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 Pete Peterson feverishly worked at a computer screen, occasionally looking over his shoulder to the service counter to see if anyone was waiting to pick up their medications or stick a gun in his face. His assistant was late again, and he knew he'd have to start the search for a replacement, the third one this year. As a registered pharmacist, Pete was performing the second most dangerous job in Florida. Pharmacists had recently passed convenience store clerks in mortality rates, and they were closing in quickly on alligator trainers. Despite his bulletproof vest and sidearm, Pete knew he was a fragile barrier between desperate sick people, dangerous drug dealers, and the pills they both craved. Florida's drug dealers had long given up on cocaine and marijuana. They were cashing in on the more profitable heart meds, cholesterol lowering pills, arthritis pain killers and other meds Florida's aged population needed desperately to survive, but couldn't afford. Cocaine and marijuana were recreational, prescription drugs were life savers.
Out of the corner of his eye Pete noticed a tall man wearing sunglasses under a weathered straw sombrero. He wore a revolver strapped to his leg. He looked oddly familiar, but he couldn't say. The man was piling quantities of aspirin, decongestants, toothpaste, dental floss and hydrogen peroxide onto a large stack of over-the-counter medications in his cart. He wasn't hurrying, but he was moving quickly. He stopped the cart next to the condom display. Pete's attention now became focused on the tall stranger as he left his computer screen and bent over the counter to more closely observe the man. “You'll need a note from your pastor if you want to buy any of those,” Pete directed his voice in a stern yet informational tone. The religious right, who were now calling themselves the Culture of Life, had recently pushed legislation through Congress to hinder the distribution of condoms. The Culture of Life was also largely responsible for turning Florida into the sidearm capital of the free world. The religious right had joined forces with the National Rifle Association and both organizations were directed by the larger and more powerful Culture of Life Party. Like the NRA they were champions of handguns and automatic weapons, and believed every man, woman and child should own at least one. No one in the media had the guts to ask them why an organization called the Culture of Life would advocate weapons, but that was to be expected. Like the politicians, most media types knew their career would quickly go up in smoke if they pissed off any of the Culture of Life heavyweights.
“Say, don't I know you?” Pete asked the sunglassed stranger. The stranger walked over to the counter and removed his sunglasses and looked Pete square in the face. “Doc, how the hell are you? I didn't recognize you at first. I haven't seen you since Sarasota. What's it been, ten years?” Doc reached his hand to greet his former golfing buddy from the Whispering Pines Golf Club and Resort. It had been over ten years since Doc had sold his place and headed to Europe and Asia in search of an effective stem cell therapy for his wife Loretta, who was dying of Parkinsons. Doc smiled warmly at his old neighbor. “Pete, it's good to see you, this is quite a surprise, unexpected. Did you leave the Pines?” Pete glanced down at the counter and then back at Doc. “Yeah, we got clobbered when they lifted the homestead exemption. I didn't read all the fine print on my credit card agreement and didn't realize we were paying over four hundred percent interest on our debt until it was too late. Apparently the higher rates kicked in automatically when we were a couple days late on our phone bill. They took the house, most of our stuff, that's when I went back to work…but they did let me keep my clubs. Hey, you want to shoot a round sometime?” Pete was exactly how Doc had last seen him, and Doc was now even more impressed with Pete's irrepressible optimism, after what he had been through. “You know, that sounds like a great idea, I'll look forward to doing that.”
As Doc spoke, Pete studied his face and realized that Doc looked every bit as good as he did ten years ago, even better. “What kind of miracle drug are you taking? You look younger than the last time I saw you.” Doc was well aware of what Pete was talking about. He felt better than he had felt in twenty years. He seemed to be aging backwards, getting younger. He had a couple of ideas of what was happening to him, but they weren't ready to try out on Pete. The old friends stood silent staring at each other for a few moments. “So what brings you to Punta Gorda, you seem to be stocking up a bit?” Doc looked Pete in the eyes, “Pete, don't take this personally, but the reason I'm here is that I'm about to rob your pharmacy.”
At that moment, a shock wave of sound carried from the front of the store. Breaking glass, a car engine, screams and shouts of panic. Doc recognized the voice that came over the public address system, it was Gummy Bear. “Attention all shoppers, the Department of Homeland Security has just informed us that Cuban terrorists have stormed Ft. Myers Beach, and they are headed this way. Get in your cars and drive home immediately. I repeat, leave the store immediately and go home!” Pete handed the keys to the narcotics cabinet to Doc. “Good luck, pal. Let's stay in touch.” Pete made a golf swing motion with his arms, smiled, and leapt over the counter and disappeared out the emergency exit.
Angeline reached down into a vase and lifted out a ladle of fresh water. She gently held the water to the lips of the sick, dehydrated woman. The woman looked up at Angeline as a calmness took hold of her body. She smiled and began to let Angeline's nourishment fill her mouth and her throat, and her consciousness. The woman smiled and closed her eyes. Angeline spoke, "The others will be back soon. Sleep now and when you wake, I'll be here and I'll have the medicines you need. You will live. Angeline took the woman's hand and began to sing a song to the woman, a song the woman had not heard since she was a young girl. The woman faded into restful sleep.
Angeline had arrived at the camp almost a year earlier, on a winter day when the sun had been shining brilliantly and the wind was calm. That day was a respite from winter and the Boomers were regrouping from the cold days that preceded. She carried only a small bag, her only possession, along with the white cotton dress she wore that day, the same one she was wearing this winter day. She had walked miles from the highway and had taken the group by surprise. No one had ever found the camp without a guide or directions relayed from someone who knew the way. Her only explanation was that she was looking for the river and knew that if she traveled west from the highway, sooner or later she would find it. She had found the river, and the camp had found Angeline. On those who noticed her subtle effects upon the others over the past year, silence prevailed.
Vanzetti slept next to his easel, on the shore of the river, a few hundred yards downstream from the camp. He had painted for hours and had completed his vision of the river. On that day, the sun cast the water into a shade of blue that he had never before noticed. The water carried floating lily pads that possessed a yellowness close to the color of fire. He had painted what he saw, the scene slowly passed and he put his brush down and entered a dream…a dream he had often.
A young man had walked into a marina on a coastal river. There was activity all around, it was a pleasure boat marina, not a working commercial fisherman's marina. The cast of characters were there, all of them. There was the singer, the retired singer who acknowledged his celebrity to the young Henry before he could even speak, because the famous singer had seen the same reaction from so many others, so many times before. There was the man who worked at the service desk in the one room administration building on the main jetty, the jetty made of earth and concrete that connected to the wooden docks that held the pleasure boats. He nodded to Henry, he knew him in a familiar sense. Henry was getting to be a regular at the marina. And he always sat on the same bench and waited. And the sea captains who tended to their boats and readied them for the next pleasure cruise into the Gulf, also knew Henry. They knew Henry as the young man in love, and though he tried not to let it show, he was a young man hopelessly in love. And he arrived every few days and waited until she would arrive, the girl he had met just a few weeks before in a laundromat. Her name was Lisa, and she was truly the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, let alone talked to, and who had actually replied to his awkward questions. He always arrived first, sat down with a coke from the vending machine next to the service desk at the marina building on the main jetty. And the boat captains and the singer and the marina service man noticed him and watched him, and checked back occasionally to see if the girl had arrived. And soon they would see Henry stand up and walk quickly down the earthen jetty and when they looked towards the entrance to the marina, across the green lawn that separated the water from the city streets, they would see her arrive. And she would embrace him and he would embrace her, and they'd walk to the bench and sit together. And they would talk about what had happened to each of them since they last met. And after a while, words didn't matter to them. They would look into each other's eyes, as young lovers do, silently….neither having a desire to speak. And each felt great comfort just being near the other. That was enough. And their time together compressed itself into a single moment. And when that moment was over, and it was time to leave, they would each crash mightily back into the day they occupied, the day they left only a moment before. And she would say her goodbyes and check her watch, and hurry away as not to be a minute late for the second shift at the hospital, where she was a student nurse. And Henry would watch her leave, joyful and empty at the same time. Henry would walk from the marina and look over his shoulder at the boats in the docks. And he was absolutely sure that someday they would sail away together from this world they knew, and into a better world…a world without the emptiness he was feeling…only the joy.
Angeline pulled his sleeve. “Henry, you said you wanted to hear the radio broadcast. Doc and Bear were looking for you and gave up. And I've been looking for you, too. I've made some dinner, please come and join me.” Henry opened his eyes and looked at Angeline. “Am I dreaming?” Henry mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Angeline smiled, “Only you would know the answer to that question. Henry, this picture reminds me of Monet. Is he one of your favorites?” Henry stood up and yawned and looked down at the painting, “Yes, I've heard of him, I don't think I've ever seen any of his stuff.”
A pack of Kash and Karry alkaline batteries fumbled in Gummy Bear's giant hands. Angeline, Vanzetti and Doc grinned like school children as they watched the Bear attempt to extricate the batteries from the packaging with hands the size of catchers' mitts. “Hey, let me help you, big guy.” Vanzetti reached over and took the package and cracked open the pack and handed the batteries back to the Bear. “Cuban terrorists. Very good, I would have never thought of that.” The Bear chuckled and clumsily shoved the batteries into the transistor radio. The radio crackled to life.
“Is this thing on….tap…tap…tap….ok, listen up everyone. The Governor will be here in a few minutes. I'd like to welcome everyone from the media and all you citizens as well. I'd also like to welcome the many international news organizations from countries who have signed the Truth in Media Alliance. The Governor signed an executive order today and has declared Florida a Truth in Media state. All news traveling over public frequencies and through cable operations in the state will be subject to the regulations of the Truth in Media Alliance, which basically means it can't be propaganda. I've received a list from the Alliance of the broadcasters who will be sanctioned. The Governor has determined that continuing the campaign of misinformation directed at our citizens is detrimental to the well being of our sovereign state.” A hush fell over the crowd. Nobody had really expected Governor Frankie Bush to invoke such a sweeping order so soon after taking office. A reporter from Fox News jumped to his feet. “You can't do that, we'll take Frankie Bush down. Our audience believes anything we tell them, you don't know who you're messing with.” Tim Russert from NBC's Meet The Corporate Press stormed out, along with a dozen other national news icons who in reality were nothing more than well paid shills for corporate America. Everyone knew what this meant for Fox News and the other right wing media outlets that dominated the airwaves. They would have to continually display in the corner of the screen the bright yellow letters of one word: propaganda.
“Hey boys, how much time have we got.” Governor Frankie Bush was standing knee-deep in the Cocoa Beach surf, his multicolored surfboard emblazoned with the words “United We Bargain, Divided We Beg” tucked under his arm. A small army of secret service agents scattered in the water and on the beach tried to look inconspicuous in their matching wet suits, close-cropped haircuts and earpieces. “The news conference has started Governor, we better go.”
Governor Frankie Bush entered through the kitchen of the new governor's quarters, the former Lost Seas Hotel on Cocoa Beach. “Give 'em hell, Frankie,” one worker shouted as the Governor made his way through the crowded kitchen, high-fiving the workers as he went. Then up some steps and past the ice machine until he stepped onto the makeshift stage at the edge of the inner courtyard of the hotel. A thunderous cheer went up from hundreds of onlookers who were watching from the balconies of the hotel. A hundred and fifty television cameras with lights and sharply dressed reporters assembled in the hotel's courtyard in front of the stage. Governor Frankie Bush's first news conference was about to be broadcast live around the world and the Governor had just arrived wearing a wet suit, unshaven for three days and barefoot. He stood in front of the podium and held his arms up to silence the crowd as the pandemonium continued.
“Please, please everyone grab a seat…please sit down, and I'll fill you in on how we're going to reclaim the great state of Florida.” The press corps began to take their seats and those in the balconies ceased their screaming in anticipation of the Governor's words. As all the press had found their seats, and all had become quiet, everyone's attention focused on a lone reporter standing near the end of the first row. He was motioning to an extremely oversized man who easily tipped the scales at four hundred pounds. The standing reporter was showing his press pass with the seat number to the man. The oversized man had apparently taken two seats for himself and the reporter was frantically trying to negotiate his front row seat. The Governor looked over at the discussion as TV cameras from around the world focused in on the belligerent fat man, occupying two seats, and wearing a suit and tie that seemed to be cutting off the circulation in his entire body. His face was beet red and he was shouting obscenities at the reporter standing next to him. It was Rush Limbaugh!
How Limbaugh had gotten in was anybody's guess. After his third or fourth relapse into drug addiction and his fifth or sixth divorce, even the right wing media had heard enough from Rush. Some high-powered wingnuts in Washington had figured out that Rush was no longer the perfect spokesperson for their message, and they pulled the plug on him. He had found work as a beat reporter with the Ocala Star Banner a few years earlier and everyone had figured they had seen the last of him. Governor Bush stepped up to the microphone and silenced the crowd who by now had begun shouting for Rush to leave and not let the door hit him on the way out, or something to that effect. “Rush, I'll give you one chance to stay, but only one chance,” spoke the Governor. “Now, in 2005 you called President Jimmy Carter…may he rest in peace…human excrement. You did this on your radio show a number of times. I happen to be a big fan of President Carter's, so I was very taken aback by your comments. Rush, if you will stand up and apologize to everyone here, and look in the cameras and tell the whole world you are sorry for saying that about President Carter, along with all the other nasty, false things you said about so many good people, I will let you stay for the rest of the news conference. How about it?”
Limbaugh struggled to push himself to his feet, and finally achieved a standing position after knocking over one of the two chairs on which he had positioned his massive body. “I will not apologize, because I'm always right, and you liberals or progressives or whatever you call yourselves…well you can…just kiss my butt…and…you know what really ticks me off…” Over his shoulder, Rush continued hurling vile invective as he had done for so many years on the airwaves, numbing and soothing the minds of millions of clueless Americans who listened to him. Security personnel escorted him out of the courtyard and through a hallway and out a large exit door that emptied into a parking lot. Rush tried to turn around and catch the door as it slammed shut. He lost his balance and rolled down an embankment, crashing with a thud against the foundation of the hotel. Inside, the people on the balconies braced themselves, as the hotel trembled and shook for a few seconds. They thought they were experiencing Florida's first-ever earthquake. Rush rolled his giant body over onto its side and managed to sit up against the concrete wall. Less than ten feet away, an old bum was leaned against the trunk of a tree, sipping on a brown paper bag. He looked over at Rush and eyed him suspiciously for a few seconds. “Hey, you're that guy, that radio guy…I recognize you…you got any painkillers?”
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