HUMOR: The Gator
Florida is a scary place for a humorist, as Drew Gallagher found out recently when he took his son to Red Sox's Spring Training, and spent more time on I-4.
By Drew Gallagher
HUMORIST
The state of Florida is an intimidating tableau for humorists. Especially those who start columns with the word ‘tableau’. It’s not that the Seminole State is not ripe for humor (I could have written multiple columns inspired by a quick stop at a 7-11 in Lakeland), but when a humorist enters Florida they are quickly aware that they are in the land of heavyweights like Dave Barry and Carl Hiaasen.
When I got my Real ID last summer, I did not realize that listing my occupation as “humorist” would carry such heft at the Orlando International Airport, but it was obvious that the TSA employee taking my face photo at the security checkpoint was well aware of my chosen profession.
“Humorist? They usually get full cavity searches in these parts,” he mumbled as he searched the humorist database for any previous columns on the sexual habits of dolphins.
I helpfully offered that I’ve only ever had one cavity in my life, and he calmly reached into his drawer, pulled out an extra sharp toothpick, and stared me down until the little kid behind me in mouse ears peed himself.
“Welcome to Florida, funny man, and don’t even think about trying to be funny. Enjoy your stay.”
My son Baylor and I had flown to Florida for a few days to see some Red Sox spring training games so baseball was my focus, and I was not too concerned about trying to not be funny for five days. That almost changed when I had to buy a tube of sunscreen at the resort where we were staying.
(FLORIDA COLUMN INTERRUPTION: It is true that my son and I stayed at a beautiful resort in Orlando for two nights, but allow me to explain. One of my oldest and dearest friends, Doug, chose not to major in liberal arts in college and has carved out quite the career with Hilton. When he heard I was coming to Orlando for a few days he asked what it would take to make certain I did not stay at his house in a gated community where he ran the risk of me possibly speaking to any of his neighbors. I asked for a villa no less than five stories above ground in a resort with a lazy river and a poolside bar where I could charge drinks to my room. He agreed to these terms as long as we left the property before the Disney crowds arrived on Saturday morning. He admonished: “If you see mouse ears, they better be in the rearview mirror of your midsize rental car.”)
Before we left the resort at a time that was not commensurate with the amount of beer I had drank the night before, I had to buy sunscreen, or my sister was going to send me photos of my niece’s skin cancer scars which she also includes each year in my birthday cards. Fortunately, the woman at the cash register was able to access my 401K to pay for the sunscreen, and my son and I were off to explore the great state of Florida.
Two hours into our journey, I wondered what novel author Jack Kerouac might have written had he been travelling on Interstate 4 toward Tampa Bay since we had only gone 4.5 miles. The playlist had already reached the Dead’s first finale at Barton Hall in 1977 when my son decided he needed some caffeine, and I decided I needed to explore this glorious state on roads that did not begin or end with the number 4. My first born also asked that I stop calling him my chauffeur while sitting in the back and kicking his seat with every Bob Weir chord progression.
My son found a roadside mini-mart that looked full of promise since only three of six words were misspelled on the marquee. As we entered this slice of Americana, I noted that many patrons had failed to heed the warning on the window that required Shirts and Shoes for service unless having those areas tattooed with a topless mermaid was a sufficient substitute. I also asked the cashier if they had an outhouse which seemed to perplex him. He said they had actual bathrooms, and when I told him the gentleman behind me in line was cleaner than the men’s room, my son ushered me back into the car.
We left Florida Man, Florida Woman, Florida Son, Florida Stepdaughter, Florida Daughter From My Third Marriage to That Deadbeat, Florida Toyota Corolla That Can’t Possibly Roll a Window Up or Down Because There is No Inside to The Passenger Side Door behind and headed south. My once and future chauffeur found Route 17 and pointed us toward sun, surf, and Fenway South in Fort Myers. Then we saw a dead armadillo on the road. And then another one that was being eaten by birds next to a dead bird who was obviously slower than his friend group.
Neither my son nor I were aware that armadillos lived, or died, in Florida. We were also not aware that the Tampa Bay Rays could field a spring training lineup consisting of players that neither of us had ever heard of. The dead armadillos and the Rays’ roster construction of players without their names on the backs of their jerseys were equally impressive. But neither could compare to the majesty that was Fenway South.
The 10,000-seat stadium features a left field wall just like the famous Green Monster in Boston and also has free parking and free sunscreen stations. The free sunscreen stations made me wince a bit when I thought of the earlier withdrawal penalty from my 401K and now having to buy beers at Fenway South, but the Red Sox run a classy operation and they allowed me to sign up for a Jet Blue credit card in the concourse area, so I could immediately buy beers and hotdogs which put me well on my way to spending the required $3,000 in the first three months of opening the credit card.
Watching the Red Sox that day, I found myself overwhelmed by a mix of nostalgia and gratitude. I was sitting four rows behind the Red Sox dugout, drinking $14.00 beers with my son. I pointed him toward the white signature at the top of the left field wall to commemorate the passing of Mike Greenwell who was a Boston legend in a time when the Sox were far from legendary. I was in Florida, remembering fondly a Red Sox hero of my youth who was aptly nicknamed “The Gator”. I put my arm around my son, gave him a hug, and felt a tear run down my cheek. I was watching the team that I love with the son that I love.
In truth, I was a bit surprised at how many tears I felt on my cheek until I looked up to see the gathering clouds and the grounds crew pulling the tarp onto the infield. I remembered that there was no crying in baseball, but there was always the chance for rain in Florida.
As we walked to our parked car in the pouring rain, I asked my son a question we have often quoted from the movie “Field of Dreams”.
“Son,” I asked. “Is this heaven?”
“Not if we have to get back on damned Interstate 4 to get home,” he replied.
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