Naked Came the Florida Man

by Tim Dorsey

  Rain poured harder and the field began turning to mud. Runners lost their footing and passes were impossible to catch. Referees had towels on the field to wipe the ball down between each snap.

  It was time to call running plays from here on out. Not to move the ball, but to burn the clock. It was also one of those unwritten rules of football decorum. Don’t pass and run up the score at the end. That’s why the entire team on the field was second and third string. And even then, Pahokee was unstoppable. They consistently moved the ball five to ten yards a play. They entered the red zone, which means the twenty. Three minutes left.

  Lamar Calhoun finished another chat with the head coach and walked back over to the players’ bench. “Chris?”

  She was leaning forward, wrapped up in the game and still shouting encouragement. She raised her eyes. “Yes, Coach?”

  “Start warming up.”

  It froze her.

  “Did you hear me?”

  An eager nod. She sprang off the bench and began running toward the practice kicking net.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Calhoun pointed back under the bench. “You’re going to need that.”

  Chris raced back and snatched her helmet.

  Pahokee scored again even faster than expected. Chris barely had time to stretch, no practice kicks. She ran onto the field with ten boys as the rain whipped even harder. Some of her teammates raced past her, slapping her shoulder pads. “Show ’em what you got, Chris.”

  As she teed up the ball, shouting came from the opposite sidelines. The other coach frantically waved his clipboard at his receiving team. They had just realized a girl was kicking. “Move up! Move up!”

  The visiting team advanced ten yards.

  The clipboard kept waving. “More!”

  The players positioned themselves fifteen yards ahead of where they normally fielded a kick.

  Chris stared down at the ball and took a few steps back. Thunder boomed from the clouds over the stadium lights. She looked left and right down the Blue Devil line. Boys nodded back, helmets dripping. The referee blew a whistle for play to resume. Chris ran forward and put her shoe into the leather.

  Now here’s the thing about kickoffs: they’re live balls. Which means that after it travels ten yards, either team can grab it for possession.

  It was an exceptionally high kick, which, along with the rain, threw off the receiving team’s depth perception. They began slowly backpedaling. Meanwhile, the Pahokee line was sprinting full speed. By the time the visiting team realized the ball was seriously over their heads, all the players were at roughly the same spot on the field.

  The ball bounced at the two-yard line and rolled into the end zone. Now it was a full-out race to see who could get there first. A player in a blue jersey leaped horizontally and landed on the ball just before it rolled out of bounds. The referee raised two arms straight into the air.

  Touchdown.

  The home crowd exploded.

  All eyes were on the end zone. They didn’t notice it at first. But back toward the other end of the field, whistles were blowing and numerous yellow flags had flown.

  Pahokee wasn’t trying to run up the score. But the other team felt they had done something far more insulting to rub their opponent’s noses in it. They’d sent in a girl.

  So here’s what happened when the play began. The forward players of the receiving team usually begin moving back to set up their blocks. This time, however, the two players in the middle ran forward as fast as they could. The game was so unwinnable that penalties didn’t matter anymore.

  Chris had stood alone, watching the ball sail. Two seconds later, she was clobbered by a pair of players coming in from both sides. They sent her flying onto her back. That drew the first whistle and flag. After a few more seconds, as Chris started to push herself up, they pounced again, making sure to push her helmet hard into the grass. “Stay down, girl!”

  More whistles and flags. People in the stands began to notice and point, and the celebration in the end zone ceased. The Pahokee team watched two cocky players trotting away from where their kicker was faltering as she tried to get up, a big chunk of muddy turf stuck in her face mask. “Chris!”

  The offending players never made it back to their sideline. The Pahokee bench emptied and they were swarmed, then the visiting team entered the fray. It took a while to untangle, but coaches and cops were ultimately able to pull everyone apart.

  For a victory, it was unusually silent in the Pahokee locker room. Normally a fight, let alone a bench-clearing brawl, would receive a tongue-lashing from the coaching staff. The players were waiting for the rebuke that never came. Everyone knew what wasn’t said aloud. Chris may have been viewed in the past as just a girl, but now she was a Blue Devil, and nobody but nobody does that to one of theirs.

  Chapter 30

  The Next Morning

  The sun had just peeked over the eastern sky of Lake Okeechobee when a Dodge Ram pickup with all the chrome and jacked-up tires and everything else it stands for rolled into the parking lot. There was the full complement of bumper stickers and decals: black POW-MIA logo, the yellow-green-red bar for Vietnam, silver parachutes for airborne, silver dolphins for submarine service, Purple Heart, Rangers, et cetera, et cetera.

  Another pickup rolled in behind, a black Chevy Colorado with more decals, flying flags, American, Marine Corps. The pair of vehicles stopped outside an off-brand motel on the northern shore of Lake Okeechobee. The cabs of the trucks were already full, and more people squatted in the beds of the pickups as if there had been a pre-dawn street-corner call for migrant workers: “We need ten for six hours . . .”

  A motel room door opened, and Serge and Cheyenne stepped out. He walked to the next door and knocked.

  “Just a minute.”

  “Coleman! Come on! People are waiting!” said Serge.

  “It’s okay,” said Cheyenne. “They have to stop anyway for the others to catch up.”

  “Others?”

  The door opened and Coleman appeared. “All set to go.”

  Serge stared at a lumpy spot below Coleman’s collarbone. “You’re wearing the chest pouch?”

  “That’s right.”

  Ribbit, ribbit . . .

  “A frog’s in there?”

  Coleman nodded and patted the pouch. “We worked things out last night. We’re friends now.”

  “You do realize they’re not like ferrets,” said Serge. “I don’t think he has any idea what’s going on.”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong.” Coleman stroked the canvas. Ribbit. “And you wouldn’t know it to look at him, but he’s a raging maniac.”

  “Don’t tell me.”

  “I found out that it’s almost impossible to get a frog to smoke a joint—”

  “Another sentence I never thought I’d live to hear.”

  “—So I grabbed one of the empty plastic bags that come with the trash cans in the room, and put the frog in it. Then I took a mondo, triple-clutch hit and blew it into the bag.”

  “I realize that among your people such gestures are tokens of goodwill, but we’re bordering on animal unkindness here.”

  “He didn’t mind at all.” Coleman peeked down through the opening. “He liked the beer, too.”

  Serge covered his eyes with a hand.

  Coleman reached into the pouch. “I know you and Cheyenne had your own thing going on in your room last night, but you missed the real fun.”

  “Did we?”

  Coleman scooped out the frog, stroking its head lightly with an index finger. “Isn’t that right, Jeremiah?”

  “You call your frog Jeremiah?”

  “Because he is a bullfrog.”

  “Naturally,” said Serge. “But back to giving him beer.”

  “Three Dog Night let their frog drink wine, so I don’t see the big fuss.”

  “Technically their frog brought the wine,” said Serge. “Didn’t that tell you there was some artistic license going on?
”

  “I don’t know what that means, but you should have seen him last night,” said Coleman. “When this little sucker gets his swerve on, look out! He was jumping straight up, sideways, even a backflip. We had a contest.”

  “You jumped with him?”

  “Duh!” said Coleman. “Then I used the plastic ice bucket to make him a little boat in the tub. But what he really liked was the toilet. Don’t worry: I taped up the flush handle in case I forgot. I was responsible. And some of those blind mosquitoes had gotten into the room, and I was able to capture a few, but only crushed them a little, and then I sat on the edge of the tub throwing bugs to Jeremiah in the toilet. I wish someone had a camera.”

  “I can’t picture anything more precious.”

  “I know,” said Coleman. “He really had the munchies.”

  “But don’t you think you should be releasing him now?” said Serge. “He probably wants to get back to his own kind.”

  “I think he’s happy,” said Coleman. “Remember how they were jumping all over the parking lot last night? Look at him now, happy to sit in my hand.”

  “Coleman, his eyes are closed. He’s still fucked up.”

  “Then the nice thing to do is let him sleep it off.” Coleman opened the pouch. “Back in you go.”

  A roar erupted from an unseen point around the bend, growing louder and louder until it was vibrating stuff. The source came into view and pulled into the parking lot.

  The bikers had arrived.

  Harleys, helmets and star-spangled bandannas. Most had black leather vests, festooned with medals and patches from every branch of service.

  “Time to saddle up,” said Cheyenne, and the three climbed in the bed of the second truck. The caravan pulled out of the parking lot and headed north.

  Serge sat against the back gate next to Coleman. “I think I might have a problem.”

  “I’ll do anything I can.”

  “It’s not that kind of problem. It’s Cheyenne.” Serge searched for words. “She doesn’t want a commitment.”

  “I don’t see the problem.”

  “That’s the problem,” said Serge. “Almost every woman I’ve ever met wants a commitment. Some act like they don’t at first, but it eventually comes up, and I’m a ramblin’ kind of guy.”

  “I get it,” said Coleman. “You think she’s acting?”

  “No, I think she’s on the level.”

  “Then you’re home free.”

  Serge was quiet a moment. “I can’t describe it, but it’s having some kind of effect on me. I’m oddly attracted to this. She’s a ramblin’ kind of gal, and that makes me want to commit. And then I’ll be trapped following her around a Pottery Barn with an armload of guest towels and that feeling that I can’t breathe.”

  “Jesus!” said Coleman. “Get a grip. You can’t let her split us up.”

  “Thanks for thinking of me.”

  “No, seriously,” said Coleman. “I don’t know how to survive.”

  “You’ll do fine.”

  “Serge!” He grabbed his friend tightly by the arm. “Don’t mess around. You know I’d end up in the woods behind a 7-Eleven living on an old mattress.”

  “I see your point.”

  “Maybe it’s all a trick,” said Coleman. Ribbit. “If you find out that she secretly wants to commit, then you won’t be attracted anymore.”

  “For once you speak as a sage, my finely toasted friend. And I know just how to find out . . .”

  The patriotic procession of trucks and hogs cruised up through Osceola County, wind flapping hair and scarves. Serge scooted across the bed of the pickup until he settled in next to Cheyenne.

  She smiled coyly. “Well, look who it is.”

  “Hi, Cheyenne. Uh, uh, I mean, uh, what I’m trying to say is, uh . . .”

  “Wow, I’ve never known you to be at a loss for words.”

  “Cheyenne, would you like to go steady?”

  “Is this a joke?” She had a good laugh. “Are you in seventh grade?”

  “I’ve given this a lot of thought.” Serge nervously picked at his fingernails. “I’d like to give you an ID bracelet with our names engraved.”

  “Whoa! Stop!” said Cheyenne. “You are serious. I thought I could trust you when we talked about this last night.”

  “You can trust me. That was just a test, to make sure what you said wasn’t a trick.”

  “You sure?”

  “When was the last time you were in a Pottery Barn?”

  “Like, never.”

  “Case closed. You passed with flying colors.”

  Serge’s butt scooted back across the pickup’s bed until he was at the gate again.

  “Well?” asked Coleman.

  “It’s worse than I thought. She’s never even stepped foot in a Pottery Barn.”

  “Good God!” said Coleman. “How can you not love a woman like that?”

  “I know, I know,” said Serge. “I must think of something. She’s just got to have some kind of a big turnoff that’s a deal breaker.”

  “Maybe when she laughs really hard, she sounds like a donkey.”

  “She has a great laugh.”

  “You’re fucked.”

  Nearly an hour later, the ad hoc motorcade arrived and parked along a remote country road where the only building had a steeple. Across the street, tombstones in a neatly manicured field. Nobody had arrived at the cemetery yet. Funeral workers had already set up the rows of folding chairs under a white sun canopy. A brass contraption with heavy-gauge straps sat over a freshly dug hole.

  Across the street was a different story. Bullhorns, tightly screwed faces, and some of the most vile signs that have ever been painted.

  Over a distant hill on the straight highway, various vehicles headed toward them. Moments later, the pickup trucks emptied and motorcyclists dismounted.

  The new arrivals were heckled as they carried their flags toward the protest line. The malcontents noticed the size and nature of the people coming toward them, particularly the bikers. The protesters took an intimidated step back. “You touch us and we’ll sue! We taking video of all of this!”

  Not a word was spoken among the flag people. They formed a precise line from rehearsal, turning their backs to the picketers and presenting fifteen huge renditions of Old Glory that formed an effective red, white and blue curtain.

  “Hey, you can’t block us like that! We have rights!”

  No response.

  Up the road came a solemn line of cars with headlights on at noon.

  Someone reached down and pressed a button on a boom box.

  “. . . This land is your land . . .”

  The funeral procession pulled though the cemetery gates, and the hearse parked near the sun canopy.

  The protesters screamed louder. The boom box was turned up.

  Men with white gloves slid the casket out the back of the hearse and ceremoniously placed it on the support straps over the grave. It had its own American flag. An honor guard gave a salute with guns. A trumpet played. Two of the people with white gloves removed the flag from the casket and, with measured cadence, folded it into a triangle. One of them bent down to present it to a widow with small children.

  The protesters had so much anger baggage, you wouldn’t have thought there was room for more. But the flags in front of them were just too much. Not only did they block their view of the service, but more importantly, they blocked the mourners’ view of their signs. On top of that, the boom box. It just wasn’t fair!

  “I’ll fix this!”

  The leader of the protest, a pastor, ran around the end of the line and stood facing them, waving his sign and screaming into a bullhorn.

  Kyle Lovitt and the others looked up and down their ranks. They had been over this before in their meetings. In case the picketers ignored the court order: No violence. Don’t even move lest there be inadvertent physical contact that could become courtroom fodder. Just get out cell phones and document the violatio
n of the buffer zone.

  Serge hadn’t gotten the memo.

  He handed Coleman his flag and ran over to the protest leader. “Excuse me, but you’re out of your comfort zone. I suggest you slither back behind the buffer line.”

  “Go to hell! You and your queer buddies are interfering with our First Amendment rights. You’re forcing us to step forward.”

  “There’s the little matter of the court order,” said Serge.

  “What about it?” said the leader. “I don’t see anybody here to enforce it.”

  “Oh, but I do.” Serge swiftly nailed him in the chest with a stun gun, and just as quickly stashed it away. The leader collapsed, and his followers came running.

  Kyle glanced back and forth. “Turn off your phones! Erase those files! . . .”

  Serge nonchalantly sauntered over to his group as the picketers dragged their leader back behind enemy lines.

  Kyle grabbed him by the arm. “Why did you go and do that?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re just lucky that our flags blocked their video cameras.”

  “If you say so.” Serge opened a brown billfold and removed a driver’s license. “Hmm, his name’s Jebediah.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A wallet I just happened to find on the ground.” Serge replaced the license.

  “Why’d you take it from him?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “And you didn’t tell me that.”

  Chapter 31

  Pahokee

  Coach Calhoun strolled down the corridor outside the locker room. He heard slapping footsteps on the wax floor. A student ran past him practically in tears.

  “Chris! Come back here!”

  She stopped, embarrassed, trying to hide emotion.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t ‘nothing’ me. In my office, now.”

  Chris sat quietly in a familiar wooden chair. Calhoun kept trying to get her to open up, but it was like prying answers from a hostile witness. She was staring at the floor, lips trembling, so shaken that the coach’s mind ran through the menu of worst cases that can befall teenagers. The list was long and ugly in these parts.