Dishwasher safe, p.3
Dishwasher Safe, page 3
Wishful thinking is the easiest thinking of all. But she could never wish away the infamous Moon Caper. The stinging humiliation of the moon sex catastrophe was more than any marriage could survive, and Kristen had been looking for an exit strategy to leave this pompous jerk for months.
***
Kristen was sitting in her home office one afternoon, searching for rhyming words to describe a new cooker. “Now, take your meals from tragic, to magic!” No, too much. “Take your meals from ho-hum to yum yum!” No, too corny. “Is your dinner a joke ‘cause your guests start to choke? Not anymore!” Pathetic. She stared at her computer and wondered where Dick was this time. He was late, but she was used to that. Suddenly he burst into her office.
“We have to drive to Florida. Immediately!”
“What? Did you hit a Happy Hour again?” Kristen tried to brush him off before she forgot her rhyme and had to start over. Then the words sank in.
“You must be out of your mind.” She rolled her eyes. “Drive to Florida?”
“The opportunity of a lifetime!” he insisted. “Seriously, you have no idea what this could mean to our future. And we’ll see some sights.”
“What future, asshole?” she thought, ruefully. But he was insistent, and since she had no steady job to go to anyway, they loaded a few bags into their trusty Dodge minivan and headed south early the next morning.
The first night of the journey they stayed in one of Dick’s favorite memories from his youth, South of the Border, a quirky roadside attraction off I-95 just south of the divide between North and South Carolina. The sprawling beacon of highway kitsch was hard to miss. A giant statue of the sombrero-wearing mascot Pedro still welcomed weary travelers into a fantasy land, just as Dick remembered. Plastic dinosaurs, pink deer, a huge gorilla, and other family-friendly photo-op creatures were distributed randomly around the grounds of the hotel/miniature golf course/funky tourist magnet. At check-in, Kristen requested two beds instead of one, causing Dick to bite his lip in frustration. His hopes for make-up sex had just gone right out the window, but he wasn’t about to start an argument. It was much more important to get the Mega Meal A Gizer to Florida. He would be on his best behavior, deliver the prototype to Shively, then sweet talk his angry wife into a night of Viagra-fueled passion. Dick challenged Kristen to a game of putt-putt golf, which she won handily even though she caught Dick trying to cheat by nudging his ball with his foot.
“Only you would try to cheat at miniature golf,” she said.
“Best two out of three,” he whined.
“Don’t be a sore loser,” she chided.
Dick dejectedly had a few cocktails at the bar to wash down his defeat. They ate a spicy taco dinner special with cold beers, which gave Dick heartburn. The next morning, they got an early start, but he couldn’t help buying a bag of over-priced fireworks for old times’ sake.
***
The first night was bad; but the second night was total disaster. A little past midnight, in a Florida no-man’s land, Dick and Kristen were trudging on foot along the highway. The night was dark as a cave. Crickets and frogs creaked and croaked, making unworldly sounds that conjured up goblins and ghouls. A mixture of decaying swamp odors and fertilizer wafted on a humid wind, making Kristen want to gag. She stumbled on the cracked two-lane road for the fifth time, nearly falling. She became shocked at herself as she suddenly realized this would be a great time to kill her husband.
Out here in the middle of nowhere.
The minivan they were driving had suddenly and inexplicably stopped. No cell phone coverage. No civilization in sight. Just miles and miles of acrid swamp and sugarcane.
This lonely portion of Highway 441 east of Lake Okeechobee is paralleled by a deep canal, a vestige of the Army Corps of Engineers’ ambitious program to drain and tame the Everglades. These canals regularly swallow up cars, trucks, motorcycles, pets, and people. Usually by accident, but every now and then, definitely on purpose. Whoops! Splash. Goodbye.
Dick Lance, raised in Chillicothe, Ohio, where the biggest body of water was the municipal swimming pool, was a horrible swimmer. Even more so with a half-bottle of Stolichnaya under his belt, as he had right now.
“Slow down, Dick,” said Kristin, “I didn’t bring my walking shoes.”
“Of course not,” slurred Dick. “You only have a pair for every day of the year. What’s the matter with those dogs?”
“You told me it was just around the bend.”
“That’s what the damn sign said. You saw it, ‘Last Chance Gas, five hundred yards.’ Just like the South of the Border signs with Pedro.”
Kristin smacked a mosquito from her face. “This is absolutely the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, Dick.”
“Shut up, Kristen, you’re not helping.”
Dick had decided against taking I-95 all the way because he wanted to relive his youth when his parents made driving trips with the whole family from Ohio through the center of Florida. This turned out to be a terrible idea that ate up a lot of time. He tried to point out his favorite roadside attractions to Kristen, but most had been bulldozed long ago. Kristen was doing a slow burn. She told him this route was a mistake, but as usual, he didn’t listen. If he hadn’t been so pig-headed, they could have sped down I-95 or the Florida Turnpike and been at Leon’s place down in Lake Worth hours ago, putting their feet up and having a cocktail. When he realized the night was dragging on and they weren’t making good progress, he asked his cell phone to find a short cut to the coast. A few miles down this dark deserted road, cell phone coverage abruptly stopped. And then the minivan had followed suit.
Dick and Kristen trudged down the road serenaded by the song of the swamp. The chirping of frogs, the whine of mosquitoes and the occasional grunt of an alligator sang through the muggy night. What they didn’t know was that no one had ever measured the distance boldly promised on those signs. The proprietor, Billy Strongbow, had simply pulled them out of thin air. “Bloodthirsty alligators! Last Chance, GAS! 10 miles ahead!” “Airboat rides! Last Chance GAS! 8 miles ahead!” “Hungry? Put some South in your mouth! Last Chance GAS! 5 miles.” “Petting zoo! Alligator wrestling! Good grub! Last Chance GAS! 3 miles!” They trudged on, like moths to a flame.
“We should’ve just waited in the car,” snarled Kristin, “At least we wouldn’t be eaten alive by these damn mosquitoes!”
“Not bothering me,” Dick lied.
Dick and Kristin had settled into the back and forth no-give all-take of broken-marriage feuding. They tramped on in silence for another moment. Dick stared straight ahead down the narrow empty road.
“Where the fuck is it?”
Dick resolved that once he reached civilization, he would just rent a car, any car, and get out for good. Bang. Just like that. Kristen could deal with the busted minivan. He just wanted out, right now.
Business was booming. He would finally start spending his money and live like a rock star. Get a flashy apartment, maybe buy a Porsche. That would be great. A real chick magnet. No more “Dick, do this,” or “Dick, do that.” He’d really live it up. This was an epiphany. All his murky plans for the future suddenly became as clear as a glass of Stoli. Dick stopped in his tracks.
“That’s IT.” he said firmly.
“That’s what?”
“The end of the line, Kristen.” He glared at her in the darkness. She stared back. He would have told her more. A lot more. He would have told her about the trysts with a makeup artist in a broom closet that lasted for three months until she wanted a commitment, and he had her fired. He would have told her about the occasional blowjob from his ex- best friend’s ex-wife when she had a little too much to drink. And he would have told her about the glorious yet cramped sex he’d had with a complete stranger on a red-eye flight from LA in the aircraft lavatory. And, oh, what he could tell her about Summer! Hah! He would have told her all these things and a lot more, except as he was about to speak, he noticed headlights approaching them from behind.
“Shit! It’s a car! We can get a ride!”
They watched transfixed as the headlights grew larger and the sound of a Ford Econoline van with a bad muffler became audible. It grew like a mirage from the swampy horizon. The van swerved slightly from side to side. Dick flapped his arms wildly to flag it down. “Over here!” he shouted, leaning toward the centerline.
The impact of the right front bumper spun Dick around like a roulette wheel, arms flailing, one of which caught Kristen square on the jaw with a powerful upper cut, knocking her over. There was nothing to stop Dick’s lurching flight over the bank and into the canal where he landed with a huge splash, sinking immediately. Silence returned to the dark stretch of the highway as the taillights of the speeding Econoline disappeared down the road.
***
Armando Ramirez had barely felt a thing through the wheel of his Ford van, which had a bad shimmy anyway. He had been looking down between his legs, fishing for a boiled peanut that had fallen under his crotch. The steady, throbbing racket of the busted muffler drowned out any possibility of hearing Dick’s shouts. That strange little bump could have been an opossum, raccoon, gopher turtle, or maybe something that was already dead. He checked his rearview mirror and saw nothing. Armando had a whole car full of illegal immigrant pole bean pickers that needed to get back to the migrant workers camp before they were missed. Eight people, mostly Mexican, were packed into the old Econoline, and all eight were fast asleep. Armando himself was nearly asleep at the wheel, but that’s what comes from working all day in a bean field under the hot Florida sun.
***
Many minutes later, Kristen raised her head from the side of the road. She was completely disoriented, covered in dirt, and totally alone. No sign of Dick, no sign of the van that had hit him. Crickets and frogs kept up their relentless song. Her jaw ached; her shoulder throbbed.
“Dick?” she called timidly, then louder, knowing in her heart that there would be no answer. She slowly got to her feet and stood at the canal edge, staring into the inky blackness of the calm water in a daze. Her stomach was in knots. She stood there for many moments, trembling, not knowing what to do. Try to find the body in the water? The thought sent shivers down her spine. Stay there to wait for help? The buzz of mosquitoes and the chorus of the frogs seemed to settle the issue.
“I’m sorry,” she cried, sobbing, tears flowing, hot burning guilt searing her mind at the thought of wishing her husband dead just moments before. She sobbed by the bank of the canal for what seemed like an eternity; then, she said a prayer for Dick and slowly resumed walking down the desolate road. Within minutes, a faint glow appeared on the horizon like a luminescent fog. A gaudy neon sign that read, “LAST CHANCE, GAS!”
Chapter 7
Kristen stumbled numbly into the parking lot of The Alligator Outpost. It was eerily quiet. After seeing so many large, boasting billboards, Kristen was surprised at the tiny size of the place. A set of gas pumps, a small cafe, gift shop, and general store with an aging building marked “office,” and two rows of faux Indian teepees made of concrete which served as guest lodgings. There were signs everywhere. “Gifts,” “Beer,” “Souvenirs,” “Alligator Wrestling Daily,” “Airboat Rides.” The place had obviously been there a long time, and everything she saw was in need of a coat of paint.
The Everglades Outpost was just one of dozens of Florida tourist attractions that struggled for survival after the Florida Turnpike and I-95 bypassed the smaller roads. The opening of Disney World drove a stake through the heart of these mom-and-pop establishments, and they began to die one by one, to be replaced with condo developments, strip malls, tattoo parlors, and used car lots.
Billy Strongbow retaliated with his elaborate series of billboards which promised everything from the best night’s sleep to the world’s best catfish and hush puppies, to the coldest beer on the planet, and of course the “Last Chance Gas” before crossing an immense stretch of swampland that would challenge the ability of any vehicle. In reality, the nearest gas stop was only fifteen miles away, an inconvenient fact not mentioned in any of Billy’s signs.
Kristen approached the office. Everything was dark despite the signs on the road proclaiming “Open 24 hours!” She found a little button marked “Night Service” by the door and pressed it. A tiny buzzer sounded, then nothing.
She waited, pressed the buzzer again. Still nothing. “Hello?” she called. Just as Kristen was about to pound on the door, it swung open. A short, gray-haired elderly woman of Native American descent wearing a bathrobe and moccasins appeared in the doorway. “How can I help you?”
Kristen poured out her story through a stream of tears. The car breaking down, the long walk down the road, the hit-and-run driver, and the disappearance of her husband into the opaque drainage canal.
“Oh, you poor thing,” the woman gasped. “I’ll call the sheriff for you. Let’s get you a room so you can rest. Oh, my, would you like something to drink?”
The tiny woman grabbed a key from a row of hooks on the wall and showed Kristen to a teepee marked “Fox.” All of the teepees had animal names: Bear, Gator, Panther, Eagle, Bobcat, Hawk, and Moose. Kristen didn’t bother to wonder why moose happened to be in this collection of Florida creatures. In truth, teepees were just as out of place as moose in Florida. She was glad to have a place to lie down. The concrete teepee was actually quite comfortable, with a whirring window air conditioning unit, a double bed, a chest of drawers, TV, phone, and writing table. A far cry from the real thing.
Kristen splashed water on her face and looked at herself in the mirror. She was a mess. Dirt and twigs on her clothing. Mascara running down her cheeks, hair going every which way, and a hideous black-and-blue shiner circling her right eye where her husband’s flailing arm had socked her on his way to his late-night swim. She used a washcloth to clean her face, then ran cold water on the cloth and pressed it gingerly to her swollen eye. She sat on the bed wondering what to do next. She was tired, but there was no way she could sleep now.
***
Sheriff’s deputy Mike Russell had just pointed his patrol car toward home when the call came over the radio. “Russell, we got a hit-and-run out on 441 about a mile north of Alligator Outpost.”
“Holy crap,” sighed Russell before keying the microphone, “C’mon, man, can’t you get anyone else to cover it? My shift ends in ten minutes.”
“No can do,” came the reply. “Samuels is busy with a fender bender on Southern Boulevard, Cooper’s got a B and E in Belle Glade, and Lawrence has his hands full takin’ a bunch of spring breakers to the lockup. They were buck naked swimmin’ in the fountain at the Hilton. You’re it.”
“Roger that, EMT on the way?”
“No rush, the victim’s sleepin’ with the fishes. Lady at the Outpost said he went into the canal.”
“I should be there in about thirty minutes,” Russell said wearily as he hit the lights and siren, whipped his car across the median in a hard U-turn and headed west.
Law enforcement coverage is almost nonexistent in the remote areas of Palm Beach County. The county is one of the largest in the state, stretching from the swamps of the Everglades to the posh palaces of the coast. Mike Russell pressed the accelerator down, and the patrol car hurtled through the night.
This was yet another in a string of late-night calamities that made Russell want to change careers. He had been enjoying a higher rank and better pay until a deadly shootout with a child pornographer was ruled excessive force. Russell had no regrets, but now he was stuck with the late-night shit patrol. Just when he thought he was about to get back to his tidy little house in Lake Worth, this happened. It would be hours before he could sleep. He hoped his dog, Rocket, a middle-aged rescue dog of dubious heritage, wouldn’t crap on the floor. He always looked so guilty when that happened.
***
Kristen had been dreading the knock on the door of her teepee. She opened it to find Sheriff’s Deputy Russell, tall, physically fit, wearing a dark green uniform with clipboard in hand, looking sleepy. Kristen invited him in and began to explain the terrible circumstances of her evening all over again.
Deputy Russell was efficient and perfunctory, yet sympathetic to this woman’s plight. He had a lot of experience in calming the nerves of accident victims, and he spoke in a soft reassuring tone to Kristen. He asked her if she was up to taking a ride back down the highway to the scene of the accident.
“I…I guess so,” replied Kristen. “I don’t think I can possibly sleep now anyway.”
“I understand,” said Russell soothingly. “I won’t keep you any longer than necessary.”
They drove up the dark road in silence except for the occasional crackle of the patrol car’s radio.
“My father was a cop,” Kristen said, staring ahead into the blackness.
“Oh really?”
“Yup. Still keeps a sidearm hidden in the nightstand at his old folks’ home. He taught me to shoot when I was fourteen. So, I know what your life can be like. He put in long hours and never made a lot of money, but he’s a good man. A good father.”
“Something I aspire to.”
“Which, good man or good father?”
“Both. I guess I’ll take it one at a time.”
In just a few minutes the abandoned Dodge minivan came into view. The distance had seemed so much longer when Kristen was slogging on foot.
“Any idea what’s wrong with the car?” asked Russell.
“Not the foggiest. It just started to sputter and buck. I thought my brilliant husband might have let it run out of gas, but he swore he had a quarter of a tank.”
“Well, we’ll have it towed and checked out.”
“Towed to where?” asked Kristen.
“The place where you’re staying. They’ve got a tow truck and a garage for minor repairs. Didn’t you see all those screwy signs?”
“How could we not? They’re everywhere, and they’re eyesores.”
