Page 90 of Iron Hearts

Mom, Grandpa, and Grandma had one of each of the boys in hand, and Striker had mine in his as we traversed the sun scorched blacktop in the direction of the red building with its frescoes of swamp and alligators in bright muraled panels between the red painted supports and the like.

We went through the front door, and Striker stepped up to the ticketing window with me.

“Striker, party of eight,” he said. “It’s on the Boucher Brothers.”

The person behind the window checked a clipboard, got on a radio, and a minute later, Skull slipped into the box office from a door in the back, and plucked an envelope off the clipboard and slid it out the slot to Striker.

“Come on back, y’all – I got something good for the kids,” he said and he gave me a wink. I smiled and Striker stopped long enough to hook us all up with special guest wristbands before we went through the turnstile and into the park, or zoo, or whatever you called it honestly.

The building was sort of hollow, or a ring, around a big central depressed pool or lagoon surrounded by fencing. There was an observation platform that had a set of stairs up to it and Bones was up there, fiddling with something or other.

We went around the pool, the stink of lizard – or really rather gator, hanging thick on the humid air and boy did itstink. The mustiness of a giant lizard tank with underpinnings of rot and decay from the swampy brackish water the gators were in.

We followed Skull up the steps to where his brother, Bones, was tying rotten pieces of chicken to long, bamboo poles, like a fishing rod.

“Wanna feed some gators?” Skull asked the boys who all looked at each other and lit up like I’d never seen before.

“Yeah!”

It was fun watching the boys get to engage and do something so cool. Mom, Grandpa, and evenIgot in on the action and for real, even standing so high up above,feelingthe gator snap on the end of the line on that piece of stinky chicken was something. The way the pole jerked in your hand as the animal did its death roll or whatever –lord.

I’d lived in Florida my whole life, had even seen some swamp puppies in the wild, sunning themselves on the banks of the waterways near the house – but I’d never beenthis closenor had I ever been on the other end of a pole or anything they actually had a hold of.

It was a whole new type of fear and respect I’d learned on that platform becauseholy Christ!

Aden, Braden, and Caden wereburstingat the seams with questions; all of which, the Boucher brothers answered with patience and kindness that surprised even me. Striker winked at me when I looked up and marveled at him, and I couldn’t help but grin.

“What say we get washed up, have a little lunch, and see the rest of the place?” Striker suggested. “Catch the Butcher Brothers’ next show?”

We couldn’t argue with that.

The Gator Farm had a seating area and sort of a built-in kiosk with snack and lunch food items. You know, the kind of stuff you’d find at any ballpark. Hot dogs, nachos which were just tortilla rounds with the fake liquid cheese sauce in a cardboard boat. We all sat down at one of the big round tables, made for a big family, but still had to pull chairs from other tables to be able to all sit.

It was busy, in here, families and kids milling about and some looking at us with envy for what we’d gotten to do with the showrunners and the gators.

“So… Striker,” my grandmother said, and I felt myself freeze with a nacho halfway in my face. “What do you do?”

“I work in the warehousing and accounts division of my buddy’s custom bike shop here in St. Augustine,” he answered truthfully.

“Oh! And does that pay well?” she asked.

“Barbra!” my grandfather sounded horrified, even as my mom spat; “Jesus, Mom!”

“What!?” she exclaimed. “I’m just curious, that’s all.”

“It’s all good,” Striker said affably, putting a reassuring hand on my knee beneath the table. “I actually do better than you might expect. Our shop is one of the best in the country. One of those places that gets recognized internationally, even.”

“Really?” my grandmother asked, and didn’t bother to keep the genuine surprise out of her voice.

Like we were some kind of family with pedigree or whatever.Don’t make me laugh…Grandpa had done well for himself when he’d worked for NASA; and my dad had done well with what he’d done when he was alive, but Granddad was retired now, and that only went so far. His pension had been good, but the more that time went on and the more inflation rose, and the tougher things had gotten it didn’t go nearly as far as it would have, in, say, the 1990s.

They were with Mom and I because they were struggle-bussing just as much as we were and we were helpingeach otherout… but to hear my grandmother tell it, it was her and grandpa and his retirement funding my mother, myself, and the boys after her son-in-law’s tragic death. Like we didn’t contribute at all. Like we were orphan waifs and desperate… and yeah, we kind of were screwed; but it wasn’t like I didn’t work two jobs, my mom didn’t hold down a fairly decent job of her own or any of that.

No, it was all my grandparent’s charity.

Like I could roll my eyes any harder…

It was so complicated though. Like, I loved my grandma, and I wanted her to love all of us back – but sometimes it just didn’t feel like she could… I mean, if you love someone, you can worry about them without the whole nitpicking them apart, or complaining or wildly gossiping or bandying about your disapproval of this, that, or the other – right?

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