The swamp belt is the residual battleground left in the wake of wave of "Progress and Development" that swept over Florida directly following the explosively brilliant scientific discovery of affordable (and scalable) air conditioning. With a cool breeze, smelly vaugely of freshly minted coins, the entire area - which was once entirely a swampy asylum for slaves, indigenous Americans, and probably a few forgotten Spaniards - was cemented over and stamped with amusement parks in the memory span of half a generation. Except here, this tiny slice of land that draws a weak internal border on the asymetrical, bent state; the swamp draws the definitive line betwee the beach communities and the urban interior. Its function is a buffer for the hurricanes, dampening the effects of storm surges so that each summer does not come to a close with mass evacuations and gleeful home-insurance companies pre-filled bankrupcy forms. There is money on both sides - the interior with their nice SUVs and their tourists, the beach side with their boats and condos; but the swamp is all trailer-homes and mental health cases swaddled in faux-libertarianism and a drastic misunderstanding of civil war history.
The dust from the cochina shell road plumes up behind me, and in the rear view mirror I can see the swarm of vultures that perpetually circles the area in search of roadkill. There is a gentle pattering noise that simultaneously believe to be raindrops but know that it is the sound of love-bug bodies belting my windsheidl like kamikazi pilots. I drive past the old man who has a knife-sharpening stand in the back of his pickup painted like a Confederate flag, and silently hope that the shell fragments, still imbued with the magic of the golden ratio despite their fractured spirals, cut into the flesh of his lungs so that if new thoughts cannot be consumed at least he will spew out hatred for a few minutes less in this life. The vultures continue to swirl and dive overhead, each lap coming down closer. They are the goddesses of death, according to their associated myths, but as result also the bringers of new life; much like their other brethren of the underworld. The snakes, beetles, maggots, and palmetto bugs; each one turning the collective stomach of the upper echelon, but they each play their role in building the new foundations for life. I wonder if I threw myself into the brambles underneath the palm and pine trees if I too would be regurgitated to a cool, clean life in some new headwaters.
I park the car and step out, crushing a shell fragment with my flipflop - to dust we all return - and walk towards the three walled structure that serves as the road side produce stand, gas station, coffee shop and tourist trap. Like a fly trapped in house of mirrors, my eyes are instantaeously dazzled and overwhelmed by the flickers of light that refract through the thousands of snow globes and glass-enclosed seashells. Moving towards the counter, unsure if I should be avoiding eye contact with the grizzled man hemming and hawing at the register, or the giant stuffed alligator that was perpetually posed for attack behind him. I want to reach out and touch the tail, which looks so smooth gleaming in the light, but hold back for fear of being bitten (by the cashier, not the gator) and turn my attentions towards the man. Fingers drumming on the counter, his mouth drags down on one side as if his lips are holding space for the cigarette that should be resting between them.
"Thirty-five, pump 4. And a pack of Camels" I slap cash onto the counter with a bravado I hope passed for machismo. It does not. I haven't smoked in years, but the stench of death bubbles up from the muck here instills an immediate sense of nihilism and I hear the words spill from my lips with some surprise but without protest.
The chapped lips pull into a snear, revealing the absence of an incisor. He looks over my Driver's License - because my face and small stature will have me getting carded well into my late thirties - and flips it back to me. "Seattle, huh? You move down here to get away from all the hippies and gays?"
I assume this is a test of some kind. I am, afterall, a gay hippy - and a pretty obvious one at that - but his continued stare highlights his non-rhetorical question as it hangs in the air between us. I slide my license off the counter and return it to my wallet. "I'm just passing through. Seattle is somewhere, but it seems that places like this are the roadway to everywhere else."
The pause is long enough that I can almost feel the gators breathe, hot and heavy, behind him; but then he cracks a smile so wide it rivals that of the gargantuan reptile. "Good sense. You can start anywhere you like, but everything flows downriver into the swamp at some point." He places my change into my confused but outstretched hand. "My boss always appreciates your bosses money." Well ain't that the truth. I smile, genuinely, for the first time in days.
I slam the door to my car, and turn out onto the road. The mirage waves seem to provide liftoff from the burning asphalt as the car builds momentum roaring down the road. It will take time before this swamp is done with me, but when it is, I am ready to be reborn.
