The Stingray Shuffle

by Tim Dorsey

  “Your Honor, he gets on these compulsive tangents,” said the public defender. “He has to find out every single thing there is to know about a subject, talk to as many experts as he can, see and touch everything…”

  “I object!” said Serge, jumping to his feet. “He’s making it sound weird.”

  “Weirdness isn’t grounds for an objection,” said the judge. “And that’s your own attorney.”

  “Then I respectfully withdraw.” Serge sat back down and turned to the public defender. “Proceed.”

  “Your Honor, why is this man even being allowed to speak?” complained the prosecutor. “He’s not even representing himself anymore, and he’s completely out of line. As a matter of fact, we’re not following any of the procedures at all!”

  “First thing—relax,” said the judge. “This is a minor case. Second, this is my court, and third, I kinda like the guy. Is that okay with you?”

  The prosecutor sat down and sulked. The judge turned back to the public defender. “Continue.”

  “He’ll go days without sleep, covering incredible distances on foot, and he only stops when he passes out from sheer exhaustion.”

  “Interesting,” said the judge. “And right now it’s railroads?”

  “Railroads.”

  Serge raised his hand.

  “You’re not in school,” said the judge.

  “May I?” asked Serge.

  The judge leaned back in his chair and got comfortable again. “Go ahead.”

  The prosecutor snapped a pencil in two and threw the pieces on his table.

  “You see, the railroads made Florida,” said Serge. “They played a major role in most states, but not like here, where their influence was an iron fist, the train companies owning much of the land and businesses along their routes. I’m not saying it was wrong or right; I’m just saying it worked. Completely opened up the peninsula.”

  “What about air-conditioning?” asked the judge. “I understand that when Mr. Carrier went into mass production, it jump-started all kinds of development.”

  “Your Honor,” interjected the public defender, “Mr. Storms had, uh, a number of arrests last year dealing with the air-conditioning and refrigeration industry. I don’t think we want to go there.”

  “Understood,” said the judge. “Continue, Mr. Storms.”

  “Thank you, and Your Honor’s point is well taken. But that never would have been possible if it wasn’t for the rail pioneers. It all started with Flagler…” Serge began pacing in front of the empty jury box. “Time? The Gilded Age! Place? Jacksonville! The rich valued their leisure, and the railroads went down to Florida just to get to the new luxury hotels, which were built just for the railroads. After traversing the St. Johns, Flagler erected the Ponce de Leon in St. Augustine, then the Alcazar, and remodeled the Cordova and Ormond, laying tracks all the way. The Royal Poinciana and the Breakers went up in Palm Beach, more tracks, still going south, right through the big freeze of 1895—chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug…”—Serge shuffled across the courtroom, arms going in circles like pistons moving the wheels of a steam engine—“…chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug. Woo-woo! The tracks reached the bottom of the state, and residents were so happy they wanted to name their town Flagler. But did Big Henry accept this honor? Hell, no! He said, ‘Why don’t we name this place after the Indian word they use for the river.’ That little town? Miami! Fresh produce moved north, tourists south, the Florida East Coast Railway kept on going, right up to the beach, then into the sea. He had to be crazy to keep going—crazy like a fox!…Chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug…Another Henry, Henry S. Sanford, ran the South Florida Railroad down the middle of the state in the 1880s. And on the Gulf Coast, yet another Henry—where were they all coming from?—this one named Plant, built a third railroad and more hotels. His line made it down to Cedar Key, and the little fishing village exploded as it became the southernmost port at the end of the tracks. But then the tracks continued south, and Cedar Key was forgotten. The tracks stopped again at another tiny outpost. Its name? Tampa!…Bang, bang, bang! War breaks out in Cuba! Troop trains to Florida, Teddy Roosevelt, the Rough Riders, Hearst, José Martí. The war ends! We win! More trains, more tourists, more hotels! The Boca Grande Line, the Gasparilla Inn, hope and prosperity for all!…Chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug…Train fares drop, the bourgeois climb on board, everyone riding south on The Havana Special, The Florida Special, The Orange Blossom Special. Then, daring! Railroads unveil the deco streamliners! In 1939, The Silver Meteor debuted its New York–Miami night runs with a sleek Electro-Motive diesel. The Atlantic Coast Line countered with The Champion and Illinois Central rolled out The City of Miami…”

  The judge looked over the top of his bifocals. “Don’t you mean The City of New Orleans, like the song?”

  “And a great song it is. But no, I mean The City of Miami. Few people realize there ever was such a train, but what a train! The trademark orange-and-green paint scheme, the coach cars with those wonderful names: Bougainvillea, Camellia, Japonica, Palm Garden, Hibiscus, Poinsettia and the Bamboo Grove tavern-observation car—very popular…. Ridin’ on The City of Miami…Don’t you know me? I’m your native son…”

  “No singing in court, Mr. Storms.”

  “Sorry. Then came the twin enemies of the iron horse—airlines and interstate highways. The trains hung on gallantly until the 1960s, when all appeared lost…. But wait! A last-second reprieve! The government stepped in, and Amtrak was born in 1971. The old Silver Meteor came back into service, now joined by The Silver Star, The Silver Palm and The Silver Stingray. But then, the stake through the heart—apathy! Nobody gave a damn. The depots deteriorated, and Overseas Railroad spans were torn up and sold off. A few noble groups fought uphill. They restored Union Station in Tampa, and my heart just goes pitter-pat every time I see that cute little spruced-up depot in Lake Wales. Unfortunately, it’s looking like too little, too late. Amtrak isn’t making the grade, and there’s been talk of pulling the plug in a couple years. Our kids will probably only see the pictures in the history books. Right now could be your last chance to head up to New York, hop a train in the snow and take the slow ride south to the Sunshine State, the way you’re supposed to…”

  A half hour later, everyone in the courtroom was silent, leaning forward on Serge’s every word.

  “…So in conclusion, Your Honor, and the good people of this courtroom, I may not have had a right to do what I did, but I had a duty. I did it for all of us, not just those alive here today, but for the memory of our ancestors and the future of our unborn descendants.” Serge’s lip began quivering and he sat down.

  The judge took off his glasses again. “Mr. Storms, I’m going to give you yet another chance. Probation and community service. But I never want to see you in my courtroom again.”

  Courtroom 3C, Palm Beach County Judicial Circuit.

  “Bailiff, call the next case.”

  “Number nine-three-five-one-two, People versus Serge A. Storms.”

  Serge smiled and waved at the judge.

  “You were just here yesterday!”

  “There’s a very simple explanation. Then we can all laugh about it and go home—”

  The judge stopped Serge and turned to the prosecutor. “What’s the charge?”

  The prosecutor glanced at his docket. “There are any number of possibilities, but we’ve decided to file under disturbing the peace.”

  “What exactly did he do?” asked the judge.

  “I think you need to see the video. Words cannot do justice.”

  A bailiff wheeled a twenty-seven-inch Magnavox and VCR to the front of the courtroom.

  “This was shot at a local funeral. It was taken by one of the mourners, the deceased’s only brother, who was later x-rayed for chest pains.”

  The bailiff inserted a tape and handed the remote to the prosecutor. The courtroom saw a tent in the middle of a sunny lawn full of tombstones. Folding chairs, people in black, a preacher.

  The prosecutor hit pa
use and pointed to the right side of the screen. “This is where Mr. Storms enters the picture and takes a seat in the back row of chairs.” He hit play; on the screen, a wiry man in swim trunks and tropical shirt joins the mourners.

  “Hit pause again,” said the judge. He folded his hands and looked toward the defense table. “I know I’m going to regret asking this, but did you even know these people, Mr. Storms?”

  “Never met them in my life.”

  “What were you doing in the cemetery?”

  “Taking rubbings of a historic headstone, a famous train engineer. Suddenly, a funeral breaks out.”

  “And you just walked over and helped yourself to a seat?”

  “I like people.”

  The judge nodded at the prosecutor, who restarted the tape. “Okay, now here’s the point when Mr. Storms approaches the podium and tells the preacher he’d like to say a few words.”

  “Hit pause again,” said the judge, turning. “You never even met these people before! What on earth could you have to say at a time like this?”

  “Anything,” said Serge. “The preacher was bombing. You should have seen the long faces, people crying…”

  “It was a funeral!”

  “That’s the whole problem,” said Serge. “Everyone takes that view. I don’t buy it.”

  The prosecutor started the tape again. “Mr. Storms opens with a few jokes, talks about the deceased in generic terms, praises the Greatest Generation, blah, blah, blah, a few more jokes…”

  The judge pointed at the TV. “It doesn’t look like the audience is too distressed. A few are even beginning to smile. What he did may have been highly inappropriate, but I don’t see any criminal disturbance of the peace here…. See? He’s even starting to get some laughs.”

  “Hold on. The good part’s coming up,” said the prosecutor. “Mr. Storms wraps up his little talk and steps away from the podium. That’s the urn that he’s picking up now, and he starts walking away. The audience is confused. They begin to realize they better do something. They go after him. Mr. Storms begins running. The funeral party starts running—that’s all the bouncing and jiggling you’re seeing from the camera now. This is the ditch at the edge of the cemetery. Mr. Storms takes the lid off the urn. An uncle grabs him by the arm, and now the full-scale free-for-all gets under way. That’s some off-camera screaming you’re hearing, and this is where the ninety-year-old mother accidentally gets punched in the eye by the uncle, and Mr. Storms breaks free and runs to the edge of the ditch and yells—we’ve had an audio technician verify this—‘It’s for your own good. You need closure.’ And, as you can see…he dumps the ashes in an open sewer.”

  “How was I supposed to know it was a sewer? I thought it was a little river,” said Serge. “It was supposed to be very symbolic. Obviously it didn’t work out that way, but at least I tried. These are the kind of people who cling. It’s not healthy.”

  The judge’s face was in his hands.

  He finally looked up. “Mr. Storms, this doesn’t give me any pleasure, but you leave me no choice but to commit you to the state hospital at Chattahoochee for a period of observation not less than three months.”

  They dragged Serge from the courtroom, kicking and yelling.

  The judge banged his gavel. “You’re out of order, Mr. Storms!”

  “I’m out of order? You’re out of order! And he’s out of order! They’re out of order! This trial’s out of order! The whole courtroom’s out of order!…”

  The bailiffs pulled Serge into the hall, and the double doors swung closed.

  11

  In the fall of 1960, five very special little girls entered the fourth grade in five different schools across Florida.

  A nine-year-old girl in Fort Lauderdale named Samantha told her father she wanted a baseball glove.

  “You mean a softball glove.”

  “What’s that?”

  He was a kind father, and the next day he brought home a nice pink Spalding softball glove and a ball the size of a grapefruit.

  “It’s pink,” said Samantha. She knew baseball gloves weren’t pink.

  “I know,” said her father, smiling fondly. “Isn’t it pretty?”

  Samantha could see her dad’s happiness, and she didn’t make a fuss about the color and hugged him.

  “Thanks, Daddy.”

  She stuck her little hand inside.

  “I can’t move the fingers.”

  “That’s because you have to break it in first.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “You oil it up good and put a softball in the palm and wrap twine around it and set it aside overnight. Then you have to play lots and lots of catch so the leather takes on the shape of your own hand, and pretty soon it fits like a glove.”

  “But I don’t want to wait that long. I want to play right now.”

  Her father laughed. “Life’s not like that.”

  After dinner they oiled and wrapped the glove, and when her father came home from work the next evening, Samantha and her glove were waiting on the front porch to play catch.

  “Okay, let me set my things down first.”

  That was the beginning of a lot of catch. Samantha got pretty good. Soon she could even move the fingers. One afternoon, she ran outside with her glove and down the street to the park, where the boys wouldn’t let a girl play ball, pink glove or not. They were practicing for the big Little League tryouts that weekend. They all wanted to be on the Yankees.

  When Samantha’s father came home that night, she told him she wanted to try out for Little League.

  Her father laughed and crouched down and rubbed her yellow hair. “Honey, girls don’t play Little League.”

  “But I want to.”

  “Life’s not like that.”

  That Saturday, her parents thought Samantha was down at the playground, but she had taken her bike and ridden to the Little League park, where she lined up with the boys waiting to take the field and catch grounders, pink ribbon in her hair and pink glove on her hand. The boys weren’t happy.

  “Get out of here! You’re a girl!”

  “Yeah, get out of here!”

  Samantha dug in and snarled.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “Yeah, girl. You don’t even know how to play baseball.”

  “That’s not even a baseball glove!”

  “Is so!” said Samantha.

  “Is not!”

  The coaches on the infield heard a commotion by the dugout. “Is that a girl?”

  They came over. The boys were playing keep-away with the pink glove.

  “Gimme my glove!” Samantha ran back and forth.

  “Missy,” said one of the coaches, “where are your parents?”

  “At home…. I said, gimme my glove!”

  “What’s your name?…”

  “Samantha.” Running back and forth after the glove. Why wouldn’t the grown-ups help her?

  “Samantha what?”

  “Samantha Bridges…. Give it!”

  The coaches didn’t help retrieve her glove because the boys were within rights, provoked as they were by Samantha’s presence, which threatened to cheapen their whole ritual.

  Samantha finally caught up with her glove. The coach’s son had it and they were tugging. The boy shoved her to the ground.

  “All right, that’s quite enough, Missy,” said the coach. “You’ve caused your share of trouble today.”

  No she hadn’t. She got up from the dirt and punched the boy in the nose, drawing tears.

  The public shame of his son crying at the hands of a girl was too much, and before the coach knew it, he had grabbed Samantha by the arm and slapped her face hard enough to make any of the boys cry.

  Samantha didn’t.

  She kicked him in the shin.

  “Ow! Shit!”

  Samantha struggled for the coach to let go of her arm, and the other men had to help restrain the thrashing child. Everything else stopped. A crowd gath
ered. They looked up her parents’ phone number, and her father arrived in minutes.

  “What are you doing to my daughter?” her dad yelled, jumping out of his car.

  “She disrupted the whole tryout!”

  “She’s just a little girl!” he said, walking quickly toward the group. “Let go of her right now!”

  “Only if she promises not to kick me again.”

  The father turned his angry glare toward Samantha. “Did you kick him?”

  “After he slapped me.”

  “You slapped her?” asked her father.

  “She hit my boy. She was out of control—”

  The tooth-loosening right cross sent the coach to the ground. Her father took Samantha by the hand, and they walked away.

  The police showed up in Samantha’s driveway after they got home, and there was a big stink. But the cops talked everyone out of pressing charges and suggested Samantha stay away from the ballfield.

  Dinner was pork chops and mashed potatoes and beets. Samantha asked for the beets in a separate bowl because the beet juice ran into the potatoes and made them pink.

  “I just don’t understand these people,” Samantha’s father told her mother across the table. “What’s the big deal?”

  “You know what you always say? Life’s not—”

  “I know, but this is so petty. Why can’t they just let girls play? It’s stupid.”

  Samantha wasn’t saying a word and wasn’t eating, just following the conversation back and forth with her eyes.

  “You know what I should do? I should file a lawsuit!”

  “Oh honey, please don’t,” said her mother, reaching across and putting a hand on her father’s arm. “Isn’t it bad enough that everyone already calls her Sam?”

  There was a successful court challenge, and girls were allowed to play Little League. But the challenge didn’t come from Samantha’s father and not for another ten years, until Samantha was in college.