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15

“It’s been four weeks since the storm,” Tomlinson told me, “and I’ve decided that man’s greatest structural flaw is that we can’t use our dicks as snorkels. Who’s had time to come up for air? It’s even worse for women. They’re all pent up, like overinflated balloons.”

I stood at the north window of my lab, looking out. Yes, it was Arlis Futch. A short man with huge forearms and hands from pulling nets, wearing a big Bing Crosby hat. But Arlis wanted time alone before he came ashore. That’s the way I read it, the old man drifting a hundred yards from my stilt house, engine off, in a boat designed for netting mullet, but which was now obsolete because of a net ban that had taken his livelihood away. Not only his, but the livelihoods of several thousand Florida commercial fishermen, most of them competent, responsible people; a few, redneck trash.

The good and the bad, it didn’t matter. They’d vanished not long after their promises to fight back had been dismissed.

Arlis was one of the good ones. He’d been close friends with Hannah Smith. Very close friends, which was still a source of uneasiness for me. Hannah had lived and behaved as she pleased, which included sometimes offering herself as comfort to a lonely old man she cared about and respected.

I turned from the window, and listened to Tomlinson tell me that fluctuating barometric pressure—because of all the hurricanes—was having a major effect on Florida’s female population.

“On the clitoral scale, barometric pressure’s been seesawing like a teaser pony in heat. That’s why every woman on these islands looks flushed, nervous. You’ve noticed? They’re all static charged from that storm. Every single one. And they’ll all need grounding very soon. Safely grounded. Or they could blow up like the damn Hindenburg.”

I rolled my eyes as I interrupted, “I hope you’re not referring to Mildred Engle; trying to give me a subliminal suggestion for some reason—”

“No, of course not. But you never know, Doc. A woman with Chessie’s aura?”

Yes, I told him, sometimes I did know.

He’d come to use the shower again, Friday night being traditional party night at the marina. In the first weeks after the storm, I was among the few to have a generator; also had my own water, the big wooden cistern full and clean. I’d gotten used to locals stopping by to cook something or wash, but Tomlinson has always been a regular.

“I’m talking about women in general,” he continued. “That’s why you can’t miss the party. Women are counting on all of us. They’ve been sending unmistakable vibes. And don’t think for a minute you’re not expected to contribute something to the cause.”

I nodded, playing along. “Yeoman’s work. Probably a couple dozen females will be here tonight.”

He was pulling clothing from his ditty bag—tie-dyed shirts, a sarong. “Yes, and most of them over forty. Older women are the world’s best lovers, as you possibly know. It is because they go at it like they may never get another chance. However, they also sap more energy. Caloric output, in medical terms. So you need to be back from Chessie’s in time for a little nap and a few vitamins before the party really gets going.”

It was obvious but I asked, anyway. “What time did you start drinking this afternoon?”

The question offended him. “Why? Because I’m cheerful? I’m almost always cheerful. The fact that I occasionally have a few breakfast beers has nothing to do with it.”

“Cheerful, yeah. But you seem damn near giddy. Or maybe you’ve been smoking already—”

His head began to bob, interrupting me to demonstrate that he felt no shame. “Just a couple of tokes with my morning tea. Opening the brain receptors, telling the gods I’m still down here, awaiting instructions. But giddy?” He was mulling it over. “Hmm…you could be right. I purchased some amazing weed off a Key West chum. Grown somewhere off Marathon. Really great shit.”

I said, “Apparently.”

“They call the stuff Seven Mile Bridge, because it’s about as close as you can get to walking on water. Plus, it gets you over the hump.” His tone changed, taking a chance. “You want to try some? You’ve got the green aura thing going, which mean’s you’re open to new experiences.”

I never smoke. Ever. But heard myself say, “Maybe. Let me think it over.”

Someone had told me marijuana mitigated chronic headaches. The words were out before I’d even thought about it.

Tomlinson’s reaction was a combination of surprise and concern. But it pleased him, too.

“Sure, man! Maybe tonight after the party. Hang out, pass the pipe, and get weird. I’ve always wanted to see you stoned. Find out what my buddy’s like without all the shields in place. All the redundancy defense systems, weapons locked and loaded.”

“Don’t get carried away,” I told him. “It’s just an idea. Something I haven’t tried.”

I was separating more man-made objects from the cable. I now had two trays of sodium hydroxide going, artifacts in each. I told him, “Go take your shower.”