Prologue
The majority of scientists believe there’s an elegant order to the universe. But then again, most of them have never spent any time in Florida.
Sometime around 1987, the oddly shaped chunk of land dangling off the southeastern corner of the United States began to be overrun by a strange creature—a hominid who, prior to the invention of Google, had remained completely unknown to the human genome.
He’s identified collectively as “Florida Man.”
Exactly how, when, or why this subspecies first appeared in Florida is still highly debated. However, mainstream theorists agree on one point—the creature’s complex migratory behavior is typically prompted by “the forcible removal of his person” from his former place of employment and/or familial abode.
Once freed from normal societal obligations, Florida Man’s primal urges, compounded by alcohol, old Jimmy Buffet songs, and/or warrants for his arrest, compel him to climb into an orange AMC Pacer with $23.46 in his wallet and keep driving south until he runs out of money, beer, gas, brain cells, land mass, or some tragically interchangeable combination thereof.
Like any invasive species, Florida Man’s influence on the native population has been widespread and devastating. In fact, Florida Man has single-handedly changed both the state’s reputation and its constitution.
Florida’s longtime moniker, “The Sunshine State” is soon to be replaced with “The W-T-F State.”
In addition, due to the exponential increase in Florida Man’s bizarre behavioral tendencies, the state legislature is now considering a revision to the state motto, “Florida: In God We Trust.” Current proposed alternatives include:
“Florida: Never Wear Pants Again!”
“Florida: Stupors. They’re not Just for Breakfast Anymore!”
“Florida: Sure, You Can Pay for that with a Live Alligator!”
And my personal favorite, “Florida: Really, God? Really?”
Florida Man has been caught on video surveillance tape burglarizing cars wearing nothing but a ball cap and a bra, dancing atop a patrol car to ward off vampires, breaking into homes to suck people’s toes, and shoplifting puppies with a python in his pants.
And that was just last week.
“Florida Man” is to the Sunshine State what the “People of Walmart” are to retailers—an embarrassing, unavoidable, yet morbidly fascinating source of revenue and perverse entertainment.
As a native Floridian—and somewhat decent, law-abiding citizen—I thought I would remain immune to the plague of unchecked lunacy corrupting our once-fine state.
But I was wrong.
I didn’t go searching for Florida Man. But somehow, nevertheless, he found me.
Or, at least, I think it was him ….
Chapter One
I wish I could say I’d been doing something glamorous or heroic when the world as I knew it skittered off its axis. You know—saving a baby, cracking a drug cartel—that kind of thing. But the truth was, I’d been working security detail at a mall.
I was Paul Blart Mall Cop—without even the lousy Segway.
I’d been sitting on a bench outside the mall taking a coffee break when it happened. I spotted a guy in green crocs and tiger-striped hot-pants helping himself to a bicycle with the aid of a pair of bolt cutters. After spilling my coffee down the front of my shirt, I ran after him.
Next thing I knew, I heard a bang.
Then the lights went out.
When they came back on, well, I couldn’t see it at the time, but my whole life had shifted trajectory. I was about to collide head-on with fate.
Who knew it traveled around in a 1967 Winnebago?
I got shot between the eyes on a Thursday afternoon by a freak packing a Saturday-Night Special.
It wasn’t the first bad joke the world had played on me.
I also had a bachelor’s degree in Art Appreciation.
***
I woke up in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room. Everything was so … white. And peaceful. And quiet.
Either I’d died, or I’d been committed to a psych ward.
I sucked in what felt like my first breath in ages. The place smelled like plastic. And disinfectant. And ….
Fritos?
Slowly, I turned my thumping head to the left. My cousin Earl was passed out on a vinyl recliner beside me. Atop his potbelly, a family-size bag of corn chips rose and fell in rhythm with his breathing.
“Earl?”
My voice sounded like it was underwater. A twinge of concern upped the volume in my throbbing head.
“Earl?”
Earl snorted himself awake, then glanced over at me.
His eyes nearly doubled. He shot up out of his chair as if it were an ejector seat. Fritos flew everywhere.
“Bobbie!” he shouted, then caught himself.
Earl wasn’t one for outward displays of emotion. Not the caring kind, anyway. We’d been rivals for nearly thirty years. There was no point in him getting all sappy now.
“You’re awake,” he said with a bit more reserve.
“You’ve got a real knack for the obvious,” I cracked. My words echoed weirdly inside my skull. “What happened? Where am I?”
“In the hospital. You got … uh … shot between the eyes.”
Earl’s voice caught. He winced and slapped on a snide grin. But the tears brimming in his eyes contradicted his charade of callousness.
Tears? Crap. That can’t be good.
“I remember now,” I said. “There was that guy at the mall—the one in hot-pants …. He shot me?”
“Yep.”
I tried to sit up, but the IV tube in my arm protested against it. “How bad off am I?”
“The good news is, your thick skull stopped the bullet. Lord knows you don’t need any more brain damage.”
Either Earl’s humoring my dying ass or it’s not that bad.
“Right.” The left side of my mouth attempted a sarcastic smirk. “So what’s the bad news, Frito Bandito?”
My cousin wagged his eyebrows. “Well, you’ve done got yourself one hell of a Kentucky waterfall.”
“What?” I scowled and reached toward my head, pulling the IV tube along for the ride. My fingers landed on a tender lump in the middle of my forehead, then moved higher to the swath of smooth skin atop my partially shaved head.
“Argh! Gimme a mirror!”
Earl’s cheeks dimpled, but he kept his mouth shut and handed me the mirror lying on the table beside my hospital bed.
I peered at my reflection. My face went slack. The top of my head all the way to my ears had been shaved bald. The rest of my long, auburn hair clung limply to the back of my skull like a greasy clown wig. I dropped the mirror onto my chest in disgust. “Ugh!”
“Sir!” a woman’s voice sounded from behind Earl. “I told you to notify a nurse as soon as he regained consciousness! Are you in pain, Mr. Drex?”
“That’s Miss Drex,” Earl said.
“Oh. Pardon me.” The nurse looked down at the chart hanging at the end of my bed, apparently unconvinced.
“No worries,” Earl said. “Common mistake.”
As much as I hated to admit it, Earl was right. I’d never been the “girliest” of girls. My newly receding hairline wasn’t helping on that score.
“How are you feeling?” the nurse asked.
“Okay, I guess.” Considering the circumstances, I felt surprisingly good. Sure, my head throbbed. But it was no worse than the hangover I’d self-inflicted last weekend.
“I’ll get Dr. Brown.” She shot Earl a raised eyebrow. “Sir, it would be good if you gave Miss Drex some privacy when he arrives.”
Earl bobbed his shaggy head at her. “Yes, ma’am.”
I studied my bear of a cousin. Despite his display of bravado, his brow had more furrows in it than a freshly plowed corn field.
“It’s okay,” I said to the nurse. “Like it or not, he’s the only family I’ve got.”
“As you wish.”
As the nurse left, Earl’s cellphone chirped. He glanced at the screen and shoved it back into the pocket of his blue mechanic’s coveralls.
“Who was it?” I asked. “A customer?”
“We should be so lucky.”
“How long have I been here?”
“Three or four hours.”
“Geez! Who’s running the garage?”
“Uh … nobody. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re both here.”
Panic shot through me. “Help me up, Earl. I can’t afford to be in the hospital! My health insurance from the mall job doesn’t kick in until next month.”
“Yeah, about that—”
I sat up and peeled the tape from the IV in my arm.
Earl objected. “Now hold up there a second.”
I scowled. “No! I might look like hell, but I feel fine.”
“Well, to tell the truth, you don’t look much worse than you did on prom night. Remember? You had that monster zit on your forehead and—”
“Shut up and help me get out of here! Do you have another set of coveralls with you?”
“Down in the truck.”
“Go get them. And hurry!”
***
Earl and I were halfway down the hospital corridor—two shady mechanics in shabby blue coveralls—when a doctor walked by us. I think he would have mistaken us for janitors if he hadn’t recognized my fancy haircut. Or maybe it was the bandage between my eyes ….
“Roberta Drex?” he asked, turning to stare at us as our paths crossed. “I’m your attending physician, Dr. Brown.”
Earl and I kept walking, pretending not to hear. The doctor called after us. “What are you doing out of bed Ms. Drex?”
I turned to face him. “Uh … leaving. I’m sorry, but I can’t afford to stay here.”
The doctor appeared more annoyed than surprised. “You can’t afford not to. You were unconscious for several hours. Don’t you want to know what’s wrong with you before you leave?”
I scanned the doctor’s face. If I was dying, he didn’t give it away. “Okay. Give it to me straight. What’s wrong?”
Dr. Brown glared at me, then wilted. “Well, to be honest, we did an initial brain scan, but couldn’t find anything.”
I glanced over at Earl’s smirking face. He opened his mouth to say something stupid, but I shut him down with a look that could wither gonads at fifty paces.
“So, in other words, there’s nothing really wrong with me. Thanks, Doc. I’ll be leaving now.”
Dr. Brown grabbed my arm. “Hold on a moment! Yes, the initial scan indicates your brain appears undamaged. But you were struck by a ricocheting bullet, Ms. Drex. While it slowed considerably before it impacted your skull, there could be undetected residual effects.”
I frowned. “Like what?”
“Any number of things. But right now, the damage appears to be contained to skin abrasions and hematomas confined to the non-subdural dermis.”
Earl crinkled his nose. “That sounds bad.”
I sighed. “It’s just doctor talk for a scratch and a bruise. Am I right, Doc?”
“Yes,” Dr. Brown admitted. “You’re one lucky lady.”
“Yeah. Getting shot in the head. That’s my kind of luck, all right.”
“A sense of humor. That’s a good sign, too. Patients have been known to lose theirs as a result of head trauma.”
“Too bad,” Earl quipped. “So much for the power of prayer.”
I shot Earl another dirty look and turned to the doctor. “Then I’m good to go? Like I said, I really can’t afford to be here.”
The doctor pursed his lips. “Well, I’m still concerned. You lost consciousness longer than typical. You may have suffered a concussion. Still, there appears to be no brain swelling. The MRI we took should tell us more. To be on the safe side, I’d like to keep you overnight for observation.”
I winced. “Listen, I appreciate your concern and all. But a night here would cost me more than I make in a month.” I poked my chin in my cousin’s direction. “Can’t Earl here keep an eye on me?”
The doctor glanced at our threadbare coveralls and sighed. “I can’t hold you here against your will. But you’ll have to sign a form saying you refused treatment. I’ll have the nurse give you a list of concussion warning signs. Promise me if you have any symptoms you’ll come back to the hospital immediately.”
“Sure. I promise.” I sighed as relief emanated from my wallet.
Earl saluted the guy. “You can count on me, Doc.”
Dr. Brown’s face sagged with symptoms of early-onset regret. He blew out a breath and led us to the nurses’ station. I signed the waiver form while a nurse gave Earl a pamphlet on concussions and a bag of bandages. After thanking them, we headed toward the exit.
We were halfway down the hall when my head began to hum. I flinched, then did a double take.
Standing in front of the visitor’s lounge was the guy in the hoodie. The man I’d caught stealing a bike outside the mall. The guy I’d chased. The same punk who’d shot me with his Saturday-Night Special.
I gasped and elbowed Earl in the ribs. “What’s he doing here?”
“Who?”
“That guy.”
“Where?”
Anger boiled up inside me. “Over there, Earl. By the vending machine. That’s the guy who shot me!”
Earl shook his head like I was crazy. “That ain’t him.”
My eyes narrowed. “Yes it is. How many other people would be wearing tiger pants and lime-green Crocs?”
Earl patted my shoulder. “Around here? Could be anybody.”
I scowled. “Dang it, Earl! I guess I’m gonna have to run him down all by myself. Geez! I always have to do everything. Get out of my way!”
I took a step toward the guy and blanched. He was gone.
“Where’d he go?” I took another step.
Earl caught me by the arm and spun me around. “Stop it, Bobbie.”
“Let go of me!” I tugged against my cousin’s bear-claw grip. “We’ve got to go after him!”
Earl looked me in the eye. “Hold your horses, Cuz. I’m telling you, I’m a hundred percent sure whoever you saw wasn’t the kid who shot you.”
I glared at my cousin. Only a man could be a hundred percent sure of anything.
“How can you say that?” I hissed.
“’Cause the punk who shot you got runned over by a monster truck heading for the mud-bugging flats. He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Squashed flatter’n road kill. Well, everything but his Hello Kitty backpack.”
Chapter Two
On the hour-long drive from the hospital in Gainesville to our hometown of Point Paradise, Earl wouldn’t stop ribbing about me “seeing ghosties,” “losing it,” and my “screws coming loose.”
By the time we made it back to the auto garage, I’d convinced myself that the world was full of jerks in tiger-skin hot-pants. The guy I’d seen at the hospital couldn’t have been the same one who’d shot me. There’d probably been a sale on green crocs and Hello Kitty backpacks at Walmart, and now the town was crawling with lookalike doofuses.
The whole thing had been a figment of my imagination.
As I climbed out of the truck, I caught my reflection in the side mirror and remembered that my half-shaved head was, unfortunately, no figment.
I blew out a breath. Then I stomped across the parking lot and up the stairs leading to my apartment above the garage. I fumbled the door open, marched into the kitchen, and fished a pair of scissors from a drawer. Then I stood in front of the hall mirror and began whacking away at my remaining locks.
“Practicin’ medicine without a license is illegal in Florida,” Earl said, coming in behind me.
“I’m pretty sure it’s illegal everywhere,” I said sullenly. “And this isn’t a medical procedure.”
“Sure it is.” He snorted. “It’s a mullet-ectomy.”
My eyes narrowed. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, blew out a sigh, and snipped off the last strands of hair hanging behind my left ear. The long clump fell to the floor, along with what was left of my vanity.
I turned my head to get a side view of my homemade hairdo. It was all I could do not to groan out loud.
A choppy band of inch-long auburn hair encircled the back and sides of my otherwise bald head. If that weren’t bad enough, an angry red crater pulsed like a mini volcano in the center of my forehead.
If Bozo and the Cyclops had a baby, it still wouldn’t be this ugly.
Earl laughed. “You know you’re famous now, right?”
“Famous?” My pulse lurched. “Good grief! Please tell me you didn’t talk to any reporters!”
Tiger Pants Shoots Cyclopoid Mall Cop. Good lord! I could end up on the home page of the Florida Man website!
Earl smirked and raised an eyebrow. “Just one. Turns out Third-Eye Blind’s looking for a new mascot.”
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