Photo courtesy David Wilson via Flickr
OCALA, FL - Fuck Florida. Fuck Flagler. Fuck Disney. Fuck every tri-state tycoon who dredged this python-infested swamp.
What is Florida, truly? Besides the white beaches, theme parks, and Bermuda fairways? What’s behind the billboards? As a naturalized citizen, I’ll tell you what the Sunshine state really is: a bathtub drain. A sewer for the rich, the poor, and the pot-bellied bell-curve in between. A literal sinkhole for snowbirds, tax dodgers, and any toothless ape that can afford a modular home and flat-bottom boat.
There, now you know. Fuck Florida.
Well, Jack’s just bitter about his banishment. Oh, heavens no. If I can’t smoke a fag in the Unicorn Boneyard, that establishment doesn’t deserve my business.
Everything is hunky-dory; I’m a free man. Free from the parks. Free from the fam (for now). Free to fly across this pancake phallus at 140 k.p.h. – fuck your speed limit! I can stick my head out the window and teleport back home. Back to the Sound, aboard Bull Market. Wind whiplash. Flapping gums. Heart thumping to the pummeling waves. Then, after retreating behind the bug-splattered windshield, I remind myself: three more days.
Of course there’s plenty to do before then. For the first time in ages, Jackie boy has a deadline. Jack Bureau, back in the saddle. Poor Jeffie took a spill walking the doggo, and now I must fill in. Not that I’m complaining. Neither is Cassie, oddly enough, Jeff’s pleading email having piqued her ditzy interest. “Daddy’s gotta crack the case,” she told the girls in her north Jersey accent. One of those rare moments when I was actually proud to call her wifey. That nasally ginch can spin anything.
Right now my bladder is about to burst, so I yank the Ford Escape into a paint-chipped petrol station and cut Podcast Historia. Move over Plymouth, here’s Butts n’ Betts, the only oasis in Florida horse country. Since leaving Orlando it’s been nothing but pea soup pasture. I have yet to spot a single nag.
A miasma of manure follows me to the loo. I’m itchy, too impatient to fill up. Like a high-flying fan boat, I whizz past the tall boys, wine coolers, gator bites. I can’t even bring my foot to lift the moldy toilet seat. There’s simply no time, there’s a deadline - but what’s this? Tobacco products? Well, if you insist…
I skid to the counter and order three packs of cowboy killers. The attendant is a squat hairball with wiry orange hair and stubby arms. She passively studies my laminated passport card with her sunken eyes. “We don’t get too many of those,” she notes, reaching for a carton.
“Brits?”
“Those sorts of eyes.”
I crack a Red Bull and fork over a few quids. It’s called heterochromia. Two eyes, two colors. My best feature, so says Cassie - whatever that’s worth. “Like David Bowie,” she’d tease. “Sea and sand.”
As the hairball rings me up, she launches an unhurried barrage of questions. Those five W’s. Where are you heading, what’s your business, etc. Lord, people are too friendly down here. I play along, answering her questions plainly, but politely. Still, my neutral tone can’t stop her from floundering my change, and a half-dozen grimy coins scatter across the scratched laminate, their profiles suddenly wide-eyed. She scrambles to collect these before I dismiss her, hopefully for good. It’s an investigation, I explain curtly. I have a story to write.
“No shortage of those up there,” she sighs. “What you fisin’ for?”
“A murder,” I wink. “Of sorts.”
…
TALL PALM PLANTATION, FL – Welcome to Oz: The Tall Palm Players Hall of Fame. Just one of seven such commemorative halls on the Plantation. Here one learns about every footballer, tennis star, and grandmaster who ever inhabited these 10,000 acres of reclaimed sawgrass. It’s a veritable Mount Olympus of champions. The games might be over, the laurels never wilted.
What you won’t find here are visitors.
Alone, I listen to Scoot Bigsby. For the past five minutes, this fossilized speed demon has been recapping his “bracing and brilliant outing” at the Tokyo Grand Prix. His tale is as long winded and dizzying as that 6 km track, though, to be fair, I never cared for sports. At the telly shop, Pappy would watch the match while I played Nintendo in the back; sue me if my mind wanders. Intermittently, Scoot’s red-and-gold jumpsuit will vanish, leaving me with his bald head, a floating onion devoured by dust mites. For all the dosh dumped into this wax museum, they really blundered on the projector. Oh, did I forget to mention that Scoot croaked five years ago?
At last, Scoot’s recording resets and I can move on. Mr. Potato Head, the comparably young curator, had informed me that Scoot was programmed to answer questions. I don’t see the point; if Scoot had witnessed this supposed duel, he’d never leave breadcrumbs. Brown bread, he’s just like every other mum resident: shoot, shovel, shut up.
Suddenly I’m seized by hot, stinging laughter. Muffled snorts echo through the cavernous exhibit. Mr. Potato Head tilts his head, baffled. I don’t care; I’ve found my catchy headline!
Assuming there’s a story, that is.
This grim prospect triggers a deluge of self-doubt, and any lingering laughter is quickly snuffed out. Anxious, I shelter inside a Wikipedia hole. Every feature needs filler, after all. Context.
Apparently dueling was outlawed in 1832, before Florida was a state. I suppose those slave holders and Seminole slayers had to get sick of mercing one another eventually. Malefactors faced a year in prison and a $500 fine. Nevertheless, single combat endured. Six years later, Congressman William J. Graves gunned down his colleague Johnathan Cilley on the banks of Dueling Creek. You can’t make this up!
Come closing time, Mr. Potato Head politely ushers me outside. I don’t protest, even though the humidity drenches me like a flash flood. My pastel button-down is damp within seconds. Neither my crinkled Mets cap nor Ray Bans afford much protection. From across the Spanish plaza, the bell tower welcomes me to tropical hell. Like Scoot, Tall Palm’s iconic landmark isn’t what it seems: a 12-meter royal palm embedded with a loudspeaker. No clock, no coconuts. Implanted with LED lights, its “bark” glistens like fish scales in the ebbing sunlight. Supposedly there’s a light show at night. As an outsider, I find it kitsch. A gross abomination. Residents would surely disagree. It’s fitting, they might say. Perfectly Tall Palm.
Three dull chimes later, I’m left with the Plantation’s tranquil ambience. Humming golf carts. Squawking sandhill cranes. The whoosh of a driver from the nearby country club. The latter is often accompanied by groans and jeers. I would’ve sniffed this out had it not been for the Caribbean grounds crew. Members only. Still, I did manage to glimpse the spired clubhouse and its cursive warning: “Firearms Prohibited.” Was it Colonel Mustard, I wonder? On Hole 17 with the nine-iron?
Relieved with laughter, I spark up and check my chronograph: four after four. Closing bell. Regrettably, I have another hour to kill. According to Jeff, that’s when the real fun begins. Hopefully the drinks are as strong as the meds. Anything to lubricate the rusty padlocks, these old money lips.
“You think you’re the first one?” It’s Mr. Potato Head. A stained tank top has replaced his undersized Polo, unveiling a hieroglyph of macabre tattoos. The usual suspects: skulls, roses, expiration dates of friends and loved ones. He ought to be burying bodies rather than exhuming them. He snaps a hefty key ring to his jeans and flashes a patronizing smile.
“You ain’t gonna fine any instigators,” he mumbles. “Folks come here to duck scandal.”
I inhale more sweet smoke and reach for the pack. “You got a lead or what?” I ask, offering a fag. Slow-footed, Potato Head bites. His index and middle fingers, I notice, are missing tips. He flares his snout, sniffing Virginia’s finest export, then nods. “Yarp, I gots to get goin’.”
He sticks the cigarette behind his gauged ear and waddles toward his ride, a lonely jet-black chopper. The sheepskin seat is reminiscent of those nags that the conquistadors dumped into this marshland way back when. This lumpy rider removes a scoffed helmet and squeezes his pineapple head inside.
“If you wanna story,” he coughs. “Go fine Victor.”
My upper lip twitches. I can taste salty beads of sweat. But before I can finish my first question, my voice drowns in the bike’s choking motor.
“Victor!” he cackles. “He’s king aroun’ here!”
Potato Head seals his tinted visor, cutting me off for good. He switches gears and inches forward, his beast of burden protesting in spastic blasts. Inundated with exhaust, I again find myself having a mad laugh. There’s a new headline: “Victor, King of Tall Palm?”
…
TALL PALM - An hour later, I’m wading through a sea of golf carts. EVs, thank heavens; the courtyard is already minging with cigars, vodka, and piss-soaked diapers. Between gasps, I continue to snoop. This duel, is it true? Any leads? Again, I get nowhere.
Starved for sources, I’m reduced to covering the honking hive that is a Tall Palm tailgate. Jeff, a Detroit-native, had likened this weekly circus to his hometown’s Dream Cruise. Instead of restoring classic autos, Tall Palmers have outfitted their carts in every glaring way. Spinning rims and leather trim. Chair cushions and seat covers. Undercarriages that glow all across the neon spectrum. Subwoofers pummel my defenseless eardrums. Oldies. Disco. Sporadically, a line dance forms. One song later, infighting disbands it. The place is an ant war.
Like those spinning rims, I’m sucked deeper and deeper into this crazed, competitive vortex.
See this new detail?
Like the chrome rims?
Blah.
Fucking.
Blah.
Give Orlando some credit, it was controlled chaos. Engineered entertainment. Organized lines and synchronized rides. Exit through the gift shop. Ace business models all. Here, roving carts blur together like a school of dead-eyed mackerel. Collegiate pennants clash and smear. A begrudging Crimson marries Yale Blue, spawning a stillborn purple triangle. I’m lost, listlessly adrift at sea.
Victor is my lifeline, my last lead, and a tug-of-war commences between me and his army of anonymous sources. His fanciful reputation furrows brows, raises eyebrows, and kindles cloudy eyes. The tallest palm in the plantation, how can it not?! However, what with heavy heads and crowns and all that, this king is not without controversy. Some regard him with cheeky bemusement. Others with pucker-faced indignation. Nobody agrees on the facts, such as how he arrived. Was he a Viking warrior in commodities? Money launderer? Scandinavian royalty? Rumors certainly, though two things are clear: he’s bloody rich, and he will best you at anything.
Inevitably, Victor becomes the story.
This piece is no longer an investigation – what duel?! Nor is it an expose on a toff retirement community. It’s a profile. Albeit a crude one. Shallow and abstract, not unlike Lisa’s watercolor of her doting father – if only those blue and brown eyes beamed with such unadulterated joy. Now it’s up to this financial reporter to fill in the lines. Wet paintbrush and polish.
Three fags later, my body is a drum set of agony, stomach and temple drubbing away mercilessly. I’m chalking this up to fatigue. Also, hunger and stress. Not unlike that time when Ellie accidentally ate a peanut and blew up into a cantaloupe, or when an activist investor acquired the paper. Everything worked out fine then; just ground yourself, Jack. Remember that tacky bumper sticker: “Keep calm and cart on.” Simple enough, right?
Wrong. Hope is a sad, dying candle. An anemic flame flailing in spite of the swelling pool of molten wax. Now self-doubt is crowding into my interviews. Pesky “what ifs.” Like, what if Victor no shows? What if the trail goes cold? And I return to Jeff empty-handed? Cassie…I can already see those emerald lasers: you ruined tha family vacay for dis’?! Golf carts and ghooosts?!
On the horizon, the sun is an egg yolk oozing across a greasy griddle. Lost in the encroaching darkness, I stamp out my last fag. The plaza’s solid gold bricks have lost their luster. As I reach for my car fob, the bells chime. Then, one by one, the subwoofers cut out. Hushed whispers follow. Heads turn like a flock of drunken flamingos. I crane my neck, expecting a light show. Something exorbitant, but nothing one-off. Instead, the plaza is still. No lights. No theatrics. So what’s this faint music? German opera? Another silly ritual or…a procession?!
…
TPP – This is not a Roman triumph. Victor is no conquering hero. Ignore him - impossible, but try. Focus on his gaping horde of spectators and you’ll understand: shaking wigs, rattling derby canes, chorus of begrudging moans. A dour reception, it reminds me of how those Puritans would watch their heretics hang. Devoid of sports, that was considered spectacle. Four hundred years later, the grim games continue.
So, why all the long faces? Well, Sir Victor has a new motor. I use this word loosely: it’s a picket fence on spinners. The thing is positively alien - its glowing undercarriage even resembles a hovering UFO. And yet, it still manages to strike an eerie chord. Perhaps it’s Victor’s implicit destination? This being six feet under.
Let me clarify: our late king has traded in his golf cart for a coffin.
A coffin on wheels, to be more precise. Ducking and weaving, I spy what appears to be an outboard motor fixed to its stern. A coffin-car-boat?! Well, why not? Is this not a Viking funeral? No sooner do I note this than the white lid retracts. My hand trembles as I scramble for my camera. This story, my whole bloody career, I realize, hinges on this snapshot. If you don’t think the dead are newsworthy, remember that King Tut was a sensation 2000 years after his gilded sarcophagus was sealed. This discovery belongs to me!
A spotlight falls on the open coffin, basking the corpse in amber light. The departed is a uniformed giant. Navy whites, immaculately pressed. Silver-striped epaulets. Laurelled captain’s hat. Against his spray tan and silvery locks, this cap looks like a wallop of whip cream. Regality is no less unsettling, however. Just capturing his likeness is a chore, and my photos emerge slanted and blurry. Like my subject, undefined.
By the time I steady myself, the mummy rises, filling the screen.
Pandemonium ensues. Some shriek. Several curse. To my left, someone has fainted. But this is no corpse: he’s alive! God save the king…
“What nerve!” a mink fur exclaims.
“He’ll need that coffin,” someone chides. “Gold sinks.”
“Surely our captain can make it float,” a feathered fedora laughs.
“Your admiral,” I gasp, lowering my camera.
But this admiral doesn’t greet us with a salute; he just smiles. It’s a cheeky, self-righteous smirk that makes me want to spew. The lifeless thousand-yard stare beholden to politicians and dopeheads. Gulping, I fear that I’ll never forget those stretched dimples. Five-figure fillers forever imprinted into my porous memory.
From his captain’s chair, Victor eventually extends a wave. But oh, what a sickening gesture. Elbow neatly tucked. Spidery fingers, subtly fanning. I know it all too well: the royal wave. Perfectly executed.
…
Ponce de Leon Parkway, southbound. Destination: Orlando. ETA: who cares? Never mind the fuel gauge’s limp arrow, nor my iPhone’s dwindling battery. No Historia, just me and the gray ash heap that was my story. For once I don’t mind silence. Cassie, I’m coming home.
Without the navi, I’m a flickering satellite in the Florida night. Overhead, the stars have vanished, painted over by olive-green sludge. Light pollution and garish billboards, further hints that I’m getting close.
Somewhat relieved, I’ve decided to spark up one last time. I suck on the spongy filter like an impassioned kiss, forcing the fumes to singe the lowest lobes of my lungs. Between two packs and an empty stomach, the smoke makes me nauseous. When I get back, I’ve vowed to snap every stick and flush the brown innards. New man, new lungs.
Yawning, I try to tabulate how many hours of sleep that I can salvage. Lord, how I hate maths. Even yields and dividends get me miffed. I quickly give up and squeeze the leather steering wheel, letting the blood drain from my yellow knuckles. Note to self: before returning to the park, buy Nicorrette.
I take another drag and meditate: pain, frustration, and boredom are fleeting. Life’s great hourglass will filter out the bad, leaving you with those yummy bits. Sugar highs and slip n’ slides. Nostalgia, that’s your new fix. Who needs catchy headlines?
My mind drifts, taking the Escape with it. The rumble strip electrocutes my numb feet and I panic. I wrestle the hurtling SUV back onto the freeway and into a halo of high beams - BRRRRONNKKKK.
I swerve back to safety, back to my lane, the tractor-trailer having missed me by ten meters. Somewhere in the chaos, I’ve lost my fag to the sticky crevice between seat and console. Better him than me, I jest mirthlessly.
As I dig into my third pack, the dashboard flashes an orange fuel light. I’m too scatter-brained to guess how many miles are left in the tank. I can’t even recall the last petrol station. If I don’t see one soon, I’m gator bait. That reminds me: Cassie wants a new purse. Better add that to the list while I’m at it.
END