(2005) Wrapped in Rain (6 page)

I preferred driving at night, but for the last three days, I had been up early and awake late. My work had taken me to South Florida to photograph a wiry old South Florida alligator hunter on Kodachrome for an eightpage spread in a national travel magazine. For some reason, Travel America had yet to make the jump from slides to digital-something I had mostly done about four years ago. I can shoot either, but if you press me or pick up my camera when I'm shooting for myself, you'll find Kodachrome. They're hard to hit, but I'm a slide junkie.

The long hours had caught up with me. I glanced in the rearview mirror and my eyes looked like a road map of long-forgotten, red county highways. Limp strands of shoulder-length hair that, except for the tips, had not been cut in about seven years fell below my collar. Evidence of my rebellion. One of the last times I had come home to see her, Miss Ella brushed my cheek and told me, "Child, there's too much light in that face to hide it behind all that hair. Don't go hiding your light under a bushel. You hear me?" Maybe the mirror showed that too. Maybe my light had grown dim.

A week ago, my agent, Doc Snake Oil, phoned me and said, "Tuck, it's an easy three days. You drive down, hop in this guy's airboat, watch him wrestle a couple of big lizards, down a few cold beers and a couple pounds of gator tail, and drop five grand in your bank account." Doc paused and drew on the unfiltered cigarette that never left his mouth during waking hours. The inhalation was purposeful, and he let the words "five grand" resonate through the phone.

I loved his voice but had never told him. It had that beautiful tonal resonation of a forty-year smoker. Which he was. He exhaled and said, "This is a vacation compared to where you were last month. Warmer too. And chances are good we can sell secondary rights of any unused pics and get you a second cover from this spread alone. Besides, people in Florida love it when a native cracker sticks his head in a gator's mouth."

It sounded reasonable, so I left home in Clopton, Alabama, and drove my three-quarter-ton truck to the Florida Everglades where the boisterous sixty-two-year-old Whitey Stoker shook my hand. Whitey had the biceps of a brick mason, the chin of a prizefighter, and no fear when it came to alligators-or bootleg moonshine that he sold in cases out the sides of his boat. Late into the first night, he looked at me with his spotlight bobbing atop his head, like a coal miner who'd found a vein of gold, and said, "You mind?"

"Suit yourself." And he did.

In three days, we-or more truthfully, Whitey-caught seven alligators, the biggest of which was twelve feet, eight inches. But that's not all. We also sold twelve cases of unlabeled Mason jars to everybody from little guys with fourday beards and nervous eyes, who were poling twelve-foot canoes, to potbellied wannabes wearing captain's hats and gold watches and driving two-hundred-thousand-dollar cigarette boats. Whitey played the role of the ignorant Florida cracker pretty well. No, he played it to perfection. In truth, he had tapped into a thriving market, and as its sole distiller and distributor, he had the market monopolized and cornered. Whitey may have made a living removing nuisance alligators from golf-front retirement villas before they ate the owner's little lapdog that liked to squat down by the lagoon, but he was supporting his retirement with white lightning. Once he got a few drinks in him, I discovered that he was all too happy to talk about it. "Yeah, I can clear a thousand a week. Been that way since the late '80s."

Whitey was something of a health nut. In a twisted sort of way. Breakfast was a thick cup of black coffee sifted through a pantyhose filter that had been squeezed across a coat hanger, topped with two tablespoons of Coffeemate. He used the hose to clean out the weebles. Lunch consisted of a piece of bologna slapped between two slices of Wonder Bread smothered in mustard, chased with an RC Cola and a Moonpie. Dinner was a production, and in true form, he saved the best for last. For five nights, Whitey, who wore neither a shirt nor bug repellant, fired up a well-used and seldom-cleaned grease cooker that stood center-stage atop his back porch. After years of unrestricted use, the porch was more slippery than, to quote Whitey, "snot on snot."

Whitey had taken a blowtorch to a beer keg, cut the top off, and wedged it into a rod-iron frame that housed a burner fed by a two-hundred-gallon propane tank that leaned against the house. Whitey pointed to his cooker and said, "It used to rattle and slide about, so I bolted it to the deck." The setup was more akin to a jet engine than a backyard cooking device. The first time he fired it up, it sounded like a low-flying jet. Each night, Whitey sparked the burner, heated the keg half-filled with reused grease, and then threw in several pounds of gator tail that had spent all day soaking in buttermilk, beer, Louisiana hot sauce, and four handfuls of pepper. In spite of Whitey's affection for his own conversation, the old guy was really rolling out the red carpet-albeit a greasy one. The mixture of cold beer, mosquitoes, fried gator tail, hot sauce, and the sound of croaking bullfrogs and mating alligators, topped off with a sixty-mile-an-hour moonlit airboat ride across the Everglades, was a welcome release.

I veered off 1-10 West at the first exit, touched the brake, and started paying attention. On the seat next to me sat a brown paper sack stained with dark brown grease spots and filled with three more pounds of fried gator. Stashed behind the seat were two milk jugs of Whitey's best recipe. "Here," he said like a German waitress at Oktoberfest, dishing out beer steins. "It'll cure what ails you." The jugs should have come with a label that read, WARNING: EXTREMELY FLAMMABLE. I'm not much of a drinker, but I just didn't have the heart to tell him. So I drove north and transported illegal liquor across state lines.

I was never much of a health nut either. Three of my favorite foods are ranch-style beans, cornbread, and sardines. Most guys, when they travel, will stop at a nice restaurant and order a steak, or they'll drive through fast food and order a Whopper. Don't get me wrong, I love both, but few things are better than ranch-style beans sopped up with some cornbread, or a can of sardines covered in Louisiana hot sauce and scooped up with a pack of saltine crackers. I'll even eat them cold if I can't find a microwave or a stove. I know it sounds gross, but it's a simple pleasure, and other than the sodium, it's almost healthy.

Coasting down the exit onto State Road 73, I saw one poorly lit gas station with a single pump and old signBessie's Full Service.

Bessie's was decorated with a collage of eight tilted and swinging neon beer signs that crowded the insides of the windows. The "Open 24 Hrs" sign dangled from one hook, half-concealed by the "Lottery Tickets Sold Here" poster. Inside, a small television showed the Home Shopping Network. Currently, the jewelry hour. The screen zoomed in on two hands displaying a cheesy bracelet with matching earrings. The bottom left-hand corner of the screen read, "4 Easy Payments of $99.95."

Behind the cash register, with her head pointed up at the TV, was a short yet enormous woman with a hyena's laugh. In dramatic disgust, she tossed her head, raised the remote control, and pressed the recall button. The screen immediately changed to a flash of explosions and machine-gun fire followed by a handsome, dark-haired Brit who straightened his tie and checked his watch-an Omega Seamaster Chronometer with a blue face. The screen flashed again and said, "007 will return in a moment." She threw the remote back onto the countertop and dug her hand back into a half-eaten bag of barbeque pork rinds.

Apparently, Bessie's primarily sold diesel, but that did not explain the deep double ruts that circled behind the station. Underneath the pump, an industrial-size plastic trash can spilled over with more trash around it than in it. Grease puddles stained the cement, although a few had been hastily covered with sand and what looked like powdered clothes detergent. A paper towel dispenser hung on the steel support post, but somebody had stolen the squeegee, and cobwebs now filled the empty space left by the absence of paper towels. A faded Coke machine stood against the front of the building, but all the "Empty" lights were lit up, further accentuating the seven bullet holes that riddled the center. To the right of the building, several strands of heavy chain draped across the one-car mechanics bay. A "Closed" sign hung from the lowest chain and swung every time the big barking dog behind it leaned against the door. Painted across the front of the garage in red spray paint were the words, "Forget Dog, Beware of Owner." A smaller sign read, "Rottweiler Spoken Here."

I pulled close to the pump and parked behind an oddly out-of-place Volvo station wagon with New York tags. It looked like something purchased directly out of a primetime commercial. A cellular antenna and shiny black bike racks covered the top. In the racks, the owner had locked a small chrome dirt bike with knobby tires and training wheels that might fit an eager five-year-old.

I shut off my diesel and stepped out. I can't really explain my fascination with diesel engines, or trucks, but both do something for me. The low, gutteral whomp, the clickety-clack of valves slamming against metal under the inordinately high compression, the manual six-speed transmission, the rough, gut jolting suspension. Maybe it just reminds me of driving the tractor.

Bessie gave me a once-over-something that didn't take long. What she saw was anything but noteworthy. I'm slender, about six feet, shoulder-length sandy hair, thirtyish, fit-looking but starting to show some wear, jeans, T-shirt stained with hot sauce, running shoes. I yawned, stretched, and slung the Canon over my shoulder. After nine years, the camera had become an appendage.

"Hey, good-lookin'," Bessie sang over the intercom. I waved behind me and unscrewed my gas cap. "You need any help, darlin', you let me know." I waved again and turned, and she leaned over the countertop, accentuating two of her more obvious features. Something she had done before.

When I opened the cab door to grab my wallet, the barking from behind the garage door went from nuisance to ballistic. The sound told me saliva was spewing everywhere. Bessie slapped the countertop with her huge palm and yelled, "Hush, Maxximus!" The dog paid her no attention, and when I pushed down the lever and turned the gas on, the "Closed" sign started banging against the door just like they do in the movies seconds before the tornado swoops down and levels the earth. I looked over my shoulder and heard the dog rapidly running back and forth between the front door and the garage door. His toenails were cleaning out the grooves in the floor as he dug in and pressed his nose into the small crack at the bottom. With no change in the dog's behavior, Bessie yelled again at the top of her lungs, "Maxximus, don't make me do it. I'll mash that dad-blame button in two shakes if you don't shut up!"

If Maxximus had been to obedience school at one time, there was no sign of it. I pumped the gas with both eyes trained on the door and the cab door open.

Growing more irritated, the woman shoveled another handful of pork rinds in her mouth, brushed the crumbs off her chest, grabbed a second remote from the countertop-this one fitted with a small antenna and one red button-pointed it toward the garage, and slowly pressed the red button one time with the tip of her index finger. A smile creased her face as she pressed the button, letting her fingertip taste the rush of electricity. Her eyes never left the TV.

Behind the bay door, the dog yelped and evidently knocked over the water dispenser, because I heard a huge crash, and then about five gallons of water gushed out from underneath the front door. Maxximus, now whimpering, stuck his nose to the base of the door and began licking voraciously. "I told you, you stupid canine," the woman yelled, and half-eaten pork rinds bubbled out the sides of her mouth. Beneath the door, the high-pitched whine continued.

The gas tanks supplying the pumps must have been low, because they pumped more of a dribble than a flow. The methodical clicking with every dime told me that this would take a while. I wedged the gas cap into the handle and began looking for a squeegee to wash off the lovebugs. Not finding one, I uncoiled a hose next to the pump and sprayed the windshield and grille. Maxximus had now grown relatively quiet except for sniffing at the base of the garage door and running laps between the front and back doors. Topping off my tank at thirty-four gallons, I heard a trickle behind the door and then saw a single stream of yellow liquid seeping beneath the door and running along the cracks of the sidewalk.

I skipped over the grease spots and stepped inside the store, a cowbell ringing above me. "Evening," I said. Not taking her eyes off 007, she waved the back of her hand in my general direction and said, "Hey, honey, don't mind Maxximus. He can't get out. But," she said, pointing beneath the counter, "if he do, I'll shoot his butt." Poised to shovel another handful of rinds into her mouth, she waved her fist toward the back left corner of the store and said, `John's occupied. If it's an emergency, I got another'n in the back."

"No thanks." I pointed at the coffeepot. "Coffee fresh?"

"Sugar"-she rolled her eyes-"there ain't nothing fresh in here, but if you wait five minutes, I'll brew some."

I pulled the pot from the warmer, sniffed it, nodded, and said, "No ma'am, this smells fine."

"Suit yourself." I poured myself a cup and placed it on the counter. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a small boy peering around the bubble gum aisle. He was wearing a red baseball cap backwards, a two-holster belt with two shiny six-shooters, and scuffed black cowboy boots that looked like they never came off during daylight hours.

"Hey, partner, that your bike?"

The little cowboy nodded slowly, trying not to drop his armful of chewing gum or expose it to whoever was behind the women's bathroom door.

"Nice bike," I said. The boy had beautiful blue eyes.

The kid nodded again and grabbed another pack of gum off the rack.

"Yeah," I said, looking at my watch, "I'd be tired too if I were you. It's past both our bedtimes." The kid looked over his shoulder toward the women's bathroom and nodded again. From behind the door of the women's bathroom, a soft woman's voice said, `Jane? Wait right there. And only one piece of bubblegum." The kid gave the door another glance and then slid his hand down the rack and snagged another piece of Super Bubble, bringing his tally to what looked like about twenty. His pockets were full and brimming over with yellow, blue, and red wrappers.