by Tim Dorsey
“Oh, yeah,” said Coleman. “That maniac who’s raising hell all over the place.”
“Coleman, it’s not just one dude. It’s a whole army.”
“Really? I thought he was just ambitious.”
Serge shook his head. “The entire nation is into the embarrassing craze of Googling ‘Florida Man’ and seeing what pops up. Last year there was a spike in guys pooping in unpopular locations and contexts. This year they’re getting naked.”
“Naked?”
Serge pulled out his smartphone again, pressing buttons to enter search terms. “Check out these headlines: ‘Naked Florida Man Eats Noodles and Plays Bongos at St. Petersburg Restaurant,’ ‘Naked Florida Man Rides Bicycle through Interstate 95 Traffic,’ ‘Naked Florida Man Chases Customers around Chick-Fil-A Parking Lot,’ ‘Naked Florida Man Continues Gardening Despite Pleas from Neighbors.’”
“But, Serge, how is it possible to fight that?”
“The answer is the written word,” said Serge. “Let’s just sit here quietly for a moment and take in the tranquillity as Stetson and Woody would have—”
Thud, thud, thud . . .
Serge closed his eyes for a long pause, then opened them. “Wait here.”
Coleman turned around to see the trunk open.
Wham, wham, wham . . .
The lid closed and Serge got back in the driver’s seat. “Where were we?”
“Tranquillity.”
“Right,” said Serge. “Here’s my favorite impression of this place. When I was here for Stetson’s memorial service—”
“Wait a second,” said Coleman. “When you mentioned that before, I thought you read it somewhere.”
“Nope, here in the flesh,” said Serge. “How could anyone living in Florida at the time miss it? But I guess twenty million found some bogus excuse. Moving on: The best moment celebrating Stetson’s life came just before they went down to the pond to spread his ashes, when all those in attendance sang ‘This Land Is Your Land.’ Can you imagine the emotion?”
“Not me,” said Coleman. “Are you about to cry?”
Serge wiped his eyes. “Just a little pollen.” He pulled out a tissue and blew his nose. “Okay, I’m busted. It is getting to me a little . . . Mind if we sit until I compose myself—”
Thud, thud, thud . . .
Serge looked down to his lap, then over at Coleman without speaking.
“What?”
Thud, thud, thud . . .
Serge threw up his hands. “I can’t live like this. I’m trying to have a private moment of reflection. But no . . .” He pointed back over his shoulder with his thumb. “Some people are so inconsiderate. Do I go around bothering people like that?”
“Not from where I’m sitting.” Coleman looked down at two handfuls of soggy, falling-apart chunks of construction paper. “My robot’s fucked up.”
Serge twisted the key in the ignition and the Plymouth came to life.
“Where to now?” asked Coleman. He looked over his shoulder at the trunk. “I mean, I know we’re going to have to stop at a motel first, but after that.”
“The next visit really is a cemetery.” Serge blew his nose a final time and stowed the Kleenex in an anti-litterbug bag hanging from his door. “It’s the state’s connective tissue I was telling you about. We just picked up the trail with Rawlings back near Cross Creek, now Stetson off Bartram Trail, and the rest of the stops will soon start falling like dominoes, as if actual planning was involved.”
Thud, thud, thud . . .
“I forgot what that guy in the trunk did,” said Coleman, picking paper off his tongue. “Not that I’m questioning your judgment.”
“You were fading in and out back at the church,” said Serge. “I’ll refresh you on the way to the motel.”
“Ready when you are.” Coleman was about to toss damp kindergarten paper out the window.
“Stop! Hand it to me for the litter bag.”
“Oops, my bad.” Coleman passed the trash. “You’re always thinking of others.”
Thud, thud, thud . . .
“Sometimes even when I don’t want to.”
Chapter 13
Four Years Earlier
Coaches led the team running out of the locker room for another day of torture in the Florida sun. The managers brought up the rear with sacks of balls and tees, ankle tape, first-aid kits. Everyone arrived on the field to find the newest manager already there, sitting quietly on the bench along the sideline, proudly wearing a new Pahokee Blue Devils T-shirt that Coach Calhoun had given her, now the nicest item in her wardrobe. In front of her, coolers of water and Gatorade were already in place. Paper cups arranged neatly in rows. She had kind of arrived early.
An afternoon of athletic violence and exhaustion wore on. Chris was Johnny-on-the-spot, dutifully keeping the paper cups filled, dashing on and off the field with water bottles and towels, and quickly volunteering for any errand. The reaction of the team was varied. Most didn’t notice, others didn’t care, the rest were amused.
Weeks went by. Chris kept her word. She didn’t say a peep, didn’t get in the way, just did her job. Players almost started taking it for granted that whenever they needed something from one of the managers, Chris was just right there in front of them, like a mind reader.
On a recent afternoon, the players didn’t gather on the field for practice. It was a conditioning day, no pads or helmets. And it involved something else that made the kids from The Muck just that much tougher.
The Herbert Hoover Dike.
The dike was constructed in response to the hurricane of 1928, stretching 143 miles around Lake Okeechobee to contain the water in case of another deadly strike. From the outside, all that could be seen was an earthen berm rising thirty feet.
The players hated that damn dike.
At some forgotten point in the school’s history, a coach was driving by the dike and got an idea. It was walking distance from Pahokee High. Make that running distance. And now, this afternoon, players grunted and cursed under their breath as they ran up it and down, fighting for footing, slipping, getting back up.
Chris kept her mouth zipped but kept glancing at Coach Calhoun. He could see her from the corner of his eye, knew what was in her head. Since it wasn’t a contact practice, what the heck? He turned. “Go ahead.”
“Thanks, Coach.” She took off and headed up the dike.
The other players didn’t have the luxury to react. They were too busy with the pain in their legs and lungs. But a few did wonder: Who wants to run the dike?
The receivers coach stepped up next to Calhoun. “She’s faster than I thought. Practically keeping up with the boys.”
“Told me she chases rabbits.”
“Mm-hmm, one of those,” said Odom.
Chris raced to the bottom of the dike, touched the ground and began sprinting back up.
The head coach blew a whistle. “Now backward!”
A chorus of quiet groans, then slow backpedaling and more suffering on the berm. A few repetitions of that and another whistle. “Now crab-walk . . .”
Chris got that burning in her calves but didn’t quit.
Fifteen minutes later: “All right, bring it in!”
The players staggered down the hill like refugees, and Chris ran around with the water bottles.
The following day’s practice was back in the friendly confines of the high school field.
Halfway through, one of the safeties came over to the coolers. Chris recognized him from the rabbit hunts. She held out a paper cup. He stumbled and bumped it, spilling the Gatorade on her T-shirt. Accidentally.
Coach Calhoun happened to notice, but it didn’t register.
During the next break, the same player trotted off the field to the coolers. In a voice nobody else could hear: “Girls don’t run the dike.” Then he had another accident, bumping into her hard before running back onto the field. Chris crashed into the table with the paper cups.
This time Calhoun didn
’t dismiss it. He took a step forward. He felt a hand on his arm. It was Reggie, his first-string halfback. “I got this one, Coach.” He put his helmet back on and ran out to the huddle.
Four plays later in the scrimmage, Reggie’s number was called and a perfect block off-tackle broke him into the clear. Only one safety to beat. It was open field, which called for a cut, then easily outrunning him for the sideline.
Reggie cut, and the safety reacted. Then something happened that the safety never expected. Reggie cut again, this time the other way, straight at the safety.
Reggie caught him running sideways, trying to twist back, and plowed right through him—lifting him off the ground and dropping him on his ribs—before trotting into the end zone. On his way back to the sideline, Reggie bumped into the safety from behind. “Don’t mess with Chris.”
Practice eventually ended as they all did. Players wrung out beyond what they imagined they could endure. They headed for the locker room.
Chris ran after one of the boys. “Hey, Reggie, thanks!”
“For what?”
“You know, out there.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“You just did.”
“Can you teach me to cut?”
“To what?”
“Cut. You’re the best! All-state first team from last year and sure to repeat!”
“Why do you want to learn to cut?”
“I’m going to be a running back.”
A chuckle. “Okay, I’ll play along. I’ll teach you to cut.”
“Great!” Chris stopped walking.
Reggie looked at her oddly. “You mean now?”
Eager nodding.
“Why not? . . .”
Coach Calhoun finished the day and locked up his office. He grabbed his briefcase and headed out of the locker room for the parking lot. The field was empty. Except for two people in the distance on the far sideline. He stopped and stared. Could it get any stranger?
“Okay, stand here,” said Reggie. “You’re a cornerback or safety.”
“You got it.”
“Now, here’s the mistake most backs commit.” He tucked a ball in the crook of an arm. “They have to make a defender miss an open-field tackle, so they juke or shake-and-bake”—Reggie shuffled his feet quickly in the same spot—“trying to fake him out. The problem is that the runner is waiting to react to how the defender will react. That’s way too much time.”
“So what do you do?”
“Totally commit. You plan your cut ahead of time and take it no matter what the defender does.”
“What if he doesn’t bite?” asked Chris.
“Then you’re tackled.”
“Doesn’t seem like a good plan.”
“It does if you’re good at geometry.”
“I like math.”
“Then you’ll understand this. We’ll take it in slow motion.” Reggie backed up twenty yards and shouted: “We’re coming straight at each other.” He took a single deliberate step. “So now I begin a slow turn to the right, toward the sideline. And you’re going to follow.” They each took two steps in unison. “The closer you get, the more I increase my angle until I’m almost running east–west.”
“But that gives the defender the angle to run you out of bounds.”
“And that’s the whole key to selling your fake. You make it too good to be true. You run into their strength, which makes them commit.” More slow, tandem steps. “Now you’re just about on me, and I make my cut . . .” He sped back up and dashed by.
“Cool,” said Chris.
“Unreal,” said Coach Calhoun in the distance, and he walked to his car.
Coach Calhoun sat in his office going over the playbook for that Friday’s game.
Knock knock.
He looked up. “Chris, come on in. Have a seat.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
“I have to admit, this is working out a lot better than I’d expected. And as for your report card . . .” He leaned back in a creaky chair. “I’ll confess that part of the reason I did this was to hold the manager thing over your head to improve your grades, but they’re already straight A’s. I didn’t know you were that smart.”
Chris shrugged. “I like school.”
“So what can I do for you today?”
“I need a favor. And I hate to ask, because of what you’ve already done for me . . .”
“Go ahead. You’ve earned it.”
“I kind of need to borrow a football.”
“Knowing you, I thought you’d have ten footballs.”
“Not really.”
“You can’t afford a football?”
She looked at the floor. The answer was worse. Certain neighborhood boys always stole them.
The coach got up and went to a bookshelf and grabbed a ball off a stand. He returned and tossed it over his desk to Chris.
She caught it and noticed writing on the side in white letters: Lamar Calhoun, a date from the eighties and 216 Yards. Chris looked up. “I can’t accept this.”
Lamar just smiled and looked down at his playbook. “Anything else?”
“Uh, actually there is one other thing . . .”
It was a coaches-only meeting.
Calhoun and Odom arrived early.
The field was empty save for a tiny person at the far end. A ball was kicked. It landed pitifully short and left of the goalposts. The person ran after the ball, then ran back. The process was repeated with the same results.
“Where’d she get a kicking tee?” asked Odom.
“I gave her one.”
“So now you’re a kicking coach, too?”
“She wants to be a running back.”
“How does this lead to that?”
“She said she read articles where a few girls in other parts of the country are now playing on boys’ teams,” said Calhoun. “I made the mistake of pointing out that those were kickers.”
“So she’s exploiting a loophole?”
They stared a few more minutes at sheer futile relentlessness. Then they went inside for the meeting. It was a marathon: rosters, films, discussion of college recruitment visits, and most importantly, the game plan for Friday. Their opponent was big on zone defense and double-teaming their best receivers, so they decided to rush between the tackles until it opened up the passing game. The agenda ran so long that it was night when they adjourned.
Calhoun and Odom were chatting about auto maintenance as they headed to the parking lot. They heard something near the far end zone. To them, the sound was unmistakable. A football being kicked.
“She still out there?” said Odom.
“I don’t know,” said Calhoun. “I can’t see her.”
“She’s kicking in complete darkness.”
“Maybe her eyes have adjusted.”
They stopped and listened to a few more kicks.
“Something about kids like that,” said Odom. “I’ve only known a few, but they’re easy to spot.”
“What do you mean?”
Odom faintly watched her tee up again, and miss again, and run after the stray ball again. “There’s a big emptiness in there somewhere.”
Chapter 14
Cocoa Beach
A gold Plymouth sat in a parking space. The sign on the motel roof was a rocket ship. A broken ice machine stood next to the dumpster.
Serge dragged a chair across the mauve carpet of room number 7.
A belch from the bathroom. Coleman emerged guzzling a bottle of Boone’s Farm, then bites of jerky. “What are you doing?”
Serge was sitting with his face a few inches from the TV tube. “Ruining my eyes.”
Coleman glanced at the screen. “Another protest march?”
“The new women’s movement,” said Serge. “I’m forcing it on myself.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m embarrassed by my gender.” Serge’s eyes followed the sign-
waving parade. “I’m in total solidarity with everything the protesters stand for. But something has become increasing clear to me: Because I’m a man, I’m not reminded fifty times a day of the shit women are expected to put up with. And I thought I was worldly-wise.”
“You’re not?”
“Until now, my experience has been limited to witnessing the cliché construction workers catcalling to the fairer sex. But I figured Darwin already had that one covered. I mean, when in the course of human history has that ever worked? Some woman in a business suit is hurrying down the sidewalk, and suddenly a guy in a hard hat starts whistling and making slurping sounds and yelling, ‘Give me some of that pussy!’ . . . And the woman stops in her tracks: ‘Hold on a minute. I’ve got my priorities all screwed up. Forget that big board meeting I’m heading to. Why yes, I will give him pussy.’”
“That’s pretty bad,” said Coleman. “And you’re saying it’s even worse?”
“Way worse.” Serge inched closer to the TV. “My mistake is that all these years, I’ve been projecting. In other words, if some notion can’t remotely enter my head, I figured other guys were the same. And if it wasn’t for newspapers, I never would have imagined that all across the country, men are just pulling out their dicks in unwelcome settings.”
“Really?”
“And I’m not talking about Sterno bums or bowery flashers. I’m referring to wealthy, famous, powerful men who are supposedly educated. It’s happening in hallways, elevators, during innocuous conversations in hospitality suites.”
“It’s just not right,” said Coleman.
“You’d think this would go without saying, but as a general rule of thumb, if you’re chatting with some woman you’ve just met, your best foot forward isn’t to start spanking the monkey.”
“That’s obvious even to me,” said Coleman. “I get embarrassed if there’s a cat in the room.”
“Speaking of cats in the room . . .”
Serge turned toward yet another motel room chair with a bound and gagged guest, wedged away in the far corner.
“He’s been so quiet that I completely forgot about him,” said Coleman. He covered his own face with a hand. “I’m so embarrassed.”