Night Vision

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On an Everglades-scented evening in March, as I drove my pickup truck west, toward the Gulf of Mexico, my hipster pal, Tomlinson, reached to switch off the radio, saying, “Life is the best thing that can happen to any of us. And it’s also the very worst thing that can happen to any of us. Problem is, our luck begins with mom’s location when the womb turns into a slippery slide. That’s why I self-medicate. It makes the shitty unfairness of it all almost bearable.”

We had just dropped my chatty cousin, Ransom Gatrell, at Regional Southwest, and I was eager for a few minutes without conversation. I nodded toward the radio and told him, “Hey, I was listening to that. We can talk later.”

“The Guatemalan girl deserves your full attention,” Tomlinson reminded me. He leaned back in his seat and stuck his hand out the window, surfing the Florida night. “She’s gifted. And she’s in trouble.”

He wasn’t referring to Ransom, although my powerhouse cousin, and my other neighbors at Dinkin’s Bay Marina, Sanibel Island, Florida, are a gifted, eclectic bunch.

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