After that incident, Mack had had to shut down the takeout’s fry vats and the grill for more than a week. It cost him several hundred dollars, plus the snake disappeared and no one got a chance to admire the thing or even reward it.
Now he said, “I wish to hell it’d been a bloody rattlesnake. Or… one of those tiger snakes from Oz. One of the deadliest snakes in the Outback. See how they deal with somethin’ that’s real instead of their tight-assed little rules and regulations. Those people live in a bloody fantasy land. The way they act is, we work for them. Like they’re doing us a favor just to let us stay in business. Mark my word, when bureaucrats refuse to respect private enterprise, this country’s in big trouble! And ninety percent of the inspectors they send ‘round, I wouldn’t hire as dock help. They got attitude without brains. Cadillac dingoes. They remind me of bloody Cadillac dingoes!”
When Mack said Cadillac dingoes, he meant poodles. When he said Oz, he meant Australia.
Yes, he was definitely in a mood. And since I count among my good and trusted friends several of the “goddamn bureau-rats” to whom he referred, I decided to leave him to his anger. For many years, it was car salesmen and insurance salesmen who drew the generalized contempt of a judgmental public. Then it was attorneys. These days, it’s government employees. I have known too many first-rate men and women who happened to be car salesmen or attorneys, or worked for county or state governments, to fall into that easy and unfair trap. Want a tough job? Try selling Oldsmobiles, whole-life or anything else for a living. Try dealing with red tape and outraged citizens all day long. But I have noticed that the contempt reserved for bureaucrats seems more fervent than that aimed at other groups. Why? Mack is a good and fair businessman, and I trust his judgment and his intellect. And he is quite right: There is something desperately amiss when government and private enterprise are at philosophical odds.
The whole gradual shift in attitude suggests an unhealthy antagonism: the government cadre (count teachers and union workers among them) versus businesses large and small, as well as any self-reliant individual who chooses to live independently by his or her own wits. There is no doubt that the cadre’s membership is dominated by talented, reasonable professionals. Unfortunately, it is the cadre’s least-gifited members who tend to be the nosiest. It is this group that the Macks of the world find infuriating because these members project an attitude of intellectual elitism that is, in truth, the kind of adolescent stupidity that nearly destroyed China. It now threatens Westernized powers, Mack’s New Zealand among them.
These dopes loathe the public and anything that the public embraces. It is this stunted, snobby minority that generates genuine hatred from the “bourgeois.” That a few of them have their hands near the reins of power is a frightening thing indeed.
Mack’s anger was real. One or more of the stunted ones had, apparently, visited the marina and my friend’s reaction was both protective and illustrative.
As I walked away, Mack called to me, “The guy who was the worst of them, I told him I’d run his ass off if he ever came back to the marina again. Took up two solid hours of my time with absolute bullshit. You know-just to prove he was in control; making sure I understood that I might pay all the bills and taxes, but he was the one in charge. Know what he said when I threatened to run him off? He said ‘Try it.’ My property, all the work I’ve put into this place, and his exact words were: ‘ Try it. ’”
From my lab, I’d telephoned in an order for a fried conch sandwich, coleslaw and iced tea, which Joyce served to me in a brown-paper sack with a stack of napkins. As I left, she said, “In case you haven’t heard, stay out of Mack’s way. He’s on the warpath.”
I said, “Too bad the snake didn’t make an appearance. That would have made him happy.”
“Oh yeah, the snake. What I’m still worried about is that drunk we had as a part-time cook-Laurie? — that Laurie cooked the thing and served it. The snake I’m talking about. When I was away on vacation, she have any specials with Italian sausage? Bratwurst, anything like that?”
I was smiling. “I usually stick to the conch or the grouper.”
“Playing it safe, I don’t blame you. Just the same, it worries me. And I meant it about Mack.”
I said, “I know, I know,” and carried my lunch, along with Amanda’s envelope, out onto the docks.
The fishing guides were just returning from the morning charters, and I watched them tie up their skiffs as I took a seat at the picnic table which was beside the big bait tank between the Red Pelican gift shop and the water. Jeth Nicholes was now running an eighteen-foot Hewes, BUSHMASTER painted in red script on port and starboard sides. Big Felix Blane-all six feet, five inches and 250 pounds of him-was backing his twenty-four-foot Parker, Osprey, into its slip, and Nelson Esterline was hunkered down in the live well of his Lake amp; Bay, transferring fish into a bucket, getting ready to head to the cleaning table.
The guides always drew an audience, which they not only knew, but enjoyed, each of them handling the attention with a kind of jaunty, wind-weary cheerfulness that put their audience at ease and, more importantly, attracted new clients.
If you meet an aloof, self-important fishing guide, he probably isn’t a very experienced guide.
I watched a crowd of tourists collect around Nels as he carried the bucket toward the filet table-a couple of big redfish judging from the tails protruding, and several trout. A half dozen pelicans waddled along in pursuit, while an umbrella of gulls and terns circled above. There was lots of noisy squawking and screaming; tourists moving in a hurry now, trying to get a good spot to watch. Then Jeth came behind with three large tripletail-a strange fish that resembles a massive leaf because the dorsal and anal fins are situated far to the rear: effective mimicry, which allows the animal to float suspended on its side and ambush smaller fish that come to it seeking shade or protection. These fish looted as if they ranged between ten and fifteen pounds. Nice tripletail.
The docks were a good place to have lunch at the marina. There was always something interesting to watch while you ate.
As I munched my sandwich, I called to Felix, “You tarpon-fishing today?” speaking loudly above the noise of the birds.
He flashed me an appreciative look: Good, let the tourists know why he wasn’t standing at the cleaning table with the other guides. “My angler, Mr. Palmona, he wanted to see what it was like to fish Boca Grande. Left before sunrise, we just got back. You ever see so many boats in your life, Mr. Palmona?”
Felix’s client was a lean, dark-haired man who had the articulate, easygoing look of old money. He stood on the dock packing his gear into a little duffel, getting ready to leave while Felix cleaned his boat. “I thought Felix was exaggerating. A show like that, I wouldn’t have missed for the world. All of those attractive women in the bikinis, he told me what it would be like, but…” The man gave a bemused shrug.
In crowded Boca Grande Pass, the largest and most expensive of the fishing yachts were invariably bedecked with lounging, sun-lazy, beach-browned women who were proud of their improbable bodies-living, breathing symbols of wealth whom the guides appreciated as interesting adjuncts to the great tarpon-fishing. Emboldened by the built-in anonymity that boats provide, it was not unusual for some of these women to sunbathe topless. The guides always made running commentary on the VHF of what they saw, and since I hadn’t spoken to Felix by radio that day, he updated me while I ate.