Red Emporium

Brackish water silently drifted away from the dirty shore of the Valley of the Bears by the Sea in the hot, humid, breathless afternoon when nothing stirred save monotonous cicadas, an afternoon when pine needles sweated and sap ceased to flow, an afternoon when conscience willingly slept and blue jays were silent. Hermit crabs hiding in irregular brine-encrusted borrowed shells refused to crawl on the terraced bottom of the Sound, which departed tides had carved into endless winding ribbons dotted with tiny protrusions left by sand worms and periwinkles escaping into the mud. Long needle pines nakedly reached for the distant water with blanched roots embedded by gray white mussels—their rough, scaly trunks divided into sienna segments burned in black, some ripped away, defaced near the sand even as the trees rose up higher and higher to a luxuriant green canopy that pretended to ignore the activity of humans. Ancient, moss-covered water oaks scarred by gulf storms tightly grasped hard, green oval leaves in their brittle limbs, guarded underneath by palmettos and their spear-shaped fronds.

A gray heron stood still on the shore, eyes focused, waiting, waiting, waiting for the smallest movement, waiting for a flicker in the trapped stagnant water, waiting to eat. Insignificant breezes released by the gulf touched the heron, but it remained still, legs rigid, beak pointed outward, silver eyes immovable, its claws planted in cracked and shriveled black mustard, an uneaten pancake batter guano littered with violet translucent jellyfish abandoned by the tide.

Inland a few yards, a man sat cross-legged in the high saw grass of a dune lake, a dark pool encroached by reedy cattails swarming with dragonflies and mosquitoes. Black turtles warmed themselves on a half-submerged cypress log caught in the cattails as the man stared at the lake, barely sweating in a clean white linen short-sleeved shirt, blue jeans, brown sandals, a silver medicine wheel of red and black pipestone, yellow sandstone, and white quartz resting on his chest.

In filtered light, mischievous, deceptive light, he appeared sixtyish, long, gray hair, heavy creases in his cheeks, deep furrows above his blue eyes, which were also green, and sometimes black. But filtered light, mischievous, deceptive also revealed a man in his forties just beginning to age. And yet, he was a boy, barely twenty, sitting in the saw grass, a boy at the beginning of his life in filtered light, mischievous, deceptive.

Irregular white clouds obscured the sun, the lake became malignant in the shadows, and the man’s face changed--- leonine, almost jovial, then aquiline, aristocratic, lupine, feral. He watched a splintered piece of wood drift in the dune lake, a remnant of a dead enterprise, an artifact that had lain on the murky sand bottom for decades, a sign that advertised “Red Emporium Groves.” The board seemed to propel itself across the lake skirting the cattails slicing through thick green algae until it rested on the opposite shore where a mallard lay dead, its feathers covered with a brown oil, its green neck stretching, stretching, trying to escape, its eyes dark, terrified.

The man pulled a small clump of dried sage from his pocket, placed it on the ground and lighted it and when a flame was visible, he tamped the fire until the sage smoldered. He closed his eyes, deeply exhaled and his face changed---leonine, aquiline, lupine and he disappeared in the filtered light, mischievous, deceptive leaving the odor of sage hugging the damp saw grass.

A low scraping sound, a sickly mechanized gnashing emanated from a faded, yellow bulldozer lurching unopposed toward a long-needle pine, puffs of irrepressible steam rising from a rusted exhaust pipe, creaking gears grinding with the steady murmur of finality, iron treads throwing soil into the air. The long-needle pine leaned, straining to remain upright as the bulldozer relentlessly exposed moist roots---pushing, pushing, snapping the taproot, killing the resistance until the tree was overcome and frantically grasped other pines with its branches as it clattered to the earth.

Blue jays screamed, and a black bear thrashed toward the Sound in terror, plunging into the stagnant, slime-covered water swimming through a persistent oil sheen towards a barrier island to escape the grinding gears, the death rattle of the pine. An eddy of broken Styrofoam, beer cans, and cigarette butts trailed behind as the bear approached the opposite shore and clambered on the beach and snarled when invisible tentacles of a Portuguese man-of-war stung its foot. Black skimmers guarding their nests flew at the bear’s head, and biting flies mercilessly harassed it until it blindly charged into a stand of palmetto. Following a well-used trail, the bear came upon red and yellow cheeseburger wrappers covered in ketchup, waxy milkshake cups, and pile of half-eaten dead gulf shrimp. Discarded condoms-red, gold, black, white-littered the underbrush, crumpled rubber witnesses to forgotten passion. Underneath tired brittle scrub oaks, a beach morning glory dared to bloom impassively in the trash, a defiant pink survivor.

Burl Martin and his wife Meng Li lay nude in the same gully they had sunbathed in for years, on the same tattered beige blanket covered with repellent to deter black ants, with the same six-pack of malt liquor. When he heard the growl, Burl ignored it at first. He sleepily scratched his flaccid penis, then turned his sinewy leather like torso and expelled gas at Meng Li who muttered listlessly. He hoped others would join them soon for an orgy, others who were high or horny or both. Some days no one found the gully- of -pleasure, and Burl and Meng Li spent the entire time alone.

The second growl was louder and closer and Burl sat up, grabbed his silver malt liquor can and sloppily drank allowing some of the liquid to dribble down his grizzly salt and pepper goatee. Through orange-rimmed sunglasses he surveyed the gully overhung with scrub oak roots that crawled out of the sand and crept along the embankment. Before he could set the malt liquor down, the bear landed on his chest. Heavy paws boxed Burl’s head as he tried to roll away from angry snarls and teeth. Meng Li awoke and snatched a piece of dried tree root in her hand.

“You leave! You go!” She frantically waved the stick and then brought it down on the bear’s haunch. The bear snarled and bit Burl’s penis before it charged up the other side of the gully-of-pleasure and escaped the wrath of Meng Li.

A half-mile away, a black, muddy van sped down the single two-lane road of the barrier island. Emblazoned on both sides of the van was “Critter Gitter” in comic font yellow. Vibrations from blaring speakers shook the hot, cracked asphalt. Thump boom, thump boom. Free my soul, with rock ‘n’ roll and fly away.

Jude Calvin grasped the leather steering wheel of the van and hummed along in satisfaction. He had just caught and strangled a stray feral blue Russian that had been roaming the Silent Oyster condominiums and disturbing the residents. Jude liked to hear the screams of an animal as he tightened a thin piece of silver metal around its neck. The cat hung lifelessly from a hook on the van’s roof and as Jude swerved sharply, it slammed the inside of the van leaving a spatter of blood on the gray metal. Jude answered a green cell phone ringing in its dashboard holder.

“Black bear attacked Burl …artin…penis…Can you get out there where those god…ammed nudists….”

“I’ll get on it,” Jude shouted over the static and the music. Thump, boom.

He wanted to trap a black bear, to gut it, to have its head displayed in his double wide. He could get a handsome price by selling the balls to someone who wanted an aphrodisiac. The last black bear Jude caught had escaped a steel trap by chewing of its leg. Wasn’t going to happen this time. He scratched the stubble on his chin and adjusted his camouflage hunter’s cap with rough, hard callused fingers that ended in tobacco stains. The holes in his white tank top which read, “Roadkill Warrior,” exposed red skin with dark, irregular blotches that complemented the bloodstains on his jeans. He stuck some chew in his mouth and pressed hard on the accelerator.

Rock’n’roll and fly awaaay.

On the edge of the Valley of the Bears by the Sea in a small orange grove, Mary’s childlike face peered through drops of sweat partially obscuring her round eyeglasses. She moved heavily in an extra-large lime t-shirt, glancing nervously left and right, shuffling feet trapped in enormous tan hiking boots tied with red laces, grasping a soiled piece of paper. Loggerhead turtles swam towards her head and a tightly rolled blue bandana held her nappy orange hair as she waited for members of the Gulf Coast Preservation Council. She winced at the gnashing, grinding noise.

“Shit.” She exhaled the word. No one had showed up to help her confront the bulldozer before it began toppling trees. She peered down the trail at the stream meandering through the Valley of the Bears by the Sea- the last undeveloped tract of land near the Sound in Gulf County.

Crash. The ground shook hard and Mary clutched the branches of a small slash pine to steady herself. Sticky sap covered her hands and gnats flew in her face. She moved down the trail with heavy strides leaving deep impressions in the sandy soil. Sweat stains grew underneath her large arms, and the grinding noise became louder, menacing as she approached the death clearing where ancient giants were being slain. Smoldering sage wafted through the air and she hesitated, peering through beads of sweat. She quickly wiped the lenses with her shirt and stepped into the clearing. Crash. Another giant had fallen.

“Hey asshole!” Mary shouted at the bulldozer operator. He was aimed slightly away from her toward his next long-needle pine and ignored her. She screamed louder.

“Hey redneck! Cut the engine.” The operator stopped the bulldozer. He looked over and glared from under his black hard hat at lime-green Mary. He jumped down and stood with his arms folded.

“What’s your goddamned problem…Miss?” he asked, pronouncing Miss as if he wasn’t sure Mary was a woman.

“You can’t cut these trees. You supposed to wait for the hearing.”

“I wern’t told nothin’. And if you don’t get off this property, I might have to call the law.”

“There’s an eagle nest up there,” Mary said pointing at a pine that seemed taller than the rest. “It’s protected, and you know it.”

The operator was unimpressed. He casually glanced up at the pine.

“I don’t see it, and I ain’t got no byenoculars.” Mary pulled small binoculars out her tight denim shorts.

“Care to look?” She held them out to the operator.

“Hell.” The operator grabbed the binoculars. He adjusted the focus, and watched for a minute, then handed the glasses back to Mary. He climbed into the bulldozer.

“Well?” Mary was incredulous.

“I saw it. I won’t cut that tree.” He started the engine and lurched forward. Mary waved the soiled paper in her hand.

“This whole area is protected,” she shouted. But the grinding, gnashing, sound of the engine, the iron treads, drowned her voice. Another long-needle pine crashed to the ground. Mary stepped back, angry, frustrated, alone. A blue jay screamed as she returned down the sandy trail, barely holding the soiled court order in her hand. It slipped from her fingers and lay unenforceable in the dirt

On the gulf side of the barrier island, bubbly froth washed the sand, up and back, up and back, playing with the weathered feet of a man whose long blond hair touched his buttocks. He wore khaki shorts that rested just below his hips and his sinewy arms caressed a tan grizzled panther with a threadbare patchy coat. The man’s naked chest was red, and he spoke continuously to the panther and to a thinner red man, similar in age, who sat near them on the sand wearing a red tight muscle shirt and revealing white latex shorts.

“I can’t let them get it,” the tall blond man said.

“Well you got the court order,” the thinner man said.

“Yeah…I did, didn’t I,” the blond man said. He grinned at his friend. “Didn’t I?” he repeated to the panther. The panther bumped his jaw into the blond man’s hip.

“Yeah, I did.”

“Are we going to the city?” the thinner man asked.

“Done with that place. Aren’t you?”

“I want to go the Flying Biscuit before it closes.”

“Not going to close. Shit.”

“I heard it was.”

“Won’t close.”

“Still want to go. Just one more time.” The blond man grinned.

“And after the Biscuit the Eagle.”

“Oh, no.” And the thinner red man laughed, and the blond man joined him.

The panther rolled in the sand and yawned. It didn’t have many teeth.

“I love you,” the thinner red man said. And when the blond red man turned to answer in kind, the thinner red man was gone.

“I love you …I loved you…,” he said quietly in the gulf wind. And the old panther put its head in the crying man’s lap.

The blond man with the red chest rose and continued down the beach with the old panther at his side, undeterred by the splashing waves.