2002, Florida

By Angela Lovell

For several months after running away from New York City’s September 11th, I laid low in a treehouse apartment along a Florida river. It was a bizarre time for me. Returning to the hometown I’d kicked and screamed to exit, I was exalted by old and new friends, and then quickly dismissed like a bad pop song everyone gets sick of. I fell in love three times in seven months and wonder still if any of it was real. The love, I mean. I know that apartment stands because my old landlord is still trying to track me down for the lease I skipped out on.

We drank a lot then. The war made everyone sad, no matter how out of touch we remained. I’m not much of a drinker and I know even less of drugs, but following that particular summer of breaking up with my fiancé, gaining then losing employment as a screenwriter on Universal Studios’ lot, and ending up a waitress – again – I found it easy to waste away for a few months.

One morning, we ate at a diner near the beach with boys from other bands. The Nature Kids even had a representative in that sandy, bland town. Our waitress knew Jammer’s order by heart. He used to be a famous surfer but never grew an ego, reminding us of Spicolli from Fast Times At Ridgemont High. Mary and I talked a lot about college and the big cities we’d lived in. We asked each other all the time of our beachcomber friends, “Why can’t we be happy here like they are?”

But most of them had gone out and done something extraordinary – or never even wanted it. This was the first time I’d stood on my own in years. I didn’t know what I wanted other than to do that. In seven months I’d loved and lost hard, each of my three slayers equally excited and terrified when bumping into me at bars, on the beach, and at red lights. All three said “marriage” so fast I forgot I was the woman. That’s small town, I suppose. But none of them were from there. By the time the third one pulled blankets over his head I was worn out, feeling like a paper doll cut with dull scissors.

I didn’t want to marry anyone but I wanted to be held. I grew slanderous of these cowards, which I rarely practice. So I drank some more. And then a jilted bartender slipped me something just to make me foolish and sick. One drink nearly killed me. And in my quiet, house-ridden depression I didn’t even report him.

Josh wasn’t like my brother; he was my brother. My ego swelled when Josh admitted the crush he’d harbored for me since 8th grade to Mom, just like another boy had one night in her office. (I get my poor secret-keeping skills from my mother.)

Josh was the son of my almost-dad. Mom’s ex had given Josh and me a restaurant to refurbish and make our own. We did so for a couple of weeks, then realized once the new tile floor had been laid and all the dead mice gathered from the crawl space that we didn’t want a restaurant. Neither Josh nor I knew what we wanted but we hoped it would have flashing lights bright enough to quake us from our personal abuse.

I love Josh with all my heart. He is kind, funny, and warm. He loved the stories I told as we cleaned and reworked that tiny, grungy restaurant, once listening to my recount of nearly having sex with someone hideous while I was drunk. I was horrified and angry with myself for even kissing the little troll. That’s when Josh enlightened me with, “My New Year’s resolution was no more drunk sex!” He pointed down the street, adding, “Ever since I woke up in that trailer park over there….”

Had his poor little brain not been so fried by the time he was 26, Josh could have gotten something big out of this life. Instead he experimented with drugs, lived on his father’s various store accounts, climbed Domino’s Pizza to illegally hook up free cable, and shoplifted everything he required in between.

Josh knew a plethora of bizarre facts, and he was rebuilding a Corvette all the years I knew him. Josh had puppy warmth, and when employed as a mechanic his arms would get so big and brown I’d almost forget about our siblinghood.

Josh got hooked on painkillers, which led to his daily appearances at The Methadone Clinic. Often I rode along. Once I lingered outside his counselor’s door as Josh read his list of goals. They were very humble. We saw many movies together, having to sit close to the screen because Josh broke or lost another pair of his glasses. I rarely enjoyed anyone’s company as much as I did Josh’s. He was so simple and never lost his temper. He was just happy to make the cut.

When my car died part of me did, too. I was stranded in my home and dependant on friends. I drank more. One night Josh brought the waffle iron from our failed restaurant to my nest and we smoked much pot before battering it up. Josh went out to get whipped cream for our midnight stoner treats as I waited for the first waffle to finish cooking. An incessant beeping sent me atop a chair to waft at my smoke detector, not realizing until directly under it that the beeping was coming from the waffle iron. The waffle was done. Landing it on a plate, I quickly poured waffle #2 and the whole scenario repeated itself, except this time Josh walked in as I waved at the silent detector with a broom in a stoned cloud of smoke and sweetness.

My Florida spell was finally broken the afternoon Josh picked me up from a day shift at my restaurant and drove us over the bridge home. As we waited at a red light along the river, Josh noticed them. Parking directly in front of a “No Parking Anytime” sign, we hopped from his jeep and stood with dropped jaws at the river’s bank, watching a family of manatees splash and swim, moving slowly along with the current, in no hurry to do a thing.

We glanced at one another for just a moment before committing our second illegal act of the day and climbed into the river, fully clothed, to get close to these gentle creatures. It was like a manipulated photograph: the jeep parked in front of that sign, two adults approaching protected sea life. But a sight such as this could instigate anyone’s inner child to override outer adult.

Sometimes sharks swim into the river. Once when I was 11 I had been swimming in the river with other children at what was known as “The Little Beach.” Up and down its soupy shore were little holes housing tiny fiddler crabs. They would all come out and wave their “large” claws in the air, then scuttle back into the hole as soon as a beach ball bounced too close.

I swam out too far one day and realized a shark could be in waters that deep, so I struggled quickly to get back in. As though I conjured it myself, I felt something large nudge me. For non-shark enthusiasts, a nudge is a shark’s method to see whether you’re driftwood or alive. Sharks suffer from bad eyesight. Floating until a shark passes is generally the safest way to deal with their approach. But I was a child. So I screamed and flailed and saw my meager 11 years flash before my face as a lifeguard blew her whistle very far away and luckier children swarmed the fiddler crabs on the beach.

They watched me in horror as I screamed and struggled to reach them, everyone witnessing the large animal swimming around me. And like an annoying old man pulling a quarter from behind your ear and calling it “magic,” that shark turned out to be a manatee. It came right up to my tense, writhing body and butted me with its head. I stopped swimming and faced my playful monster with compassion. It allowed me to touch it once, but as the kids realized it was a coveted endangered specie, they splashed back into the water, scaring my illusive friend away.

Josh knew just about everything on Florida living. He whispered instructions to me on moving carefully, minding the oyster beds (some are so sharp they can cut through your shoes), and lifted me in my waitress skirt and sneakers into the salty river. There were four of them. Josh and I worked ourselves to the middle of the river and stood very still. Terrified of oysters and stray fishing hooks, I had Josh carry me on his back. For a moment we thought they’d grown wise to our ambush and swam off. All of a sudden one rose up on its back and spit water at the sun through a bit of mustache. Josh and I quietly squealed like children. A larger one bumped into us, probably unintentionally.

Manatees aren’t called sea cows for nuthin’. They are cumbersome, warm-blooded, affectionate, and just like my other friends, the cows, manatees are victims of man. Manatees are identified by their scars. Boaters often graze them as the animals move too slowly away from the props of engines. Manatees wouldn’t be endangered at all if it weren’t for boats and bad drivers.

Josh whispers advice to me as he splashes the water a little. Again, we assume they’ve left when one pops up right in front of us. We wish for goggles to see them watch us underwater. I tip my head back to wet my hot head and bump one. They came so close to us, closer than Josh says he’s ever seen them get to anyone. (Josh was not with me at The Little Beach years before.)

We remained in the river like that, me on Josh’s back, whispering in bright sunlight, for nearly 20 minutes before watching the manatee family slowly work its way under a small bridge crowded with confused drivers staring at Josh and me in prohibited waters. The manatees were so peaceful. The one I’d seen in captivity loved to eat heads of cabbage and pass gas. They don’t even eat fish; they’re little veg-heads.

Watching them disappear under the shady bridge as I clung to Josh’s shoulders, I realized how little we get and how long I’d wasted standing still. Josh pulled me up the bank and we laughed at my now see-through skirt. We were walking distance from my riverside home.

On my little porch surrounded by regal trees we yammered about it like Jesus or Madonna had been in our river. Those little water babies set me on fire as I realized I could add “Swim with manatees” to my life’s to-do list. Three times my heart had been filled then drained along that river, but suddenly I realized what I was starving for: adventure. Just because I’m a woman does not mean I belong alongside a man. Mary was like me and others too, though the others were not in this town. I could find them though – my kind. I didn’t have to sit still waiting. One swim with several scarred creatures had sent me reeling. And I craved more.

Weeks later I had dozens of strangers in my home, carrying out pieces of a life I deemed unworthy , trading it for bits of cash. By the end of the day I had just two full suitcases and $1400. Two weeks later I was back in New York City and poor all over again. But at least I had fuel to keep my fire burning. (Writing “Cocksucker,” just before leaving Florida, on my poisonous bartender’s apartment door certainly helped.)

Years later Josh hit the lowest point of his life, and I can hardly believe the mistakes he made. I saw him one day as I was visiting Mom. We were outside the grocery store, approaching through the parking lot when I saw him. Excitedly I shouted Josh’s name, forgetting about his recent acts, knowing only the sight of him brought me instant joy. Mom grabbed my arm and yanked me back as though I was calling a rabid dog.

He didn’t hear me though. He looked like a wild thing. He looked ravenous. Through the shade, past silvery carts, he ducked into the grocery store and out of sight. I watched him hard, realizing something I knew for certain: This was the last time I would ever see Josh.

Some of us are too easily identified by our scars. I try to avoid Florida these days. Too many people there look only at your marks and not at the graceless way you keep avoiding future ones. Which is really all that matters – the moving on.

Published before she was old enough to drive, Angela Lovell is an award-winning playwright, director, screenwriter, essayist, podcaster, writing instructor, film/music/theatre critic, performing monkey, and soon-to-be novelist. Read more of her at: www.tickingboxes.com.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Wednesday, March 28th, 2007 | Email This Post

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