Ground Control

Doug swatted mosquitos in vain. The smell of bug repellent, Buford’s rancid body odor, and suffocating heat melded into a nauseating bouquet in the confined pickup truck. Sweat trickled into his eyes. Closing the windows and running the AC wouldn’t be an improvement. Doug hung his head out, opting for Everglades mosquito soup.

Two days at once: first and last. Suck it up.

At thirty-eight, this gig was something he’d never contemplated. Since graduating high-school Doug worked construction, beginning as a laborer, apprentice electrician, and finally an electrical contractor in South Miami, making a decent living - his own boss for the first time. That is, until he discovered the future ex-wife screwing two employees. Counting Doug and his wife of eight years, the company had a total of four employees. Apparently, the boss was the only one not getting laid during working hours.

The Cuban American Princess (she hated that moniker, which suited her better thirty-five pounds ago) now had the company truck, tools, and employees. Doug got to keep the debt. Putting the assets in her name to qualify as a ‘minority owned business’ seemed so clever at the time.

Florida Hyacinth Control: a new start - or last resort. His best buddy from high school and temporary roommate, Trash (Mike’s his real name but the character from The Stand was just too spot-on), suggested one drunken evening … more like weekend, to be honest … that he take a chance for once in his life, and here he sat, swatting skeeters beside a twenty-something ex-football jock who knew nada about hygiene.

Five grand for five hours sounded fantastic.

Not so much just now, though.

The CB radio squawked with intermittent truckers’ chatter. Hundred-foot-tall Australian pines lined both sides of the cut-coral road, choking off any unlikely breeze. Shimmering heat waves distorted the end a half-mile ahead. They’d been sitting for an hour, the sun now directly overhead.

Buzzards drifted lazy spirals around invisible columns.

Buford fiddled with the squelch on the radio … again. Crew-cut blond, unnaturally wide shoulders, conversant as a football. The former linebacker who had a shot with the Dolphins but didn’t make it past preseason had done this maybe twenty times according to Trash. “Just do what you’re told, keep you’re mouth shut, and you’ll be IN. It’s Juney’s crew. You knew Juney back in the day, right?”

Yeah, Doug knew Juney from Jackson High when he was a freshman and Juney a leather-jacketed senior with a cadre of losers who stole batteries, hubcaps, tires, and a police car for homecoming. Everyone in school knew OF Juney - envied, worshiped, followed - but that was twenty-plus years ago.

Guess that makes me an apprentice loser. A step up?

Buford urgently raised a hand for silence. Doug wondered if he’d been thinking aloud.

“Foxtrot-Hotel-Charley, ten-five” came over the radio, clear as a bell.

Buford picked up the mike and replied, “Roger that, Big Daddy.”

How’d he know the call was coming?

Buford grinned, oddly relaxed. “Five minutes ‘till show time, Buddy Boy. Take a leak if you need to. We won’t be stopping again ‘till we’re home. And make sure you roll up the window. When I stop, you get in the bed. I’ll sling ‘em and you arrange ‘em below the sides.”

Buford stepped out of the truck to piss, stripped off his tee shirt exposing a bodybuilder's torso, and casually donned what looked like a park ranger’s shirt, then tossed one to Doug. He affixed a magnetic sign to his door, another on the passenger side. Doug stepped out to put on the shirt, noting the arm patch matched the sign: FHC with what looked like the State of Florida seal. Just before he started to pee, a loud engine noise and a whooshing filled the air, making him duck. Primordial panic gripped as a shadow passed. The grease streaked belly of an airplane, wingtips barely clearing the trees, descended out of nowhere. Wheels kissed the road a hundred yards in front of them kicking up a dust cloud. Doug was dumbstruck as the truck cranked and began pulling away. He barely made it inside as tires spun on loose coral. Dust filled the cab - a hundred-degree whiteout. Belatedly he cranked the window.

They skidded to a stop half under the wing. Doug face-planted into the dashboard trying to put his dick away … the airplane propellor churned a windstorm around the truck. With sand filling his eyes and nose, he climbed into the bed and was knocked onto his back by a thirty pound black plastic cube the size of a microwave oven. The wind knocked out of him, struggling for air, another followed, and another. He was being buried.

On all fours, he began organizing the load while dodging incoming. Just as the bales ceased the world filled with a growl so loud it hurt his chest. Gravel and sand stung the top of his head and he tried to deflect small stones pinging the truck.

The whirlwind ended. Doug saw the plane’s tail rise above a swirl of dust, then disappear beyond the treetops along with the noise. Buford unfurled a canvas tarp, threw it over the load, bungee-tied the corners down and slid back into the drivers seat. Doug had one foot in the truck as wheels spun. At the road’s end they made a skidding left, then a series of lefts and rights, making their way north towards Alligator Alley. The dirt ended at a long, arrow straight, paved road. Looking right, the road was empty. Left, a car headed their way fast.

Black and tan.

State Trooper.

Buford winked at Doug and turned left. As they approached the car, its blue lights came on and a hand waved for them to stop. They eased alongside.

“What you boys doing out here?” The officer asked, looking up at the green four wheel drive pickup.

“Just pullin’ weeds, man. It’s the job.” Buford sounded bored.

The officer looked at the sign on the side of the truck. If he got out of the car, they were screwed.

“Florida Hyacinth Control? You got your hands full out here, huh? Your buddy looks a little ill.”

“First day. Probably his last, too.”

The officer snickered. “Welcome to the Everglades. You see a low-flying plane?” he asked abruptly.

Doug, sweat streaming into his eyes, resisted the urgent need to wipe. Thoughts of five grand morphed into five years as guest of the State.

Buford, bizarrely calm, said, “Thought maybe an airboat went by ‘bout twenty minutes, but didn’t see nothing. Coulda been a plane I guess.”

“What direction was it heading?”

“Dunno. We were bout five mile or so south, close to Tamaimi Trail when I heard it.”

The officer waved them on and picked up his radio. Buford looked over and belly-laughed. “You better put that thing away before you hurt somebody.”

Doug rearranged his cock, shyly peeking from the dark stained front of his pants.

It’s gonna be a long ride back to Miami.

Five grand.

Tomorrow I’ll bring an air freshener.