In the Land of Good Living

by Kent Russell

  We moved to the two-lane highway running east-west through Perdido Key. We plodded past grim hotels and fried fish shacks. Noah tried scooching over to the weedy, sloping, safer turf abutting the road’s narrow shoulder. Thrice in the span of a mile, he shrieked when his foot sank through the soft detonating pad of a red-ant land mine. The third time this happened, he jogged into the scrub, kicked like a chorus girl, fell over, and needed help returning to his feet.

  Quickly did we learn that it was impossible for us to lower our heads and trudge mulishly. We simply needed to look into windshields. A watched pot never boils; likewise, a motorist-made-eye-contact-with won’t knock my lungs out of my mouth. Or so it seemed.

  “How many drivers do you think have passed wondering if this is a gun in my hand,” Glenn asked, scanning the horizon with his 4k camera.

  We cut across parking lots where many pairs of warblers were chasing one another in dipping synchronicity, like fine tango dancers. We spanned several bridges and reached mainland Florida just as the sun extinguished itself offshore. Our taffied shadows stretched farther and farther away from us until they dissolved into the mauve dusk. We turned down an unlighted stretch of highway.

  Our knees creaked until they’d locked our legs straight. We tottered on if only to keep from pitching over. At last, a small Baptist church emerged from the timbered darkness.

  We’d tromped eight miles, all told, and we could tromp no more. We lurched toward the teens fellowshipping in the playground. Before we got within twenty yards of them, one of the young women sprinted into the church. Out came three burly men, striding at us with purpose.

  Long story short: Noah was able to disarm them with Panhandle candor. We dropped our packs. Under arc lights in the parking lot, we stretched, shuddered, and yowled like men undergoing werewolf transformations. One of the pastors noticed Glenn’s wedding band. Glenn told him what he’d told us: Upon being asked what she thought of his going on this trip, Glenn’s wife had responded in the affirmative with such enthusiasm that Glenn had wondered, briefly, if she was having an affair. But then his wife pointed out that this trip was a world-class learning experience. Rather than collecting another useless diploma at film school, Glenn would “invest” his money in this. He’d learn on the fly how to be a director, cinematographer, casting agent, key grip.

  The pastor placed a hand on Glenn’s shoulder, walked him a few steps away from the group. In a low voice, he told him: “If you need marriage counseling, son…”

  Try as we might, we could not convince these Baptists that the three of us were a danger to none but ourselves. They informed us that sleeping in the church was out of the question, though we were welcome to camp in the woods behind it so long as we watched out for coyotes. They wished us good luck. Then they hesitated before leaving. They asked if we believed in Jesus Christ. I bugged my eyes at Glenn and Noah until they nodded their assent. The men prayed over us, earnestly beseeching our blessing in Christ’s name.

  “Don’t see how it could hurt,” Noah said after. He half-assembled his tent with the indifference of a guy who’s slept in places far, far worse. “Gentlemen,” he added with a nod of his head before ducking under his flap.

  Glenn and I had decided to share a two-man tent. Mostly for logistical reasons; Glenn’s pack was filled with film gear, so he hadn’t the room for a sleeping pad, much less a tent. In his most condescending camp-counselor voice, he explained how I was supposed to stake the tent poles and attach the rain fly. I followed along as best I could.

  We’d been punchy on the road, but now we were too drained for yuks. The tent grew hot, close, and thick with masculine reek. A smell not necessarily bad, no, just piquant, like a crumbly blue cheese. I dozed to the intermittent thwap of hissing things searching for ingress.

  * * *

  —

  That was one day down. Six later, here we were in a parking lot strewn with shopping carts rolling about like ghost ships. I glanced from them to our packs. “We are fools,” I announced.

  “What now?” Noah asked from his truck bed.

  Hobblingly, I went and cased the parking lot. The hiking boots thrust upon me by my uncle, unyielding and German and vaguely cocoonish, have been painfully metamorphosing my flat feet since, oh, mile three. Raw, pink, and throbbing now, they are nothing like the feet I remember. They are becoming something else.

  My Quasimodo gait attracted attention, but oh well. I searched out the trustiest steed. The carts from Michaels appeared weak, sheltered; their plastic wheels had no rubber on them. The PetSmart ones were promising, but their carriages proved too flimsy for the amount of pricey electronics we had. In time, I limped my way to a wide, red, heavy-duty Office Depot cart. I pushed her up and down as many rows of cars as I thought prudent. The old girl clattered so vigorously that my hands went numb against her bar. She pulled hard to port, too, causing what little muscle I had to rise to the surface of my forearms. I’d no choice but to name her Rolling Thunder.

  Glenn was standing next to our bags by the time I returned. Noah was still resting his eyes in the truck bed.

  “You jackasses leave seven thousand dollars’ worth of gear sitting here, with no one to watch it?” Glenn asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “But look what I got!” I spun the cart while smiling like a Showcase Showdown beauty.

  Noah clambered out of the truck, yawning. “You get your computer fixed?”

  “The Geek Squad guys said it’ll be a few more hours. So we’re sidetracked here another day at least.”

  “Fine by me,” I said. “My dogs have lost the ability to bark.”

  With that, we shoved off. A teen in a red smock watched disinterestedly as I guided the cart out of the parking lot, Glenn and Noah flanking me. “We need two poles and a tarp,” Noah said. “Turn this mother into a highway schooner.” We doubled back to last night’s beach campground.

  —

  FADE IN:

  EXT. U.S. ROUTE 98—MIDMORNING

  The men are on the shoulder, using Rolling Thunder to pierce the knit of humidity. All three sport unique limps, though Kent’s is particularly exaggerated. He lags a few paces behind Noah and Glenn. Beyond them, the walls of gray slash pines seem to be closing in.

  NOAH

  (over his shoulder)

  How many synonyms for “trudge” you got?

  GLENN

  You’ll be like Eskimos with “snow” by the end of this.

  KENT

  (huffing)

  My feet are monkeys’ paws that’ve run out of wishes.

  None laugh. All nod.

  GLENN

  I don’t know what I was expecting at the start of this trip. Or even before this trip. But I know it was not sharing a motel bed with you every third night.

  KENT

  You should be so lucky.

  NOAH

  I’ll trade with you next time. You can sleep on the hard-ass pullout.

  GLENN

  I don’t actually mind a hard pullout.

  KENT

  Oh, yeah?

  NOAH

  Is that so!

  GLENN

  You guys don’t make honesty a rewarding experience.

  Glenn is torquing his lower body in order to keep the cart’s considerable payload upright along the sloping road shoulder. His movements are reminiscent of the way a surfer travels along the face of a wave—little elliptical humps. He is grimacing.

  NOAH

  Having to watch these trucks coming at us, I haven’t felt this…

  KENT

  Clenched?

  NOAH

  Not since the military. That’s what’s fucking exhausting.

  KENT

  Never hear the one that kills you.

  Cars whoosh by in groups of thre
e to five, swerving away from the men as though afraid their cart might suddenly detonate. From a nearby Air Force base comes the rip-roaring sound of F-22s banking, landing, taking off.

  KENT

  (reading from phone)

  You guys get this push notification? “New poll suggests that Mr. Trump is keeping his hopes alive in Florida, the largest and most diverse of the crucial battleground states. The reason: White voters favor him by a large margin.”

  NOAH

  Yeah. Dead heat between them, right?

  GLENN

  That is absolutely terrifying.

  NOAH

  Guarantee you Trump’s winning everything north of Gainesville. Handily. Guarantee.

  A convoy of flatbed trucks hauling bundles of pine trunks blasts the men with an evergreen-scented slipstream, mussing their hair.

  GLENN

  Are “scared shitless” and “scared the shit out of” the same reaction?

  NOAH

  Say what?

  GLENN

  Do the phrases “It scared me shitless” and “It scared the shit out of me” refer to the same thing?

  NOAH

  Huh.

  KENT

  They don’t have those in Canada?

  GLENN

  I am pretty sure we didn’t come up with them.

  NOAH

  They’re both involuntary, right? Just involuntary reactions to fear. So I’d say: the same.

  GLENN

  So when I see those poll results, or I see a Mack truck drifting across the shoulder line, I am free to say either “It scares me shitless” or “It scares the shit out of me.”

  KENT

  Correct.

  Glenn, nodding, pushes Rolling Thunder up the shoulder onto the level, empty lane.

  CUT TO:

  EXT. U.S. ROUTE 98—HOURS LATER

  GLENN

  When do you suppose we will reach the parts of Florida that recharge our souls?

  NOAH

  Ehhh…

  Traffic thins, and the men take the opportunity to lower their heads. Conversation stalls as they pass a cluster of small white crosses planted next to the shoulder. Bouquets of fresh-cut perennials have been laid around them.

  NOAH (CONT’D)

  (eyes averted, talking with hands)

  I’ve been to Iraq. The Middle East, and shit. This is not a new take. I know that. But to me, going back to those poll results…These places are almost the same. Like—an old, backwards culture forced to confront, like, Twitter and shit. A more advanced civilization is surrounding them that they don’t like and can’t ever hope to beat. So they reject that civilization, you know, violently if they have to. They have a sense of past greatness that’s been lost. And there’s a shitload of resentment at how weak they’ve become in comparison. They are who they think they are because of the rage they direct at that civilization.

  NOAH (CONT’D)

  (looking up)

  If that makes any sense.

  Noah nudges Glenn off the handlebar, taking over the cart. Behind them, Kent pants heavily, his mouth gaping as though a magician were pulling a string of knotted handkerchiefs out of him.

  GLENN

  I think I am about done with this cart, guys. The torquing is killing my tendons.

  KENT

  (gulping air)

  Look like…Soviet realist painting…opening valve with a wrench.

  Over Kent’s shoulder, a GREEN JEEP comes speeding down the tunnel of bare pines. It passes the three men, cuts across the highway, and SCREECHES TO A HALT on the shoulder some fifty feet ahead of them. The men stop in their tracks.

  GLENN

  Hmm.

  KENT

  (hands on knees)

  This time, if they offer us money, we’re taking it.

  Offscreen, a thirty-something CONCERNED CITIZEN wearing a trilby hat, chef pants, and a camouflage tank top emerges from her Jeep smoking a Black & Mild. She opens the rear passenger door, removes the constituent parts of a wheelchair, and hurls them into the nearby drainage ditch. The men register this with souring expressions.

  CONCERNED CITIZEN (O.S.)

  (shouting)

  Get in!

  GLENN

  (voice raised)

  Come again?

  CONCERNED CITIZEN (O.S.)

  Get in the car!

  GLENN

  Ahhh. Do you at least want to know where we’re going?

  Offscreen, the Concerned Citizen takes a few steps toward the men. The three friends lean back in their stances.

  CONCERNED CITIZEN (O.S.)

  The car! Get in it!

  GLENN

  Sorry! We’re on a walking trip!

  NOAH

  Yeah, sorry, lady. No cheating.

  Unseen by the camera, the Concerned Citizen begins to tear up. She kneads her hands, brings them to her face, kisses them while kneading them. She begins to MOAN AUDIBLY.

  KENT

  Thank you, though! That’s very kind of you!

  Glenn retrieves the camera from the cart and aims it at the Concerned Citizen. Seeing this, she sprints back to her Jeep. Its rear tires spew sod as the vehicle ACCELERATES across the oncoming lane, SWERVES into the eastbound one, and DISAPPEARS from the men’s sight.

  KENT (O.S.)

  Jesus H. Christ.

  NOAH (O.S.)

  I didn’t want to say anything. But I think I saw what looked like a rifle on that woman’s dashboard.

  GLENN (O.S.)

  Phenomenal.

  KENT (O.S.)

  Let’s, ah, take a break in these woods for a bit.

  —

  MILE 87 — U.S. HIGHWAY 98

  HACKLES UP IN FORTRESS FLORIDA

  We’re currently stalled in a neck of the woods known as Fortress Florida. Here be the greatest concentration of military installations in a state that historically has been dependent upon them. For example—some distance ahead of us is Tyndall Air Force Base, while behind us beyond layers of high fences is Eglin Air Force Base. Known as the “largest air base in the free world,” Eglin covers about 640 square miles across three counties, encompassing nearly half a million acres.

  No other section of Florida is as tied to military spending as this stretch of Panhandle; no other section is as contingent upon federal funds. Generations of politicians have ensured that the pump stays primed: Claude Pepper, Spessard Holland, George Smathers, Dante Fascell, Bill Young. Come the Cold War, these politicians gave over an area equal to that of Rhode Island in order to combat the Red Menace. By the time the Berlin Wall fell, only California had more defense and defense-related establishments than Florida. And only tourism brought in more money for the state.

  Though it’s not just Northwest Florida that owes its existence to war. War in general has been a tremendous boon for Florida. The three bitter guerrilla wars waged against the Seminoles in the 1800s (mirroring the Indian wars raging across the western frontier) brought waves of troops and support personnel to the mostly vacant state. In order to move these troops and supplies, the army had to build roads and set up a communications network. Eventually, the outposts in Fort Myers, Fort Meade, Fort Pierce, and Fort Lauderdale became towns. Fort Gatlin turned into proto-Orlando. Fort Brooke—it became Tampa. Fort Dallas is now Miami.

  The Civil War, the Spanish-American War, and World War I—these, too, brought swarms of people into Florida to train, ship out, or, in the case of barkeeps and brothel runners, extract cash. Many of these people decided to stay or else return once the fighting was done. I cannot overstate how important this development is to understanding modern Florida. The expansion of the military-industri
al complex explains in large part how Florida went from the least populated state in the South on the eve of World War II to the third largest state in the union following it.

  Between 1941 and 1945, Florida was converted into an ever-larger army/navy garrison. There sprang up a new air station at Jacksonville; an army training center near Starke; the reactivated naval base at Key West; Drew and MacDill airfields at Tampa; as well as Eglin in the Panhandle. Millions of young people from every demographic group across this fruited plain poured into and around these bases. One out of every seven servicepersons, in fact. They marveled at the untamed peninsula, which resembled nothing they’d known before.

  Or so my maternal grandfather told me. He was a squat Slav who’d come of age on a western Pennsylvania farm. At eighteen, he passed through Miami on his way to the European theater. Like so many others, my grandfather came back to Florida with his wife after the war. They bought a new tract house, pumped out children. Their daughter—my mother—would go on to marry the son of an Ohioan minesweeper who’d done his training on the west coast of Florida. Some time after that, I hit the scene, a direct outgrowth of Fortress Florida’s buildup.

  The very moment the United States became a superpower, modern Florida blinked into being. Born of the Pax Americana, begotten by the American Century, New Eden from First Eden, consubstantial with the fatherland, amen. The transformations that swept the country in the decades after World War II weren’t so much transformations for Florida; they were first principles. The economy was humming along at wartime speed. Millions of veterans, laborers, immigrants, and children of immigrants were being launched into wide-scale material comfort the likes of which the world had never seen. Workers were granted two-week vacations and pensions, even. Advertising, marketing, and public relations firms were busy transforming “leisure” into “consumption.” The large, impersonal forces of technology that had been summoned in order to deal out death were now offering themselves as palliatives for the fear of death they had aroused.

  This—history’s most spectacular burst of economic expansion and upward mobility—this was what modern Florida was born of, and into, like a Baby Boomer. And, like a Baby Boomer, modern Florida knew only this, so in the most important respects, modern Florida took it for granted.