Carl Hiaasen - Nature Girl

He stretched out behind a dune to nap, waiting for the campers to pass out. He envisioned himself as his great-great-great-grandfather, stalking General Jesup or that swine Zachary Taylor. The grandiose fantasy was jarringly interrupted by Wilson, the dead tourist. An underwater scavenger had nibbled off one of his earlobes, and a colony of purple barnacles had taken up residence on a bare patch of his scalp.

“Man, I need a favor,” Wilson’s spirit said.

“Like what?”

“I want you to move me.”

“That’s not funny,” said Sammy Tigertail.

“Get my body out of that river, please? Come on, bro, it’s so goddamn cold at night. Move me someplace dry.”

“No, sir. I can’t.”

“Someplace where there’s no sharks.” Dripping algae, Wilson turned to reveal a jagged excavation in one of his thighs; a pallid wound the size of a salad bowl. He said, “Jesus, I hate those sharks.”

Sammy Tigertail assured him that he wouldn’t like the turkey buzzards any better. “And that’s what’ll get you on dry land. Buzzards and fire ants.”

“But at least I won’t be freezing. At least I can rot to dust in the warm sunshine.” The spirit of Wilson playfully clanked his anchors. “Come on, whatta ya say?”

The Indian felt a sting of remorse, which was ludicrous. The white man was deceased and experiencing no discomfort; his spirit just happened to be a royal pain in the ass.

Sammy Tigertail said, “I don’t have time for you. I’ve gotta deal with these kids.”

“Move me out of the damn river. It’s the least you can do,” the dream spirit implored. “Aren’t doomed men s’posed to get one last wish?”

“Only in the movies,” said the Seminole.

Wilson snorted. “We’ll talk later, you and me.”

The dead tourist disappeared. Sammy Tigertail opened his eyes and got up. He peeked over the crest of the dune, toward the raucous campsite of the college kids.

One chamber-of-commerce myth about the Everglades is that the insects disappear all winter. Mild nights can be hellish, and Sammy Tigertail found himself enshrouded by famished mosquitoes and sand flies. Having foolishly forgotten to baste himself with repellent, all he could do was remain at his post and accept the punishing stings.

To maintain a clear view of the beach, he slashed one arm back and forth, like a windshield wiper, through the buzzing horde. With grim envy he observed that the radiating heat from the campfire seemed to shield the college students from the marauding swarms; either that, or they were too bombed to notice the bites. Sammy Tigertail wondered how long until his eyelids and nostrils swelled shut. He also wondered what Micanopy or Jumper or Sam Jones would have done in the same wretched predicament. One time he’d asked his uncle if there was a secret Seminole potion to ward off bugs, and his uncle had advised him to drive to the CVS in Naples and buy the biggest can of Cutter spray he could find.

As the campfire began to ebb, so did the carousing. The boom box racket faded away, and one by one the college kids teetered in exhaustion. Moments after the last of them had fallen, Sammy Tigertail liberated himself from the palmettos. Rifle in hand, he headed for the beach where the canoes were lined up. He selected the tangerine-colored one and quietly flipped it over, scattering boxer shorts and bikini bottoms.

“Take me with you,” said a voice from the shadows.

Sammy Tigertail whirled and raised his rifle.

“Don’t shoot,” the voice said.

“Come closer,” the Indian whispered hoarsely.

It was one of the student campers. She had tangled chestnut hair and wide-set green eyes and sand stuck to her chin and nose, from dozing facedown on the beach. She wore a fanny pack on her waist, and a rumpled sleeping bag was bunched like a blanket around her shoulders. She reminded Sammy Tigertail of Cindy, his ex-girlfriend, except that Cindy had a better complexion. The college girl’s cheeks were mapped with angry crimson welts.

“Take me along,” she said.

Sammy Tigertail lowered the gun. “Go away before you get hurt.”

“The guy I’m with, he’s such a loser.” She motioned with her head toward the campfire. “He brought along these rubbers with SpongeBob and Mr. Krabs on the tip. Cartoon condoms, and he can’t figure out why I won’t fuck him. What’s your name? I’m Gillian.”

“Sit and be quiet,” Sammy Tigertail said. He remembered that he was being tested by mystical forces.

“You an Indian?” she asked.

He was pleased that she’d noticed, but he tried not to let on. He glanced back at the camp to make sure that none of the other kids were stirring.

“Why can’t I come with you?”

“I said be quiet.” Sammy Tigertail grabbed the bow of the canoe and began sliding it toward the water.

“These aren’t zits,” Gillian said, pointing to her cheeks. “They’re mosquito bites. I’m allergic.”

“Please shut up.”

“Look, I’m a Seminole, too!” With a playful smile she shed the sleeping bag to show off a baggy gray sweatshirt. FSU was emblazoned in tall burgundy letters on the front.

It was too much for Sammy Tigertail. He let go of the canoe and walked up to the girl and touched a hand on her neck to make sure she wasn’t a spirit. Her skin felt warm and she smelled like stale beer and marijuana.

“School’s a drag,” she said.

“Not my problem.”

“I’m majoring in elementary ed. What was I thinking?”

Sammy Tigertail said, “Do you ever stop talking?”

He nudged the canoe into the water and waded in behind it, aiming the bow into the light chop. Carefully he set his rifle between the seats and prepared to climb in.

Gillian asked, “And where do you think you’re goin’?”

“To find a new island.”

“Yeah? Then you might need this.” She held up the paddle.

Sammy Tigertail grimaced.

“I had a sorority sister, the one who talked me into my major,” Gillian said, “her senior year she did spring break at Panama City. And one night she gets supertrashed, right? So when this crew from Girls Gone Wild shows up at the tiki bar, she jumps up on a chair and flashes her titties. And she was so hot they put it in the video-Girls Gone Wild number six. You ever see that one?”

Dazedly, Sammy Tigertail shook his head.

“After graduation she ends up teaching sixth grade down in Delray, right? First week on the job, some smartass kid brings in the video and switches it out for one on the Battle of Gettysburg. And this little shit’s only eleven years old! What’s with that?” Gillian was indignant. “Anyway, there was my sorority sister up on the screen, shakin’ her hooters for her whole class to see. Can you believe she got fired? And the kid who switched out the tape, all he gets is detention!”

“Give me the paddle,” said Sammy Tigertail.

“I want to be your hostage.”

“I don’t need a hostage. I need peace.” He sloshed toward the beach, hauling the canoe behind him.

Gillian backed up. “What if I start screamin’ and wake everyone else? You got enough bullets for all of us, Tonto?”

Sammy Tigertail thought: This one is not like Cindy. This one is worse.

“Get in the canoe,” he said.

Disappointment was the fuel that cranked the aging pistons of Della Shreave Renfroe Landry-disappointment in the father who’d cashed out his Shell Oil pension early and invested every dollar in the DeLorean Motor Company; disappointment in the mother who’d refused to hock her heirloom earrings and send Della to a prep school favored by the tall rangy sons of petroleum tycoons; disappointment in the three successive husbands who’d died without leaving Della wealthy and carefree; disappointment in the one daughter who’d run off to follow a rock band called Phish, then married a public defender who was a known Democrat and quite possibly a Jew; disappointment in the other daughter, who’d taken a nursing degree and, instead of bagging the first available neurosurgeon, hooked up with the World Health Organization and moved to Calcutta.