Saving an Innocent Man

by Robert E B Wright

  Chance picked up another spiked rock, this one even bigger, and hurled it into the gator's open mouth, hitting the other rock farther in. The gurgling and choking became even more murderous.

  The gator thrashed wildly and rolled over and over, splashing water high into the air. One of the rocks rolled from the gator's mouth. On its way out, the gator bit down on it so hard that one of its front teeth was forced to stick out at a funny, cocked angle. The gator, on its back, revealed its white belly to Chance. Chance leaped on the heaving demon like a cowboy leaping on a horse in an old-time western movie. The cold steel blade of the Bowie knife made a menacing sound as Chance pulled it from its sheath.

  Chance clenched the knife in a killer’s grip high above his head. The mirrored sides of the huge blade glinted against the blue sky. He thrust it downward. "This is for your cousin, who tried to bite my head off!" Chance yelled with revenge.

  When the blade was against blue sky once again, it was colored with red, dripping blood.

  "And this is for you, for almost biting my balls off!" Chance yelled again.

  The blade ran heavy with blood.

  "And this is for anything or anyone who ever tries to take away my life or my freedom again!"

  The hand thrust downward. The blue sky was pretty. Everything was quiet.

  • • •

  The gator's head moved through the thickets, bushes and trees quite easily. This particular gator had an odd tooth sticking out from its mouth at a funny angle. It looked...comical, actually.

  This particular alligator's tail moved in a straightforward direction, too, not side-to-side like most alligator's tails. This was obviously not a swishy alligator.

  And this particular alligator stood erect, on two legs, as it meandered through the Glades singing, "Allouetta, jaunte allouetta, allouetta, jaunte plumere".

  Chance wore the alligator head and full skin like a costume. A kind of remnant ritual from ancient times when tribal royalty would display their conquest over foes. It also gave him a break from the pesky mosquitos. Chance threw the alligator's hollowed-out head back over his own and opened up the white belly like an overcoat. He fanned the two flaps of skin to let some fresh air in.

  "Whew, this guy needed more than mouthwash!”

  • • •

  The country music from the radio ricocheted off the corrugated tin roof and bleated out the screen door of the clapboard tavern.

  The neon beer sign in the window illuminated the pick-up trucks and jalopies parked outside in the blackness. It was a humid, but abnormally cool night in the Glades.

  The long spring on the screen door made a rackety "e-e-e-e" sound as the lanky, loveable old-timer belched and stumbled his way to his trusty, rusty '61 Chevy – the one with the big curved horizontal fins in the back. It looked eerie, like some kind of red-glowing mechanical manta ray, as it backed up into the mist that hung over the warm road. Its smoky, rotted exhaust added quite nicely to the already macabre ambiance of the foggy gloom. The dash lights cast a greenish, ghoulish glow over the face of the old man with warts on his face and wisps of hair on his head.

  The spooky surroundings didn't faze the old man though. He was an old swamp cracker from way back, raised on the tales and folklore of the Glades. And right now, he was feelin’ the spirits he imbibed at the bar. As he drove through the misty murk, he caterwauled at the top of his lungs, "Oh baby...I need your love tonight (hiccup)."

  The old man’s headlights came around a curve in the Tamiami Trail a mile away from where a five-foot alligator had just crawled up from the canal and paused at the edge of the road.

  Why was the alligator about to cross the road? Perhaps because the road, after a day in the sun, gave warm comfort on a relatively cool evening.

  The gator took a robot step forward, sticking out its neck in primitive ignorant bliss, unable to distinguish headlight from moonlight.

  "Oh, baby..."

  The gator took another step into death row. The gator was hard to see against the road at night  its color matched the asphalt.

  "...I need your love tonight (hiccup)."

  In front of the old man's car, one loose headlight was pointed too low and it made a shaking hot spot close to the centerline, the other pointed too far to the right.

  "Oh baby..."

  The alligator was in the lethal lane now, striding like a wind-up toy.

  "...I need your lovee 'ta...holy shiiiit!"

  The gator froze. The old man braced himself. The gator's eyes turned red. The old man's eyes opened wide. The car skidded and screeched. The car hit the gator like a fighter punching a bag.

  The old man bounced up and down in his seat like a rag doll. He banged his head on the tympani top as the jalopy with the worn-out shocks roller-coastered over the black hulk in the road. Then the Chevy did a slight tailspin to the right and then a counter rotation three-sixty. The car screamed all the way as if it were being murdered. It came to rest on the crest of a berm at the side of the road. Its occupant was lying on the seat. The green dash lights were still on.

  The old man looked like he was dead. But he opened his eyes when he heard something outside. It sounded like someone running down the road toward him from the passenger side of the car. He propped himself up on an elbow and looked up through the open window. He saw nothing, but he heard some rustling. He cocked his head and looked with more curiosity. Rising into the window was the head of a large alligator. An alligator with a big tooth that stuck out from its mouth at a funny angle.

  The old man shot bolt upright, as if he had a spring under his seat. His back was pressed against the driver’s door. An electric shock went through his body. His eyes bugged out, his sparse hair stood up on his head and his false teeth fell halfway out of his mouth.

  "You alright?" the alligator asked.

  "Eahhhhhh!" the old man yelled, louder than he had ever sung "Oh baby..."

  "Ea...Ea...Eahhhhhhh!" he screamed. The driver’s door opened as if by itself. The old man spilled out onto the ground. The alligator stuck his head into the passenger’s window for a better look. But all he could see was the old man running down the road, through the mist, into the blackness.

  "Eeeeaaaaaahhhhhhhhh! Eeeeaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!"

  Thirty-Four

  Through the open door of the '61 Chevy, still at the side of the road, the view down the road went from black night to early morning light very quickly. And just as quickly, heat lines began to rise from the road and insects buzzed and rasped in the bushes.

  A car approached fast through the heat, and as it sped past the Chevy atop the berm at the side of the road, all you could hear was the frying of the tires on the pavement. It zipped down the road.

  The big, copper-colored 70s something station wagon was low in the back. It wallowed over the irregularities in the surface of the road. It had decals and stickers from different states all over the back window. It had a bumper sticker with the words I (heart) NUEVA YORK. A couple of old suitcases and two yellow folding chairs were tied with rope to the roof rack. Inside, the air conditioner blew furiously. The white-noise of the blower provided a bed for the salsa beat changa-changa-ing out of the dash speakers.

  On the front passenger seat was the venerable Grandfather, Raimondo. On his knee sat six-year-old Julio. In the middle was fifteen-year-old Juanito. And driving was the boy's father, Juan, son-in-law of Raimondo. In the back were the two wives and two more children. The Grandmother, Consuelo, sat behind her husband. And bouncing on her knee was fourteen-month-old Ana. Ten-year-old Ada was on the hump. The girl’s mother, Marta, reached across Ada, squeezed the baby's cheeks and did gitchy-goos with a Hispanic accent. To top it off, a Chihuahua sat on the lap of the mother, whimpering and shaking nervously.

  Thick blue smoke from Juan’s cigar drifted toward the baby. The mother, annoyed, fanned the air. Juan, paying no attention, continued to puff on his cigar and beat on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the music.

  It was tranquil in the spo
t where Chance stood. In front of him was a still, reflective body of water. Clouds and blue sky floated on its surface. All around him were billowy bushes and puffy trees. Birds sang and dragonflies swooped. As he walked into the shallow edge of the water, the many defined muscles in his back moved and flexed from his wide shoulders to his narrow waist, to the Indian-style deer hide breechcloth that covered and protected sensitive parts. The four-inch wide scar along the length of his spine, the result of the plane crash, was still visible, but not ugly. The muscles in his legs were long and taut.

  Like so many times before, Chance reached into the bottom, scooped up some sand and began to gently scour his body clean.

  In the station wagon, the Latino grandfather, Raimondo, was pointing out alligators and birds to the boys as they sped alongside the canal that paralleled the road. The mother was waving a magazine in the air now and yelling at Juan in Spanish about the smoke.

  "What's wrong with you? Kill yourself, not the baby!"

  The Chihuahua was barking his annoyance at Juan also.

  Juan took the last few deep drags from his cigar and pushed the button for the electric window. It whirred open about five inches. Outside air blasted in.

  "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" Juan said, "I'll give up cigars and take up drinking! Or worse! How's that?"

  Through the windshield, they could all see a 40-foot tractor-trailer whooshing along in the opposite, on-coming lane. All of them, that is, except Juan, who was blinded by his anger. As he flicked the cigar from his fingers, the big truck blew past them. The cigar reversed direction and flew back in Juan's face. Into his left eye, to be precise. Juan jumped and yelled and swatted at his face! The burning cigar fell to the seat between his legs! He was wearing red shorts. Juan rose up in the seat and groped for the cigar. Everyone in the station wagon shrieked at once. The Chihuahua yelped. When Juan looked up, he was doing seventy in the wrong lane. A car was headed right for them. His face became all eyes and teeth. The car swerved around them on the wrong side. There were more cars coming. Juan's foot mashed the brake pedal! All four wheels locked leaving black streaks on the road! The car was totally out of control, as if on ice! It slid off the right side of the road in a place where the sandy shoulder had widened to about fifty feet. For years, locals had used this two-mile stretch for cane pole fishing in the canal. They now turned their attention to the copper blur plowing its way toward the water. A dust storm seemed to propel the missile toward them. They dropped their poles and ran like soldiers hearing “In-coming!"

  It was pandemonium inside the car! Juan fought violently with the steering wheel!

  Everyone screamed and grabbed each other! The little dog howled! The car hit a big bump at the edge of the canal and it became airborne. The eyes of every person watching widened. Mouths opened. Somewhere about midway over the canal, the copper-clad capsule lost velocity. It also lost altitude. It smacked the water with a thunderous slap.

  The air was thick with "Ohs!" and "Land sakes!" and "Holy shits!" It was also filled with dust, steam and gurgling water. The car was sinking fast. The people along the bank could see Juan fighting with something on the inside of his door. He frantically fumbled. The window opened about two inches. Then stopped. Water was slopping into the opening.

  Chance was rinsing the sand off his shoulder when he heard the loud SPLAT not a quarter mile away. He looked down the length of the water in which he bathed. It flowed into the roadside canal. Over the tops of the trees, dust and steam rose in the air. He also heard horrified, muffled screams. He dashed from the water to a higher spot, trying to see what had happened. He was straining his eyes toward the steam in the air, pacing, trying to find a window through the trees. Finally, his eyes locked in.

  He focused his eyes and the scene came into sharp detail. He saw the roof of the station wagon, suitcases and chairs still on top, disappearing into the water. He also saw the terrified eyes of a baby and grandmother peering through the window as the water rose up.

  Chance bolted like a deer through the woods. A primitive man in a primitive quest for survival – the survival of every person in the car. He sprang over low, twisted palmettos and fallen trees. He ducked under low branches. He leaped over snakes like a gazelle. He ran like a stallion, blond mane flowing in the airstream he was creating. His arms hammered in front of him like the arms that drive the wheels of a locomotive. He breathed heavily into his nostrils and out his mouth, a continuous respiratory flow. The superlative human power plant was at work. Finally, the result of incalculable hours of bodybuilding were being put to the best use possible.

  The edge of the canal was approaching fast. Without stopping, Chance sprang off the edge. He dove far out, in a flat arc over the rippling water. The crowd of fishing people stood still, watching, waiting for some miracle. Their wait was over. A near-naked Olympic diver had appeared from the jungle to save the innocent men, women and children. And a dog.

  A few of the bystanders pointed at Chance as he turned himself into a javelin. They were still pointing and muttering as he stroked through the water toward the bubbles.

  The crowd cheered.

  A surface dive, and Chance disappeared.

  One whole minute went by.

  Lots of bubbles came up.

  Some people looked at their watches. "Jesus Christ!" some of them said.

  Nothing happened. A little old black man blessed himself with the sign of the cross and mumbled something.

  Suddenly, a froth of sizzling bubbles. And from the middle of them, popping to the surface like a cork, was six-year-old Julio.

  The growing crowd was joyous. They reached out to the boy with their fishing poles. Some of them waded into the water’s edge and helped him to shore. They watched the bubbles again.

  About ten seconds later, fifteen-year-old Juanito coughed and flailed his way to safety.

  Fifteen seconds later, Grandpa Raimondo and Juan popped to the surface simultaneously, the younger man helping the older.

  Ten seconds later, ten-year-old Ada was up and breathing fresh air.

  The crowd cheered.

  A few seconds later, Marta, the mother emerged, gasping from the bubbles. Then the grandmother, Consuelo. The crowd cheered louder with each person saved. Each had their choice of ten lifesaver-fishing poles or three ropes now tossed into the water.

  But then there was a long pause. The mother, now standing with the others began screaming, "Ana! Ana! Mi nina, Ana!"

  Juan started for the water, but the crowd stopped him.

  There were only a few bubbles now.

  They waited.

  "Ana, Ana! Save my Ana!"

  The number of bubbles increased now. And the crowd watched, muttered, prayed and pleaded to the sky above.

  Suddenly, the little Chihuahua popped to the surface, did a 360 and doggy-paddled over to the group. The mother was screaming through her tears. The father tried to break free for the water but again the group held him back.

  They watched the spot with intensity, worry in the faces of everyone. Tears filled the eyes of all the women and some of the men. There were no bubbles now. The mother was hyperventilating. She let out a haunting yell, "Ana! Mi Ana!"

  Like a geyser, Chance burst to the surface. He held fourteen-month-old Ana in his hands above his head. The crowd cheered and raised their arms in celebration.

  But only for a moment, because the baby appeared lifeless. Chance had already begun mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The mother put her hands to her face. Many blessed themselves and prayed. Some rushed to help Chance, but when he stood and walked up on the embankment, they were in awe of him.

  Chance quickly laid the baby down on the ground and, kneeling over her, continued to gently breathe air into the baby’s lungs.

  No one said a word. The mother wept. One-by-one, each person descended to his or her knees and bowed their heads.

  All you could hear was the breathing of Chance. Then… little Ana coughed. She began to breathe. And then cry.

&n
bsp; The crowd went wild with delight. The family hugged each other. The little Chihuahua yipped and jumped.

  Chance stood up, well above the heads of the people gathered there.

  Water still streamed off Chance's body. Tears streamed down the faces of the family in front of him.

  A middle-aged man in the group, still trying to comprehend what had just taken place there, looked at Chance and simply said, "Wow!"

  A sixteen-year-old boy, amazed at his new real-life hero, looked up at Chance and said, "Wow!"

  A short, rotund, sixty-eight-year-old black woman in a purple paisley mu-mu, looked Chance up and down and said, "Wow!"

  Chance turned quickly and jogged to the edge of the canal.

  "Wait! Wait!" the mother of the baby said. "What can we give you? How can we thank you?"

  Chance thought for a moment. He spoke over his shoulder.

  "Just remember what I did here today."

  "But, but...who are you? What is your name?"

  "My name is...Chance."

  He turned and dove in. They all watched. But they never saw him again.

  • • •

  "Was it a seven-foot Sasquatch? A benevolent man-of-the-swamps? A real-life Hollywood hero?” The mature man in the gray suit sat at a long, light blue desk. It said CHANNEL 9 EYE ON THE NEWS on the wall behind him. It said John Hamilton under his face.

  "Maybe you can figure it out. Here with a live eyewitness report is Emily Ross, on the scene."

  "He came from nowhere..." The reporter was standing beside the canal, microphone in hand, looking into the camera as the station wagon was being pulled from the canal. "He wore almost nothing! He saved the lives of eight people! And a dog! But who was he? This is where it happened, about two hours ago, about fifty miles from Miami, in the canal that parallels the Tamiami Trail. A car carrying the Ramirez family lost control and skidded off..."