Unabashed

He’d been sound asleep when he felt something like a hand touching the side of his face. It was slight and swift and then it was gone. His mind sprang to life, but his body stiffened, flushed with a light fresh film of sweat. In his dark room he imagined a bandage-wrapped, gnarled, decaying finger smoothing a sprig of hair off his forehead, right before the green-hued hand it was attached to clamped over his mouth and nose to suffocate him. A hand just like the one in that old movie with Boris Karloff, The Mummy, which his dad had let him watch as a boy on Friday Night Fright Theater, and like the Mummy he saw with his own eyes in a carnival a few years later. The hand of his imagination was wrapped with ancient, blood-stained bandages. His eyes were wide open, his mouth as dry as grave dust and his heart was pounding in his chest, but he didn’t move. The sensation had been so utterly alien and distinctively physical that there was no question in his mind that there was something in the room with him, and an elemental panic welled up inside of him.

Then it touched him again.

With a reactionary swipe of his hand he slapped at the air above his head and raked his own face with his fingers. Almost simultaneously he sat up and spun in the bed, looking around the room. But the room was empty, dim with moon glow mingled with the light of the city filtering through the window. The book he’d been reading when he fell asleep, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, tumbled off the bedside and thumped onto the floor. His mouth was dry and a flush was rising in his cheeks; he couldn’t help but be a little embarrassed, having slapped himself in the face in a fit of near panic at, apparently, nothing at all. His temple stung a little across the arc his fingers had scraped, and if he’d looked in the mirror he would have seen a little red welt there. It would be gone within 24 hours or so, but still. The drone of the air conditioner drowned out most of the noise in the room. No slithering, no thumps could be heard creeping around the floor. But then, at the very edge of his auditory perception, he noticed something just above the mechanical reverberation of the air conditioner. It sounded like a moan or a wail. It was distant, like it was coming from beyond the horizon’s limit, steadily growing, becoming more and more pronounced.

Then the little tickle touched him again, and this time it remained there, at his temples and at the base of his neck. The hair stood stiff on his arms and neck and his skin spouted knobs of gooseflesh. He touched the places where he could feel the tickle, rubbing and kneading, but it was nothing he could scratch or rub away: it felt soul-deep.

And there was this sound, growing like the hot sensation that shoots through a man’s stomach when he’s taken a shot to the balls. He sat up and concentrated on it and his head turned slowly to the north, staring at the wall of his apartment. He shook his head slightly and got to his feet, following them to the door which led out to the second-floor balcony. He stepped out into the hot, humid night with the smell of brine blowing in off the nearby gulf. The air conditioner was even louder out here, and now he could hear the leaves of a palm tree rustling not ten feet away from him, and the gulf surf pounding the shore across the street. The stairs which led down to the parking lot went down to his left, and the balcony was surrounded by an iron rail. On it was a small charcoal grill and a folding chair; the balcony itself was only about five feet by four, just as wide as the stairs that led up to it. Out here in the night air he could still hear the wailing sound, more audible now, even over the air conditioner behind him. It was growing, winding its way through the live oaks and palms to his apartment. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, focusing as well as he could on it, with a cocked eyebrow and his lips tightened in concentration. The sound was imminently familiar, and as it grew louder he recognized it, but shook his head at the impossibility of it. With a raspy whisper he identified it: “Wolves.”

He had never seen a wolf, never heard one outside of a Discovery Channel or PBS special, but it was an unmistakable sound. The somber rise of the note to its highest pitch, then a tranquil ebbing, marked by an adjoining howl of another wolf that cast a different, yet complementing note, and then others, several others, all forming a euphony of sound matched by no other animal in the world. It was a melancholy sound, not like the cheerful yipping of coyotes or the challenging roar of a lion or even the boisterous crow of a cock. He listened to it while it remained, enjoying the possibility of hearing something he would have considered impossible unless he’d wanted to travel about three thousand miles northward, and allowed himself to be carried away on the somber song of the wolves which drifted in on a south Florida breeze.

He opened his eyes as the final note ebbed away. He could see the glow of the apartment-building’s sign illuminating the parking lot, the streetlamps lining the street to his left and the super brightness of the quick stop’s fueling area just around the corner. He could see the motor-lodge sign advertising the building he was in; ‘Florida Straits Motor Lodge,’ it read, ‘Daily, Weekly, Monthly. Cable TV, WiFi.’ A big metal sign with flashing light bulbs, it was framed with a large arrow that pointed at him, at the bottom in red neon lettering the word vacancy hummed. The windows of the four-story hotel across the street—the beach side of the street, to his left—were all dark, as were most of the buildings over there. Down past the side of that hotel he could see the Gulf of Mexico, the white lines of rippling waves rolling toward the beach, and the moon was a little past three-quarters full, resting almost right on top of the roof of the hotel. Specks of stars were barely visible due to the city’s light pollution, the city of Naples, Florida. Somewhere off to his left, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a reddish glimmer that was there for a second and then it was gone. He was so nearly enraptured by the sound of the howling wolf pack that he closed his eyes and willed them to howl again. He almost howled himself, but thought better of it. He could still hear them inside his head, clearly, plain as day. The ocean continued its surge against the shore, and for a moment he locked in on the sound of the waves, so like a groan or a sigh, as if the sea itself was one big sentient creature, taking deep, cleansing breaths. The thought continued to roll around in his head, and he found himself thinking that it was sighing, as if in relief of some great strain it had endured long before man ever walked upright.

Then he sighed himself and opened his eyes. “I’m cracking up,” he said, roughing his hair with his hand and shaking his head.

He walked back inside and closed the door, the cold air infused his sweat, causing him to shiver, and then he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Wolves,” he repeated.

He began running the thought in his head. He knew there hadn’t been a wolf south of the Mason Dixon Line for at least a hundred years. The Discovery special he’d seen was about the reintroduction of wolves to the northern Rockies—Montana, Idaho. He imagined there might be some still in the north of Maine and that they probably flourished in the Yukon; but south of the Great Lakes? No way. Least of all in the Everglades. There’d probably never been a wolf this far south.

He’d always had an affinity for wolves, and some memories from his youth crept into his mind. His mom had given him a book when he was five—he’d been an early reader—about a wolf pack and he’d loved it, reading it many times over before it was finally lost to the passage of time. He hadn’t even thought of that book in years, but now he remembered it in detail, a pack of wolves in the northern arctic wild battling against an uprising of another pack which wanted to raze the wild and rule with bloody fangs. He remembered the lessons of the story, how the good pack always took down the old and diseased prey, but the bad pack was killing for fun and would sometimes ravage an entire herd rather than just taking what they needed.

When he was in high school he’d once read Of Wolves and Men by Barry Lopez and done a book report on it with the fortunate byproduct that he loved it, and the wolf catapulted itself into one of his favorite study subjects. Wolves were amazing animals, he’d always known it, but he couldn’t imagine how or why he was hearing a howling wolf pack in south Florida.

Exacerbating the problem was that this was the second night he’d heard the alien sound; he’d not paid it much attention the first night, thinking it just some odd street noise. In fact, he hadn’t even remembered hearing it the night before until now, it had been so pushed out of mind by the fog of sleep. But now, having heard it two nights in a row, and this time much more clearly, now he began to seriously wonder what the source was. It was possible that it was a breeder of timber wolves, but that was improbable because he lived right in the city of Naples, and he couldn’t imagine a compound for raising wolves within earshot.

His eyes grew heavy and he shook his head to clear it. The thought of wolves nearby seemed so spectacular that he figured he’d check on it tomorrow, maybe see if there was a wolf pack somebody was raising nearby. But as spectacular as it seemed, it was also unbelievable, and the marvel of it felt like an electric surge pumping through his mind. He could only remember one other occasion in his life when he’d had a similar sensation. He was only eight or nine, and his dad had taken him to the beach one night. His mom had only been dead a couple of years then, and his dad had just had his first test returned which showed high levels of something in his blood that was Not Good. Nobody told him it would be cancer, though, that took his father’s life a few years later. They’d gone to a beach up near Pelican Bay in a park, and as soon as his dad turned off the engine Joe (Joey, then) uttered an almost-unintelligible sound of awe. The waves that were crashing onto shore were glowing. Bright green phosphorescence glowed in every splash of water, and Joey had run down into the surf and frolicked for a solid hour, splashing in wonder at the singular magnificence of the event. He’d never even imagined such a thing was possible, but to see it with his own eyes! Of course, his father explained with a smile that even though it seemed magical, it was a phenomenon that was caused by a type of microscopic organism that lived in the ocean. So it was explainable. Of course, he’d seen that phosphorescent water many times since then, but never with the same sense of wonder. Now, to hear wolves in South Florida—with his own ears—made Joey think that he’d experienced at least two such events in his lifetime. Maybe this one would be as easily explained.

“Or maybe I’ve got a brain tumor,” he said aloud, roughing his hair with his hand, his eyes growing heavy. He’d heard of brain tumors causing victims to hear odd sounds and see flashes of brilliant light. Somewhere in the back of his mind he decided that he should see a doctor soon, but that was the last thought that passed through his mind before he was once again asleep.

***

A knock at the door woke him at six that morning. He got up and pulled the door open and, without even checking to see who it was, flopped back in bed. He knew who it was, though: Dymo.

“Hey, punk, you gonna to give me a ride today?” Dymo asked.

Joe didn’t move, he just grunted and pulled his pillow down over his head. Dymo was not going to give up that easily. He never had.

Dymo was about five foot six and wore lifts no matter what shoes he had on. He even had a pair of work boots that had a two-and-a-half-inch heel that he put lifts in. He had a Rebel flag tattoo on his left shoulder and a Marine bulldog on his right shoulder; he’d never been in the Marines, but he was quick to point out that they were the “Most awesome fighting force the world has ever seen.” Rumor was that he’d tried to enlist but had been turned away because he was too little, which may have been right, but in Joe’s opinion maybe they should have tested for ego, because Dymo had enough to make up for any size deficiencies.  He had brown hair that he rarely cut, but when he did he usually got a flattop. Right now it was in the process of growing back out and was kind of long on the top, but still shaved on the sides and back, so that all he had was a shaggy mop of hair on the very top of his head. And Dymo’s teeth were a fuzzy-looking green-brown color that, as a color, might not have had a name at all. He was actually wearing a tee shirt that said “Muscle” and had a flexing cartoon arm on it.  

“What beach have you been working?” Dymo asked, in an obvious ploy to make Joe see that he was just a good ol’ boy and great friend who was interested in Joe’s life and was clearly deserving of a ride to work.

“Miracle Mile,” Joe said, turning his head toward Dymo but keeping his head under the pillow.

“Ooooh, doin’ the Mile.” Dymo sniggered and wagged his head as he said this.

Asshole, Joe thought, now regretfully awake, and said, “Yeah. You?”

“I’m at Gator Point.”

“Gator Point sucks. All old people.” Now his head was out from under the pillow, but he was still in bed and his eyes were still closed. 

“Old Rich people,” Dymo sneered.

“Whatever,” Joe said. If there was one thing he knew for certain, it was that Gator Point did not suck. It was probably the best beach Broodal’s managed, but he had to say something because Dymo would never, ever shut his hole about what a great job he had and what a horrible job Joe was stuck with. Dymo had seniority because he’d been working for Broodal’s for almost five years; ever since he’d dropped out of high school. Joe had only been there for two seasons: he’d graduated high school. As the beaches were rated by those that mattered, the lifeguards themselves, it would be much better to end up at Gator Point and work around old rich people that would pay fifty bucks a day for a chair rental, on which the ‘guards were paid commission. Plus, the fogies all tipped like crazy. At the other (bottom) end, there was the dreaded Mile, which wasn’t really a mile long but seemed like it when you had to walk up and down it all day long in the sand. There were five hotels on the Mile and chairs had to be set up in front of each one and then visited regularly to collect rental fees. The class of people dropped drastically from the condos on Gator Point to the hotels on the Mile, which were mainly rented by Christian mission youth groups and rednecks who couldn’t afford Gator Point. If a chair went for fifty bucks at Gator Point it would only go for fifteen at the Mile; twenty if you were lucky, and Joe was rarely lucky. He just wasn’t blessed with the salesman’s charm.

“I’ll have my beach wrapped up by five,” Dymo said, “and I’ll be at Lifeguard night by five thirty, waiting on you, Bubba.”

“You’re an asshole,” Joe said, aggravation finally opening his eyes.

“Maybe, but I’m an asshole nursing a booth at Gator Point with twenty chairs, four Sea Dos, and a Hobie Cat. You’re an asshole that’s walking eighty-five chairs on the Mile and tending a dozen ancient Kaws. And I’ll still make more money than you.” He stood on his tiptoes as he said this, something he’d always done unconsciously, Joe thought, whenever he was trying to win an argument or debate. Joe made an exasperated sound and rolled his eyes as Dymo talked. Every word Dymo said was right on the money and Joe hated it. He was a prick, but he was right. 

Dymo said, settling back onto his heels, “I’ll be set up and running by eight. You won’t even have all the beer cans from last night picked up by then. Hell, you won’t have all those chairs set ‘til ten.”

“Damn right. Non stop,” Joe said with a lot more machismo than he felt.

Dymo smirked. “I’ll keep the Point, dude, you can have the Mile.”

Dymo had always been a jerk who’d taken advantage of Joe’s hospitality and never reciprocated. He’d known Dymo since high school and he’d been a bully then just as much as he was now. His real name was Darryl Munsen, but anyone that called him anything other than Dymo would get a punch in the gut/arm/leg/whatever Dymo could reach when the infraction was committed. He was the type of bully who would hit and bite and kick until he realized he was going to get a fight in return, at which point he would usually flee, claiming to have won even as he was running away. Dymo had bullied Joe for an entire year (in high school) before Joe finally got fed up. Dymo punched him in the arm one day so hard it brought tears to Joe’s eyes. A knot rose up on his bicep and Dymo called out, laughing, “Frog!”

Through clenched teeth and tear-filled eyes, Joe punched Dymo square in the chin. Tears burst from Dymo’s eyes and he ran away crying, wailing that he would get even and that “nobody hits me and survives!”

But from that day on Dymo treated Joe just the same as he would treat his best friends. There was no more physical bullying; Dymo still hurled insults as fast as he could, laughing if Joe fell or was embarrassed, but at least the hitting stopped, and for Joe this was good enough. It was as if they’d come to some understanding, some off-brand form of mutual respect—Dymo knew Joe wouldn’t take it. Dymo would even stop bullying others when Joe came around. Joe became a popular guy among Dymo’s marks. 

“It’s Wednesday,” Joe said.

Dymo’s height rose a few inches. He immediately settled back down on his heels, though, and said, “You’re off today.”
Joe smiled and winked.

“C’mon, man, give me a ride. It won’t take long,” Dymo begged.

“I can’t, I’ve got plans.”

“Fine!” Dymo yelled, and walked out the door, slamming it as hard as he could behind him.

Joe jumped to his feet and looked out the window, knowing it would not be beneath Dymo to key his truck since Joe had refused him.

Dymo didn’t key the truck, though, he just stomped past it and on up the street where he would likely call a few other ‘guards to see if he could bum a ride from someone else.

Of course, Joe’s plans weren’t so very pressing, he just hadn’t had much time off lately and he wanted to take it easy for the day. It was Wednesday, so Lifeguard night was to be at the Jolly Roger that night, and he would drive over for that, but otherwise he just wanted to take it easy and mull over the sounds of wolves he’d heard during the night.

written by Matt Mitchell