Vehicles roar by. To and from. Here to there. Going, going. The sun blazes on metal. Rusty and abused. Glossy and fresh. People moving. People fleeing. People sleeping.

People race by. Escaping to a brief vacation. Days of burning on crowded beaches with harsh sand. Days of lounging in chlorine pools with too many bodies. Running to a future of promised beach chairs and margaritas. Breaking from the confines of nine to fives and taxes. Running into the open arms of expectations.

The sun is heavy in Florida. The air is thick. There are clouds, at times, but the sun breaks through them. Summer thunderstorms. Warm rain. Palms with sparse shade and scraggly pines.

Rental cars chug in. Reluctant to leave the tantalizing palm trees and roller coasters. Bodies are exhausted by the unflinching sun. Vehicles purring. Running to business trips. Eager to leave the problems of home unsolved.

Palms sway from the rush of cars.

A plain, white plane perches on the side of the road, nose buried into the grass. The bottom is open. A dummy in a white suit and helmet hangs from the open undercarriage. An attraction. The black harness around its chest is thick and sure. The end is hidden inside the plane, caught on an invisible barrier.

Cars roar by. Transport trucks. Rented hatchbacks. Smooth sedans. Livestock trailers. People race by.

There’s an airport nearby. See the planes coming in? People from around the world. Canada. England. To and from the Tampa airport. Beaches and girls. Pools and drinks.

The helmet is plain, black. A mirror of its surroundings. The suit is plain, white. The dummy is heavy. The rope round its neck taut and firm. It does not sway in the hot, summer wind.

A grandfather with dusty white skin chugs past. The sun will be good for my health. Doctor said I should get some sun. Spend too much time indoors.

The wildlife is rich. Squirrels pee on neighborhood dogs. Cottontail rabbits stand stock still in the brush, not blinking. Doves hoot in the evening, a soothing lullaby. Alligators rest in the water, only two eyes visible and even those protrusions blend into the lake when blinked.

They got pretty horses and cotton candy and those spinning teacups. Mommy doesn’t like the roller coasters, but we’ll get Daddy to go. And they got water slides and huge pools! We’ll pet sting rays and dolphins and Daddy said they got baby alligators you can hold! I want ice cream.

Road kill in the middle of the road. A possum. Dead. Limp against the asphalt. Cars race by.

Brown anoles under every rock scuttle away, tails left wriggling. Black snakes shimmy through long grass. Ospreys and hawks gulp rats. Large, shiny green frogs, waiting. Baby oak toads unnoticeable until a pebble clatters and they jump away. Wasps in hoards. Beetles. Noseeums. Cockroaches, especially.

The sun is hot. There is no escape. The smell is putrid and raw. Cars drive past. A/C is turned up. Noses wrinkle in disgust. Get rid of that smell. Roaring past. Must have been a skunk.

The air is warm and heavy. Thick. Thick with stagnation. Sweat. Decay.

One day in the Florida sun is rough. Shriveling skin. Dry. Cracking lips. Even with shade. Even with covered skin. Hot. Thick. Suffocating.

God! What is that? It can’t be a skunk.

Hot liquid breaks through thin, parched skin. Fluids are released, relaxed.

Vultures circle. Circle. Tireless. The plane deters them, but not for long. Black wings flutter as talons sink into a firm grip. The rope holds.

Blood. Round. Round. Circling. Turning. Blood on the tires. Blood on the road.

Beaks tearing, prying. Sharp clacks on the blank, black helmet. Ripping at the plastic suit. Exposing flesh kept warm by the baking sun.

Vehicles roar by. Children laugh. Adults curse. Even the laughs are menacing, kid bullies tormenting.

Two days in the Florida sun. The night brings no relief. Just the absence of sun and the air is still thick. The ground is still hot. It perspires in steams.

Children notice the strong, black birds. What a wonderful show! Daddy, can I have one? Teenagers see, giggle in groups of hyenas, and forget. Adults blaze past on cell phones. Elderly squint against the unrelenting sun. Why…Adam! What is that? Just an airplane attraction, mother. Not bothering to look. Middle-aged white woman is frazzled, frowning pretentiously, but settles into her leather seat.

Dogs barking. Noses are assaulted by the smell. Sounding the alarm. Brown eyes peering through metal bars. Streaming air teases forelocks. Large teardrop nostrils quiver.

Shut up, Princess! What’s wrong with you! Damn dog! Just shut up and—! What the hell is that?

Vultures peck through to bone. Strips of soiled plastic cling to the frame, demanding a last act of decency, but there is no rotten flesh to hide. It swings in the hot Florida breeze. The rope is bleached.

Three days in the Florida sun and the police stand, heads tilted up. Dried ligaments hold faded bones together. The black helmet hangs forward, propped by a bony chest, no flesh or muscles to support it. The rags are slowly lowered for examination.

Perhaps we can I.D. the man.

No, leave the helmet on. We don’t want to expose it to a high dosage of air and change the chemistry. Later, in the lab, where we can control the atmosphere and wear masks.

Flesh is dulled underneath hard rubber. Black blood. Bone ground beneath tires. The road is slightly darkened.

Let’s get this thing out of here and reassure the public. Story is we think it’s a suicide. 

Cars roar by. People slow to gawk and stare at the multitude of flashing lights and color.

Suicide? You don’t think it’s murder? A public stunt like this? Look. The real dummy’s just been set inside the plane. It’s still got its harness and suit. It looks identical. Same helmet.

Classic suicide method. Nothing to be concerned about. No, we don’t think it’s a murder. There’s no sign of trauma.

Murder or suicide. Forced or desperate. Makes great news. Evening television. Sit down on the sofa with a microwaved meal. Mouth open stupidly, a dawdling baby. 

The vultures perch on the plane and clean their stiff feathers, content.

A heap of fur in the middle of the road. Tires turning. Round. Round. Wrap it round your shoulders.

The black helmet grins a reflection of the world.