“Um-humm,” says Arnette.
“And is that the baddest looking motor-scooter you’ve ever seen, or what?”
“Fucking-A right it is!” Buddy pats me on the back and flashes an ear-to-ear grin. “And they’re gonna let you take it. I’m gonna stay here a while and help them hunt skunk apes. Pervis’s gonna teach me taxidermy. I got nothing to go back to at home and, well, I wanna shoot a big smelly monkey and stuff him, that’s all.”
“What about those college boys? How are they getting out of here?”
“That goofy one finally woke up. He’s hung over and trying to rest it off out back. And I don’t know about Spencer. He just kind of seems to have disappeared. We’re gonna go out looking for him after you leave. But you gotta get going. Let us worry about him.”
“Yeah,” agrees Arnette, “kick-start that bad boy and head north. Just get it back to us at some point when you’re done.”
“Why are you helping me?” I ask. “I’m wanted by the law. You hardly know me. Why?”
“You seem like good people,” says Pervis. Arnette nods in agreement. “And that exploding sombrero tower was the bull’s nuts, man. You’ll repay us, or someone else or some sort of good karma shit. You know, circle of life or whatever.”
“Do you have a helmet for me?”
“Hell no,” Arnette laughs. “Florida repealed the helmet law. You’re riding bare back, brother. Now get out of here before we beat you senseless.”
Pervis gives me a thumbnail of how to operate the all-terrain cycle. “Thumb operated throttle, six speed, manual clutch, shift with the feet. Lean into turns. No sharp turns at high speed. If you get throwed off, try to roll with it and don’t let your head hit, you’re not wearing a helmet ya damn fool. Now kick her in the ribs and ride that bitch out of here.”
I kick the starter one, two, three times. It sputters on the third and catches. The three-wheeler roars. I shift into first gear and punch the thumb throttle. The front tire lifts off of the ground, dirt and gravel shoot from beneath the rear tires, and I hold on for dear life. I kick it into second gear and head out to the main road. All that remains of the Bratmobile is the motor home chassis that it sat on. Hurricane Angus picked up the broken wiener body and threw it somewhere in the swamp. I steer the ATC west on the Tamiami trail. I am on the road again.
Route 41 is littered with trees, torn-up billboards, portions of roofs that were ripped from houses, playground equipment and a general South Florida sampling of debris. Thank God for the ATC. I never could have traveled by car, and walking would have taken too long. The three-wheeler easily climbs over all road obstructions and handles great even in the swampy ditches. Instead of driving until I see the Gulf of Mexico and then turning right, I decide to head north at the first major crossroad I hit.
A convenience store sits at the southeast corner of the intersection of Route 29 and the Tamiami Trail. I should say that a convenience store used to sit at the corner. Now there is a building with no roof, one crumbled wall, and a large royal palm tree leaning out of the top of the structure. A flock of broken-up pink plastic flamingos is sprinkled about the parking lot, intermingled with random Budweiser cans from a scattered beer display. It looks like a bomb went off in the middle of a Jimmy Buffett concert. Gas pumps are on their sides; several are just ripped out of the ground and thrown somewhere else—perhaps dropped in the Everglades with the body of the Bratmobile.
I stop the ATC and take in the damage caused by the storm. BLAM! A shotgun blast booms from inside the store. “Go away!” somebody shouts. “No looting. Looters will be shot!” I kickstart the ATC and turn north on 29, waving at the store behind me as I leave. I feel the Luger sitting heavy in my waistband. I’ve never fired a gun before, but maybe it’s good that I have it.
Just like the trail, Route 29 is cluttered with trees and debris. Once again I am thankful for the all-terrain cycle. The road is lined on both sides with ten-foot high chain link fence. I wonder if that is meant to keep man on the road or the animals off. The fences are not intact. In many areas they are toppled by palms and tall cypress trees. The highway goes on for miles with no crossroads, no buildings, no people. Occasionally I see an overgrown, unpaved access road off to one side or the other. Otherwise, Route 29 is a long, lonely, uninterrupted line of pavement through a big swamp.
Even with the three-wheeler, progress on the road is not fast. The obstacles, hurdles, and hindrances challenge the cycle, challenge me. At noon I stop the trike and snack on a rubbery piece of gator jerky that Arnette and Pervis packed for me. Overhead I see an enormous white-headed bird circling. His brownish-black body and wings making no effort. He glides on an air current above me. The wingspan is as impressive as I’ve ever seen on a bird. I’m no expert but I would guess that the majestic animal is a bald eagle. This must be a good sign, I think to myself. I finish up my salty gator meat and ride the ATC down a nice clear patch of road that is relatively free of hurricane damage.
Ahead I see large birds flocking at the side of the road. These birds too are enormous, but look more like wild turkeys. As I near them I realize that they are buzzards[20]. The reason for the congregating venue becomes clear to me. A bloated ten-foot alligator carcass has been torn into by the strange birds. I stop and shut down the ATC within fifteen feet of the feeding frenzy to watch. The birds all take flight at first due to my presence. Eventually, one returns and stares at me, sizing me up. I stare back, taking in the odd bird. He stands erect and spreads his wings to his full five-foot span. His wrinkled, featherless, red head is disproportionately small in comparison to his thick body. The gray lining of his inner wings contrasts with the dark brown feathers on the rest of his body. High above in the air, the circling kettle of his friends coasts drunkenly on the air currents. I think to myself that they are like many of the women I have ogled in my life: from afar they are beautiful and wonderful to look at; up close they can be hideous and smell like a regurgitated, partially-digested meal. The vulture decides that I am not a threat and returns to his lunch.
Taking their cue from the lone diner on the road, the rest of the birds swoop down on the road-kill alligator and resume their carrion feast. Horrified fascination grips me as the birds use their short horn-shaped bills to quickly rend the greenish flesh. The efficiency of their operation is impressive. More birds land and join in on the effort to strip the meat from the gator’s frame. They tear at the dead lizard; they attack each other. I laugh to myself as one bird gets distracted by a smaller one and chases the runt away from the carcass. The little guy, half the size of any other birds in the melee, is so fucking ugly that he’s cute. The immature bird’s head is grey and his beak is black, instead of the ivory color of the beaks on the larger birds. He stands before me, cocks his head, and lets out a grunt.
I feel sorry for the ugly little fucker. The rest of his friends are dismantling the remains of the alligator in a workmanlike fashion while he’s been banished. I pull more gator jerky from my backpack and throw it a couple of feet to the side of my vehicle. The lonely vulture creeps up, snatches the jerky and then skitters a safe distance away from me. When he is finished I throw out another piece. “There you go, little guy.” I feel like Grizzly Adams communing with nature. I miss Idjit and crave some sort of affection from an animal. Oh well, I think to myself. If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with. “Come here, little guy,” I urge, feeling a special bond with the bird. He creeps up slowly. I can feel his trust in me forming. “That’s it, fella,” I encourage him, holding out more jerky, thinking he might feed directly from my hand, “Come and get it.” He inches closer, just out of reach, and lets out a little hiss. “Come to Daddy,” I invite him closer. The little guy once again cocks his head and, just when I think he couldn’t be any cuter, he lets loose with a stream of projectile vomit right in my face. Never in my life have I smelled anything so putrid and vile. It’s like a zombie shat his insides out, right on my head. Rotted-flesh-vulture-vomit coats my front
and burns my eyes like pepper spray. My stomach empties itself. I puke and puke more, until nothing is left, and then still continue with harsh dry-retching.
In the throes of my pukefest, my will leaves me. It just steals away into the swamp when I’m not looking and dissipates into the muggy air. I lay prostrate in the middle of the road, completely and totally overcome with exhaustion, lacking the spirit to move. Not sleeping, not awake, not caring, I stay face down in the road, wrapped in a wispy blanket of delirium. Images flash by in random fashion, lacking meaning and coherence. I am unable to hold a string of thoughts, one idea fades into the next and the last is lost. A vision of a large, tan panther appears before me. Without looking I sense it looming over me. It swipes at my head playfully, as if it were a large ball of yarn. The claws tear at my scalp. The cat growls and runs off. I smell something awful—different from the vulture puke but equally offensive, like a skunk gone rotten. I feel myself being lifted and carried. I don’t care. I give up.
• • •
My back burns, my ribs ache, my ankle is swollen, my hair is sticky with blood and, for some reason, my asshole is sore. All of the drugs and alcohol have worn off and my body has regained its ability to feel pain. Aches, itches and injuries, contusions and lacerations, burns and broken bones; all of these check in with my brain through reopened neural pathways. Along with the renewed abilities of my pain receptors, my will has also returned after abandoning me and flitting about through the cypress swamps.
The return of my will to go on prompts me to open my eyes. Staring down at me are two wild-eyed, dirty, topless women. Usually I would view this as a good thing. Upon seeing my eyes open, one nudges the other and begins grunting. “Unghhh, voulez-vous grrrr escargot.”
The other answers in a series of clicks, grunts, and something reminiscent of the French I took for a semester in high school: “Glunggg . . . C’est la vie . . . Ft-ft-ft . . . Oui Oui.” The women are almost more simian than human in their mannerisms, but they are clearly Homo sapiens. They back away rapidly; one scratches the top of her head like a confused chimp and purses her lips.
I sit up and both of the feral women jump back further. I am on the ground in a clearing somewhere off of Route 29. It is later in the day, the same day (I think). The two women stand back, staring intensely at me. They are both naked, dirty and unruly looking. If I said Boo! they would probably run into the woods. I hold up my hands, palms out, to show them I mean no harm. These must be the French-Canadian broads that Arnette and Pervis were talking about.
I realize I am shirtless and the vulture vomit has been cleaned off of me. “Thank you. Merci.” I say to them. Although the puke is gone the smell sticks. I notice another odor, the same as I smelled in my stupor just before being picked off of the road. The rotted skunk smell. Around the campsite are impressive piles of greenish-brown scat. Black and white tufts of hair are strewn about the area and caught on branches. The ladies are tall and sturdy, but I think to myself that there is no way they generated these mounds of fecus. The piles look like something a cow would have dropped. Maybe a skunk ape?
Despite being wracked with pain, despite a nagging feeling that my batteries are somehow running low, despite the fact that there are two nude, nubile, feral females who are not running away from me, I feel the pull of the Galoot. I must get back to my dog. My drive has returned and I must return to my drive. “Merci,” I tell the ladies. “Merci beaucoup.” I wave to them as I back away; they waive back tentatively, with something like sadness in their eyes. I think to myself that I should come back someday and repay them for their kindness. But for now I must go.
Back on the road the alligator has been stripped clean by the turkey vultures. The only evidence of his existence is a perfectly intact skeleton on the berm, like something that should be in a museum. One lonely bird has remained, the runt of the group. He sits on my ATC, as if waiting just for me, maybe to apologize for his bad manners. “Peep,” he squawks soft and sorrowful. The rest of his flock have abandoned him and are nowhere to be seen.
“Hey there, little guy,” I answer. “It’s alright. I forgive you. You were wound up from getting picked on. You struck out at me because I was there. Hey, I understand frustration.” He tilts his head, listening, looking at me. Just like before, it seems like he might even trust me. Maybe I could go up and pet him. “Maybe I can come over there, without getting puked on?” I ask as I inch up toward him, fifteen feet, fourteen, slowly, thirteen, twelve.
“Peep,” he says. I think he really likes me.
“Not this time buddy.” I reach behind me and retrieve the Luger from my waistband. I bring it around and aim it at him. I’ve never fired a real gun, just bb guns at summer camp. But, I know how to aim. I train the sight on the buzzard and start pulling the trigger. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Four shots, one after the other, shells ejecting from the side of the firearm, smoke from the barrel, deafening reports. Feathers and gore spray from the bird as he is thrown off of the handlebars. I see his fat body absorb the impact of the first shot as he is thrown off of the trike and then the later shots all slam him as he is flung backwards.
My ears ring and throb from the gunshots. It feels like front row seats at the Kiss concert. I limp over to the remains of the buzzard and look down at him. My heart is heavy. We could have been friends. I shared gator jerky with him. But the little fuck puked up some of the most vile shit I’ve ever smelled, right in my face. And I know deep down that he would have done it again. I kick his body off of the pavement and throw gravel over him, raking it from the side of the road with my bare hands. I cover him as well as I can with my bloodied hands in the hopes that his family and friends do not dine on him.
The ATC is covered with bird shit. Chalky droppings, runny, with gray speckles. Arnette and Pervis packed two t-shirts in the backpack for me, a 38-Special concert jersey and a World’s Best Dad shirt. I put on the World’s Best Dad shirt and wipe down the trike with the other. As night approaches I strap on the backpack, kickstart my ride, and head north again on Route 29.
The road becomes clearer as I continue northward, away from the hurricane’s damage. Route 29 is desolate, as if everybody in this part of Florida collectively decided to pack up and move out. When I reach it, Interstate 75 will take me all of the way back up to Idjit. In the dark of the night I push the ATC further. I know it’s not street legal and figure it’s probably best that I’m driving it when nobody is out. I push north through towns with names like Imokalee, Okeepokee, and Felda. Only the lit streetlights give a clue that the towns are still inhabited. If I can find Gibsonton up along the coast I can stop at Uncle Doug’s place to rest, wash up, and get some grub before leaving Florida.
I remember Gibsonton from my youth. One summer, when I was twelve or so, Mom sent me and Frank to stay with Uncle Doug. I guess you could call it white trash summer camp. We rode down on a greyhound without adult supervision. Me and Frank sat in the back of the bus, chain-smoking Winstons and sharing a bottle of crËme de menthe that we snagged from Mom’s liquor cabinet. In those days you could smoke anywhere; heck, it was almost expected that you would light up on a cross-country bus. A chain-smoking twelve year old on the coach didn’t even garner a second glance. The Greyhound seemed like it stopped to pick up more people every couple of hours and took forever to get us to Florida. For every one that got off, two more boarded, and they were mostly deviants, losers and transients. One passenger, an older man with a mess of greasy black hair, a crooked neck and squinty eyes, tried to come on to me. He told me that one in four hundred men could suck his own dick[21] and that the other three-hundred-and-ninety nine had all tried to, and, his theory went that if I was willing to put a dick in my mouth (albeit my own), I should be willing to do the same with his. “One is just the same as any other,” he reasoned. Frank retorted with a punch in the throat and then continued his rebuttal by kicking the shit out of him in the back of the bus. I was impressed that my fifteen-year-old brother could deal out such a beating to a
full-grown man. By the time we arrived at the bus station in Tampa my throat was raw from chain-smoking and my mouth tasted like ashes and diesel fumes. We both smelled like a forest fire. Doug picked us up at the station. “You boys smell like you been smoking,” he said. “You might be able to fool your momma, but not me. Now hand over them cigarettes before I kick your asses.” We did. Uncle Doug lit up one of the Winstons, put the pack in his t-shirt pocket, and told us he better not catch us smoking again.
The rest of the summer consisted of Frank, me and Cousin Denny running around and discovering the town. Gibsonton is the town for carnies, circus freaks, sideshow performers, and the like. They all winter there when they’re not on the road. The old ones retire to Gibsonton and are buried in the carnie graveyard when they kick the bucket. All of Denny’s friends had names like Johnny the Elephant Headed Boy, Frankie the Pincushion, or Hairy Sherry the Monkey Girl. Denny lost his virginity to Hairy Sherry. He said she had a big bush. Getting into the spirit, Frank and me gave Denny a sideshow name: Big Gay Wayne, the Burning Flame. It was immature, nonsensical, and maybe not all that funny of a name, but it infuriated Denny, and that made it fun. Denny would become enraged at the mention of his new name and I did receive several beatings from him as a result. Mostly, though, Frank was there to stop him.
Denny’s step-mom, Bernice, was a nice lady who drank too much. Denny always seemed to have a new mom. I don’t know if Uncle Doug actually married all of the different Moms but he seemed to change them out on an annual basis. When Bernice wasn’t laid up in bed with a hangover, she would make us big greasy meals that would usually have a slab of something fried in butter that she called Scrapple. I once asked her what Scrapple was and she told me it was pork offal. I don’t know about the pork, but it sure was awful. Otherwise she would give us money and send us to the Giant’s Place Restaurant for lunch. The Giant’s Place was fun, so when Bernice was hitting the bottle, we encouraged her to hit it extra hard so as to induce a nasty next-day hangover, and, consequently, lunch for us at the Giant’s Place.
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