The Lizard King, by Martha Thomases
Last weekend, I found myself in southern Florida, visiting my father. It’s something I’ve done a whole bunch of times since he moved down there twenty years ago, but it’s the first time I’ve been there in a July.
This doesn’t bother my Dad, whose home is nicely air-conditioned, and whose car is nicely air-conditioned, and who is fortunate enough to only need to go to offices, stores, and other places that are nicely air-conditioned. And for me, it doesn’t feel that much different from being there in December, February or March.
Except for the lizards. They’re huge in July. By “huge,” I mean they are five to six inches long, instead of the two to three inches long they are when I usually see them. I don’t mean five or six inches is huge by any other frame of reference.
For some reason, on this trip, I was mesmerized by the way they acted.
If you live in a warm climate, you may be less than charmed by the kind of lizard I’m talking about. They are little, brown (light and dark, or a combination thereof) and they are everywhere. If I lived in Florida, I might regard them with the same disdain I heap upon roaches and pigeons.