Florida Man, Chapter 2, Mike Baron


Gary woke. He was lying on damp earth that smelled like urine. A metallic green beetle marched by with a leaf. He watched a cockroach scurry up one of his cinder block risers. He’d sprayed the bricks with the most virulent of Floyd’s toxins, but rain had washed it away and the roaches filed to and fro like Rome’s legions. He saw a bottle cap for Dixie beer, and beyond that, a fat rectangle covered with mud.

His phone.

Slowly, Gary sat up, head throbbing like an unmuffled Harley panhead. He put a hand to his scalp and it came away smeared with dried blood, where he’d hit the deck. A low moan escaped his lips. He was thirsty enough to drink swamp water. Shoving the phone in his pocket, he crawled out from under the deck. The sun was up, slanting in over the mangrove and striking the face of his home. Shakily, Gary got to his feet and used the handrail to drag him the four steps up to his deck where Floyd slumped on his nylon chair snoring with metronomic precision.




Gary went in through the screen door straight to the kitchen, filled an empty Big Gulp from the 7/11 with tepid brown water from the tap and glugged it down, Adam’s apple oscillating. He refilled it and drained it again. Then he had to piss.

Remembering the snake, he went back out on the deck. It was too early for the snake. This time he was more careful and successfully relieved himself with no further damage. Leaning on the rail he returned to his pale green chair and sat back with a scrape and a bump. He pulled out his phone and saw that he had two calls. The latest, at nine-thirty last night, was from Krystal ’s mother Trixie.

“Gary, dear, I’m so sorry to bother you, but Krystal ’s in the Glades County Jail. She’s been there all day. She’s been trying to reach you. She needs seven fifty dollars bail. Apparently, they’ve charged her with indecent exposure. Something about a Waffle Hut. Please call me, Gary. I’m so worried.”

The second, older call was from Krystal and must have been her one call from jail.

“Gary, baby…” She burped. “I’m in Glades County on a bullshit charge! I never hurt that fucker! He put his hands on me, and I was naked, baby…anyway, please come down here and get me out. Please! It stinks down here and I have to pee in front of all these other women, and some gross guard who comes back here just to stare…”

“That’s enough,” said a male voice, and the call ended.

Gary groaned and shut the phone. “Fuck.”

Floyd snorked.

“FUCK!” Gary said.

Floyd twitched. Gary reached out with one long leg and shoved the chaise lounge on its side, spilling Floyd on the deck, his mason jar spilling an ounce of shine on the pine, attracting thirsty palmetto bugs.

“What the fuck?”

“Wake up. It’s ten the fuck o’clock.”
“So what? What’s going on?”

“Krystal ’s in jail. I gotta bail her out.”

Floyd sat up, legs splayed, leaned forward, reached inside his coveralls and scratched his nuts. “I have got a king hell motherfucker of a headache. Any shine left?”

“If there is, it’s in the kitchen. Don’t go in the bathroom.”

“Why not?”

“Snake in the toilet.”

“Fuck. I’ve gotta take a dump. You got a bucket?”

“Man up! Just squat and shit!”

“Easy for you to say, but I’m wearing these coveralls.”

Gary raised his left hand and gave Floyd the finger. “There might be a bucket under the sink.”

Floyd pulled himself to his feet and shuffled inside, letting the screen door slam shut behind him. The report bounced around Gary’s skull like a BB. He squeezed his temples with the heels of his hands. Hoisting himself up off the armrests, Gary stumbled through the living room into the kitchen. He could hear Floyd grunting in the back, toward the swamp. Gary filled a Mason jar with tepid brown water, drained it, did it again.

Problem. The ibuprofen was in the bathroom.

Gary went into his bedroom, already too hot with the shades drawn, opened the drawer in his press board nightstand, burrowed through Anal Antics and Guns & Ammo until his hand closed on his
Taurus .38 special. He checked the cylinder. Fully loaded.

Problem. If he shot the porcelain toilet, it would flood the trailer.

Well fuck. These things were never simple. Jamming the pistol in his belt, he returned to the kitchen, took a broom from the closet, and used it to open the bathroom door. He peered in. If the snake were there, it was lurking below the rim, waiting like a Chinese sub. Gary used the broom handle to bring down the lid, ran in and put the wastebasket on top. He opened the mirrored medicine cabinet, grabbed the ibuprofen and closed it.

Who was that squinty fucker staring at him? His hair looked like Jan Michael Vincent’s. He splashed tepid water in his face and used a comb to smooth back his long brown hair. Gary put a hand on the crown of his head. He could feel himself going bald like his old man. He was only forty.

Wait a minute. Hadn’t he been wearing his Stars ‘n Bars? It must have fallen off when he fell. Returning to the kitchen he slammed down four Ibuprofen and went out on the deck. He heard the distant sound of traffic from the Dixie Highway, the honk of birds out in the swamp. Floyd shuffled around from the back and came up on the deck.

“Did you rinse out that bucket?” Gary said.

“Of course. You think I’m some kind of animal?”
“You got seven fifty I can borrow?”
Floyd looked at him as if he were a palmetto bug.

“Fuck. Omina have to sell one of my cards.”

“Aw mannnnn,” Floyd said.

“You gonna come with me?”

Floyd scratched his left armpit. He reminded Gary of a bear. “Fuck else I got to do?”

Gary went back to his bedroom, slid open the accordion closet door, and retrieved one of several three-ring binders holding sports cards. He sat on his bed and flipped through the pages, stopping when he came to his 1987 Topps Barry Bonds Pittsburgh Pirates #320. He pulled out his phone and went online. Fuck yeah. A cool two thou. He didn’t have time to put up on eBay. He’d just have to get what he could from Billy Bob. He removed the card from its plastic sleeve and inserted it in an individual plastic sleeve.

Floyd was smoking a doobie when Gary came out. Gary held out his hand. Floyd passed him the doobie and Gary inhaled, feeling purple paisleys fill his skull.

“You ready?”

“Let’s do it.”

A rabid raccoon hissed at them from the front yard. It stood on its hind legs, jaws open dripping saliva, between the house and Gary’s twelve-year-old F-150.

The boys froze.

“Fuck,” Floyd said. “That’s a rabid raccoon.”

Gary drew the pistol. “Well hang on. Just hang on.”

Resting his arms on the wood rail, Gary gripped the gun in both hands and sighted over the top.

The raccoon hissed.

Gary squeezed the trigger, a puff of dirt appeared next to the raccoon, and the left front tire of his truck whistled as it slowly flattened out.

Floyd leaned on the rail. “Don’t you got a shotgun? What happened to that sweet little Judge you had?”

“I sold it.”

Floyd held out his hand. “Well give me that thing.”

Gary handed him the pistol. Floyd went down two steps and sat on the top level, taking careful aim. The raccoon charged, spraying spittle.

“Shoot it! Shoot it!” Gary said.

Floyd squeezed off three shots, the last one drilling the rabid ‘coon through its thorax, sending it tumbling.

“Well fuck,” Gary said. “We’d better take your van.”

“You got a shovel? We’d better bury that fucker.”

Gary went around to the Suncast resin outdoor storage shed he’d bought at Lowe’s and took out a garden spade and a pair of leather gloves. Putting on the gloves, he used the shovel to carry the raccoon a hundred feet from the house, onto a slight hummock among the mangrove. By the time he’d dug a hole big enough, his clothes were damp from the wet. He thought about taking a shower, but time was of the essence, and that snake was probably waiting to throw back the toilet seat like a stripper coming out of a cake, leap into the shower, and sinks its fangs into Gary’s calf.

By the time they hit the road, it was half past eleven. Floyd stuck a Camel in his mouth and lit it, as he jockeyed the Van up the rutted string of puddles that was Gary’s driveway.

“Let’s get some breakfast on the way.”

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