Florida isn’t really that crazy. Sure, on any given day one might see a shrunken old man in a giant caddie driving on the line like it’s there to guide him from Publix to the retirement village he came from, but most of the time it’s just warm. Well, hot. But even hurricanes aren’t that crazy. Because right in the middle of one everything comes to a halt; the wind, the rain stops, and the world is silent for once because everyone is inside. Quiet until the eye passes over and the winds tear right through the palms again. But then the palms are replanted, the floodwater goes somewhere, and life is good. 

So, when I say I never meant to get on the wrong side of the law I really meant it. I had a good setup in the Poinciana Trailer Park; a nice double-wide I that owned outright with decent furniture collected over five years. The biggest problem I had up until that point was when the University of Florida played Florida State and fights broke out among residents over who would win in an actual fight a gator, or a Seminole and I would say neither because white people always win in that kind of contest. What really happened I don’t actually know but I heard from my neighbor that the cops were looking for me because I matched a description they had and within the hour my picture was all over the local news. I did what anyone would do in that instance. I grabbed my duffel bag from when I wrestled in high school; filled it with food, money, and clothes; and hightailed it out of there in my Chevy. 

Being on the lam is no fun. Sure, the movies make it look glamorous but sleeping in the bed of a truck wretches your back something fierce and there’s the small matter of your face being everywhere. The logical, the smart thing for me to do would’ve been to leave Florida immediately 75, 95 it wouldn’t have mattered just as long as I headed north and never looked back on the sunshine state. But this is my home, been my home for thirty-three and half years and I don’t intend to leave it just because of a minor disagreement with the Sheriff’s department. Not minor exactly but I could rectify it. Probably. I’m not a bad guy though I might have made some bad decisions on more than one occasion. But that ain’t worthy of a manhunt as far as I know. 

I zagged around on the backroads in the middle of the state for as long as the Chevy would let me before I needed gas, a bathroom, and something to eat. Night had settled in, but the heat still came off the ground. I should’ve fixed the AC before I left but then I remember I’m on the run and there’s no time for repairs on the run. I need to remember this. I found a one attendant gas station to lower my chances of being identified and walked in with my sunglasses on. “Blind people shouldn’t be driving,” said the blonde at the counter. I looked around but there was nobody else around. “Why don’t you have a cane or dog or something?” “I’m not blind.” “So, the sunglasses are for the hell of it?” I ignored her as I picked up some sunflower seed, bottles of coke, and a package of Hostess Cupcakes to take me back to a simpler time. Like last week when I had one with my friend Ray and wasn’t on the run.

Every station I turned on repeated the story about a Florida man on the lam, be on the lookout, and I kept thinking what a crapass description it was. Everybody knows that one part of Florida isn’t like the other part. Panhandle Florida man is basically Alabama man. Central Florida man either cares about citrus or cartoon rats and not much else. And Gulf Coast folks are always arguing with East Coasters about whose beaches are better, which the correct answer is whoever has free beach parking. I guess Florida man is different from, say, Oregon or Iowa man, but there aren’t that many natives down here. A lot of Florida men are really Florida by way of New Jersey but left when they could no longer stand the cold or maybe the smell of Newark man.

Somewhere between midnight and Ocala, I stopped the Chevy. My legs had gone stiff from sitting in the truck all day. I walked around like John Wayne for a bit before my joints loosened up enough for me to climb in the back of the truck. Couldn’t risk a motel although a bed would be much nicer than my Chevy. Love bug carcasses littered the inside because no one bothers cleaning during the love bug season but now I wished I had because I don’t want love bug carcasses on me.

In the morning I headed back south on 75 to throw them off. After picking off all them love bugs, I stopped for my breakfast, orange Gatorade and donuts. I can’t start a morning without orange Gatorade. Finest thing Florida has ever made. That orange liquid replenishes the soul as much as it does the sweat.  And boy does driving up and down Florida interstates make one sweat.

My plan was once in Tampa to get on the hell known to regular folk as I-4 and try my luck on the East Coast. It would be easier to get lost in bigger cities. But there I was on my way when I kept driving past signs of Citrus farms with large pictures of oranges on them. My tongue tasted that orange Gatorade and now it wanted the real thing. I figured I deserved to taste one last Florida orange before going away. After all, they fry them here in Florida.

I pulled off and followed the signs to the nearest farm. Flo and Rita’s, all Florida Oranges. I drove over sandy roads past rows and rows of citrus trees. Each tree was dotted orange, yellow, or green.  I stopped at one that had a ladder leaning against it. A short climb and a pick later I had a good-sized orange in my hand. I took my pocket knife to it and juice ran down my fingers. The fruit tasted sweet as I bit into the flesh. Far better than the Gatorade I had this morning. The more I ate the more it tasted like mornings spent at my grandma’s where I’d go out back and climb her orange trees. An orange for me and an orange blossom for her. Out of instinct, I picked one now. But she’s been gone a while now and there’s no one to give it to. I’ve been alone for a while now. If only I had given her more blossoms. I grabbed another orange. Still sweet as ever.

A red truck followed by a police car pulled up behind my Chevy. I didn’t bother getting up off the ground. I straightened all my rinds into a pile. A woman with a long gray braid yelled at me about her property and at the cops to grab me. The sheriff came over and said, “Son I have to take you in.” I told him, “I know, I am the Florida man. You’ve been looking for me.” He dropped his shades to give me a good look. “Son, we caught that Florida man. I’m taking you in for illegal consummation of citrus.”  With that I had the cuffs slapped on me and was shoved into the old crown vic. As we drove out, we went past all the trees. The orange and yellows faded into the green. My arms were sticky from the juice that ran down my arms. I kept pulling my arms off the vinyl, but it was no use. I was stuck just like any other Florida man.

– Meryl Lee