This book is based on real events. Only the people, places, and events are fictionalized. The stupidity is 100% real.
A cool wind blew through the towering slash pine, producing a constant rustling hum that permeated the pine rockland. Elevation is relative in the Everglades, so a few additional inches of height can produce drastic changes in the environment. This grove might as well have been in another state from the sawgrass marsh and open swamp pond that surrounded it.
The ground among the pines remained relatively dry, even during the summer rainy season. This meant it hosted a delicately balanced ecosystem, once so common across South Florida, that had been largely eradicated to make way for another interdependent ecosystem of sprawling suburban housing developments, sprawling big box strip malls to fill the houses with stuff, and sprawling big box strip clubs to service the suburban dads who managed the big box stores.
The uppermost reaches of the grove’s multi-layered canopy was occupied by slash pines, their bright green needles clustered 70 feet above the soil. Below them, was the domain of the sabal palms whose fronds appeared as many-fingered hands waving in the breeze. Farther down, about the height of a person, were the long-lived saw palmetto, some of which had survived more than half a millennium through Florida’s many natural and man-made catastrophes. Their serrated stems could cut straight through the pants and skin of any foolish or unwary hiker. The remaining understory was populated by cocoplum, wild coffee, poinsonwood, elderberry, and grasses, while bromeliads, orchids, and a riot of other flowering air plants inhabited every level of the botanical metropolis—its diversity and splendor putting Brickell’s and Downtown Miami’s barren steel monotony to shame.
Led by the sound of half a dozen semi-synchronized drums, Carlos, Monica, and Cynthia walked down a dirt path through the rockland and into an open meadow roughly 50 feet in diameter. Upon emerging from the foliage, they were met by a circle of 20 percussionists banging on bongos, congas, djembes, hand drums, wooden boxes, and an assortment of other musical objects. No one led the impromptu beat. It sped and slowed, rose and fell naturally according to collective whims that emerged from the drummers’ gestalt consciousness.
Many in the meadow wore long, flowing skirts, sleeveless T-shirts, vaguely tribal-patterned blouses, and Birkenstocks—everywhere you looked, Birkenstocks. Some modeled hippie-chic outfits. Others sported crop tops, bikini tops, or went altogether shirtless.
An iron smoker on a trolley served chicken, brisket, and jackfruit. At the far side of the clearing, people laced tea lamps through the palmetto fronds and unrolled yoga mats next to buckets. A circle of meditators Omed softly between the descending column-like roots of an enormous strangler fig. Groups of people congregated, eating, talking, and laughing, around the smoker or in small clutches on the ground. The smell of weed and barbeque filled the air. The vibe was relaxed, joyful, and melodic.
A barefoot, curly-haired man noticed Cynthia as he finished stringing a set of lights.
“You made it!” exclaimed Noah. He rushed at the three and embraced Cynthia. “And you brought friends!”
Monica and Carlos extended their hands, but he hugged them both like family.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for days,” said Noah with a broad smile. “I think your phone is dead or something.”
“Oh wow, sorry about that,” replied Cynthia. “That’s a really long story.”
“Well,” he said, turning to the setting sun and shading his eyes. “Luckily, we have a long South Florida winter night ahead of us. And you came on the perfect night too!”
“Why’s that?” asked Monica.
“We’re hosting an ayahuasca ceremony! Our shaman Sherman came all the way from Peru!”
Noah waved at a tall dreadlocked white guy by the yoga mats, who returned his greeting.
“Ah!” exclaimed Monica. “That’s a little spicy for me but I don’t mind partaking in some other hallucinogens.”
“Cool!” answered Noah. “No problem. Some other travelers are taking an acid trip at the edge of the meadow. But you don’t have to decide just yet. Let’s get some dinner and talk through what you’ve been up to.”
100 feet away and watching the happenings around the drum circle from an airboat, stood two middle-aged men in blue jeans and flannel shirts: Daniel Cypress, a member of the Seminole Tribe of Florida, and his white friend, Gary Sheen.
“What the hell is up with people today?” asked Gary as he expertly cast a line into the mirror-still water.
“You mean, ‘What the hell is up with white people today?’” corrected Daniel, slowly reeling in his own line.
The sun had almost set, splashing pinks, reds, and deep purples across the horizon. A great flock of snow-white Ibis flew overhead, on their way to roost in their nests, while owls and snapping turtles roused themselves to the din of an amphibian chorus.
“Oh, come on,” replied Gary in a steady, unperturbed tone. “I see a bunch of Latins and at least one Black guy over there wearing some sort of kimono. You can’t blame it all on the whites.”
They’d had this conversation before.
“I don’t know their stories, but I can say that when you all were supposedly done colonizing land and people, you kept right on colonizing cultures.”
“Mmmm, you don’t say,” responded Gary, listening more for the tell-tale splash of jumping fish than his companion’s analysis.
“I do indeed,” continued Daniel. “Y’all had plenty of your own tribal traditions in Europe, but Christianity carpet bombed that straight to hell 2,000 years ago. You lost your direct connection to the spirits, the earth, the water, the air. You had a gaping hole in your souls that you filled with bits and pieces of other traditions you never took the time to understand in their contexts.”
“I’ve a Swiss cheese soul,” replied Gary absentmindedly as he finished reeling in his line and cast it back into the growing darkness.
“And that’s how you wind up with folks mixing crystals with Chinese astrology, Egyptian icons, Tibetan yoga, African drums, and saying it’s all in service to the Great Earth Mother or some other vaguely Native spirit,” concluded Daniel.
“And where exactly did your affinity for America’s Best Chew, Johnny Cash, and Levi’s come from?” asked Gary with a smirk.
“Well, you see, we’d been using tobacco for centuries before you lot ever showed up, so you’re welcome.”
“Oh, that was you?”
“Indeed it was. And J.R. sang about the downtrodden man, which rings especially true to people that’ve been murdered, raped, relocated, disenfranchised, culturally erased, impoverished, and generally genocided for 500 years.”
“Oof,” added Gary, wincing slightly. “We got to genocide.”
“Oof indeed,” added Daniel without skipping a beat. “As for my Levi’s…” he paused briefly. “No notes. Best things y’all ever did.”
“That, at least,” said Gary with a grin. “Is something we can agree on.”
“I know it,” replied Daniel.
The sun fell on the men in the airboat as the pig frogs did their best to drown out the chatter, drumming, and occasional whooping emanating from the nearby bank.
