Story Time
Category Five by K. Shawn Edgar
That brings us back to the beaches of Mangalore. Bronco Flove eats fried eggs with enchilada sauce from the Taco Mart while watching hung over tourists sweat out last night’s gin on hotel towels.
It is about noon.
Mr. Lancer, shading his bulk with a giant umbrella, approaches Flove. Tipping his faded cap he says, “Well, my dear Bronco, still sleeping in that old car I see.” He is referring to the marks from a beaded seat cover on Flove’s face. “I’ve received word that a category 5 will hit the east coast of Florida sometime next month.”
Flove does not respond. He scoops the last chunks of egg and sauce up with his plastic spork. He scrunches down into the warm sand, and closes his eyes.
“Now, Bronco, you heard me say category 5. A hurricane of that degree has not hit Florida since 1935.”
A cockroach, mounting Flove’s paper plate, rhythmically begins investigating the potential food source. Without opening his eyes, Flove picks up the cockroach, kisses it gently and then lays it back on the plate.
Mr. Lancer quickly plucks at Bronco’s earlobe. He is English, and does not understand Flove’s desire to vegetate.
“Bronco, dear boy, it is afternoon. Are you going to stare at the ocean indefinitely?” he says.
Bronco’s German shepherd lopes up and growls at Lancer. Flove strokes the dog’s fur.
“Now now Lancer, it’s time you realized I’m no longer a hurricane pirate. My days of looting ended when I spent six months in a prison in South Carolina last year.”
Lancer rubs his chin with shaky fingers as he bends down to look into Flove’s eyes.
He says, “A category 5 hurricane means no police or National Guard presence for several days. The business districts will be exposed. You can take whatever you choose. Florida is a rich land. Think about it.”
The temperature drops a degree as a cool breeze picks up. Buttoning his sports coat, Lancer decides to leave Flove alone for now. He strolls away slowly. There is plenty of time. Bronco will come around; get tired of sleeping in the Nova with its hard wooden beads for a pillow. He will tire of the long slow days and the cold, empty nights. The lazy beach life is even now beginning to erode Flove’s fragile nerves. Complacency has a way of eventually turning even a recuperated man to ill deeds.
thank you for reading
That brings us back to the beaches of Mangalore. Bronco Flove eats fried eggs with enchilada sauce from the Taco Mart while watching hung over tourists sweat out last night’s gin on hotel towels.
It is about noon.
Mr. Lancer, shading his bulk with a giant umbrella, approaches Flove. Tipping his faded cap he says, “Well, my dear Bronco, still sleeping in that old car I see.” He is referring to the marks from a beaded seat cover on Flove’s face. “I’ve received word that a category 5 will hit the east coast of Florida sometime next month.”
Flove does not respond. He scoops the last chunks of egg and sauce up with his plastic spork. He scrunches down into the warm sand, and closes his eyes.
“Now, Bronco, you heard me say category 5. A hurricane of that degree has not hit Florida since 1935.”
A cockroach, mounting Flove’s paper plate, rhythmically begins investigating the potential food source. Without opening his eyes, Flove picks up the cockroach, kisses it gently and then lays it back on the plate.
Mr. Lancer quickly plucks at Bronco’s earlobe. He is English, and does not understand Flove’s desire to vegetate.
“Bronco, dear boy, it is afternoon. Are you going to stare at the ocean indefinitely?” he says.
Bronco’s German shepherd lopes up and growls at Lancer. Flove strokes the dog’s fur.
“Now now Lancer, it’s time you realized I’m no longer a hurricane pirate. My days of looting ended when I spent six months in a prison in South Carolina last year.”
Lancer rubs his chin with shaky fingers as he bends down to look into Flove’s eyes.
He says, “A category 5 hurricane means no police or National Guard presence for several days. The business districts will be exposed. You can take whatever you choose. Florida is a rich land. Think about it.”
The temperature drops a degree as a cool breeze picks up. Buttoning his sports coat, Lancer decides to leave Flove alone for now. He strolls away slowly. There is plenty of time. Bronco will come around; get tired of sleeping in the Nova with its hard wooden beads for a pillow. He will tire of the long slow days and the cold, empty nights. The lazy beach life is even now beginning to erode Flove’s fragile nerves. Complacency has a way of eventually turning even a recuperated man to ill deeds.
thank you for reading