When I learned I needed glasses at twelve years old, I cringed.

I blamed those frames for years of hopeless singlehood, as if they embodied the very essence of my bookworm soul and branded me an outcast from popular cliques from middle school onwards through college.

Then one fateful Valentine's Day my love invited me on a date...to the optometrist office.

While typically I embrace my beloved's practicality, I'll not pretend this "blind date" didn't disappoint me slightly. Exactly how we had thought to enjoy ourselves with this joint specs session I had no idea.

Yet there we stood, in a bright white office surrounded by frames and the reminder neither of us had made the cool cut.

However after that date I'll admit my viewpoint on the entire eyeglass experience changed forever.

---

It starts like a frisky, BDSM-lite session with a bit of pain - a dash of huff and puff, a little squirting, some blindness...

Then there's the slow, tortuous drag of foreplay, "Better 1 or 2? Better 3 or 4? Come on, tell me what you really like."

Followed by the final fitting where you try on an assortment of sexy eye candy, sliding them on and off again with the coolness of a practiced hand. Until at last that one pair fits with the snug hug of a skullwrap that makes you feel completed.

"Oooh, those look good."

Yet you know they're only frames - the real art is you.

Finally you saunter out into the world, feeling confident and made, sunglasses blocking out the overwhelming brightness of a new day.

Absolutely nothing nerdy about reframing your vision to see a whole new world.

If anything, more folks should wish they had it so lucky. It's tough to beat the sexy feeling of a new pair of specs.

Or how amazingly clearer things look when you finally have 20/20 vision again - and realize that sexy figure besides you looks damn fine under glass too.

You are probably reading this only because the title was interesting, but

PLEASE READ THE WHOLE THING!

Ok, so I am about to write a post where I attempt to show off some skills. The whole thing could go disastrously wrong, and I may have to just take the L, but I'm going to give it a shot. I am going to attempt to write three poems in no more than eight minutes! Not just that, but the poems also have to be in three completely different styles of poetry.

One will be descriptive, one will be a story poem, and one will be a muse, or a thought provoking poem. For the final touch, NONE of these poems will have been planned out before, I am going to have to make them up completely on the spot! You are probably wondering how I can prove that I stopped at the eight minute mark. Well, I am going to start right after I submit this, so you can just check the date and time on both of these posts and see that it only took me eight minute. You are probably also wondering how I can prove that I didn't just copy and paste these from docs I already wrote... Unfortunately, I can't really prove that. I think you guys trust me better than that though. Ok, time to start that timer, see you there.

Driving home for Christmas takes an unexpected turn.

Figured the drive from Key West to Shepherdsville, Kentucky, would be about 1,200 miles (plus or minus) and take about four days—with stops in Miami, Tampa, Gainesville, Atlanta, and Nashville. Then I’d head home to St. Louis and spend Christmas with mom.

Subsidized the trip by sharing my dirt-brown Dodge work-van with a hodge-podge of fellow travelers. Each had a bit o’ money but—for one reason or another—didn’t want to take public transportation. Why? Maybe they weren’t people-persons. Maybe, just plain cheap. Or on-the-run. Didn’t know. Didn’t care. They had cash; I didn’t.

Spent the last of my personal fortune preparing for the trip: gassing up the van, cleaning it inside-out, changing oil, replacing two tires, and the driver’s-side windshield-wiper. Then installed brand new tail-lights to prevent over-eager cops from pulling me over with the old “tail-light’s out” trick—thinking I was a doper cause o’ my long hair. Nope. No way. I’m a beer guy—like any good drywall-hanger would be. (Dopers may be cool, but they ain’t worth crap on a construction site.)

First pick-up was Michelle, a waitress at Sloppy Joe’s Bar, famous for its Ernest Hemingway Look-Alike contest. (Entered once; didn’t win.)

Michelle’s a little-bitty thing. Looks like she’s 12; she’s actually 23. Cusses like a sailor. Tattoos up and down both arms. And she’s handy with a knife in more ways than one: from whittlin’ to throwin’ and everthin’ in-between. (Admired that.) We dated a couple of times. Stopped. No spark. But we both liked heavy metal, so we had that goin’ for us.

Michelle, who everybody called Mickey cause of her squeaky voice, would ride with me the longest: She was goin’ to see family in Tennessee. She brought along a grocery bag filled with her favorite 8-tracks: Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, Kiss. Stuff like that. But no Alice Cooper.

“Guy’s a joke,” I told her. “He plays golf!”

Bobby Johnson was the second pick-up but the shortest ride. Bob free-lanced as a professional courier. Great job, driving cars from one city to another. Got started with his dad who had GM dealerships in Miami, Jacksonville, and Tampa. Pappy let him deliver vehicles to earn a few bucks. Worked out well for Bob. Still working out. Arrogant son-of-a-bitch, but fun as a puppy.

“I’ll settle down someday,” he’d say. “But not anytime soon.”

Why? Girl-in-every-port. That sort of thing. Always had money. Sometimes a bunch of money. Too much money? Come on. Can you ever really have too much? Did he get it all from Pappy. I doubt it. But, then, that wasn’t any of my business, was it?

Bobby was hoppin’ out in Miami, where he had a driving gig lined up. I’d replace Bobby with a friend of his heading for Gainesville, but on the way had to pick up a lady in Tampa goin’ to Atlanta. Then there was some college kid name Ted in Gainesville who’d jump ship in Atlanta and hitch-hike to Alabama. Don’t remember where. Didn’t matter. I wasn’t going there. He was.

When I pulled into Sloppy Joe’s parking lot, Mickey was standing beside a beat-up suitcase and holding her grocery bag of music. Beside her was some wiry-lookin’ dude draggin’ a duffle bag. From his buzz-cut and boots, figured he was a veteran. Jarhead, probably.

“What’s goin’ on Mickey?” I asked.

“Fella here needs a ride,” she squeaked. “Name’s Doyle.”

“Cash ’n’ carry,” I said.

“Can pay ya when we get to Tampa, sir,” said Doyle.

“No can do, stud,” I said. “Cash ’n’ carry, like everybody else. Them’s the rules.”

“You got somethin’ against vets,” he said.

“Nope,” I said. “Served in the Navy.”

“You got something against blacks?”

“Nope,” I said. “Got something against anything that’s not green—as in money. Besides, lady I’m pickin’ up in Tampa is black—but she pre-paid.”

Doyle’s jaw tightened. Didn’t know if he was gonna cuss or cry. Turned out he was gonna cry.

Crap.

“Listen. I’m not tryin’ to be a hard-ass. Tell ya what let’s do: I’ll take you to a truck-stop near Homestead. You catch a ride from there to anywhere you wanna go. Fair enough?”

Doyle stared at me. His jaw slackened.

“Fair enough,” he said, real quiet-like.

Reminded me of that lion and mouse story—you know the one: Lion gets a thorn stuck in his paw. Mouse pulls it out. They become best buddies. Everybody lives happy ever after.

Doyle hopped in the van. Mickey was already in dream-land. (That gal falls asleep lickety-split.) Bobby was the next pick-up. Pulled into his hotel’s parking lot. He got in. Nothin’ real unusual (no hangers-on, like with Doyle) though ol’ Bob had more baggage than expected—three, and one of them was extra-large.

Next stop: Homestead.

* * *

Starkey’s wasn’t the biggest truck-stop in South Florida, but it was clean, served up great coffee, and cheap food. Plus, it had free showers. Gave Doyle a fiver in case he got stuck there a day or two. Was ready to pull out when Bobby yells from the back.

“I gotta use the payphone!”

Crap!

“OK, but make it fast,” I said, upset this trip already had a couple of hiccups—an uninvited passenger and an unscheduled stop.

Minutes later, Bobby returned, but without the little bag he’d taken with him.

“Change of plans,” he says, leaning halfway into the van. “Pappy’s sendin’ a car for me.”

“Well, ain’t givin’ you no refund.”

Bobby laughed, pulled a wad of cash from his jacket, and handed me a couple o’ Jacksons.

“My favorite president,“ I said, smilin’.

Bobby laughed, gave me a thumbs-up, and strolled back to the truck-stop. Didn’t know that would be the last time I’d see him alive. Didn’t know one of the bags he left in the back of the van would put a target on my back. Didn’t know a bunch of stuff at that point, except I had an extra 40 bucks in my wallet, and life looked pretty good. But Bobby’s decision haunted me for a long time. Why the hell did he do what he did? Was he settin’ me up? Did he see someone—or somethin’—in that parking lot that spooked him? Never did find out.

* * *

Pappy’s Chevrolet dealership in Miami was up next. Didn’t see Pappy working the car lot, but (based on the description Bobby gave me) did see my next rider: Patrick Morgan. (Everybody called him Rick.)

I waved at him. He walked up to the van.

“Why you drivin’ this piece-o’-crap Dodge?” Rick asked. “You should be drivin’ a Chevy.”

Then he asked a question that made no sense at the time.

“Where’s Bobby?”

“What?” I replied.

“You know, Bobby—Pappy’s son.”

Third hic-cup of the trip, and we weren’t even out of Florida.

Cleared my throat. Tried not to sound stupid.

“Bobby’s back at Starkey’s Truck-stop. Said he called Pappy who told him he was sendin’ a car to pick him up.”

Rick scowled.

“First I’ve heard that,” he said.

Didn’t know what to say, so I shrugged my shoulders.

“Did he have a satchel with him?”

“Satchel?” I asked.

“Yeah, dumb-ass, satchel. Like a little suitcase: Brown, leather, shoulder-strap. A satchel.”

My face turned red. Blood-pressure spiked. Jaw clenched. I was ready to bop the guy—and he knew it.

“He had a little bag,” I said. “Might-a been leather. Definitely brown.”

Under my breath, I started counting: One-Mississippi. Two-Mississippi. Three-Mississippi…

“OK,” Rick said. “Thanks. See ya later”

“You ain’t goin’ with me?”

“Nope,” he said, as he stomped away.

“No refunds,” I yelped.

He gave me a raised-hand one-finger salute.

Never thought to tell him about Bobby’s other two bags. That turned out to be a mistake.

* * *

Some people hate Alligator Alley. They say it’s boring and dangerous. They prefer the more-scenic Tamiami Trail. Not me. I like the Alley. For one thing, it’s faster. Newer, too. Plus, there’s always a chance you’ll see a gator, and though I’d lived half my life in Florida (moved here with dad when he left mom) I’ve always found alligators fascinating. Even wrestled one once—small one. Maybe six feet long. Maybe seven.

Generally, it’s best to stay away from gators—’bout 30 feet away. Those buggers are fast. Faster than you’d think. And don’t go near their nests. No way. That’s crazy. You’re askin’ for trouble. Next thing ya know, it’s got its jaws wrapped around your arm, draggin’ you under the water. Blood flyin’ all over the place. Ain’t pretty. Ain’t pretty at all.

So there I am. Puffin’ a Marlboro. Enjoyin’ the drive. Sippin’ on a Diet Coke. Listenin’ to “Stairway to Heaven.” Thinkin’ the crazy stuff is all behind me.

Then I look in the rearview mirror.

Comin’ at me like a bat-outta-hell is an 18-wheeler blowin’ out a trail of coal-black smoke into the evening sky. No way my little slant-six is gonna stay ahead of this monster, so I ease back on the gas.

Truck pulls beside me, slows down to my speed and just as I’m ready to cuss a blue streak, I see ol’ Doyle, wavin’ at me like a maniac, signalin’ me to pull over.

”You crazy,” I yelled when he jumped out of the truck.

”You crazy!” I repeated.

Doyle was gasping for air.

“Your buddy,” he said. “Your buddy’s dead.”

“You mean Bobby?” I asked.

“Yeah. Bobby.”

Didn’t know whether to cuss or puke.

“How the hell did that happen?” I asked

”Some guy shot him. They wuz arguing about somethin’—not sure what. Shooter got away. Figured you should know.”

This weren’t no hic-cup. This was a helluva mess. That’s when I remembered Bobby’s baggage in the van.

We finagled the first bag open pretty easy. Fulla clothes. Second bag—the big one—had a stout lock.

“Got your knife, Mickey?”

“Yup,” she says.

“Let me see it.”

As the semi pulled away, I sliced the big bag open.

“Crap,” I said.

“What?” asked Doyle.

“Crap-load of drugs,” I said. “Couple o’ guns, too.”

Crap!

Last thing I wanted in the whole wide world was some state trooper findin’ drugs in my van. Bad mojo. Real bad.

“Gotta think,” I said, slapping the sides of my head. “Gotta think!”

Had to ditch the drugs, but where? Should I ditch the guns, too—but what if the guy who killed Bobby shows up?

Crap. Crap. Crap!

“Gotta hide this stuff,” I said.

“Where ya gonna hide anything out here?” Mickey asked. “How would you find it again?”

Under my breath, I started counting: One-Mississippi. Two-Mississippi. Three-Mississippi…

My brain works like a Rolodex. Bunch of unrelated information typed on a whole bunch of little, odd-shaped cards, spinning round in a loop-de-loop, goin’ from A to B to Z.

Somethin’ bad was gonna happen. No doubt. Guessin’ the satchel Bobby took had money in it. Had to. Why’d he leave the drugs behind? Safe-keeping? That made sense. Else he was playin’ some sort of deadly hide-and-seek shell game. Put me right in the middle of it. Only way to get outta the game was to dump the drugs. But where? Mickey was right: “Where ya gonna hide anything out here? How would you find it again?”

Think. Think. Think!

Suddenly, the right card popped up …

“Got what?” asks Doyle.

“Jump in the van guys … Doyle, you grab the duct tape from my tool-box. Put one gun where the duct tape was; put the other gun under the driver’s seat. with my flashlight.

“Mickey, you find the mosquito repellent in my suitcase.”

“You worried about mosquitos?”

“No. I’m worried about somethin’ big and green. Hopefully, real big.”

As the plan materialized in my mind, I barked out instructions:

“Doyle, tape the split where I sliced up Bobby’s bag. Then tape the bag up-and-down, round-and-round. Like a Christmas present.”

“Got it — up-and-down, round-and-round.”

“Mickey.”

“Yup.”

When Doyle’s done, spray that bag all over—soak it down real good—but first open the windows so ya don’t kill us.”

Mickey nodded.

“Spray,” she said. “Don’t kill us.”

With my dynamic duo in high-gear, I started scannin’ left and right as we blasted down the highway. It didn’t take long to find what I was lookin’ for.

* * *

Female alligators are dedicated moms. They lurk around their nests, protectin’ eggs from raccoons, skunks, and people stupid enough to get too close.

Gator nests are easy to identify if you know what you’re lookin’ for. They’re basically big ol’ mounds of mud, plants, twigs, and grass, standin’ ’bout 3-feet high and 6-feet across. Might find 30-40 eggs in the nest, covered with leaves and stuff.

“There’s one,” I yelled as I slammed on the brakes, pullin’ off the road, movin’ as close to the swamp as I could get.

“Doyle, get out of the van; Mickey, keep an eye out for traffic.”

We opened up the backdoor, each grabbed a side of Bobby’s big bag, and carried it to the edge of swamp.

“At the count of three, we give it the ol’ heave-ho. Try to get it as close to the mound as possible, but without landin’ on top of it.”

Doyle nodded.

“One! Two! Three!”

It landed near-perfect.

Before I got back in the van, I unscrewed the cover of the driver’s side tail-light, took it off, loosened the bulb, then screwed the tail-light assembly back together.

Then I jumped in the driver’s seat, fired up the engine, and eased back onto the highway, headin’ toward Tampa.

Mickey pushed Mastodon into the 8-track. “Blood & Thunder” came on:

“Split your lungs with blood and thunder

When you see the white whale

Break your backs and crack your oars

If you wish to prevail.”

Kind-a calmed me down a little.

* * *

Lit up a cigarette.

Took a deep breath.

Exhaled real slow.

Started drivin’ about five miles under the speed limit.

Felt better about life, the universe, and everything.

Didn’t take long for a trooper to notice my tail-light was out. Pulled me over. We went through the formalities, doin’ our little dance.

“Sir, do you know why I stopped you?”

“No officer. Don’t know. Wasn’t speeding, wuz I?

He smiled.

“May I see your driver’s license and insurance card?”

I nodded, grabbed my wallet from the console, removed both cards, and gave them to the trooper. He checked them out.

Neither of us noticed a car pullin’ behind his vehicle. What happened next was sickening and unexpected. Somebody stepped out of the car, carrying a gun. By the time the trooper turned, it was too late.

“BAM!”

Kill-shot. Blood splatters. Man down.

“BAM! BAM!”

Up walked Patrick Morgan. Gun in hand. Frown on his face.

“You got somethin’ that belongs to me?”

Wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Bad tail-light was to get the attention of a law enforcement officer—not get him killed. I could only hope “Plan B” might work.

“It’s in the back.”

Rick wasn’t happy when he opened it up.

“Nothin’ but clothes in here,” he yelled. “What are you tryin’ ta pull.”

Crap.

“Oh, you mean that big package.”

“You think you’re funny?”

Think. Think. Think.

“Look … we opened the package, saw it was drugs, and figured we better dump it.”

“Where?” he yelled.

“Along the road somewhere. I don’t know.”

“You sure as hell better remember.”

“Look I think I can find it, but it’s getting dark.”

“Son,” he said. “If you don’t find it, you’re dead and so are your friends.”

Under my breath, I started counting: One-Mississippi. Two-Mississippi. Three-Mississippi…

“What about your car?” I asked.

“Stolen. Leave it here”

“What about your fingerprints?

“Gloves,” he said.

“You gonna leave the cop and his car?”

“You and your buddies are gonna put the body in the cop car. Then you’re gonna push the car into the swamp.”

“OK,” I said.

Doyle and Mickey nodded.

I’d checked my mileage after we tossed out the bag and was pretty sure I could find the spot. Everything after that would be luck.

“You gotta flashlight, kid?”

“Yeah. Under my seat.”

“Get it.”

Had to make a quick decision: The gun or the flashlight. The lady or the tiger. Decided to go with the flashlight.

“Hand it to me,” Rick yelled.

I did.

* * *

When we got near the spot where we tossed the bag, I started slowin’ down.

“Should be around here somewhere,” I told Rick.

“You sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Right around here … See that? Those are my tire tracks.”

Pulled in near my tracks—careful that my headlights didn’t spook Gator Mom, wherever she was

Things were about to get dicey. He’d killed a cop. For sure he was gonna kill us—but not before he found his stash.

“Line up behind the van, lie face-down, then put your hands behind your backs.”

We did.

Thing is, he had to keep the hand holding the flashlight pointin’ at the bag and the hand with the gun aimed at us. After that, I could only hope nature took its course.

Rick reached the bag about the same time Momma Gator reached him. She was big. Probably over 10 feet. Ripped into him like a hunka-hunka meat.

“BANG!”

He shot wild.

“BANG! BANG!”

He shot again.

By that time, Mickey was standin’ up, wrist-flickin’ her knife into Rick’s back; Dolye was headin’ to the tool-box to get a gun. I stayed back, lightin’ up a cigarette and wishin’ I had a beer. My hands were shakin’ real bad. There was a lotta groanin’ and gruntin’ comin’ from the gator nest. Lotsa splashin’ as well.

* * *

Cops and medics showed up about the same time; animal control showed up a little later. Lights and sirens rippled the evening air. We told the cops what happened as best we could. They recovered Patrick’s body and Bobby’s bag. Said they’d have to capture and kill Gator Mom.

“She was just protecting her babies,” I protested.

They were not sympathetic.

Mickey, Doyle, and I got back in the van, but before we could pull out, one of the troopers yelled:

“Ya better get that tail-light fixed.”

“Yes, officer. Thank you.”

Didn’t have the heart to tell him that the broken tail-light was a ruse. Hell, for all I knew, it was a felony.

Dead-tired but not dead, I aimed my van toward Tampa, thinking about how I would explain to Harriet Tulley why I was so late. Could tell her the truth, but figured she wouldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t. Would you?

Title: “Alligator Alley” — one in a collection of Florida-based stories.

Genre: Suspense.

Age Range: 25-50

Word Count: 3,109

Author Name: Jim Lamb

Why your project is a good fit: Lively. Engaging. Off-beat.

The Hook: Driving home for Christmas takes an unexpected turn.

Synopsis: A rag-tag group of travelers heads home for the holidays not knowing death has made other plans — and nobody’s going to be happy with the results.

Target Audience: Male. Blue-collar. Beer-drinkers. Sports fans.

Your Bio: Graduated from college. Hired as a reporter. Promoted to copy desk editor.

Platform: News releases distributed by PR Web and published on radio, TV, and newspaper websites. Articles in national magazines, most recently “The Official NASCAR 2020 Preview & Press Guide” as well as the 2019 edition of “Rodeo Life.” Author of “Orange Socks & Other Colorful Tales,” available on Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/Orange-Socks-other-Colorful-Tales-ebook/dp/B00VH6XR38

Education: University of South Florida. Double-Major. Mass-Comm & Poly-Sci.

Experience: 16 years as a journalist; 11 as a freelance writer.

Personality/Writing Style: Thoughtful. Intricate. Detailed. Solid.

Likes/Hobbies: Politics. Reading. Writing. Drawing.

Hometown: New Port Richey, Florida.