. Tall. Muscular. Tan. Blond. Naked, except for an Indian-style deerskin breechcloth, his Bowie knife at his side and a necklace of shells, rattlesnake tails and feathers. His hair was long, wavy, bleached by the sun and moving lightly in the wind. His beard and moustache were blond too, but slightly darker than his hair. His eyes were bright, clear and penetrating. They were probing and quick, like an animal’s. They were also deep and sensitive. And they were as blue-green as a tropical ocean.
He had grown into an impressive example of human physical excellence. Blood pulsed strongly through his body. Skin stretched tightly over muscles, bursting for more room to expand, as if there were no limit to their potential.
His encampment had been a haven. He had fashioned relative comfort here; sleeping platform with a leafy canopy roof, an ersatz chair, a tripod for hanging game, crude body-building equipment, even a make-shift outhouse. It was a safe hideaway where his intensive development took place. His year there had gone quickly. And his metamorphosis from what he was, to what he had now become, was nothing less than miraculous. He was a physical manifestation of incredible determination and intense emotional defiance against overwhelming odds.
He couldn’t help but feel that he had been in a twenty-two-year gestation period. How many others, he thought, women and men, are living every day in the same embryonic state from which he escaped. How many normal people are living like a Joey in a pouch. The pouch of a society that encourages dependence. Most people have always had someone to take care of them, from infancy to childhood to college to a corporate culture. How many people out there in cities, in suburbia, in ghettos, have never really grown up? Never had to survive on their own. Are they undeveloped humans? Societal fetuses themselves?
As he stood there, face to the wind, he wondered about things he had never considered before. Like a child seeing the world, and himself, for the first time.
There were so many new concepts he would ponder in his future. And his past would help him.
Standing there in the bright shaft of light, his face and body lit like a Greek statue in a museum, he reminisced. He looked back into his memory. He saw himself a year earlier standing by the smoldering fire, looking down at the primitive grave marker of sticks he had made.
A vision of Malcolm’s face appeared. "Malcolm Raymond Farmer is finally dead. May he rest in peace,” Chance said out loud.
"I am now…Chance." And the picture of Malcolm's face dissolved into Chance's.
Thirty-Two
The ropes slapped against the aluminum mast of the sailboat docked at a marina in Miami as the portable radio on deck blared out its late summer message. The reporter’s urgent voice said: "We thought we'd get away with it this year, but apparently, no such luck. Hurricane Clyde is at our doorstep. If you haven’t evacuated yet, th
e Governor urges you to shelter in place."
The sky on the watery horizon was black. The wind was picking up in the marina. It started to rain. Hard.
The wind was starting to howl in the Everglades, too.
The large fallen tree seemed to be moving by itself in the pouring rain. But at the splintered end of it was Chance, hefting it with all his might. He looked like Hercules hauling a Corinthian column on his shoulder. His body was slick in the downpour. Chance couldn’t hear the radio and TV reports in Miami at this very moment. WXMS reported the following: “Hurricane Clyde has just been upgraded to a category 4 just before making landfall. You are advised by the National Hurricane Center to take immediate steps to protect yourself and your family.” WSKS reported: “…all boats should be brought to safe harbor as soon as…” WTBJ reported: “The storm is moving directly northwest with winds up to 145 miles per hour, just four miles offshore of Miami.”
Smaller trees were bending now to the growing force of Hurricane Clyde. Leaves and twigs were moving through the air horizontally. The sky was greenish-black and a sound like a distant jet plane could be heard.
Chance laid the piece of timber next to five others. It was the last in a series, each perpendicular to two thicker ones below. He had constructed a shallow bunker, its ceiling about eighteen inches off the ground, open on two sides, so he could slide under for protection from the fury of the wind and the falling trees. He didn’t need a weatherman to tell him something big was coming his way.
The sky boomed with thunder and the wind increased as if in reaction to the sound. Even holding on, it was difficult for Chance to stand in the fading light. Suddenly, a crack was heard above his head and the top ten feet of a tree crashed to the ground fifteen feet away.
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