Swamp Story: A Novel

Chapter 1

Slater! Jesse yelled. Get out here! There’s a snake!

Jesse threw down her book and snatched Willa off the beach towel where she’d been dozing. The snake was maybe twenty-five feet away. It had slid silently around the side of the cabin. It looked huge to Jesse, its long, thick body covered with brown blotches, its triangular head an arrow pointing at her and her baby. Jesse knew it was a python. She’d seen pythons out here before. But none this big.

SLATER!

No answer from the cabin.

Slater, there’s a snake out here!

Still no answer.

SLATER! There’s a very large snake! Please get out here right now!

Hang on. Slater’s voice, drifting out through the open doorway, was hoarse, as if he had just taken a massive hit off a bong, which in fact he had.

The snake glided a few feet forward into the clearing, directly toward Jesse and Willa. Jesse wanted to run to the cabin, but that would mean running toward the snake. Clutching Willa, she backed up several steps, to the edge of the clearing, next to a live oak. If she stepped back any more, she’d be wading barefoot in the mucky, murky waters of the Everglades, which she knew contained both snakes and alligators, and God knew what else.

The snake slid a little closer.

SLATER, GET OUT HERE RIGHT NOW!

Jesus Christ all RIGHT.

Slater appeared in the doorway, blinking, unsteady, clearly baked. His eyes were bright red; his hair, unwashed for weeks, hung in long greasy strands. He wore a filthy pair of cut-off University of Florida sweatpants, nothing else. Yet he still looked better than 99.999 percent of all human males who had ever walked the Earth. He was strikingly handsome in a classic Tom Cruise—in–his–prime way—thick, jet-black hair; brilliant green eyes; high cheekbones; square jaw. He was tall, a foot taller than Cruise, and his body, despite the fact that he never seemed to do anything for it, was spectacular—lean, muscular and sculpted, the body of an elite athlete in peak condition. Even in that moment, with a major snake threatening her and her baby, Jesse could not help but be aware, in some small sector of her consciousness, that Slater, sweaty, filthy and glassy-eyed from weed, was without question the hottest man she had ever seen.

Which is why she’d ended up out here in the Everglades with him and their baby. And ninety trillion mosquitoes. And no money.

And this snake.

Where is it? said Slater.

Jesse pointed.

Jesus Christ, said Slater, eyes widening. He called back into the cabin. Kark! You need to get this!

What? said a voice, as hoarse as Slater’s, maybe hoarser.

Big fucking snake, said Slater. "I mean big."

The snake slid forward another two feet, directly toward Jesse and Willa. Jesse saw that she now no longer had the option of even trying to run past it.

Slater! she said, trying to keep the panic out of her voice, not wanting Willa to pick up on it.

Slater held up his hands in a Calm down gesture.

It’s cool, he said. This’ll be good. Good footage.

"Good footage? said Jesse. Are you—"

Goddammit, Kark, yelled Slater, get the camera out here!

OKOKOK, said Kark, emerging from the cabin, holding the video camera. He looked as bad as Slater looked good. He wore only boxer shorts, once white, now a multicolored mess of brownish-yellowish stains of God only knew what origin, the waistband hidden under the overhang of his vast, pasty, drooping belly. Kark’s eyes—small bloodshot orbs in a big moon face—darted around the clearing.

Where is it? he said.

There, said Slater, pointing.

Holy shit, said Kark.

I know! said Slater. You ready?

Yeah, said Kark, raising the camera to his face. So what’re you gonna do?

Slater frowned, studying the snake. As he did, it glided another couple of feet closer to Jesse and Willa. It was now about ten feet away from them. Jesse inched back, her feet now in the water, sinking into the muck.

Slater! she shouted. DO something! Willa, startled by her mother’s voice, began to cry.

OKOK, said Slater. To Kark he said, Make sure you get this. He took a cautious step toward the snake. Kark, with the camera to his eye, followed, belly jiggling as he moved.

The snake was still looking at Jesse and Willa.

Slater, with Kark right behind, took another small step. He was now about the same distance from the snake as it was from Jesse and Willa.

Shoo, he said to the snake.

The snake did not appear to notice.

Shoo? said Jesse. "Shoo?"

Fuck, said Kark, looking at the camera. The battery’s dead.

You’re kidding me, said Slater.

Be right back, said Kark, waddling toward the cabin. Don’t do anything.

The snake slid forward another foot.

SLATER! yelled Jesse, stepping back, now up to her knees in the swamp. YOU NEED TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS SNAKE.

Hang on, said Slater. We have to change the battery.

Where’s the other battery? yelled Kark, from inside the cabin.

It was next to the cooler, said Slater.

I don’t see it.

Jesus Christ, said Slater, heading back to the cabin.

SLATER! yelled Jesse.

Just hold still, Slater answered. I’ll be right back. He disappeared through the doorway.

The snake slid forward. It was now less than five feet away from Jesse. Clutching Willa, she took another step back into the murky water, her legs sinking deeper into the muck. She realized she was about to become stuck there.

SLATER!

One sec!

The snake was at the edge of the water now, its massive body stretching halfway across the clearing behind it. Jesse tried to step back, struggling against the sucking swamp mud. She felt her right leg brush against something sharp. She glanced down, saw it was a fallen live oak branch, the tip sticking out of the water. She shifted Willa to her left arm, reached down, grabbed it and yanked. It didn’t move.

Dammit, she said. She shifted her weight and yanked the branch harder. It made a cracking sound and broke free. Jesse looked up and saw that the snake was close enough that she could touch it. She raised the branch and slammed it down as hard as she could on the snake’s head.

GO AWAY, she shouted.

One sec! Slater yelled from the cabin. We found the battery.

GO AWAY GO AWAY GO AWAY! shouted Jesse, striking the snake’s snout over and over. Willa was screaming now. Jesse braced herself, ready to dive backward into the swamp if the snake lunged at her.

But it didn’t. Instead, it turned its head away from the pesky branch and glided, unhurriedly, to the side of the clearing, then disappeared into the tall sawgrass.

Jesse, struggling, pulled her feet from the sucking, stinking muck and stumbled forward onto firm ground. She fell to her knees, gasping and clutching her baby, who was still crying.

It’s OK, Willa, Jesse said, fighting her own tears.

As she knelt there, trying to calm herself and her baby, Slater emerged from the cabin, followed by Kark with the camera.

Where is it? said Slater, looking around. Jess, where’s the snake?

Jesse, still trying to catch her breath, waved toward the edge of the clearing.

Shit! said Slater. He turned to Kark. We finally get a fucking python and you have a dead fucking battery!

Kark, from behind the camera, said, Maybe it’s still there.

Slater, with Kark trailing, walked across the clearing. He stopped at the edge and looked at the thick wall of sawgrass.

Is this where it went? he asked Jesse.

She glared at him. Why don’t you go in there and see?

Slater looked back at Kark, who had the camera to his eye. You getting this?

Kark nodded.

Slater took a small step forward, parted the sawgrass with his arms and peered ahead for a few seconds.

It’s gone, he announced.

Jesse snorted.

Slater, ignoring her, faced the camera, frowning.

We just missed it, he said. A Burmese python, easily fifteen feet. A deadly predator, fully capable of killing a man and swallowing him whole. It could be anywhere out here. It’s a risk we take every day, living the life of the Glades Guy.

Man, said Kark.

What? said Slater.

"It’s Glades Man, said Kark. Not Glades Guy."

You don’t think Glades Guy sounds better? The two ‘G’ sounds?

Yeah, but they’re called gladesmen.

Who is?

The guys who live out here.

Who calls them that?

"They call themselves that. Everybody calls them that. That’s how I pitched it to the network. If we sell the show it’s gonna be called Glades Man."

Slater shrugged. OK, then. Glades Man. You still recording?

Yeah.

OK, we’ll just pick it up from where I don’t see the snake.

Slater faced the sawgrass, then turned dramatically back to the camera, frowning in an effort to convey disappointment. We just missed it, he said. "A Burmese python, probably twenty feet long. A deadly predator that can kill a grown man and swallow him whole. It’s just one of the dangers we… we glades men face every single day, out here in the wild and wide-open—"

Look out! shouted Jesse. It’s coming back!

Slater, emitting a high, nonmasculine sound, jumped toward Kark, knocking him backward. The two of them fell to the dirt, Slater crawling on all fours away from the edge of the clearing.

Where is it? he shouted, looking around frantically, his voice still a good two octaves higher than usual.

Then he realized that Jesse was laughing.

And that there was no snake.

"Jesse, what the fuck, he said, scrambling to his feet. That was not funny!"

Oh, you’re wrong there, said Jesse.

Do we want to keep this footage? said Kark, on his butt in the dirt but still holding the camera to his eye.

No, we fucking don’t want to keep it! shouted Slater. Turn it off!

OKOK, said Kark, hitting a button.

For a few seconds the only sound in the clearing was Willa’s whimpering.

Did you get anything we can use? Slater asked Kark.

Kark frowned. Just you looking at the grass where the snake went.

Slater shook his head. "We need to do better than that. We need something real. Something dangerous."

Slater, said Jesse, do you even understand what just happened here?

Yes, Jess, I do, he said. What happened was, we had a chance to get some critical footage that could sell this reality show to the network, and we didn’t get it.

Jesse shook her head. "No, what happened was, you were so concerned about getting your footage that you left me and your baby alone out here to get attacked by a gigantic snake."

Jess, come on, it didn’t attack you, said Slater. It went away.

IT WENT AWAY BECAUSE I HIT IT, shouted Jesse. Willa started crying again.

You did? said Kark. "You hit it?"

Jesse nodded. With that. She pointed to the oak branch.

Holy shit, said Kark.

Jesus, Jess, said Slater. Couldn’t you have waited, like, thirty seconds?

Jesse stared at him. You’re serious, aren’t you?

Well, yeah, said Slater. So we could have gotten footage of the snake. Maybe get a shot of me hitting it with the stick.

Unbelievable, said Jesse.

What? said Slater.

Ignoring him, Jesse picked up the beach towel and book, then carried Willa to the other side of the clearing. She wished she could just keep walking, all the way out of this festering reptile-and-bug-infested swamp, away from this gorgeous asshole she had foolishly gotten stuck with, away from his idiotic schemes.

But at the moment she had nowhere to go, no money, no plan.

She spread the towel and sat down, comforting Willa.

It’s OK, she said, hugging her baby. Don’t cry. Mommy’s gonna make it better.

She paused, watching Slater and Kark trudge back into the cabin, where they would undoubtedly spend the rest of the day as they spent every day, getting baked and talking about amazing things they would never actually do. Then she looked back down at her whimpering daughter.

It’s OK, Willa, she said. Mommy’s gonna get us out of here.

Chapter 2

At that moment, a little over fifty miles to the east, a sun-battered 2003 Hyundai Accent pulled up in front of the massively pretentious multicolumned entrance of a house much too large for its lot in an upscale Coral Gables community on the edge of Biscayne Bay named Moco del Mar.

The Hyundai’s passenger door opened and Dora the Explorer stumbled out, falling to the sidewalk face-first.

Fuck! said Dora the Explorer.

What happened? said Elsa the Frozen princess, emerging from the driver’s side.

I can’t fucking see, said Dora the Explorer, who, inside a football-shaped fiberglass costume head the size of a microwave oven, was a fifty-one-year-old unemployed journalist named Phil Teagler. The eyeholes don’t line up.

Well just stay next to me, said Elsa, who, under an ill-fitting white wig with a long, thick braid, was Phil’s neighbor Stu Krupp, a marketing executive, age forty-eight, also unemployed. Stu’s face was smeared with a thick coating of theatrical makeup, which failed to completely conceal his beard stubble.

This is not good, said Phil, struggling to his feet. Why couldn’t I be, like, Spider-Man? Batman? Some kind of man?

"I told you, the birthday girl wants Elsa from Frozen. You’re supposed to be the sister. Whatshername. Emma?"

"But I’m not the sister. I’m Dora the fucking Explorer."

"I told you, they didn’t have the sister costume. We’ll just say Dora was another one of Elsa’s sisters. The birthday girl is four, for chrissakes. At least you get to be inside a head. I’m the one wearing a fucking dress."

In fact Stu’s original plan, since he was the one who had rented the costumes, was that Phil would wear the Elsa dress. But Phil, a big man—six-three and on the hefty side—couldn’t begin to fit into it. Even Stu, despite being much smaller, was unable to zip the Elsa dress all the way up. His back—and it was a hairy back, for Stu was a hairy man—was clearly visible from the rear view, black tufts sprouting from the seam.

Phil, peering out through the right eyehole of the Dora head, looked at the birthday-party house, an $11.3 million modernistic white concrete turd, flanked by two equally ugly bloated insta-mansions, squatting shoulder to shoulder on canal-side lots. The street was lined with the party guests’ cars, an armada of Land Rovers, the Official Vehicle of People Who Chauffeur Their Children to Their Expensive Private Schools in Land Rovers.

I don’t know about this, said Phil.

"It’s five hundred dollars, Phil. Cash. Two fifty each."

"I know, but… I mean, look at us."

Phil gestured to his Dora costume, which, in addition to the giant head, consisted of a too-small purple T-shirt, stained orange gym shorts, old sneakers and yellow socks rising halfway up Phil’s pale shins.

Doesn’t matter, said Stu. "The guy is desperate. He had a professional Elsa lined up, but she got sick. He needs us, Phil."

I dunno, Stu.

"You better not back out on me now. I need the money. You need the money."

I know, but—

Quiet, said Stu. He’s coming.

Phil aimed his eyehole at the front door, from which was emerging a tall, lean, balding hawk-faced man in tennis attire. This was the birthday girl’s father, Andrew Pletzger, a prominent and influential commercial real estate developer, a man photographed smiling with his current wife, a former model, at every major charity event in Miami.

He was not smiling now.

Oh shit, said Phil.

What?

I know this guy. Pletzger. I broke a story about him illegally cutting down mangroves. I got him in trouble with the state. It cost him a shit ton of money. He fucking hates me.

Jesus Christ, said Stu.

We need to leave.

No! Just keep the head on. Let me talk.

Pletzger was striding toward them, his face a furious red.

Hi there! said Stu, much too cheerfully. Mr. Pletzger, right?

You’re joking, Pletzger said. Tell me this is a fucking joke.

No! said Stu, keeping it cheerful. We’re the entertainment! For the birthday girl. Kaitlyn, right? I’m Stu Krupp. We talked on the phone. Stu stuck out his hand.

Pletzger regarded the hand as he might a maggot-covered rat corpse, then fixed Stu with a stare that had radically contracted the sphincter of many a subcontractor.

What we talked about, he said, "was Princess Elsa from Frozen, and her sister whatshername. Not a drag queen and—he pointed at Phil—whatever the hell that’s supposed to be."

That’s Dora, said Stu. The Explorer. She’s very popular with the kids.

Phil, trying to appear popular, gave Pletzger a little wave.

This failed to soothe Pletzger, who said, I want you assholes off my property right now.

But, Mr. Pletzger, we—

RIGHT NOW, said Pletzger.

Daddy! Is that Elsa?

Pletzger, Stu and Phil turned toward the house. Four-year-old Kaitlyn Pletzger, wearing an Elsa dress much nicer than Stu’s—it was custom-made, and cost $800—was running toward them, trailed by Pletzger’s wife, Heidi, a tall, slim blond woman with perfect cheekbones who had recently completed her twenty-five hundredth Peloton ride.

Kaitlyn, honey, go back in the house, said Pletzger. Heidi, take her back in the house.

But it was too late. Kaitlyn had reached the sidewalk and was looking up at Stuart, wide-eyed.

Elsa? she said.

Hi, Kaitlyn! said Stu in a falsetto voice that he intended to sound feminine, although it came out as more of a squawk, like a rooster getting a rectal probe. Happy birthday!

Kaitlyn studied Stu for a few seconds. He was looking down at her, smiling desperately and sweating profusely. He did not look like a fairy-tale princess; he looked like the Joker in drag. His mouth was ineptly outlined by a smear of garish red lipstick; an oozing glob of white makeup formed a stalactite on his stubbled chin, then detached from his face and fell to the sidewalk with an audible splat.

Princess Elsa was just leaving, said Pletzger. She has to go… someplace else.

Kaitlyn’s expression turned to one of horror.

No! she cried, lunging toward Stu. Nooooo! She wrapped her arms around Stuart’s left dress-enclosed leg, sobbing.

Heidi shot her husband a warning look, then leaned down and gently put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

It’s OK, Kaitlyn, she said. Princess Elsa’s not leaving. She’s going to stay for your party! Aren’t you, Princess Elsa?

Of course! croaked Stu, patting the top of Kaitlyn’s head. And so is my sister Dora! Dora the Explorer!

Dora gave Kaitlyn a little wave.

Your sister is Anna, said Kaitlyn.

Dora’s my other sister.

Kaitlyn considered this new information.

Can she talk? she said.

Phil shook the Dora head so violently that it almost fell off.

Dora doesn’t talk, croaked Stu. She’s… she’s shy.

Let’s all go inside for the party! said Heidi. She took Kaitlyn’s hand and started toward the house.

Pletzger blocked Stu and Phil from following.

I don’t like this, he said.

Elsa! Kaitlyn called from the doorway. Come to the party!

I’ll be right there! Stu croaked. To Pletzger, he said, She seems OK with it.

Elsa! Kaitlyn called again.

Pletzger looked back at his daughter, then turned a glare on Stu and Phil.

If you assholes screw this up, he said, I will kill you.

On that happy note they went into Kaitlyn’s party.

Stu took Phil’s arm, leading him through the pointlessly gigantic foyer and across the tennis-court-sized living room to the patio. The party guests were gathered next to the infinity pool, which overlooked the yacht-lined Coral Gables Waterway. Uniformed servants circulated with drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Hired teenagers were entertaining the children; a clown was making balloon animals. The patio was festooned with authentic Disney Frozen decorations; the centerpiece, on a low table, was a Frozen-themed cake the size of a Fiat. It was an exact replica of the Frozen castle, custom-made by the same baker patronized by Gloria Estefan. It had cost Andrew Pletzger $8,500 plus a hefty delivery charge.

For a half hour or so, Phil, his giant Dora head towering above the crowd, stood around sweating and feeling awkward. He could hear the adult guests laughing at him and Stu. He caught glimpses of them through his eyeholes—rich, fit, attractive, self-assured people, sipping wine, amused by this unexpected diversion, this pair of losers in pathetic costumes.

The children ignored Phil. Dora the Explorer was not the celebrity she once had been. She was Phil Collins at a rap concert.

Princess Elsa was a different story. It had been a few years, but she was still big. The kids swarmed Stu, grabbing at his dress, yelling, Elsa! Elsa! If they noticed that Elsa was a hairy, sweating middle-aged man, they chose to overlook it.

Stu handled the attention reasonably well until the birthday girl declared that she wanted him to sing Let It Go, Princess Elsa’s signature ballad. It had not occurred to Stu that he would have to sing. He had heard Let It Go, of course—everyone on the planet had heard Let It Go—but the only lyrics he could remember for certain were Let it go.

Sing it, Elsa! said Kaitlyn. Sing ‘Let It Go’!

Maybe later! croaked Stu. Why don’t we—

Sing it! said Kaitlyn, who was used to getting her way.

Sing it! Sing it! chorused the other children.

Yes, sing it, said one of the adults, and then more of them, ready to be amused.

I really think we should wait until… later, croaked Stu.

No, said Pletzger, stepping close, glaring at Stu. You’ll sing it now.

OK! croaked Stu. He cleared his throat, looked around at the crowd of expectant faces, and, in a voice that quavered in the vicinity of several notes without actually hitting any single one, began to sing.

Let it go, he sang. Let it go…

He paused for several seconds. The crowd waited. Then Stu sang:

Let it go, in the… snow.

Kaitlyn was frowning.

Let it go, in the snow, when it… snows.

That’s not the words, said Kaitlyn.

When it snows… the, um, the wind blows…

Sing the right words! said Kaitlyn, yanking on Stu’s dress.

I’m trying! snapped Stu, in a voice far too deep for a Disney princess.

Hey! said Pletzger, grabbing Stu’s arm.

Mommy! said Kaitlyn.

Heidi swooped in and took Kaitlyn’s hand. It’s time to do the piñata! she said, leading her daughter away.

The piñata was a staple of children’s birthday parties in South Florida, a tradition imported by Hispanic immigrants but over the years embraced by Anglos as well. Most parties featured cheap piñatas from Party City filled with supermarket candy, but of course that would not do for the Pletzgers. The Pletzger piñata—a three-foot-high replica of Olaf, the comical snowman sidekick to Elsa the Frozen princess—had been custom-crafted by a premier Mexican piñata artisan and filled with truffles handmade by the same chocolatier patronized by both Martha Stewart and Jay-Z. Counting import duties, the Pletzgers had invested a bit more than $1,500 in this snowman. Anything for little Kaitlyn’s special day.

At the moment Olaf, grinning goofily, clearly oblivious to the fate that awaited him, was dangling next to the massive castle cake, suspended from a rope tied to a nail in a roof overhang. Heidi, still holding Kaitlyn’s hand, gathered the children around. The adults also drifted over to watch, as the piñata was usually the most entertaining element of South Florida birthday parties.

As the birthday girl, Kaitlyn would get the first whacks at Olaf. Heidi blindfolded her daughter, then handed her the whacking weapon. Ordinarily this would be a wooden stick, but Heidi had been concerned about splinters, so Andrew had reluctantly agreed to let the children use one of his backup golf clubs, a Callaway Epic Forged Star five-iron with a suspended tungsten core, for which Andrew had paid $325.

Kaitlyn gripped the club firmly with both hands as her mother positioned her in front of the dangling Olaf, who was still grinning obliviously.

OK, baby! Heidi said, stepping back quickly.