The world has been changing with the man’s desire for mass suicide. Florida’s Okeechobee Swamp has been imprisoned by interstates and poisoned by the evil Sugar Barons, such as the Fanjuls. Its water level has dropped drastically in the preceding years of drought.

“In 1970 something a flood lifted off the roof,” The beehived bartender of the Gator Hole said through an exhale of smoke. Sun-bleached swamp grass spread across the arid wetlands. “Day like this four years ago we’d all sorts of boats tied up to the docks.”

She looked out through the mozzie screens to the boat ramp. Thick algae covered the inlet’s surface, fed by the fertilizers of the sugar fields. Dragonflies buzzed through the air. The water was about five feet short of full.

“Pretty low.” I drank my Corona. It was cold, but I wished I was back in Thailand with my family.

“Before the rainy season there was no water. Only mud. Gators liked it.” She pointed out two baby ‘gators hiding under the dock. Their snouts were the size of size 42 boots.

Liza and her son played pool. Their mother-child rivalry was transferred from words to the sinking balls on the table. My old friend from Paris was better than her teenage son. She sunk the eight ball. Krys dropped the cue and went to the jukebox. Jimi Hendricks. Lisa hated the left-handed guitarist.

“I haven’t seen a juke box in years.” I couldn’t recall ever running into one in Pattaya.

“You want another beer?” Lisa waved the cigarette on my face like a wand.

“Sure.” She was paying.

I got a handful of quarters and played THE BEST OF GRAND FUNK RAILROAD. The trio from Flint, Michigan were huge in the 1970s.

“I’m your captain, oh yeah.” I loved Grand Funk and knew all the words, if their song was playing.

By the bar Lisa hugged her son. He hugged her back. They were happy here.

I loved the Gator Hole Bar.

It was all so eternal.

One day in the future it will be under sea water.

2034 I figure, but no one can see into the future and 2034 was a long way from today.

2008 Peter Nolan Smith