Authors: Tim Dorsey
TAMPA
A
tastefully restored 1923 bungalow sat a couple blocks south of Azeele Avenue. Daisy yellow. Sprawling porch with hip roof and restored supports. To either side were long lines of similarly rehabbed homes in a historic section of Tampa that was bouncing back after police got the memo to chase winos north of Kennedy Boulevard. But the area remained a buffer zone, still too sketchy for family life, and the homes had been converted into a variety of light-impact professional offices with top-shelf alarm systems. Signs in brass and carved wood for accountants, law firms, M.D.s.
The sign in front of the 1923 home indicated psychiatry. Through the front window, a man and a woman could be seen sitting across from each other in a pair of antique English chairs.
“Love your new digs!” said Serge. “Didn’t want to mention anything, but that last place was a shit hole.”
“Serge, maybe you can change the subject with other people—”
“Did you see where that thirteen-foot Burmese python escaped into the Everglades? Swallowed an alligator!…”
“Serge, you disappeared for a year,” said the psychiatrist. “Then you just show up on my doorstep and expect everything to be peachy?”
“…Ruptured his stomach.”
“What?”
“Huh?”
The doctor sighed and looked down at an old patient folder. “We were last talking about faulty rage control.”
“You can click your little pen open and check that off the list!”
The pen remained unclicked.
“What’s the matter?” asked Serge, head hanging straight back, admiring crown molding.
“Your knuckles are all skinned up.”
“They are?” He held out both hands and turned them over. “Oh
that
. No, it wasn’t rage; it was sex.”
“What possible kind of sex?—”
“Rachael. She fucks like a hurricane! I’m more of a typhoon, sometimes a dust devil, but every once in a while a quick-forming Midwestern squall with hail, but not golf-ball size; you know those cute little popcorn pieces that hop around your lawn?…”
“Serge…”
“…We were humping our brains out just this morning, and right before I came, I started flashing on Andrew Jackson, the Sanibel Lighthouse, Warm Mineral Springs, my View-Master collection. Okay, that last one was because I was actually looking at View-Masters at the time….”
“Serge!”
“What?”
“How do you explain the bump on your forehead? Are you still head-butting people?”
Serge felt the top of his head. “Oh, that was sex, too. She caught me looking at View-Masters.”
The doctor maintained poise and jotted in her file. “Despite the protracted absence, I’m glad you came back. Indicates at least a minimal desire to address your problems.”
“Problems? I don’t have any problems.”
She put her pen down. “Then what are we doing sitting here?”
“You’re a great conversationalist. Coleman’s got a good heart, but you can only use words from books that come with crayons, and the rest of the guys in my circle don’t even know what a newspaper is.”
“So if you’re not here to explore the truth about yourself, what were you expecting to talk about?”
“The
Miami Vice
movie. I loved it, with an asterisk for lack of character background. Did you know it was based on episode fifteen of the first season, ‘Smuggler’s Blues,’ originally aired February 1, 1985, with Glen Frey? What did you think of the casting?”
“Serge…”
“Or if you’re more of an art-house type, we can critique Jim Jarmusch’s
Stranger Than Paradise.
I even tracked down the Surfcaster Motel in Melbourne. The staff was polite for the first few hours I interrogated them, but in the end I got the feeling they weren’t art house….”
“Serge—”
He reached in his pocket. “…Got excellent photos of the room where the main characters holed up before Eddie wigged and hopped a direct flight to Budapest. Right, I know what you’re thinking: Budapest. The
Melbourne
airport. But you have to suspend disbelief if you ever want to enjoy another movie or watch the president for more than fifteen seconds without running into the street demanding a new constitutional convention.”
“Serge, I didn’t go to school all those years to discuss Florida movies.”
“Then you got gypped.”
“Serge!”
“Okay, okay. Here’s what’s bothering me. You want the truth? I don’t have a legacy.”
“Legacy?”
“Well, I have one, but it’s the wrong kind. Think of all the great creative legacies from history. Either a defining moment, like the photo of Mount Suribachi, or a fertile period, from
Beggars’ Banquet
to
Exile on Main Street
. I need to leave a universally respected mark in this world or what’s the point?”
“What brought this on?”
“I Googled myself. People have no idea how words can hurt.”
The doctor sat up rigid, for authority. “I can’t treat you anymore
if your heart isn’t into it, which I’m beginning to seriously doubt. I want you to prove me wrong.”
“How?”
She wrote on a piece of paper and gave it to Serge.
“What’s this?”
“The support group I want you to attend.”
“But I don’t do good in groups. I’m a lone wolf. You know the song ‘Desperado’? I hate that song because it’s for dorks who keep getting dumped and say, ‘I’m just not meant for one woman.’ Correct: You’re meant for zero.”
“Serge. This is an ultimatum. Go to the group.”
“But these people are messed up.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to be firm.” The doctor stood. “You need to attend at least one meeting before I’ll agree to see you again.”
“Okay.” Serge slipped the note into his wallet. “But I’m telling you it’s a mistake.”
GULF OF MEXICO
The water was pleasant and calm. The SS
Serendipity
reached the midpoint of its return leg from Cozumel.
The G-Unit made its way to the aft promenade and grabbed four hot, moist cafeteria trays just out of the washer. They slid them along aluminum rails. The front tray stopped.
“What’s the matter?” asked Edna.
“Where’s my lasagna?” said Edith.
“What lasagna?”
“The one I like.”
The trays began moving again. And stopped again. “Where’s my salad dressing?”
“And the crumbled hard-boiled eggs?”
“What happened to the tapioca?”
All around them, scores of other retirees with empty trays, wandered the cafeteria at random angles in a fog of confusion.
The casual observer would have blamed senility.
It wasn’t.
A ten-year, double-blind study from the Mayo Clinic concluded that even in late stages of dementia, the last to go is the lobe of the brain in charge of cafeteria layout.
The G-Unit was on its first cruise, but the others were veterans. “Where’s the creamed corn?” “My veal?”
In the beginning, cruise executives were delighted by the growing trend of repeat bookings among retirees. Past experience had shown them to be among the most coveted customers: suckers for “senior discounts” who spent ten times the savings on slots and early-dinner-seating cocktails.
The industry aggressively catered to this clientele by hiring suave, relatively young ballroom dancers to offset the widows-to-widowers ratio. There were extra chocolates on the pillows, and the turn-down crew was schooled in the ancient Oriental art of towel folding. Each evening, guests would be greeted upon returning to their cabins by Godiva and cute terry cloth swans or ponies or kitty cats in the middle of their beds.
Then, new numbers started coming in. There had to be some kind of mistake. The latest groups were barely spending at all. That’s when the main offices noticed something even more alarming from Florida ports: Waves of retirees were booking so many consecutive cruises that they were actually
living
on the ships. Quite inventively, too. They chipped in for tiny communal apartments near the port, where they kept keepsakes. Some had relatives deliver prescriptions and exchange laundry during turnarounds in port; others hailed taxis for biweekly errand runs. And if there were any medical problems at sea, it fell to the ships’ doctors: free health care!
The cruise lines’ very survival depended upon people who were bad at arithmetic. And retirees on fixed incomes are the nation’s math elite. The seniors crunched the numbers. As long as they stayed away from the casinos and bars, it was a no-brainer:
God’s waiting room was going to sea.
The thrifty new breed of customer displaced free-spenders. Profits plunged. Something had to give. Cruise companies tried to sum
marily cancel reservations on shaky grounds, but one of the widows’ sons was an attorney. A good one. The reservations had to be honored, so they drafted a new battle plan.
The first beachhead was the cafeteria.
Edna waved from behind a bank of ferns. “Found the lasagna.”
Another hidden voice: “…Tapioca.”
People changed direction in a slow-motion Easter-egg hunt. “They’ve rearranged everything.”
“But they did that yesterday, too.”
“Weird.”
After lunch, it was nappy time. The G-Unit took an elevator to their deck. Edith opened the stateroom door. In the middle of her bed was a bath towel folded into a coiled cobra.
THE NEXT DAY
Serge walked down the hall of a utilitarian building just east of the Hillsborough River in the social services part of town. He stopped at a room, rechecking the piece of paper the psychiatrist had given him. He opened the door and stuck his head inside. “Excuse me. Is this Anger Management?”
“Suck my dick, motherfucker!”
“Thank you.” He took a seat in a grade-school desk, folded his hands smartly and grinned.
The meeting’s moderator smiled back. “Would you mind standing and telling us your name?”
He got up. “My name’s Serge.”
“Hello, asshole!”
“Sorry,” said Serge. “I didn’t quite catch that….”
SATURDAY MORNING
T
he dawn was unusually crisp. Two people sat at the end of a driveway in the kind of folding cloth chairs with beverage holders that parents bring to soccer games.
Tied to the street sign at the corner: a balloon and a homemade sign in the shape of an arrow.
YARD SALE
. The balloon was key.
Early birds had been arriving since first light, sorting through a clothesline of frayed corduroys and bell bottoms. Others browsed tables of housewares and bric-a-brac that traced decades of fierce consumerism. The Davenports themselves were amazed when they set up an hour earlier. Chinese checkers, lava lamp, Ouija board, tabletop Eiffel Tower cigarette lighter.
Jim laid out paisley potholders. “Look at all this junk.”
Martha held something up. “What were you thinking?”
“What is it?”
“A stuffed beaver.”
“I don’t remember buying that.”
Their curiosity shifted to customers. Martha made change for someone buying a golf club for fifty cents. “We’ll sell you the whole set for two dollars.”
“I don’t play golf.”
“Why are you buying that?”
“It’s only fifty cents.”
Martha made change and looked at Jim. “I’m glad we’re moving.”
“We still have to find a house.”
A man walked away with a sand wedge over his shoulder.
“Our real estate agent says it’s a buyer’s market.”
“At least we’re getting rid of all this junk. This should have been done years ago.”
“‘At least’?” said Martha. “You’re not changing your mind about moving?”
“No, I just meant—”
A new voice. “Excuse me?”
The Davenports looked up: a short, fireplug of a man in a too-tight T-shirt that said
VAGITARIAN
. He held a spherical black-and-white TV from the seventies.
Jim smiled. “How can I help you?”
“Does the TV work?”
“I don’t know. It’s a dollar.”
Martha: “She’s already got four houses to show us, and two are on Davis Islands.”
“Can we afford Davis Islands?—”
“Excuse me?”
Jim turned. “What?”
“I don’t want it if it doesn’t work.”
“Okay.”
Martha: “It’ll be nice to have a bigger place.”
“Bigger?” said Jim. “Prices are crazy right now. I just assumed we were getting something smaller.”
“Why would you think that?” Martha collected seventy-five cents for three Tijuana Brass albums.
“Because our second child just left for college,” said Jim. “Families need more room when growing, not shrinking.”
“Excuse me?”
Jim turned. “Yes?”
“What if I get the TV home and it doesn’t work?”
Jim shrugged. “It’s a dollar.”
“I’ll think about it.” He walked away with a round TV under his arm.
Jim whispered sideways, “Who would wear a T-shirt that says something like that?”
“I’m glad we’re moving.”
Another voice, this one hostile out of the gate: “Excuse me!”
“Yes?”
“What’s this thing?”
“A stuffed beaver.”
“What’s the deal?”
“It’s a dollar,” said Jim.
“No, I mean I don’t understand.”
“Understand what?”
“A stuffed beaver. Who would want to buy such a thing?”
Martha leaned and whispered. “A vagitarian.”
Jim chuckled.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“No,” said Jim. “Another customer.”
“What the hell kind of yard sale are you running?”
Coleman dropped a head of lettuce and chased it under a table. He came back out. “Finding anything?”
“No.” Serge inspected a tomato with a magnifying glass. “Just keep looking.”
Coleman replaced the lettuce in the produce cooler and picked up another head. “Being broke sucks.”
“That’s why we’re here.” Serge slowly rotated a bell pepper.
“I still don’t see how this is going to make any money.”
“Oh, it’ll make money all right. You see those articles about what idiots are paying in Internet auctions for vegetables that look like Elvis and the Virgin Mary?”
“No. How much?”
“A lot. But word’s out, and the market’s glutted. So I’m carving
my own niche: eBayers with at least four years of college education.” He nodded at the tomato in his hand—“Cervantes”—and dropped it in his sack.
Coleman moved to another shelf. “I found something.” He held up a potato. “What do you think?”
“Who’s it supposed to be?”
“Mr. Potato Head.”
“You’re having trouble with the concept. Look at this.”
“An onion?”
“Che Guevara.” Into Serge’s bag.
Coleman looked around. “Where’s Rachael?”
“The medication aisle.” He grabbed a zucchini. “That should keep her out of our hair.”
Behind them: “Excuse me? Sir?”
Serge turned.
A smiling manager. “May I be of assistance?”
“You know what Copernicus looks like?”
“Sir, our employees couldn’t help but notice: You’re handling every fruit and vegetable in the produce department.”
“Not yet,” said Serge.
“Sir, don’t get me wrong. We want you to be a satisfied customer—”
“That’s why I picked this store,” said Serge. “‘Where shopping is a pleasure.’”
“Check it out,” said Coleman. “A turnip that looks like Merv Griffin.”
“Sir.” The manager’s smile was gone. “You’re welcome to purchase what you already have in the bags, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to—”
An assistant manager ran up. “We’ve got a problem.”
“What is it?” asked the manager.
“Some woman’s trying to buy forty boxes of sinus capsules. She’s acting crazy.”
“Probably a meth-head,” said Serge. “And you thought groceries would be a quiet job…. Oooooo! Marcel Proust acorn squash…”
The manager turned to his assistant. “Tell her the limit’s two. Any more problems, call the police.” Then back to customers fondling carrots…
Moments later, Serge was being rung up at register three. “This is a first. Eighty-sixed from the produce section.” He finished paying and grabbed his bags.
“Look,” said Coleman, “at Customer Service. It’s Rachael.”
“Gimme my fucking Sinutabs!”
“Keep walking,” said Serge. “Life’s too short.”
Jim opened his mouth, but the angry yard-sale customer was already stomping away.
“Stuffed beaver for Christ sake!”
Martha threw up her arms. “Where are these nut jobs coming from?”
Jim pointed at the corner. “Our balloon. They’re powerless in its presence.”
“I can’t wait to move.”
Jim glanced around. “Where’d that other guy go?”
“Who?”
Jim accepted a roll of pennies for a wooden tennis racket with broken strings. “The one who took the TV without paying.”
The morning wore on. Dollar for fondu skewers. Fifty cents for a lazy Susan. They got haggled down to a dime for a Baggie of non-matching poker chips.
Martha shook Jim’s arm. “I don’t believe it.”
A man walked up the driveway.
VAGITARIAN
.
“Maybe he remembered he didn’t pay for the TV,” said Jim.
“I seriously doubt it.”
“Excuse me?”
Jim smiled. “Yes?”
“You said it worked.”
“I said I didn’t know.”
“I took it home and tried it.” The man handed the round television to Jim. “It doesn’t work.”
“Sorry.”
The man stared at Jim. Jim smiled.
“So?” said the man.
“So what?”
“I want my dollar back.”
“You never paid.”
“Yes I did.”
“I’m quite sure,” said Jim.
“Fine!” The man grabbed the TV back and walked away again.
“Jim!” said Martha. “Stop him!”
“It’s only a dollar.”
“I can’t wait to move.”
The man with the TV continued down the street and reached the corner.
Martha turned to her husband. “Did he just pop our balloon?”
Serge sat in front of a computer terminal in the downtown public library. He stared at the screen. “I don’t get it. There must be something wrong with the Internet.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Coleman, lurking over his shoulder.
“Haven’t gotten a single hit on any of my vegetables, and I even set the starting price at ninety-nine cents.”
“I don’t think anything’s wrong with the Internet,” said Coleman. “Look…”
They turned to Rachael, tapping the next keyboard.
“Who would have guessed she’d even know how to turn on a computer,” said Serge. “It’s only two o’clock and she’s already made seven hundred dollars selling naked pictures of herself. How is that possible?”
“Because twin-headed dildo action is big!”
“I have to get my mind off this, or a major funk is brewing.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Might as well get started on my legacy.” Serge headed for the elevators.
“How do you do a legacy?”
“By being a pioneer whose groundbreaking advancements will revolutionize all aspects of modern life as we know it.” He looked at his watch. “Fifteen minutes should do.”
They got out on the first floor and passed a rack of newspapers on wooden poles. Serge marched purposefully for the information desk. A woman looked up.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes!” said Serge. “Give me The New Thing!”
“The what?”
“Make it a surprise. Hit me!”
“I’m…not sure I understand—”
Serge pointed down. “Your sign says Information?”
“Yes?”
“Fire away! And make it big. Anything special stashed behind the counter?”
Serge reminded the librarian of something. She glanced over at a communal lunatic reading area where the regular cast of homeless talked to themselves, played invisible card games, started unzipping their pants….
The librarian jumped up. “Henry!”
“Whoops. Forgot.”
She sat back down and opened her desk drawer for aspirin. “I’m sorry. Where were we?”
“The New Thing!”
“Not sure what you want, but we have a large display in fiction for
The Da Vinci Code.
That’s supposed to be big.”
Serge gnashed his teeth. “I hate the fucking
Da Vinci Code.
” He quickly covered his mouth. “Pardon my French. Actually it’s Anglo-Saxon. More hypocrisy! People use gutter language, then try to weasel out by lying that they’re talking French and being sophisticated, like
menage à trois
, endless possibilities! 669, 696, 969, 966, 694—that’s when the last person’s legs are crossed…”
“Sir…”
“…I love life! Always trying to stay on top of human endeavor, eager for the future: What marvelous breakthroughs are just around
the corner for mankind? Will this finally be the epoch of lasting peace and disease eradication? Crap, it’s
The Da Vinci Code
Century.”
“You just said you wanted something new.”
“That I did. Fair enough.
The Da Vinci Code
it is. Maybe I can find a way to stop it.” He grabbed Coleman by the arm. “We’re off!”
The librarian jumped up again: “Henry!”
“My bad.”
They arrived in fiction and stared at the immense wall display.
“Wow!” said Coleman. “Look at all these books!
The Da Vinci Code Proven at Last, The Da Vinci Code Debunked, The Da Vinci Code Diet, The Da Vinci Code for Cats, Break Free from Da Vinci Code Companion Books…”
Serge grabbed his stomach. “I may be ill.”
Coleman picked at something on his arm. “So whose code is the
Da Vinci Code
?”
“Is this a trick question like, ‘Who’s buried in Grant’s Tomb?’”
“No, I—”
“Coleman! You’re a genius!”
“I am?”
“Da Vinci was a renaissance man.”
“What’s that?”
“Someone who can’t keep his mind on any one thing. That’s me! I’ll leave my mark by not concentrating on leaving my mark.”
“How are you going to do that?”
Serge hurried for the door. “I’m starting a new collection.”