Three Twisted Stories (12 page)

1
Long skinned the most squirrels (1,238) in a one-hour period.

2
At 92,365,860 passengers a year, Hartsfield is the busiest airport by volume in the world.

3
Biff Hutchison, 39 jumps.

4
Mohammed, 22.5″, is the shortest man ever recorded.

Dear Robert:

As per the Manual of Adjudicator Conduct on the Road (rev.), Rule #14, I spent more of the day getting a lay of the land and talking to people who might know Mr. Rothstein, our possible World Record Holder for Longest Tongue (man).

The Okefenokee Swamp, as you know, is the largest in North America; it is over 6,500 years old and formed on the edge of an ancient Atlantic coastal terrace. The name itself comes from the Cherokee word for “Land of the Trembling Earth,” an obvious reference to the unstable peat “islands” that pass for land in the black waters. The swamp is approximately 438,000 acres in size and is home to many wading birds, amphibians, carnivorous plants, and American alligators (full list of native species and wildlife attached). The Honey Prairie Wildfire, which started in April of last year, has still only reached 65% containment and has left a swath of barren land in its wake. Amazingly, the wildlife seems to have thrived under these conditions, especially the mosquitoes. It’s the burden of the Adjudicator to be extra wary of these flying beasts,
¹
though of course the locals find it hilarious when I swat at these creatures, which are capable of pinning down small animals. I wish I was exaggerating, but no one was laughing when that cat was taken away. Poor Squeamy.

Not many people appear to know Mr. Rothstein, though he seems to have lived in the area all of his life. On the Application for World Record Form 29(E), he listed his occupation as “certified VCR repairman” (a surprisingly popular occupation
among our Record Holders [male]). While locals seem reticent to discuss Mr. Rothstein, the subject of his mother is easily bandied about. By all accounts, she is a strong woman who raised two sons on her own during a time when these things were not done. For many years, the family seems to have held itself apart from the community, and more than one old-timer has described Mrs. Rothstein as the “Whore of the Oke.” Thankfully, this is not a commonly uttered phrase (even down here, time seems to have inched forward, though one need only refer to the county census data to find that one in every three girls has experienced a pregnancy by the time she turns sixteen). Still, one can assume that the Rothstein family is no stranger to scandal (again, another attribute many of our Applicants [male] and Record Holders [male] share).

The research I did prior to flying down here had led me to believe that all residents of the swamp (“Swampers”) had been removed shortly after the cypress-mining period initiated by the Hebard family (who could forget Oberlin Elton?
²
). You can imagine my surprise as I drove around the sandy Swamp Perimeter Road to find many Swampers still living in dilapidated shacks. No running water. No electricity but for the occasional diesel generator. Certainly not a lot of teeth!

It is inside this swamp that Applicant Remmy Rothstein lives with his mother and older brother. By most accounts, Rothstein’s family tree took root around the time of the Suwannee Canal
³
boondoggle. Others say the line goes back much farther. Embellishments seem to be a way of life down here, so should we indeed have a Record Breaker, a more firmly oriented timeline will of course have to be established.

Lastly, I understand the Science Division always has questions when World Records pertain to physical attributes or endurance, and I have therefore taken a sample of the tannin-stained waters of the Okefenokee (tannin is the highly acidic substance that renders the shallow waters sparkling clear). Though I am no scientist, one could surely form a hypothesis that these waters could have led to the development of an elongated tongue. I know research continues on Stephen
Taylor’s
⁴
environment, but should Rothstein truly break the record, more research into his background and early diet is definitely indicated. But I’m getting ahead of myself!

The plan is to meet Rothstein at noon tomorrow.

Until then!

Mindy

(attachment: PlantsAnimalsOkefenokee.doc)

Dear Robert:

I’m really not certain what happened today, but I’ll try to describe it as best I can: Wooten, the helpful landlord of my B&B, gave me very good directions to Rothstein’s meeting point, and I found it easily enough after a few hours of wandering around in the swamp. Did I mention that the air conditioner in my rental truck is broken? Funny thing: the truck was fine on the way down, but after that kid took it for a joyride, it started blowing heat (and smelling, oddly, of boiled peanuts—a local delicacy). I took it to a mechanic (a nice lady who also owns the local restaurant) and was told that it would cost approximately three thousand dollars to repair.

After a few terse phone calls with the car rental company (note to Travel: it might be best in the future to steer clear of Jimmyz’ Truck and Tractor Rental), it was made clear to me that no repairs were authorized (which I cannot argue with as, according to Jimmyz’ rental agreement, which I had ample time to peruse while on hold, they are not responsible for any peanut-related mechanical failures, up to and including air-conditioning). Of course, all this means to me is that I have been forced to drive around in the heat.

And is it hot! I’m talking Al-’Aziziyah
¹
hot!

But I can hear your voice reminding me that it’s about the potential Record Holder, not the Adjudicator, and certainly not about the fact that I have lost six
pounds since yesterday (please tell Kaitlyn) and that no matter how hard I try to remain hydrated, I am well under my 0.28 gallons!
²

As I said at the top of the report, I set out first thing in the morning, when it was but a balmy 98 degrees, giving myself ample time to make the noon rendezvous with Mr. Rothstein. I brought with me all the tools of verification: two rulers, a measuring tape, video recorder, tape recorder, and camera. I also took the liberty of bringing the Record Holder Certificate signed by Paolo Pergini, our esteemed leader, in case Mr. Rothstein had, in fact, broken the World Record.

As you know, per certification guidelines, Mr. Rothstein submitted via our website the proper paperwork as well as ample documentation of tongue length to be reviewed by our Board of Assessors in the New York office. Photos showed a metal ruler placed “tip to top” (tip of tongue to top lip) indicating Mr. Rothstein’s tongue measured 3.9″, a full 0.04″ past the original World Record. Between you and me, Robert, I was also hoping for a double record, as the photos showed what seemed to be an abnormally wide tongue, surely as wide if not wider than Sloot’s.
³
I know as Adjudicators we’re not supposed to get involved with our Subjects, but I feel like your knowing the level of my excitement going into this Adjudication will give you a deeper understanding of what happened next.

Thanks to Wooten’s directions (which gave me a lovely side trip into Florida), I pulled up to Rothstein’s dock at approximately 11:52 a.m. This dock was not a typical dock connected to a house, but rather a free-floating wooden structure onto which an airboat was moored. Obviously, one does not become an Adjudicator without a lust for adventure, but even I was a bit wary of this rusty contraption, which more closely resembled a cast-iron bathtub with a box fan strapped onto the back. And I do mean strapped on—we’re talking enough bungee cords to make Alberto Reginni
⁴
nervous. Nevertheless, I strapped myself into one of the wooden chairs (with yet another bungee cord) and resigned myself to a ride deep into the swamplands.

My guide was not Mr. Rothstein, but his older brother, who is named Buell Rabinowitz. It is not just the unshared surname that leads me to believe Mr. Rothstein and Mr. Rabinowitz were sired by different fathers. Though it belies polite company to mention these things in public, I feel I must be completely truthful as an Adjudicator and reveal the facts: I have never seen an albino African American Jew before (possible record to explore for the Assessors’ Office?).

For the most part, Buell spoke in the flowery Victorian parlance of the Swampers (this owing to little outside influence of the changing vernacular), only occasionally dipping into Yiddish and what I will describe as a folksy, backwoods slang. He was dressed in tan pants that were too short for his lanky, long leg (did I mention he only has one leg?) and a shirt that was obviously fashioned from a sack of flour.

Buell informed me that his people have lived in the swamp since July 5, 1742, when the ongoing War of Jenkins’ Ear
⁵
forced them from Congregation Mickve Israel
⁶
in Savannah. I asked him about the Cajun part of the family, to which he answered (I felt sarcastically), “
Laissez les bons temps rouler
.”
⁷

I asked him again about his brother. “Is Remmy …”

“A colored or an albino?” he finished.

“Well …,” I said, but of course that’s exactly what I’d been thinking.

“Nope. Remmy his own kinda special.” He steered the boat away from a resting alligator, then navigated a slight turn through a forked cypress tree. “Do yaself a favor, gal. Don’t say nothin’ ’bout his har.”

“What’s that?” I asked, but he changed the subject, instead regaling me with a story about his great-great-grandpappy, a rabbi who fought in the Civil War.

This was to be a pattern with Buell, whom I found to be quite open about everything having to do with his past and family until I questioned him about his brother Remmy. On all topics Rothstein, Buell declined to answer, instead telling me that he had to be careful around this part of the swamp because “them alligators are meshugah.”

Instead of focusing on Buell’s ice-blue eyes, or the word “FLOUR” emblazoned on his narrow back, I found myself staring at the stump of his leg, onto which a poorly wrought, wooden prosthetic had been fashioned. It wasn’t exactly a peg, because it had a kind of shoe at the bottom—a badminton racket, really—but I feel that “peg” is the best descriptor, as the racket was attached with duct tape. Buell explained to me that the soft ground of peat posed a problem for the peg (much like a high heel, I imagine—did I mention I’ve lost two pairs of shoes since I got here? Invoices attached). The racket seems to act as a snowshoe of sorts, and thanks to the duct tape, could be quickly removed in case he needs to run.

Run from what? you might be thinking. If only I’d considered the same question. I can’t tell you how long the airboat ride lasted. Frankly, the fumes from the gas engine seemed to be exhausting directly into my face. There was no muffler per se, just a length of metal pipe with a sock taped onto the end. Watching the sock flop across the water cast something like a hypnotic spell, and I’m ashamed to say that I found myself nodding off. I must admit that I haven’t been sleeping well at night. It was quite a relief knowing that Mr. Wooten would not be gently nudging me awake to offer me a backrub. (And come to think of it, I have the strange feeling that he was wearing a pair of my shoes last night, which is silly, because he’s a size ten at least and he’s told me on more than one occasion that red is not his color.)

But back to the swamp:

As I said, I’m not sure what time it was when I awoke, but we were deep into the swamp, large cypress trees weaving their fingers together in a canopy that blocked most of the light. I tried to look at my watch, but the LED had melted into a puddle that rolled around under the glass like pus in a blister.

I’m sorry to cut this short, Robert, but Mr. Wooten just came out from under my bed. He forgot to tell me that there’s something else wrong with my car. I’ll go ahead and send this off now as it’s required by the Manual of Adjudicator Conduct on the Road (rev.), Rule #22, to present a daily log.

More anon—

Mindy

(attachment: ShoeInvoice.pdf)