It was a typical lazy Wednesday in Destin.
The hot, subtropical sun beat down on the dock, causing a bead of sweat to trickle down the old Marine’s nose. It was noon, and the Lizard once again sat in his wheelchair painting Choctawhatchee Bay. He watched as a pelican slid gracefully across the water, gliding until just the right moment before crashing headfirst into the water. “There had to be a better way to get lunch,” the Lizard thought. Why couldn’t they just order from the snack bar? The Lizard had lived on fried food for nearly two decades.
“I might not live to live to 100 if I keep this up,” he chuckled to himself.
Ominous clouds built from the southwest. It was hurricane season and storms blew up quickly this time of year. The water was as warm as bathwater and the Gulf was like a firework tent run by chain smokers.
But he didnt care. He had survived several storms — here and on Okinawa.
His leathery fingers flexed as he carefully packed his paints and took the canvas off the easel. Thunder roared as he rolled up the dock toward the Cranky Pelican’s snack bar. Joe, the owner, knew the Lizard ate fried shrimp and oysters everyday for lunch. And like every other day, Joe had it waiting with a cold beer.
The Lizard nodded and put down his money. Joe offered to run a tab, but the Lizard was a child of the Great Depression. He didn’t believe in debt.
Lightning struck one of the condo towers across the bay and rain began to pelt the Cranky Pelican’s roof. Lobster red tourists ran for cover as wind whipped the snow-white sand into a swirling tempest. Tables overturned and chairs scattered. The Lizard laughed. In his younger days he would have welcomed God to strike him down.
But not today. He had work to do.
The Lizard needed to complete his painting. The wounded warriors at the V.A. needed his help.
A strange sound came up from behind, catching him by surprise. It was too heavy for footsteps. He turned quickly to see a brown-headed man behind him. The Lizard looked down and saw two prosthetic legs.
“I hear you’re a good painter. Mind if I join you?”
The Lizard nodded.
“I also hear you’re a crappy conversationalist. No worry — I’ll do the talking.”
The Lizard smiled. He hadn’t spoken in nearly 70 years. Some people said he had forgotten how to talk. The last words he had said were “I’m so sorry” to the parents of his best friend — a friend who was dead because of him. Guilt and pain took his voice. The Lizard could still talk – he just didn’t want to.
“My name is Randy. Like you, I’m a Marine. I proudly served in Baghdad. And I think my legs are still back there still. Anyway, I want to paint with you.”
The Lizard looked closer at Randy’s arms. He could see scarring where shrapnel had torn his flesh. This boy had gone through his own brand of hell. The Lizard pointed to his canvas and nodded.
“Great! But first, let’s eat,” Randy grinned.
The Lizard watched as the young man wolfed down his oysters. Another bolt of lightning hit close by, rattling the liquor bottles at the bar.
By the time Randy’s plate was clean, the rain had subsided. The Lizard rolled out to the end of the dock. Gray clouds shrouded the bay. Randy pulled up a chair and put a canvas on his own easel. Both men silently looked out on the bay and waited as the clouds began to clear.
“I came home from the war a wreck. I lost my job, started drinking and then my wife left after I became violent. I looked for answers in the bottle of a bourbon bottle. Didn’t find them. Then I went to the V.A. and got counseling. They said I could get additional help because of an anonymous benefactor. One day as I was walking out counseling, I saw the most beautiful painting I had ever seen. It was in the lobby. So I went to the art store and bought some canvases. My first painting was a mess. But the second one was a little better. And then the third was even better. Soon, I felt peace while painting. I asked who painted the painting in the lobby, and someone told me about you. The men at the marina said I’d find you here. They said people called you the Lizard and you didn’t talk.
Well, since you don’t talk, you don’t have to say ‘You’re welcome.” But I will say this, “thank you.” You saved my life. And my marriage. And my soul.”
Both men stared at each other for a moment and tear trickled down the Lizard’s cheek. He reached out his hand and shook Randy’s scarred hand.
Then he looked him in the eye and spoke his first words in seven decades.
“You’re welcome, Randy. My name is Bob.”
At that moment, the warm Florida sun broke through the clouds, illuminating both men.
The storm was over. And the Lizard finally found peace.