by Kirk Jockell
Hydration is the key on a scorcher like this. Throughout the day, I must have poured three gallons of water into my system. But now it was time for beer amongst friends, so I grabbed a shower and shaved. Then I threw on my daily uniform: flip flops, shorts, a Columbia fishing shirt, Calcutta sunglasses, and a visor. I jumped in my truck and headed towards Indian Pass to the Forgotten Coast Shrimp and Oyster Bar.
When I pulled up, the place was already getting crowded. The list of folks waiting to sit and eat the World’s finest oysters and steamed shrimp was growing fast. I drew myself a cold draft from the keg and found my stool at the bar, number seventeen.
I got settled in and staked my claim, marking my territory: keys over here, cell phone over there, cold beer right in front of me. Once I got comfy, I heard a familiar voice from behind the bar.
“I knew you were coming, so I kept that spot open. Just for you.”
I looked up. It was my buddy and often, co-conspirator of innocent controversy, Red.
“Dude,” I said. “What are you doing back there?”
“Giving the boys a little break. That’s all. They’re busting their asses tonight. Hey! Do me a favor, will ya? Take care of this.” He held up his cup, rocked it back and forth. “Seeing it empty makes me sad.”
I looked around. It was going to be a busy night for sure. The shuckers would have a difficult time keeping up with orders. The word was out. The oysters were exceptional this week, and given the volatile harvest season in Apalachicola, it was best to get ‘em while the getting’s good. Red was lending a hand and having a few beers along the way.
We chit-chatted about this and that and told a lie or two about one thing or another. Then my double dozen of raw oysters were dropped in front of me. I looked down at them and smiled big. They were big and beautiful. Perfect! The only thing missing was a fresh beer and a bottle of Crystal hot sauce, a problem easily remedied.
A little while later, a couple of ladies joined me at the bar taking the two stools to my right, still toasty warm from the last inhabitants. They were first timers and a little uncertain of the program. They sat patiently waiting for someone to take a drink order.
I leaned over to the one next to me. “At the rate you’re going, you’ll be waiting all night,” I said with a smile.
“Excuse me?” she said.
“All night,” I said pointing to the huge stand-up cooler against the wall. “You’ll be waiting all night unless you get yourself something to drink. It’s pretty much all self-service around here. Help yourself. Keep up with how much you drink and what you eat, then pay before you leave.”
“Really?” They both said in perfect unison, as if it had been rehearsed a million times.
“Yes, really.” Then I said, “Keep your seats. I’ll get your first round, and then you’re on your own. What are we having?”
I brought back a Corona and a Stella from the cooler.
Red stayed quiet and focused while we made small talk, interrupting only for the occasional refill.
Their names were Mary and Lavern. They were from a small town in North Alabama; Arab. Yes, Arab, Alabama ... The little town often the brunt of many jokes by comedian, Henry Cho. I guess the town actually exists. Bless their hearts.
They were staying out on the cape at the Blue Mermaid, a gorgeous, comfy place in the Cape Dunes development. I know it well. I have spilt more than a few beers on the back porch. The owners are fine folks, easy to work with and reasonable on price. They were lucky to get that unit.
I was answering their questions about the area best I could, making a few recommendations here and there. It was going great and I was nursing my last four or five oysters, when what happened next almost killed me.
Mary said, “We’ve noticed several of the homes out here have large mounds directly in front of them. Not all of them, just some. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, right? They each appear to be about the same size and shape. What are they?”
I held up one finger, to indicate I needed a moment. I was in the middle of washing down an oyster and the last thing I wanted to be thinking of, at that moment, was a septic tank.
Coastal regions are notorious for having groundwater levels that are extremely close to the earth’s surface. This makes the installation of conventional underground septic systems impossible. The danger of tapping into or contaminating groundwater systems is too great with a regular system, so septic tanks and their associated drain fields are placed and contained completely above the ground’s surface in earth mounds.
I was about ready to explain. But, during the process of swallowing, I heard Red say, “Ancient Indian burial mounds.”
My head ducked and I gasped, sucking the oyster and beer right down my windpipe. I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. I was in trouble and about to die, right then and there. Half laughing and half crying, I was drowning in a sea of oysters and beer.
It almost seems fitting, taking my last breath on number seventeen, but I wasn’t ready to go, not yet. I had plenty of fight left in me, and it took everything I could muster to keep from spewing everything from my mouth and lungs back out onto the bar. It was tough, but I pulled through with a little slap on the back from Mary, and a bit of encouragement from Red. “Hang in there, buddy”, he said. “Stay with me. Keep away from the bright light. Don’t look at it. Come back. Stay with me now. You still owe me twenty bucks.”
That did it, along with one last slap from Mary. With my eyes awash and an air passage partially open, I hacked the audible, “Twenty bucks! What twenty bucks?”
Chuckling, Red said, “I thought that would bring you round.”
Lavern brought me a fresh beer to clear my throat and polish my recovery. Still a little moist in the lungs I gurgled, “Ladies. Let me introduce you to my buddy, Red.”
Red grunted, “Howdy.”
Mary said, “So, Red. You were saying, about the Indian burial mounds and all?”
Red gazed over at me with stone cold seriousness. It was a look with a message. I picked up on it immediately. Shut up. Don’t say a word. Let me have this one. I got it.
I smiled and gave him a little intro. “Yes, Red. Please. You know the history on this so much better than I do. Enlighten us.”
He put down his shucking knife, took a long pull from his solo cup and handed it to me for a refill. He leaned up against the counter and said, “Those are not ordinary Indian burial mounds. They’re enchanted, full of positive spirits and coveted as good luck by those that have one.
“They contain the remnants of an extinct people, the Septicoles. They were a mix of the Porenyafeka and Yurenchabuket clans of southern Georgia. They were an agrarian people that settled this area to expand their livelihood to include fishing. It was a decision that would ultimately be their demise.”
How he did that with a straight face, God only knows. I had to bite the inside of my mouth. I looked over at the ladies. They seemed to be buying it. Red was selling it pretty damn well, like a silver-tongued used car salesman.
“And you say they’re good luck?” asked Laverne.
“Yep. Legend has it great fortuitous events befall those that own one. Hell, Stan Kastin, he has a mound out by Money Bayou, his wife cashed in big at Bingo last weekend. Three of her cards hit at the same time. Brought home 97 dollars and 14 cents, she did. And Jerry Blanton, he has a mound out on Indian Pass. Yesterday, he bought an old paperback for seventy-five cents at the Goodwill. It had a fifty dollar bill folded up and tucked inside. I call that pretty damn lucky.”
“Gosh,” I said. “How could anybody get any luckier?”
“I’ll tell you how,” Red replied. “You know Pam Bridges, right?”
“Sure. She’s married to Steve. Fine fella.”
“Bingo.”
I looked over at Mary and Lavern. “Steve and Pam,” I said. “They live down the street a short piece, back towards Port St. Joe. The big yellow place on the right, right before the curve. Their mound is huge, a doub
le, but in the back yard.”
“So what’s up with Pam?” I asked.
Red leaned over closer. Lowered his voice a bit and said, “She took an EPT pregnancy test last week and the stick indicated a big blue minus sign, a negative test, not pregnant.”
“So why does that make her so damn lucky?” I asked.
“Because she’s been copulating with Steve’s brother, that’s why.”
“Ned?” I said. “I thought he was still in jail for mullet poaching.”
“He was, but he’s been out for about three months now. They’ve been going at it pretty regular since.”
“And how is it that you came across this juicy little piece of local intelligence?” I asked.
“Well. Ned was over at …”
Laverne interrupted, “Too much information, guys. TMI, TMI.” She paused for a second to look at Mary and said, “Damn. And I thought women were bad for back-fence talking.”
“Sorry ‘bout that,” I said. “I guess we got a little sidetracked.”
“So, what happened to the Indians? Were they destroyed by a rival tribe or something?” Mary asked.
“On the contrary,” said Red. “They were a kind and peaceful people. Didn’t really have any enemies at all. Legend has it, it was the seafood. They should have left well enough alone and stayed in Georgia to live on peanuts. They all had an inherent gene and were allergic to shellfish. They didn’t figure it out until it was too late. The shrimp got them.”
“Wow,” said Laverne. “That really is an incredible story.”
“You’re telling me,” I said.
Red cut me a look, catching the sarcasm in my tone. I guess the ladies did too. Laverne looked down the bar and asked me, “So you don’t believe in the legend? You don’t feel the mounds are full of good luck and fortune?”
I sat there for a moment and thought about it, deciding how I could best answer without discrediting my friend. He had put so much creative energy into his story. Then, it hit me.
“I don’t place a lot of faith into legends and such,” I said. “Call me a skeptic if you like, but I can’t buy into the whole spiritual fascination of the Indian burial mound thing. Personally,” I paused for a moment, took a sip of beer and said. “I think they’re full of shit.”
Red growled under his breath and said, “Typical pagan unbeliever.”
I smiled and finished my oysters and beer.
A Little Something from the Keys
I was finishing up a miserable morning of fishing from underneath the big bridge on Highway 98. There’s nothing worse than not catching a thing while everyone around you is getting their limit and then some. It’s very frustrating. To hell with this!
I was packing my gear in the back of my truck and closing the tailgate when my phone rang. I looked at the screen. It was my buddy, Red. I looked back over my shoulder at the five fellas still fishing, each with a fish on. Screw you guys!
“Good morning and thanks for calling Everything but Catching Fish Charters. We’re fishing, not catching. How can I help you?”
“Uh oh,” said Red. “Sounds like another unlucky day with the hook.”
Actually, I don’t think being unlucky has anything to do with it. I just have the toughest time getting a fish to take my bait. I suck at fishing. I love doing it. I love the challenge. But damn! Let me catch a decent fish from time to time. That’s all I want.
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. Unlucky. That’s it. Piss poor luck. I keep it in my tackle box, spray a little on every bait. Wouldn’t go fishing without it.” I paused a moment and asked, “Wait a minute. When did ya’ll get back into town?”
Red, his wife Trixie, and a fistful of others went down to Key West for a little escape vacation. They love to people-watch so they picked the week of Fantasy Fest. They weren’t disappointed. The exhibitionists were in full disclosure mode. It’s so crazy during that week, even strange is considered lame. If you’ve ever wondered how wacky people can be, go to Key West during Fantasy Fest. It makes Mardi Gras in New Orleans look like a mortician’s convention.
Some folks go down there to escape the normalcy of life, to let go, to throw caution and all inhibition to the wind, to get caught up in the bizarre. Once Monday rolls, around it’s time to clean all the evidence of debauchery off their phones and cameras and return to the mainstream of reality. The kids will never get to see those pictures of grandma’s full body paint job, or grandpa dancing in his feather g-string in the middle of Mallory Square. Thank goodness.
In stark contrast to the visitors looking for a good time are the scores living the dream everyday, the actual fantasy freaks. To them, the festival never ends. That’s kind of scary, especially when you consider their potential to breed and right to vote. But, that’s one of the great things about America. I think.
“We got in late last night,” Red answered. “The flight was delayed, but I can tell you about that some other time. Come on over to the house later. Trixie is whipping up some greens and we have a huge ham that needs to disappear. Plus, I have a little something for you, a memento from the island.”
Now, when you get an invitation to dine on some of Trixie’s greens, you don’t turn it down. Personally, I always used to hate greens. It didn’t matter which kind. They could be turnip, collard, or mustard greens. The thought of them turned my stomach. It stems from my grade school days and the greens the lunch room ladies served up about four times a week. It didn’t matter how hungry I was, there was no way I could bring myself to eat that shit. Then I got shamed into trying Trixie’s. Damn! What have I been missing all these years? They are the best ever.
“Yummy! I’ll bring beer,” I said.
Red and Trixie have a beautiful place out on Cape San Blas overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. They’ve done quite well for themselves but neither have a pretentious bone in their body. They are regular, hard-working folks, respected by everyone on the Forgotten Coast. It is tough to find anyone around here that doesn’t know them, and it’s even tougher to find someone that doesn’t like them. Their vocations probably have something to do with that.
Trixie works closely inside the local justice system and Red is a respected educator of higher learning. Together, they’ve been able to pool their talents and resources to create a professional partnership that has touched the lives of many within the community.
She owns and operates Trixie’s Freedom Bail Bonds, and he runs a complementary business serving as the headmaster of Red’s Institute for Drunk Drivers or RIDD for short. The two operations are like them, meant for each other. They go together like salt and water. Trixie bails them out for DUI; Red enrolls them for a new class the next. It is nothing short of genius.
When I got to their house, I saw someone leaving. It was Little Bit. He had a big container of greens and an all too familiar international orange t-shirt.
It’s a customary part of Trixie’s service to provide each customer with a complementary shirt. The front says I Got My Freedom at Trixie’s! The phone number is on the back.
Little Bit’s real name is Luther Collins. He works the shrimp boats out of Port St. Joe, and there is nothing little about him. He’s a big boy at about six foot, two inches, 225 lbs, and muscle bound. He’s a good guy and an honest, hard worker. There was a time when he was no stranger to trouble, but that was during his days of heavy drinking. But, as I understood it, he hadn’t had a drink in years, so I was surprised to see him fleeing the house with a shirt.
I tried to stop him as he was walking to his truck, but he waved me off saying, “I can’t right now. Too much to do. We’ll talk later.” He jumped in and drove away in his rusty old Toyota 4 by 4; an old faded bumper sticker on the back window that says My Wife is a 2007 Honor Grad from RIDD, Port St. Joe. I smiled.
I grabbed my cooler, made my way to the door and let myself in. Red and Trixie were already sitting on the back porch, taking in the view of the Gulf. I opened the sliding glass door. “Knock! Knock!”
“Nigel! Come
on out and grab a seat,” said Red. “The surf’s really up this afternoon.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I saw Little Bit leaving with a shirt. What’s up?”
Trixie answered, “Can’t say. Confidentiality you know. The whole, right-to-privacy thing.”
Red said, “Trixie can’t say anything, but I can.”
“Was he drunk?”
“Nope. I don’t think Little Bit has had a drink in five or six years.”
Trixie said, “Red, tell him about the naked part. That’s my favorite.”
“So much for confidentiality,” Red replied. “Anyway, yesterday driving home after work, Little Bit spots some mullet jumping in the surf. He whips over to the side of the road and grabs his cast net, lands 23 mullet in three throws.”
“Damn!” I said. “Twenty-three. That made for a quick haul.” I paused a bit and said, “Hey, when are you going to teach me to throw a net? You said you would.”
“Teach you? You ... throw a cast net?” Red chuckled and said, “Wouldn’t do any good. You can’t catch shit as it is”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Red.”
Trixie piped in again and said, “Finish the story, Red. Get to the street fight.”
Red looked at Trixie and said, “Are you telling this story or me?”
“You know I can’t say anything,” Trixie answered. “Just wouldn’t be right.”
Red took a moment to give Trixie a blank stare before continuing, “Anyway, Little Bit gets his cooler of mullet home and leaves it on his back porch. He lives over in Mexico Beach, you know. After showering, he steps out of the bathroom...” Red smiled and chuckled. “And he sees these two guys running and making off with his and mullet.”
“Oh no,” I said. “This can’t be good.”
‘Shhhh! Shhh!” said Trixie. “He’s getting to my favorite part.”
Red continued, “Well, Little Bit wastes no time. He hit that screen door in full stride wearing nothing but some leftover water from the shower. By the time he hit the lawn, the two thieves were already pulling away in their car, Little Bit’s mullet and cooler in the back seat. Little Bit, he don’t slow down any. The chase was on.”