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Gravy
by Carl Hiassen
Jebediah emerged from the Everglades wearing an orange jumpsuit he bought
surplus from the Military once while visiting his elderly aunt up at Merritt
Island. The Air Force, before it was NASA, had once required contractors at
out the Space Center to wear them to distinguish them from the full time
employees, but Jeb wore his to keep the airboats from hitting him whenever
he went alligator hunting. The jumpsuit matched nicely with the Sebring Raceway hat
he wore, the one that he almost lost to the 6-footer before he dove into the
water and wrestled it back from the 'gator, not seeing its mother, the 13-foot
monster that decided it would be a fair trade to exchange a hat for an
arm. It was his left arm, so it wasn't a huge loss. He only used it to
make himself believe it was someone else on a lonely August night in
Clewiston.
Looking at the Sawgrass Expressway always depressed him, not because it
represented progress, or even an encroachment on his precious swamp; he
hated the Expressway for the factory outlet called the Sawgrass Mills that
was acquired through a rigged up eminent domain process that ended with him
losing the house his mother had built in the swamp in exchange for what the
court determined was a "reasonable price." He could not, to this day,
understand how $600,000 was considered a reasonable exchange for living a
quiet life of peace in the land your mother homesteaded. Since then, he had
been looking for a way to get the remainder due to him, which he figured was
eight years of loneliness, pain and suffering. And his cashier was his 30-ought
shotgun and bang stick that he planned to use on the knees of Bobby
Rodriguez, the lawyer that had argued the developers case against him in
court.
The Rodriguez family, being Cubano, celebrated Thanksgiving out of a desire
to fit into the community, not out of a sense of thanks for the Puritans who
came to the New World and pillaged it. Not that Bobby, formerly Roberto,
had anything against pillage. By all accounts, he was quite adept at it.
Lucia was bringing the turkey to the table when Jebediah Strong Horse, 7/8
Seminole Indian, came crashing through the window in the back of the house.
"Madre de Dios! Who plays golf on Thanksgiving?", yelled Bobby as he got up
from the table, convinced that a duffer had once again sent an errant ball
from the Parkland Country Club through the bird cage on the pool and into a
window again. "I'll sue that pendeho until his balls are purple!"
A sudden noise that was not unlike the sound of an alligator swallowing a
small duck emerged from Bobby's mouth as he rounded the corner and ran nose
first into a shotgun held by a 6' 8" Indian wearing a NASA jumpsuit and a
baseball cap that was missing most of the brim.
Jebediah's eyes roamed the kitchen and, seeing the gravy on the counter that
had not yet made it to the table, looked up at Bobby Rodriguez.
"Giving thanks for plunders past again?", Jebediah said in his deep, patient
voice that is often used by priests, therapists and psychotics. Bobby's
children screamed, snapping Jebediah to attention.
"Ms. Rodriguez, take the kids into the upstairs bedroom and hide. Bobby and
I have a legal dispute to settle over a nice turkey dinner."
Turning his attention to the lawyer, who had a dark stain blooming in full
on his trousers, Jebediah said, "I brought my attorney, Mr. Remington, to
revisit the payment for my mother's house."
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(Thanks to Ross Brown)
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