Authors: Tim Dorsey
GAINESVILLE
T
he Davenports were on a cleaning-product run. For five seconds. Less than fifty feet from his son’s apartment door, Jim stopped behind a Jeep with homemade plywood speakers built into the rear bay.
“What the hell’s he doing?” said Martha. “The road’s clear.”
“I think he’s talking to that girl in a bikini leaning against his door.”
“I
know
what he’s doing,” said Martha. “That’s no place to talk. He’s blocking the parking lot’s exit.”
“I’m sure he’ll just be another moment.”
“If you’re not going to do something, I will!”
“Martha, please.”
She rolled down her window. “Hey! You in the Jeep! Move it!”
“He couldn’t hear,” said Jim. “Stereo’s too loud.”
Martha reached across her husband and leaned on the horn.
“Martha—”
A tanned, muscle-bound man got out of the Jeep and walked back to Jim’s door. A meaty fist pounded the window. “You just fuckin’ honk at me?”
Jim lowered his window a slit. “Actually my wife—Yes, I honked at you.”
“What’s your fuckin’ problem?”
“No problem.” Jim grinned.
“You just honk at me for fun?”
“Jim!” yelled Martha. “Don’t take that from this creep!”
“Martha, please. Let me handle this.” He turned back to the window. “You’re blocking the exit.”
“Out of the car! I’m going to seriously fuck you up!”
Jim hit the electric button closing his window. He faced forward.
“Jim!” said Martha. “What’s wrong with you? You’re twice his age!”
“Martha, that only works if I’m twenty and he’s ten.”
More banging on the window.
“So we just take it?”
“He’ll eventually go away.”
The bishop took off his hat and scratched his head.
The kids from the dinghies were milling around back on land now, everyone staring perplexed into the dark water. Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Coleman strolled along the seawall and came up behind the audience. One of the people in back was much smaller than the rest, hopping on tiptoes for a view. Coleman tapped his shoulder.
Nikolai turned. Coleman bent and whispered. He stood back up and smiled.
The boy was suspicious. “Who are you?”
“A friend of a friend,” said Coleman. “What have you got to lose?”
Nikolai shrugged and began worming his way through the crowd. Without notice, the small boy stepped up to the seawall, took a deep breath and dove in.
“What the heck’s he doing?”
Nikolai reached the bayou’s silty floor and felt his way through typical Florida bottom debris. Gun, gun, knife, gun, human femur,
brass knuckles, gun…He was just about to surface when something seized his ankle. He panicked and thrashed, trying to reach air, but the hand’s grip was too strong and pulled him back down. Another hand pressed something into the youth’s right palm and curled his fingers tightly around it. The ankle was released.
Nikolai broke the water’s surface, gasping for breath.
The crowd exploded.
The youth was so unnerved he didn’t realize what was going on until he noticed they were all pointing at his hand.
The cross.
On the other side of the bayou, Serge surfaced and climbed over the seawall. He joined Coleman beside the Comet and watched Nikolai being carried away on shoulders toward the promise of another daylong street celebration. Serge opened the trunk and tossed his spent air canister in a tote bag.
“Sorry about complaining earlier,” said Coleman. “That was an awfully nice thing to do.”
“Community service is underrated.” Serge zipped the bag closed. “I think my karma just got ten thousand frequent-flier miles.”
“Are we finally to the part about the ouzo?”
“Yes,” said Serge, grabbing a newspaper out of the trunk. “Here’s the part about the ouzo: It’s illegal in this country.”
“Serge!”
“Makes people crazy.” He flipped through the paper. “Glad I saved this thing from breakfast. I’m clipping the Epiphany article for my scrapbook.”
“Okay,” said Coleman. “Then can we at least go to that dive?”
Serge flipped another page. “Which one?”
“The Bridge Lounge.”
“Just over the Anclote River. Good choice. Excellent vintage sign with martini glass.” Serge tossed the newspaper back in the trunk; it randomly fell open to a small article about a notorious inmate named McGraw being released from Raiford.
The trunk slammed shut.
INTERSTATE
75
A champagne Cadillac Escalade drove south. It passed the Ocala exit and a faded billboard for Silver Springs. A snapped-off sideview mirror dangled by its electrical control cord outside Jim’s window.
Silence.
“Martha, please say something.”
“We just bought this car.”
“I’ll get it fixed.”
“But why should we have to pay? It’s not fair.”
“Honey, life’s not fair. We need to focus on our blessings.”
“And we just let these jerks walk all over us every day?”
“Not every day.”
“Yes, every day!”
“I know it’s frustrating, but we made the smart move.”
Martha folded her arms tightly and stared out the window.
“Baby, if we’re getting defrauded by a big company and a lot of money’s involved, then we complain. But this is Florida. We can’t allow ourselves to be provoked into fights with every idiot we meet on the street. You have no idea what baggage they’re bringing to the table.”
“So we have no pride?”
“Pride’s irrelevant,” said Jim. “We have a family. Never entangle your life with a stranger when the only thing to gain is the last word.”
“If I’m insulted, I have a right to the last word!”
“Forget insults. At this very moment there’s at least five hundred people in our city who, if they could get away with it, would slit our throats for the possessions in our house.”
Jim was wrong. There were 762.
“You’re paranoid,” said Martha. “You need therapy.”
“I know you’re upset.”
“I’m completely serious.”
“About what?”
“Therapy.”
“I thought you were joking.”
“There’s this new support group I heard about.”
“What kind?”
She told him.
“I don’t need to go to that.”
Martha folded her arms tighter.
“Okay,” said Jim. “Make you a deal. I’ll go, but only if you do, too.”
“What? With you?”
“No, to your own group…” He told her what kind.
“I don’t need to go there.”
“It’s only fair,” said Jim. “You’re the one who’s always harping on that.”
Martha gritted her teeth. “Okay, it’s a deal.”
PORT OF TAMPA
A
ship’s horn made a deep, deafening blast.
Balloons, streamers, people cheering and uncorking champagne.
Rachael was on the third deck of the cruise terminal’s parking garage, hiding in the Comet’s backseat with third-day psychosis. She raised her sweat-drenched, wild-eyed face to peek out the window. The horn sounded again, and Rachael curled up in quaking fear on the floorboards. She loved partying!
Down on the docks, a mass of people waved at the about-to-depart ship.
“Safe journey!”
shouted Serge.
“Take lots of pictures!”
Coleman drank from a “Pepsi” can. “Who are you yelling at?”
“Everybody,” said Serge, cupping his hands around his mouth again.
“Pay attention to the lifeboat instructions! Did you know sharks can actually leap six feet out of the water?…”
“You know people on the ship?”
“Nope….
Ever seen a body recovered at sea?…Pleasant trip!
”
“Then what are we doing here?”
“I love to come to the port and pretend I know someone on a ship,” said Serge. “Another of life’s overlooked little pleasures—plus a free pass to go ape-shit in public….
Bon voyage, Joe, you crazy bastard!
…”
“Look at all those people up there,” said Coleman.
“…
Willy, you forgot your heart medication! Willy? Oh, my God, he’s turning blue!…
Wonder what’s going on in their lives? It always perks me up to speculate….” He began pointing. “…That woman’s cheating with the dude who cleans her air ducts, that guy spends all his time upset about Mexicans, that man’s in perfect health but will suddenly projectile-cough impressive clots of blood during the big client dinner, that couple will lose everything answering an e-mail from Nigeria by the widow of the foreign minister trying to transfer twenty million dollars out of the country….
Mary! Don’t give anyone herpes this time!…”
Coleman giggled. “You just fucked the cruise for everyone named Mary.”
“See the fun you can have?” Serge beamed proudly and thumped his chest. “I’m a seafarin’ man! Ain’t this ship a beauty?”
Coleman stared almost straight up at the majestic bow with aqua-and-orange trim. Staterooms, towering green-glass atrium, obsessive people already running laps around the smokestack on the exercise track, many more celebrating on balconies.
“SS
Serendipity
,” said Serge. “Flagship of Caribbean Crown Line registered in Liberia. Three thousand passengers. A hundred-gross tonnage of enabler for people with eating, drinking and gambling disorders.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ve taken a cruise, right?”
Coleman shook his head.
“You’re kidding. I thought of all people.”
“I haven’t been on one, okay?”
“Familiar with Las Vegas?”
“Of course.”
“Add a rudder and subtract government. The whole country’s into excess, even when
fighting
excess, and cruises are the nation’s bad habits on steroids. All the things you’re not supposed to do on land you’re
supposed
to do on a cruise because it’s one of America’s official responsibility-free zones, like Mardi Gras, New Year’s Eve or
Courtney Love. Twenty-four-hour free buffets all over the place, raunchy stage shows, countless bars that won’t cut you off as long as you can knee-walk into a casino and blow the mortgage—”
“Whoa! When can we go?”
“Easy, Gilligan. We’re broke again, remember?” Serge looked up at the Titillation Deck, where four elderly women waved over the railing and blew noisemakers.
Eunice clutched a party horn in her teeth. “Who are we waving at?”
“Everybody,” said Edna.
“Woo-hoo!…”
“Do we know anybody down there?”
“Not a soul,” said Edith. “This is one of life’s free little pleasures….
Susan, Chuck, see you next week!…”
“Let’s pick out some people,” said Ethel.
“Why?”
“For fun. See if we can confuse them. Like how we get a big kick waving at people we don’t know in Morrison’s cafeteria, and they halfheartedly wave back in social awkwardness.”
“What about those two guys?”
“Wave!” said Edna.
“Serge,” said Coleman. “Are those old ladies waving at us?”
“I think you’re right. But they must have us confused with someone else. Let’s wave back.”
“What for?”
“Confuse them. It’s lots of fun….
Happy Trails!…
”
The celebratory waving of the old women became unsure. Edith lowered her hand. “Do we know those guys?”
“I don’t think so.”
“They seem to know us.”
“Now
I
feel awkward.”
“Maybe it’s a double-reverse sting,” said Edna.
“What’s that?”
“What we were doing to them except vice versa,” said Edith.
“They’re fucking with us?” said Eunice.
“The sons of bitches!”
“Serge,” said Coleman. “Those old ladies are shooting birds at us. Except the one on the end who’s doing the Italian thing under her chin.”
“This is bullshit,” said Serge. “Just because they’re old they think they can act any way they want….
Fuck you!…
”
A balcony one floor below the Titillation Deck: “Check out those guys on the dock.”
“Which ones?”
“The two jumping around shooting birds with both hands.”
“Are they shooting them at us?”
“I think they are!…
You motherfuckers!…
”
Down on the dock, people pointed: “Look at those guys on the fourth deck!”
“They’re flipping us off, the cocksuckers….
Eat me!…
”
Someone landside grabbed a bottle by the neck. He winged it at the ship; glass shattered against the hull and rained into the water. Rotten food flew back from the Tranquillity Deck. More gestures and profanity. People on the pier rummaged trash cans for ammo. Ship’s passengers flung debris that splatted on the dock.
“Ow.” Coleman grabbed a bloody spot above his left eyebrow. “What the fuck was that?”
“The country coming apart.” Trash exploded around them as Serge headed for the exit. “Let’s go greet planes at the airport.”
TEN P.M., THE DAVENPORTS’ MASTER BEDROOM
Jim and Martha lay side-by-side in unflattering pajamas.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Jim. “What’s wrong with our sex life?”
“Just quantity and quality.”
“I thought everything was fine.”
“Don’t take it personally.”
“How can I not take
that
personally?”
“Jim, it’s normal. Most people married this long fall in a rut. I was talking to my girlfriends about us at lunch.”
“You discussed our sex life?”
“You wouldn’t believe the feedback about you. Remember Susan?”
“I’m not sure I want to hear.”
“They have these manuals. Susan said she recalls meeting you at a dinner, so she insisted on letting me borrow this book with pictures: all these positions and accessories I never would have dreamed, like this string of metal balls that you pull really slow—”
“Martha, why can’t we just keep going the way we are?”
“We can. I’m just talking about a little variety.”
“What kind of variety?”
“Role-playing. Susan told me this one game where she and Phil wear each other’s clothes.”
Jim covered his eyes. “I play tennis with Phil.”
“We should discuss our fantasies.”
“I don’t have any fantasies.”
“
Everybody
has fantasies.”
“Do you?”
“Of course,” said Martha.
“I had no idea.”
“Because we never talk about it.”
“You know I love you,” said Jim. “If it’ll make you happy…”
“You too. Tell me what you want. I’ll do anything.”
“This is just such a surprise. I’ll have to think about it. Do you know what you want?”
Martha nodded. “Several things.”
“Name one.”
“I want you to be a bad man.”
“What? You want me to act like a jerk?”
“Not a jerk, a desperado. You know how certain women are always fatally attracted to the
wrong
guys? I married you because you’re so nice. But it would be a change of pace—just fantasy, you understand.”
“How am I supposed to be a bad man?”
“I can’t tell you. The surprise is part of the excitement. Tomorrow night?”