Read Online The Man Who Ivented Florida by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Randy Wayne White
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the orderlies might come looking for him, once their TV show was over. Which meant he couldn't stay out in the open; couldn't risk hitchhiking because, if they caught him, they might put him jail. A boat was the best way to go, run right down the coast and cut in through the Ten Thousand Islands. But he didn't have a boat. Didn't have a dime to call Tuck, either. Or maybe it cost more now. It'd been a long time since Joseph had used a pay phone.
I could steal a car. . . .
That was an idea. Joseph was not a thief by nature, but if some one left their keys in their car, they deserved to be reminded that it was a dangerous world. But that would mean the police. And Joseph didn't like or trust the police. It was a natural distrust, one built up over long years of living just outside the law. As Tuck was fond of saying, "A cop and an undertaker got a lot in common. Neither one of them buggers wants to talk to a man when things is going smooth."
No, Joseph decided, he would not steal a car. But if he found some coins on the floor of an unlocked car, that was another story. Then he could call Tuck and get a ride. Until then, he'd have to walk. Find a way to head south and stay out of sight in case the orderlies came cruising for him.
Joseph hurried away from the rest home, keeping the three-story concrete hulk at his back. He walked past car lots and Burger Kings, then turned into the first residential section he came to. But damn, there was traffic here, too—Florida had become one big car lot. Then he saw a car coming that looked official—had lights on top—so he began to cut across back portions of lawn, ducking under clotheslines and skirting bright windows. For the first time, he began to relax. He traveled quietly, enjoying his new freedom and the scent of the October night. He hummed a little tune, too—a tune he remembered as an old Indian song, the birth song, perhaps, but that was actually the big band hit "Tangerine."
"Tangerine makes a lady da-dum. Tangerine da-dah-de-dum . . ."
As he walked, he was constantly testing himself, exploring joints and appendages for the various discomforts he had suffered. But there were none. Well, the pain wasn't as bad, anyway. That water . . . Tuck had been right about that vitamin water. Joseph had known the man for fifty years, and it was the first time Tuck had ever been right about anything.
For once, one of my grandfather's stories has come true. . . .
Thinking that, believing it, produced an odd feeling in Joseph—a strange, floating sense of intoxication, as if he were outside his body, looking down from above. Made him dizzy—that's how strong the feeling was—and he stopped in the shadows of a ficus tree to gather himself.
This is just great. My body's gotten better, but my mind's turned soft. What the hell's going on here!
He stood in the shadows, hoping the feeling would pass.
People who did not know Joseph well considered him a simple man of few needs and fewer thoughts. In truth, he was as intelligent as he was sensitive, and, like most sensitive people, harbored an innate mistrust of his own intellect. Added to this burden was a lifetime of wrestling with his own Indian heritage. His grandfather—called Chekika's Son—had been the great-grandson of Chekika, the giant Indian who had been shot, then hung, accused of killing settlers in the Florida Keys. Chekika, his grandfather had told Joseph many times, was the last of west Florida's native race. In him flowed the blood of the warrior Calusa, a sea people who had built high shell mounds that could still be found on the islands; built them long before the straggler Seminole and Mic-cosukee had wandered onto the peninsula.
Growing up in the Everglades, Joseph's grandfather had told him the Calusa stories; shared the Calusa legends as if they were great truths: On the full moon of the autumnal equinox, owls could speak as humans do; that the souls of brave men soared like eagles, seeking revenge long after
I could steal a car. . . .
That was an idea. Joseph was not a thief by nature, but if some one left their keys in their car, they deserved to be reminded that it was a dangerous world. But that would mean the police. And Joseph didn't like or trust the police. It was a natural distrust, one built up over long years of living just outside the law. As Tuck was fond of saying, "A cop and an undertaker got a lot in common. Neither one of them buggers wants to talk to a man when things is going smooth."
No, Joseph decided, he would not steal a car. But if he found some coins on the floor of an unlocked car, that was another story. Then he could call Tuck and get a ride. Until then, he'd have to walk. Find a way to head south and stay out of sight in case the orderlies came cruising for him.
Joseph hurried away from the rest home, keeping the three-story concrete hulk at his back. He walked past car lots and Burger Kings, then turned into the first residential section he came to. But damn, there was traffic here, too—Florida had become one big car lot. Then he saw a car coming that looked official—had lights on top—so he began to cut across back portions of lawn, ducking under clotheslines and skirting bright windows. For the first time, he began to relax. He traveled quietly, enjoying his new freedom and the scent of the October night. He hummed a little tune, too—a tune he remembered as an old Indian song, the birth song, perhaps, but that was actually the big band hit "Tangerine."
"Tangerine makes a lady da-dum. Tangerine da-dah-de-dum . . ."
As he walked, he was constantly testing himself, exploring joints and appendages for the various discomforts he had suffered. But there were none. Well, the pain wasn't as bad, anyway. That water . . . Tuck had been right about that vitamin water. Joseph had known the man for fifty years, and it was the first time Tuck had ever been right about anything.
For once, one of my grandfather's stories has come true. . . .
Thinking that, believing it, produced an odd feeling in Joseph—a strange, floating sense of intoxication, as if he were outside his body, looking down from above. Made him dizzy—that's how strong the feeling was—and he stopped in the shadows of a ficus tree to gather himself.
This is just great. My body's gotten better, but my mind's turned soft. What the hell's going on here!
He stood in the shadows, hoping the feeling would pass.
People who did not know Joseph well considered him a simple man of few needs and fewer thoughts. In truth, he was as intelligent as he was sensitive, and, like most sensitive people, harbored an innate mistrust of his own intellect. Added to this burden was a lifetime of wrestling with his own Indian heritage. His grandfather—called Chekika's Son—had been the great-grandson of Chekika, the giant Indian who had been shot, then hung, accused of killing settlers in the Florida Keys. Chekika, his grandfather had told Joseph many times, was the last of west Florida's native race. In him flowed the blood of the warrior Calusa, a sea people who had built high shell mounds that could still be found on the islands; built them long before the straggler Seminole and Mic-cosukee had wandered onto the peninsula.
Growing up in the Everglades, Joseph's grandfather had told him the Calusa stories; shared the Calusa legends as if they were great truths: On the full moon of the autumnal equinox, owls could speak as humans do; that the souls of brave men soared like eagles, seeking revenge long after
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