Florida — The Land of Chasing Sylvester Stallone
and Trapping Geckos
J.O. Haselhoef
“There, on the wall, a gecko.” Probably an anole, but lizardy, light green, two inches long. It lay on an angle, a little way up the wall.
“Hand me a Kleenex,” I said to Mike. My partner gave me a two-ply. I swept down and collected the critter into the folds of the paper. I dumped it outside, onto the ground, and ensured the gecko didn’t grab the tissue to return into the house with me.
Mike joked, “Two more just ran in while you left the door open.” I laughed and walked to the kitchen.
This isn’t our kitchen or even our house. We took the opportunity to stay in our friends’ 1950s Florida bungalow. In August, we Wisconsinites adjusted to Florida’s humid weather, became fascinated by the regional flora and fauna, and looked forward to our daily walks on the beach not so far away. Our dog, Charlotte, enjoyed the fenced-in back yard.
A few minutes later, I heard Mike in the bedroom. “Uh-oh.” And quiet.
“What’s wrong?” I said loudly from the kitchen.
“There’s another one. C’mere.”
Mike stood near the southeast corner, pointing towards the ceiling. The critter he watched was twice as big as the first — brown, spotted, with distinct pads at the end of each lizard finger and muscly. A gecko, I guessed.
“Do you want to get him?” he asked me. Mike, 6’1”, had, throughout our relationship, deferred to me, 5’2”, to rid our space of creatures that invaded.
“Since when do I have the market on lizards? You get this one.” He went to the garage to retrieve the step stool. I went to the kitchen for a metal bowl, pancake flipper, and book.
“What are those for?” Mike asked when I returned.
“I’ll flip him off the wall into the bowl. You hold the bowl and then cover it with the book.” We looked at the gecko, considered our plan, and its alternatives. “How’d they get in here?” I asked.
“No idea. Could the dog….?”
We looked at Charlotte lying at our feet, uninterested in the guest. It was out of her sightline high on the wall. All week, our hairy basset hound engaged the reptiles in our borrowed backyard. The anole is the only lizard native to the U.S., but is part of the Iguanadae family, which varies from huge to tiny. The gecko, one of the Gekkotas, chirps.
Charlotte’s daily patrol to rid the back yard of these creatures captivated her. But we hoped she wouldn’t be effective. This space belonged to the lizards, Charlotte, just a short-term interloper. Now, her involvement with the reptiles perked our interest. Could she carry them inside? No lizard tails appeared at the corner of her mouth. Reptile toes seemed unlikely to grab her wiry hair.
We, meanwhile, moved the lamp and decorations. I stood on the heavy-set bed stand. Mike climbed the stool and noted, “This one’s a bit of a plodder. He doesn’t scoot very fast.”
He went over the protocols of our capture plan and closed with, “This may be a YouTube moment.”
I approached the gecko from behind, but when I flicked it with the pancake flipper, I missed. He solidly walked down the wall past the lip of the round bowl Mike held against the flat wall.
Mike was right. The little guy walked with a kind of swagger like Sylvester Stallone. He twisted to the left, allowing the right front foot to come forward and then to the right to allow the left front foot to engage. Fascinating. Still, Sylvester moved faster than I expected.
“This time I’m ready; here we go!” Mike pushed forth the bowl, lost his balance, grabbed my arm for support, and made futile the entire capture. Sylvester gained precious moments; he slithered down the wall, across the carpet, and under the bed. Meanwhile, Charlotte moved to the corner to avoid our feet stepping on her and fell asleep.
We gathered ourselves for Round 2. I turned on my cell’s light and peered beneath the bed. Five inches below the mattress head, the creature lay still. “Mike, this one doesn’t look like the one we just pursued — it’s half the size — more like that first anole I took outside.”
Mike grunted his acknowledgement and moved to the bed’s end, which he pulled outward. I crept up on top of the pillows, trying to make little noise, and by mistake, dropped the bowl. I watched it flip over, and with unbelievable luck, trap the newest of our four-footed friends beneath. I slid a piece of cardboard between the floor and bowl and took the package to the door. Charlotte, awakened by the thud of the metal, followed me to the door and her backyard haven.
Meanwhile, Mike looked for Sylvester. He moved, slid, pushed and peered behind and beneath all the pieces of furniture. Nothing. He went through the hamper of dirty clothes one piece at a time. Not one there. No Sylvester, no siblings, nothing alive. Could it have grabbed a ride out with Charlotte? Or could it be in the mattress? Or had we caused the anole, often times mistaken for a chameleon because of its ability to change from green to brown and back again, to change color and confuse us?
That night, I slept in the other bedroom. Mike evidently didn’t care if something crawled over his sleeping body. None of us saw another reptile in the house. If anything would alert us to a lizard, it would be Charlotte.
In two days, we’ll leave for Wisconsin. I’ve mixed feelings about our departure. I enjoy Florida, even its humidity. But I look forward to our Wisconsin bedroom, which I know has no geckos, anoles, chameleons, lizards, or reptiles — and not a single image of Sylvester Stallone.
J.O. Haselhoef: A Social Artist who writes and travels. J.O. Haselhoef’s work appears in print or online at Rotary en el Corazón de las Americas bi-monthly review, Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, Wising Up's Anthologies (Surprised by Joy and Re-Creating Our Common Chord), Evening Street Press, Fiction Southeast, HerStory, Extra Newsfeed, Healthcare in America, Haiti Global, and Stuff dot Life with a complete listing at
www.JOHaselhoef.com