I didn’t scream.
I was too drunk on optimism & in no hurry to leave the streambed. The ugly thing smelled like low tide microwaved to a million degrees. A gar spit from its midsection – as did an eel & bull shark. It had a friendly enough disposition, though.
Still, I got bored waiting for it to say something.
Then, the hideous creature asked for clean water. The monster didn’t speak English, but somehow, I understood its ancient language: a dial-up modem mixed with crashing waves. His voice – because this anthropomorphic version of climate used he/him pronouns – soothed me. I took his hand.
Which wasn’t an actual hand. Was a rotting manatee fingernail.
I led him to a restaurant to get a cool drink. You stink, said the hostess. She checked her list. Replied: Can’t seat you till 6.
I saw open tables. Was indignant. Took his gross fingernail hand & hit the asphalt in my electric car. Which actually runs on gas. I just pretended it was electric so my new boyfriend wouldn’t think I was part of the problem, too.
Because this horror movie turned into a romance when I looked at the decomposed catfish-leech-creek-freak next to me & felt a deep, earth inclination.
What can I say?
I’ve always liked bad boys with a unique sense of smell/style. We drove for miles. Got stuck in stop-&-go. Because that’s how it is in Florida now, no matter the time of day. It’s 1:45 on a Tuesday afternoon, like, where are all these people going?
Related
USF’s new Creekshed collection explores the human and natural stories that drain into the Gulf
The cars reminded me that some scientists believe we will never run out of water in Florida, but we may run out of time.
But that’s not something I can say.
To someone I’m newly dating, it would be too bleak. Too weird. So, I kept quiet & rolled down the window. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one attracted to this climate metaphor. Soon, a flock of seagulls flew into my car & nibbled on my man.
He asked me to pull over. & I did. He looked at me with swamp darter eyes. In his primordial language, he said, We need to break up. It’s not you. It’s me.
I cried big, wet, brackish tears because I, too, am toxic.
Finally, composed, I replied I get it. I come from the city, you from the creek.
& he was like, Wait. Actually. No. It is you. It isn’t me. People did this.
A seagull picked a salamander from his flaky lips.
& I was like, damn, so you’re blaming me for the choices of an entire species.
& he was like, That’s exactly what I’m doing. Because you haven’t learned from the past.
& I was like, I’m trying to. I’m doing my best here. Sorry.
& he was like, No, you’re not. You’re just writing a story.Florida Audubon Society and The Filmakers, Inc., “The Waterclock Crisis” (1979). Florida Audubon Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary – Audio Visual. 1.
Subscribe to Creative Loafing newsletters.
Follow us: Google News | NewsBreak | Reddit | Instagram | Facebook | BlueSky
This article appears in Apr 17-23, 2025.