Dataw Island is a different place. The honey air is thick with Laurel Greenbrier, sweet-shrub, and light-purple Tamarisk. Canals weave their way around the island, a gated community, home to golf lovers, retired couples, alligators, and caretakers. Dolphins jump and crash from one yard to another. It’s March, the month for The March of the Elders. Waves lap against the the dock, like the mouths of connoisseurs in a cigar bar, small kisses, unsure, uneven smacking, wet, and sticky. The men of Dataw Island tread upon the stained vinyl decking, their hulking bodies bouncing in the rhythm of their movement. Their heads don black top hats and their bodies are clad in traditional swimwear; black spandex speedos, snug above the shoulders.
One man will reign supreme, and for the entirety of the following year he will have his pick of Tee Time, his table of choice at the clubhouse, and he will inherit his seat as the chairman of the Homeowner Association. It’s a time-honored tradition, going back to the days when Dataw was first established as a settlement for the elderly.
The contest consists of one simple test: the catwalk competition. The men promenade along the docks which connect their backyards, past the women of Dataw. Once they reach the evaluation center they stand with their feet shoulder-width apart, bend their knees as deeply as their muscles can support, and hold their arms straight in front of their chests, parallel to the ground. The women are meant to choose the most hulking and powerful of the men, though admittedly their own personal biases sometimes color their decisions.
The men have begun their march. Mr. Johnson walks in the rear, with a prime view of his competitors. He has spent the year in preparation for this day, though he knows it’s unnecessary to worry about the outcome; he’s been the champion each year for the past three years. His dimpled cheeks shake with each step. He has not one chin, but six. His movement is ponderous; he bends powerfully with each step, his rhinoceros legs sleek with baby oil. He is thankful for the baby powder that he liberally sprinkled between the folds before leaving home this morning.
He surveys his competition. To the left, Mr. Grimes, who has, if anything, lost some girth. The unfortunate seem to shrink in old age. Bones eroded by Coca Cola and acid reflux, skin covered in hair, hangs limp like drying pelts after the hunt, pitiful. To the right, Mr. Palmer, who has gained some heft but his skin seems to be too weak to support it. Parts of his thigh hangs down by his knees. If they were being judged by scales, the incumbent might fear for his reelection, but the winner of the march must be robust, virile, impressive and Mr. Palmer’s figure impressed only upon one's sympathy for Mrs. Palmer.
The men turn a corner, approaching the Dataw Island Clubhouse. Through a gap between his neighbors, Mr. Johnson spots an unfamiliar rear end.
“Who’s that?” he asks Grimes.
“Him?” he asks, pointing toward a pale and spotted mass. Mr. Johnson nods. “Jack Lacasse. Moved in the old Wright home a couple months ago.”
“What do you know of him?”
“That’s about it, Rich. Worried he’s gonna knock you off your throne?” Grimes asks, a smile chiseled into his face.
Mr. Johnson grunts and keeps walking.
They’ve reached the presentation platform. Wind wriggles through the folds. The men are lined in a single row, six inches between each shoulder, facing their women. A squirrel rustles through Peppervine. A woman blows her nose. A whistle is blown. The women form a circle and the vote is cast. Mr. Johnson can feel blood flush through his fingertips and he catches his breath.
“Jack Lacasse, please collect your smoking jacket, you are to be Dataw Island’s Man of the Year!”
Mr. Johnson blinks. His wife approaches him, a smiling sympathy on her face and his robe in her hand. He is suddenly aware of how much skin he has exposed to the chilly March air.
