by R. J. Blacks
I prepare the sweet potatoes and place them in a pot to boil. I do the same with the swamp apples and dandelion roots. Fargo walks in and hands me the turkey.
“Needs rinsing off,” he says.
I do as he says and place it in a large pan. I do a quick brining, use some bread to stuff it, and then place it in the oven. It’ll take several hours to cook so I turn my attention to creating a blueberry and mango pie, improvising as I go along.
Will strolls in and hands me the fish, filleted and ready to cook. It’s well known that fish are best cooked right before the meal, so I place them in the refrigerator and continue experimenting with my desserts. It’s kind of exciting preparing a meal with foodstuffs gathered in the wild. It reminds me of those women in the book, “Little House on the Prairie.” I always wanted to live like those pioneer women, even though life could be hard at times. And now, my childhood fantasy has become reality.
By 3:00 PM, the turkey is done and I grill up the fish. It’s going to be an early meal, but no one’s eaten all day so I don’t think there will be any complaining. Will helps me set the table and put out the food. And what a feast it is. Fargo wasn’t kidding when he enticed us with the merits of the swamp. We could’ve invited ten more people and still have enough food.
Fargo opens his best sea-grape wine, and then dials in some Christmas music on an old radio he hardly uses. It’s not exactly high-fidelity, but it sets the holiday mood and that’s all that matters. We eat our fill, devour a couple bottles of wine, and then retreat to the porch to relax to the orange, red, and purple glow of the setting sun intermingled among random cloud formations over the vast and unspoiled lake directly in front of us. It’s a display that always inspires awe to those who are fortunate enough to witness it.
The afternoon air is starting to get chilly as the sun drops below the horizon and a bit of a wind is picking up, but I’m feeling really mellow, and have no desire to go indoors right now. I gaze out over the lake and daydream about what it was like in this very spot, a hundred years ago, a thousand years ago, or even ten-thousand years ago. Would it have been any different than now? Did the previous inhabitants have everything they needed to survive, just like we do? The present world could suddenly disappear, but right here, at the edge of this lake, we would hardly notice. Sure, we wouldn’t have gas for the airboats, but we’d still have the canoe. And when there’s nothing to rush for, what difference would it make how fast we arrived at our destination? Who would be checking?
I pour myself another glass of wine, settle back, and enjoy the view. I let my mind drift to a state of total relaxation, unfettered by anxiety, or by abstract concepts of pointless speculation. After all, today is Christmas, and I’m entitled to enjoy every minute of it... and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
...
Saturday morning arrives, and as I eat breakfast, reality sets in; I still don’t have any prospects for a job. I need to do something soon or I could be stuck in this rut for months. But first I need to get my specimen jars to Jessica for analysis. I give her a quick call to see if she’s available for a weekend pickup. She agrees to meet me at noon at a Gainesville mall, so I grab a quick breakfast, let Will know where I’m going, and then set off to meet her. I’m getting used to driving around these parts so the two-hour trip is uneventful.
As I drive through the mall parking lot, I spot her black BMW and pull alongside it. She’s sitting in the driver’s seat wearing the same black dress she wore before. We both get out and I hand her the jars conveniently hidden in a generic plastic bag like you would get at any department store. To a casual observer it would look like I just handed her something I had bought at a nearby store. She tells me to check back with her in a week and that’s it. She drives away and I do the same, returning to my temporary home with the satisfaction that the jars are in good hands and will soon reveal their secrets. Once I get experimental data, I can form a hypothesis which would lead to a theory, and finally, publication. It would be the first step in getting myself readmitted to the university and finishing my PhD.
When I get back, Fargo’s parking lot is half filled with vehicles and the airboat is missing. I decide this is a good opportunity to set my sights on finding employment. I enter the cabin and find Will in the kitchen cleaning up.
“Any ideas where I can find a job?” I ask.
“How about those local restaurants?”
“Would they hire an outsider?”
“Can’t hurt to try.”
I freshen up, redo my makeup, and then join Will in the kitchen, making myself a sandwich.
“I’ll be back before dark,” I say, and Will nods in agreement.
I finish up my meal, gather my things, and slip out the front door to my car. I make my way out to Route 40, the only two-lane road from Daytona to Ocala. It’s a well-traveled highway for both truckers and tourists and there are about a dozen small restaurants in our area. But the big rigs and the tourists seldom stop so they cater mostly to local farmers and migrant workers.
I pull into the first restaurant I come across, a small brightly painted building with the words, “Comida Mejicana” painted in large red letters along the roof. It translates to: Mexican Food. I enter the front door and am overwhelmed by the blare of accordions, trumpets, and Spanish-language singers, blending in the style of classic Tex-Mex.
About two-dozen burly men dressed in jeans, flannel shirts, and wide-brimmed hats are either immersed in conversation with their neighbor, playing pool, or standing around with a beer in hand. Every one of them stops what he’s doing and stares at me with a most piercing gaze. I notice not a single woman in the place so I stop in my tracks, turn around, and exit. I sprint to my car, hastily start the engine, and race out of there expecting at any moment the entire male crowd to file out the front door and run after me. But nothing happens, and I conclude this place is definitely off the list.
The second place I stop at looks similar to the first place, so before going in, I remain in the Cruiser watching the clientele come and go. The mix is more family oriented with children occasionally accompanied by two or more adults.
I follow an elderly couple into the restaurant and approach a woman at a counter. She’s speaking Spanish to her workers, but I try addressing her in English. She understands what I’m saying, but her English is broken and she shakes her head letting me know in no uncertain terms she has no work for me.
I get the same response from the other ten restaurants I stop at. They’re all just small family-owned businesses barely making expenses. Even if they wanted help, I doubt they would be able to afford it.
It’s starting to get dark so I head back to Fargo’s place. Will is on the porch in his favorite chair watching the sunset.
“Find work?” he asks.
“There’s not a single restaurant between here and the interstate that can afford to hire anyone.”
“Don’t be so pessimistic.”
“I come from a different world. I don’t fit in.”
“It’s only been a week. Remember what my commander used to say, ‘When you’re out of options, make some.’”
“The only options I have are those restaurants by the interstate... and that’s an hour from here, each way.”
“You’re not thinking outside the box.”
I gaze at the sunset and then, slowly, insensibly, an idea begins to take shape.
“Will, I have a solution, something that might just work.”
“Does it involve me?”
“Actually, yes.”
“Oh boy, now I’m in trouble.”
“Well, do you want to hear it?”
“If I say no, you’re going to tell me anyway, so go ahead.”
“How about this: we start our own restaurant.”
“You’re crazy.”
“It’s not that crazy. I know how to cook and you can be the server... until we get big enough to hire someone.”
“It’s the money I’m worried about. I
t costs plenty to rent those buildings by the main highway. We could go broke before we’ve made a dime.”
“Not by the highway. Right here!”
“That’s even crazier. No one would come here, drive all this way, just for a meal.”
“Well, we could combine the restaurant with the airboat rides and then... add some canoes, nature trails, a petting zoo...”
“Stop. It would never work. Fargo only tolerates the crowds to pay his bills. He’d never go for this.”
“Let’s ask him.”
“I can tell you, I know my brother. He’ll never go for it!”
“Well let’s just say he agrees, are you in?”
“If he agrees, I’m in. But I know my brother, he’ll never agree.”
I hastily put together a meal using leftovers from the Christmas dinner. I trim the table with a tablecloth, light the candles, and then turn on some Christmas music. Fargo will be tired and even a little cranky when he returns, but perhaps a good meal and a little wine will uplift his spirits. Then, if all goes well, we’ll ask him to approve our plan.
Fargo returns right on cue and heads to his bedroom to freshen up. He joins us at the table a few moments later.
“What’s all this? I thought Christmas was over,” he says.
“It only comes once a year. Might as well enjoy it,” I say.
Fargo shrugs, then digs in. Will knows what I’m up to and I see his eyes glance in my direction. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly letting me know he doesn’t think it will work. I smile in return and he gives me that ‘we’ll see’ look.
Fargo starts working on the dessert so I use the opportunity to test his mood.
“How’d it go?”
He grunts a few imperceptible words.
“Get a decent crowd?”
“Not bad,” he says.
“I was looking for a job today.”
“Find one?”
“Did you know there’s not a single restaurant between here and the interstate that caters to out-of-towners?”
“Never thought about it.”
“If someone were to pass through here, they’d either have to stop by the interstate or wait until they got to Ocala.”
“What about those Mexican places?”
“Not everyone wants Mexican.”
“Nothing we can do about it.”
“Well actually there is.”
“You want to open a restaurant.”
“Yes, that’s it. Will and I.”
“That right, Will?”
“Well, can’t say it was my idea. But yeah, I’m in.”
“So go ahead. Do it.”
“There’s a teensy bit more,” I say.
“If you’re asking me to go in with you, the answer’s no.”
“Don’t you want to at least hear the plan.”
“Okay then, go ahead.”
“Will brought up a good point, about how expensive it was to rent a place on the highway. And I don’t like that idea anyway. So... we wanted to do it... here.”
“Here? Where would I live?”
“No, not in this building. Just near here, somewhere on the grounds.”
Will cuts in; “I told her you wouldn’t like it... ”
“Wait, let her finish,” Fargo says.
“The guests that come here have to eat before and after they go on the nature tours. That’s money slipping through your fingers.”
“Go on.”
“If we opened a restaurant on the grounds, the guests would spend that money on breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And maybe even at a gift shop.”
“What would I have to do?” Fargo asks.
“Nothing really. Just give us permission.”
“Fargo, before you agree, remember how you like it quiet, how you never wanted a lot of people around here.”
“Will, you’re right, never liked large crowds. But it’s always been my dream to be in business with you. You know that, always told you so. And when you went off to join the Navy, that dream was crushed. Right now there’s not enough coming in for both of us. The airboats need to be replaced, the house needs a roof, the parking lot needs to be resurfaced, and you know how bad shape the dock is in. This is our chance, maybe the only chance we’ll ever have.”
“Never thought you would tolerate being around crowds.”
“Everyone has to make compromises at some point in their lives. What are you going to do around here? There’s no jobs. When you were working, you helped me and our mother. Her last words were, ‘Help your brother’. I’ll never forget that. It’s time for me to put my wants aside. It’s time for us to help each other.”
The room goes quiet for a few minutes, and then, Fargo breaks the silence: “What do you want from me?”
“I suppose the first step is to decide where to put the building and then get the necessary permits.”
“Forget the permits. They come through tribal council and they never turn anyone down.”
“I have some money saved which I can donate to the project. How much do you think we’ll need?” I ask.
“Follow me,” Fargo says, and leads us towards the door. He grabs a spotlight on the way out and takes us to the unfinished pavilion about a hundred yards away. It has a nice view of the water and is convenient to the parking lot.
“I built this for my mother. She wanted to use it as a meeting place for our people, but then she got sick. One day, when it was obvious her time was short, she hands me this box filled with gold coins. Told me she was saving it for a rainy day, but now she wanted me to use it to turn the pavilion into a restaurant. Told me it would always bring me income. A few days later she passed. After that, I lost all motivation.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
Fargo continues: “I appreciate your offer of funds, but you may need it yourself. The money my mother willed will be more than enough, and it’s what she wanted.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask.
“Absolutely.”
I walk around the darkened pavilion creating a mental image of how the finished restaurant would look. I use my outstretched arms to mark off sections attempting to transfer my visualization to Will and Fargo.
“This whole side should be dining area because it has an unrestricted view of the lake. And the kitchen could be here, facing the parking area making it convenient to bring in food and supplies. And the restrooms could go over there where there’s nothing outside to view.”
“Fine with me,” Fargo says. “Make up the plans and I’ll take care of getting material.”
Next morning, Will and I are up at first light measuring out the pavilion. I hadn’t slept well last night. While lying in bed, in the dark of my room, my mind was running at a million miles per hour, thinking about the possibilities, and how much fun this was going to be. But if I was tired this morning, it didn’t show. A couple of cups of coffee and my overwhelming enthusiasm fixed that.
I record the dimensions in my laptop and create some engineering drawings using a Computer Aided Drafting program I had acquired during my school days. I finish up the drawings and then drive over to the area library to print out the plans. Fargo approves them and then we go to the tribal office to get the necessary permits. On the way back he stops at a building supply company and makes arrangements to have the materials delivered. By six o’clock we’ve completed all the planning and are ready to begin construction as soon as everything arrives. We all settle back, snack on leftovers, and prepare ourselves for the busy week ahead.
Monday morning arrives, and as I lie in bed in the pre-dawn darkness, I hear the sounds of heavy machinery outside. I peek out the window and see some trucks dropping off building materials. Fargo is already up, directing the drivers to where they should unload the material. In thirty minutes it’s all over and the vehicles vacate the premises. As the noise of the engines fade in the distance, the lake and surrounding forest return to the gentle tranquility I have come to love.
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sp; I wander into the kitchen just as Fargo enters.
“Is that everything?” I ask.
“Everything but the air conditioner. That’s coming next week.”
“How long will it take?”
“Well, the foundation and the roof are ready to go. That just leaves the walls, the windows, the wiring, the plumbing, and of course, the air conditioning. I think a couple of weeks should do it.”
And Fargo wasn’t kidding; in ten minutes a couple of his Native American buddies show up and they are relentless. By late afternoon all the framing is done. By Tuesday evening the windows are in. It takes just one day for the wiring and another day for the plumbing. It was now Friday, New Year’s Day, and no one was slacking off. At 8:00 AM they are already putting up sheetrock and by the end of the day they had finished painting the walls. It was really starting to look like a restaurant.
Saturday rolls around and they start laying the ceramic tile floor and then on Sunday, install the kitchen appliances and bathroom fixtures. On Monday, a truck shows up with the air conditioner and a couple of Fargo’s buddies install it. Later in the day, as the men leave, Fargo, Will, and I stand back to admire the building from the parking lot.
“A sign! We’ve forgotten the sign,” I say.
“Not exactly,” Fargo says. He and Will lead me to a barn and cover my eyes with a bandana. They take me inside and remove the bandana. Directly in front is a sign with the words, “Indigo Place” in giant letters. I’m speechless.
“It’s a surprise,” Will says.
“But you had as much to do with this,” I respond.
“But it was originally your idea and would have never happened without you,” Fargo says.
We stroll back to Fargo’s cabin and realize we still need tables, chairs, menus, and a supplier for the food.
“Can we get food from the swamp?” I ask.
“It’s against tribal rules. We can use it for ourselves, but not for commercial purposes,” Fargo says.
“So what do you suggest?”
“I’ll hook up with some local farmers. They have everything we need.”
“And menus?”
