Torpedo Juice

by Tim Dorsey

  “What are you doing?” said Serge. “We have to get ready for the date!”

  “I am ready,” said Coleman. “See?” He opened the top of a camouflaged hunter’s cooler next to him on the couch: Everclear, Red Bull, ice, cups, mixers. “Dating is cool!”

  “You’re going to make her Torpedo Juice?”

  “Yeah,” said Coleman. “But now I’m thinking of leaving out the energy drink. Don’t want her too alert.”

  “And look at how you’re dressed!”

  “What?” Coleman examined himself. Cut-offs and an old T-shirt from a shop on Duval: My other car is your mother.

  Serge paced and talked to himself.

  “Man, are you nervous!” said Coleman. “Have a seat and relax.”

  Serge dropped onto the couch next to him. “I can’t relax. Too much is at stake. Look, my hands are all clammy.”

  Coleman leaned over the bong. Smoke filled the cylinder.

  “Will you stop smoking dope! You’ll fall asleep in your food and fuck up the date.”

  “Have to smoke to get ready for the show.”

  “What show?”

  Coleman clicked the TV with the remote. “Bob’s coming on.”

  Serge perked up. “Bob?”

  “Take your mind off your worries.”

  Serge and Coleman settled into the couch and folded their hands in their laps. A catchy theme song began; they swayed with the music.

  “…Absorbent and yellow and porous is he…Sponge…Bob…Square…Pants!…”

  “I wonder if Gary the Pet Snail’s in this episode,” said Serge.

  “My favorite is Patrick the Starfish.”

  Serge heard clomping on the trailer’s rotten flooring. A miniature deer walked between the couch and the television and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Coleman exhaled a hit. “His name’s JoJo.”

  SpongeBob jumped up swimming from the ocean bottom, blasting right out of his pants.

  Serge pointed at the screen. “Notice how his pants are tumbling slow motion back to the sea floor. That’s a deliberate reference to archival NASA footage of the Saturn V adapter ring between the first and second stages. Don’t tell me something deeper isn’t going on here.”

  Coleman repacked the bong. “When I’m high, I pick up stuff about Jesus.”

  They became engrossed. It was a double-header. And Gary was in the second show.

  A commercial came on. Serge checked his watch. “We’re late!”

  Brenda was sitting buzzed on her front steps. She drained the dregs of her Sloppy Joe’s cup and checked her watch again.

  A Buick screeched up like a jailbreak.

  Brenda stood, slightly unsteady. “Where have you been?”

  “Get the fuck in the car!”

  They raced across the island.

  “When was the last double date you were on?” asked Coleman.

  “I don’t know. Seven, eight years ago? I think it was the Davenports back when we lived on Triggerfish Lane.”

  “I remember that one,” said Coleman. “What a disaster! Enough to make you never want to go on another.”

  “There’s no way two in a row can turn out that bad.” Serge skidded up to an apartment building. He jumped out and ran around to the trunk. Inside was Serge’s dating kit: a dozen roses in a four-dollar vase, set of pipe wrenches, an out-of-order sign.

  A polite knock on the door of unit 213. Molly silently came out and locked up.

  Serge produced the flowers from behind his back. Molly accepted them with embarrassment. She noticed a price tag.

  “Whoops,” said Serge, snatching the vase back and peeling the sticker. “The price-gun guy must have gotten it confused with a really cheap one. Shall we?…”

  THE BUICK BLAZED down U.S. 1, hopping bridges in quick succession. Summerland, Cudjoe, Sugarloaf. It was dead in the front seat. Serge kept glancing over every few seconds. Molly’s eyes stayed fixed ahead, hands stiff-arming the dashboard.

  The backseat was New Year’s Eve, Mardi Gras and Lollapalooza. Coleman had the contents of his camouflaged cooler in play. Brenda sloshed some of her drink on both of them and laughed. Coleman winked. “You cool?”

  “Am I what?”

  Coleman put his thumb and forefinger to his lips.

  “You mean do I get high?” Brenda downed her drink. “Fuckin’A!”

  Smoke curled its way into the front seat. Molly maintained her grip on the dashboard. They crossed the Saddlebunch Keys and pulled into the hottest new restaurant west of Marathon. Lobster Town. The line spilled out the door. Serge had a reservation. They gave him a coaster that would blink when their table was ready.

  Coleman staggered up and tugged Serge’s shirt. “I think I’m getting a little too messed up to dine ’n’ dash.”

  “We’re not going to skip out on the bill.”

  “But we don’t have money for this kind of fancy place.”

  The coaster began blinking. “This way,” said a waiter.

  Their table overlooked the Gulf. Serge held Molly’s chair. Brenda looked at Coleman, already seated and tearing open a packet of saltines.

  Another waiter came by. “Would anyone care for a cocktail?”

  Coleman’s and Brenda’s arms flew up. Serge turned to Molly. Her first words in a tiny voice: “Zinfandel.” Serge to the waiter: “Zinfandel. Coffee for me, and a glass of ice on the side.”

  “Ice water?”

  “No, a glass of ice.”

  “You want ice coffee?”

  “No. Coffee. And a glass of ice. I have to control the temperature myself.”

  Drinks arrived, their orders taken. Coleman and Brenda held giant pineapples in their laps with extra-long straws. Serge spooned ice into his coffee and chugged it dry.

  “Uh-oh,” said Coleman.

  “What?” asked Brenda.

  “Serge drank coffee.”

  “Coffee’s good for me,” said Serge. “Remember when the chicks from the band Heart did those coffee ads? Before the dark-haired one got into the doughnuts? Said it picked them up and calmed them down at the same time. That’s what it does for me! I love Heart! Barra-cuda! Da, da-da-da, da-da-da, da-da-da, da-da-da, da-da-da, DOW-DOW!…”

  “Here we go,” said Coleman.

  Serge turned to Molly. “I see you’re admiring my shirt. It’s my favorite, the one the state’s toll collectors wear. All these great old Florida scenes and postcards…” He touched various parts of his chest. “…Orange groves, beach balls, sailfish, names of famous roads and stuff. The turnpike, Sunshine Skyway, Dolphin Expressway, Yeehaw Junction. You know Yeehaw Junction, don’t you? The crossroads in the middle of nowhere with the historic Desert Inn. The women’s rest room has a statue of an Indian brave in a real loincloth that’s rigged with this trip wire, so if you lift it, a loud alarm goes off in the bar, and everyone’s laughing when you come out, and then you have to explain what you’re doing as a man in the ladies’ room. Only used to be able to get these shirts if you worked in a tollbooth. I wanted one so bad that I applied for a job. On the first day they gave me the shirt and stuck me in one of the booths, and when they weren’t looking, I ran off into the woods.”

  Four lobsters arrived. The evening averaged out: Molly didn’t say a word, Serge didn’t stop. He pulled a notebook from his back pocket. “Okay, just a few routine questions. Nothing to worry about. Belong to a religion? Doesn’t bother me if you do, as long as it’s not one that says to stop thinking and be loud about it. How do you want the kids raised? Policy on in-laws? Are you a neat freak? Ever called Miss Cleo? What about Ted Williams being frozen upside down without his head?”

  No answers.

  More pineapples arrived.

  Serge made marks in the notebook. “I’ll just pencil my best guesses and we can go back later and change them if you need to. Any childhood diseases? Ever seen a psychiatrist? No big deal if you have. I’ve gone, but it wasn’t my idea….”

  And so it went. The waiter finally came an
d laid the bill facedown on the table.

  “…One last question,” said Serge. “Will you marry me?”

  Molly’s eyes bulged. But they had on some of the other questions, too, and Serge took it as an encouraging sign. He closed the notebook. “Get back to me on that last one when you’re ready.”

  Coleman turned the bill over. “Two hundred dollars!”

  “Plus tip.”

  Coleman yanked the napkin from his collar. “I have to take a leak.”

  Serge pushed his own chair back. “I’ll go with you.”

  They stood at the sinks. Serge splashed water in his face. Coleman uncapped his graffiti pen. There was a sign: EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS. Coleman wrote, Why can’t we wash them ourselves?

  Serge splashed more water. “I think she likes me.”

  Coleman went to a urinal. “How on earth are we going to pay for dinner?”

  “Like this.” Serge splashed water on his shirt.

  “What are you doing?”

  Serge kept splashing water until he was drenched head to foot. “Taking care of the bill.”

  They left the rest room. Serge pulled an out-of-order sign from his waistband and hung it on the men’s room doorknob. “Coleman, go keep the women company. I’ll just be a minute.”

  People cleared a wide path as Serge dripped his way to the maître d’ stand. “Call the manager!”

  A man in a well-fitting suit arrived. He pulled up short at the sight of Serge. “What the—?”

  “You need to turn off all the water in this place.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “One of your customers. I was just in the men’s room. You got a main break…. What are you looking at? You have to shut the water off right now!”

  “We can’t shut the water off. This is our biggest night….”

  “We’re still talking. You’ve got three minutes tops before she starts flooding, which means backed-up sewage….”

  People in line looked at each other and murmured.

  “Lower your voice,” said the manager. He waved one of the waiters over. “Shut off the water. The valve is by the main loading door. The white one. There should be a wrench leaning against the wall…. What are you waiting for?” The waiter ran off.

  “I’m a plumber,” said Serge. “I mean if you have your own, I perfectly understand. But it’s pretty straightforward. I got some tools out in the car. Can have you back up in five minutes.”

  The man gave Serge a look like someone was trying to screw him. “And what exactly will this cost me?”

  “Cost you? Oh, no, I wouldn’t think of…well, okay. I’ve just had a wonderful evening here with my friends. Going to tell everyone I know about this place. Yes, sir, best food in all the Keys! Why don’t you just comp our meals and we’ll call it even?”

  “That’s it?”

  “Throw in fifty for our waiter. He was incredible. Don’t let anyone steal him from you.”

  “Deal.”

  “Be right back.”

  Serge ran out of the restaurant and returned with tools. He went in the rest room and slouched against the door, staring at his watch. Five minutes later, he emerged and removed the out-of-order sign.

  The manager rushed up. “So?”

  “Good as new!” Serge headed back to the table.

  “What the hell happened to you?” said Brenda. “You’re soaked.”

  “Gave ’em a hand with a plumbing problem.”

  “He’s always helping people,” said Coleman.

  Serge held Molly’s chair again as they got up. Brenda started getting up, too, but misjudged a number of things and took three off-balance steps backward before landing on her butt like a child in a playpen. “Whoa! Those pineapples!…”

  “I do it all the time,” said Coleman. “Let me help you.”

  They worked their way toward the front door, the manager shaking Serge’s hand hard as they went by. “Thank you so much. Please come back…”

  They passed the packed lounge, newcomers waiting with cocktails and nonblinking coasters. Four men in yachting jackets were halfway in the bag. Troy Bradenton buttonholed a passing waitress. “Hey, baby, ever kissed a rabbit between the ears?” He stood and turned his pockets inside out. The woman stormed off. The salesmen cracked up. One of them noticed something going by the lounge’s entrance.

  “Look at that soaking-wet asshole!”

  “What’s his problem?”

  Serge kept walking.

  “And get a load of his date! Did dork school just get out?”

  Serge froze. Hair stood up on his neck. He slowly turned to face the roofing salesmen.

  The quartet got off their stools to form a united front. Troy stepped forward. “What are you going to do about it, drip on us?” He looked back and smirked at the others.

  Molly was standing behind Serge. He couldn’t see her, but he could sense her discomfort like static electricity. He bit his lip and resumed walking out of the restaurant.

  “That’s right,” yelled Troy. “Run away, tough guy!”

  They got to the parking lot, and Serge called Coleman aside. “I need you to do something for me….”

  There was a tiki bar on a landing down by the water. Serge asked the women if they wouldn’t mind waiting.

  “What is it now?” said Brenda.

  “I forgot to explain some plumbing things. And Coleman has to help. We’ll just be a minute.”

  Brenda stumbled down the staggered terrace of railroad ties. “You said you’d just be a minute last time.” She slipped on the edge of a step and went down, then popped up and wiped her kneecaps. “I meant to do that…. Come on, Molly, let’s get a drink.” Molly followed, looking back over her shoulder. Coleman was walking toward the restaurant’s entrance, but Serge had split up and was sneaking around the back side.

  TROY BRADENTON CALLED over a waitress. “Do you have a mirror in your pocket?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can see myself in your pants! Ha, ha, ha…”

  They noticed Coleman standing in front of them.

  “Look, it’s one of Jerry’s kids!” said Troy. “The telethon’s over, beat it!”

  “I’m not sure,” said Coleman, “but I think one of you dropped a whole bunch of money in the parking lot.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “A big pile of twenties behind a Saab. Some fifties, too,” said Coleman. “Guy in a white jacket just like yours. Didn’t you just come in here a second ago?…” Coleman stood on his tiptoes and looked around the lounge. “Maybe it was somebody else.” He was acting a little drunk, except he wasn’t acting. “Or maybe it was me.” He patted his own pockets, then turned and started weaving back toward the front door.

  Troy ran up and grabbed Coleman’s shoulder from behind. “No, it was me.”

  “Great. I’ll show you where the money is.”

  Troy winked at the guys. They gave him three big thumbs-up.

  Coleman wandered back and forth across the parking lot. Troy grew impatient. “Where the hell is this Saab?”

  “I could have sworn it was right around here. Wait, no, it’s on the side of the building, just around that corner.”

  Troy followed Coleman into the darkness. “I didn’t even know they parked cars back here.”

  Serge stepped out of the shadows. “They don’t.”

  The man exhaled with frustration. “Not you again.”

  Another classic cultural misunderstanding. Troy had a completely different context of confrontation. Preliminary bravado, then everybody gets ready and starts boxing and the best fighter wins. You know, rules. He started taking off his jacket to teach Serge a lesson, and Serge grabbed his testicles. Troy hit the dirt so immobilized he couldn’t even cover up when the kicking started.

  “You mean little bastard!” Kick. “Where does that kind of cruelty come from?” Kick.

  Down at the tiki bar, Brenda’s head started lolling around in her neck socket. She tri
ed lighting a cigarette by the wrong end, but the flame kept missing. Luckily, the bartender had just taken an alcohol-awareness class. He realized what was happening and rushed over to figure out how he was going to fuck her. Molly got up and went looking for Serge, tracing his steps around the back of the building. As she got closer, she heard voices. She put her hands on the wall and peeked around the corner.

  “You evil piece of shit!” Kick. “Nobody talks about my Molly that way!” Kick.

  She quickly pulled back. A hand went to her mouth. “Oh, my!” Molly scurried back to the waterfront, trotting in an odd sort of way that made it appear as if her knees weren’t bending, like the Church Lady might run.

  When she returned to the tiki hut, the bartender was doing calculus: Brenda’s weight vs. the distance to his car. Molly jerked her off the stool.

  Coleman squatted near the ground. “I think you killed him.”

  Serge was bent over, grabbing his legs and panting. “Huh? What are you talking about?”

  Coleman stood up and nodded. “He’s dead all right. Must have been the head kicks.”

  “I just wanted to teach him a lesson.”

  “Serge, we gotta get moving. Anyone can just come walking around that corner.”

  “Okay, you wait here with him. I’ll get the car.”

  Molly kept tugging Brenda’s arm to move faster. “Come on!”

  “Let go of me. I need to lie down.”

  Molly dragged her friend toward the corner of the restaurant.

  “You got his ankles?” said Serge.

  “Ready when you are,” said Coleman.

  Troy thudded into the bottom of the trunk.

  Molly and Brenda appeared in front of the car. Serge slammed the trunk shut. “Oh, there you are! We were just coming to get you.” He opened the passenger door and gestured suavely.

  “Your carriage awaits.”

  23

  U.S. 1

  A POLICE SIREN ripped through the starry night, island to island.

  A large crowd had gathered on the side of Lobster Town. A sheriff’s cruiser pulled into the parking lot.

  Walter grabbed a clipboard. “There goes our quiet evening.”

  The deputies got the onlookers back, and Gus began unrolling yellow tape to protect the crime scene. Other units arrived. Specialists took photos and video and poured plaster to make casts of tire imprints. There was a large quantity of blood and a shoe, but no body, just drag marks up to where the tire tracks stopped.