An old Florida village. Not the touristy kind with swimsuit shops and scooter rentals. This is a place where the local high-school colors are probably camo and orange.
We are vacationing nearby this week. I am in search of tuna dip.
I pull into a random seafood market. The place isn’t fancy. This is rural Florida, where all seafood markets are required by state law to look like rundown miniature correctional facilities.
In the sandy parking area an old man and a kid leap out of a dusty Suburban then walk inside. The old man wears an Atlanta Braves ballcap. His grandson, maybe 9 years old, wears a Freddie Freeman jersey.
Inside the market, the old man never speaks. He communicates via sign language with the boy. I don’t speak sign language, but I speak fluent Kid. And I see a lot of love on that little freckled face.
When the employee at the counter is ready to take their order, the old man gestures to the kid who serves as our translator this afternoon.
The kid
points and speaks to the guy at the counter. “We want three pounds of those.”
The seafood market employee is a man with a shaved head, lots of inkwork, and an unlit cigarette wedged in his lips. We must have caught him just before a smoke break.
The inactive cigarette bounces when he talks. “Three pounds of shrimp? Anything else, boss?”
The kid checks with Granddaddy for instructions. The old man looks over the motherlode of seafood displayed on ice. Choices, choices. He signs to Junior.
Junior translates. “Yeah. What’re those things?”
“These? Grouper cheeks. Good eating. Want some?”
The kid signs to the old man who nods.
“Yes, please.”
The kid never stops signing, even when speaking to the cashier. It’s called being polite to Grandad.
“Sure thing, bossman.” The guy behind the counter is trying to act nonchalant about this exchange,…