by Tim Dorsey
“I do. This is it!” Serge slammed down an empty coffee mug. “No finer choice!”
“Golden Corral? But you can eat at these anywhere in the country.”
“Accept no substitutes!” said Serge. “Golden Corral is the pulse of America, where the Forgotten Fly-Over-Country People dine, and I mean that as a compliment. Pundits mention the Forgotten People like they genuinely care, but there’s an unmistakable subtext of condescension. This is why the elitists can never get their predictions right. Whether it’s elections, consumer confidence, shifting social tectonics, just chuck your fancy algorithms and scientific polls. Golden Corral is the Rosetta stone, the Oracle of Menestheus and the Magic Eight Ball rolled into one. The reasons are myriad, but one rises above all others: They have a chocolate fountain. There can be no greater symbol of straight-shootin’, salt-of-the-earth integrity. As the pinnacle of the Corral’s ziggurat, the chocolate fountain cannot be surpassed or even questioned.”
The Plymouth slowly crawled through the gridlocked parking lot. “Wow, is this place jammed! Their food must be extra popular in these parts.”
“It’s veteran appreciation day,” said Kyle.
“What’s that mean?” asked Serge.
“Across the country, all veterans eat free today.”
“The chocolate fountain has just been eclipsed.”
An old man in a USS Iowa baseball cap suddenly jumped in front of the Plymouth with hands urgently raised for them to stop. At several other nearby points, more vets halted other cars.
“World War Two vet pulling out!”
Others were positioned behind a Buick Regal, using hand signals to help the driver inch backward like a snail. Serge jumped from his car and joined the flag-less semaphore team directing the vehicle. “God, I love these people! . . .”
Inside the restaurant, a color guard and a small contingent from the high school band. Most of the people at the tables wore some kind of hat or vest commemorating their service.
Serge grabbed a plate. “I’ve inadvertently entered an overkill of positive vibes.” He led his group along the salad bar. “Let me show you how to make a salad. Most people simply throw a salad together because it’s just a salad. But it’s actually a statement. Please stand back . . .” They gave him space as he became a windmill of motion. Ingredients filled his plate, first in meticulous layers, then quadrants. “. . . A true salad is about architecture and engineering. I’m borrowing from the Romans for my potato salad basilica, and now for the victory arch . . .”
The packed dining room was a southern aroma symphony. Catfish, barbecued chicken, roast beef, okra, hush puppies, popcorn shrimp, three kinds of gravy.
Kyle pointed with a fork. “Serge, aren’t you hungry?”
Serge sat back in his chair with his head tilted sideways. “This salad is way too damn big.” His fork hovered over the single cherry tomato on top. “How does one even approach eating this without an avalanche?”
Cheyenne took a bite of beef. “So, Serge, what are you up to next?”
“Communing with these fine folks and learning their ways.” He leaned toward the next table, where four old guys in suspenders and U.S. Navy caps were cutting steak. “Excuse me! Yoo-hoo! You know my new motto? Remember the Forgotten People! I think it’s got legs. Don’t pay no mind to the New York–L.A. cultural axis. There’s an untapped reservoir of values and enlightenment in this room.”
“Are you okay?” asked one of the guys.
“Fantastic, except for this ridiculous salad. But I’ve learned to accept what I can’t change.” A grin. “So tell me, what does Golden Corral have that those pointy-headed ivory tower types don’t understand?”
One of the old guys continued chewing. “A chocolate fountain.”
“Bingo!” said Serge. “It looks like an ordinary chocolate fountain, but you and I know what it really means.” Wink. “All across the country there’s an economic Mendoza Line, below which the middle and lower classes are secretly viewed by our oligarchs as the livestock class. How else can it be explained? Our paycheck-to-paycheck toil created their staggering fortunes. In return, all our safety nets are under siege in the name of corporate greed that won’t be quenched until our lives are reduced to perpetual white-knuckled freak-outs hurtling toward premature, pre-existing-condition death. Who could do that in good conscience to another human being? On the other hand, if they see us as livestock instead of people, then it all makes sense: A political consultant stands at the front of a conference room with a projector. ‘Our research shows we can easily convince the beef cattle to vote for the owners of the slaughterhouse. First we get them pissed off at the dairy cows—’”
“Quick,” Kyle told his sister. “Grab his coffee.”
“Just talkin’ ’bout the chocolate fountain,” said Serge. “It’s the secret symbol of recognition among our people, like that creepy eyeball atop the pyramid on the back of a one-dollar bill.”
Cheyenne smiled. “When I asked what you were up to next, I meant where are you going?”
“Oh, that’s different.” Serge stuck his fork in the salad, triggering a rockslide of croutons. “You’re all witnesses. Not my fault . . . Anyway, I’m continuing my Florida odyssey of sweeping ramifications, but aren’t they all? This one involves connective tissue that is pulling us in a tractor beam toward the lost town of Ortona, then Clewiston, before whipping under the bottom of Lake Okeechobee and visiting Belle Glade and Pahokee, collectively known as The Muck, for its rich earth. The welcome sign to Belle Glade says ‘Her Soil Is Her Fortune.’ The sign to Pahokee just says ‘Pahokee.’ It’s hard to figure people out.”
“I know all those places,” said Kyle.
“Me too,” said Cheyenne.
“How so?” asked Serge. “You’re from the north side of the lake.”
“But I played football,” said Kyle. “We had away games. My father was one of the coaches in Okeechobee, and around the lake, all the coaches pretty much knew each other. From the time I was a little kid, we were always having dinner at someone’s house in another small town.”
“I was a cheerleader,” said Cheyenne. “It’s hard to believe now with the way many of those towns are boarded up, but I heard that back in the 1930s the whole area was called the ‘winter vegetable capital of America.’ It was a twenty-four-hour operation with refrigerated warehouses and trains constantly coming and going to rush the produce north while still fresh, not to mention thousands of workers filling the juke joints and gambling houses at all hours near the shantytowns that sprang up.”
“Look at the Florida knowledge on you,” said Serge.
“I’m your little history helper, remember? I’ve heard lots of stories about the whole lake region, some not on the books.”
“Such as?”
“Lost treasure,” said Cheyenne. “That was a favorite on the school yard. Trunks of precious metals supposedly went missing during the hurricane of ’28.”
“I’m sure a lot of everything went missing in that one.”
“Yeah, but this tale had other scary and mysterious details,” said Cheyenne. “Like a vicious sugar baron whose body was discovered with bullet holes and buried before the authorities found out.”
“Then how did you and your schoolmates hear about it?” asked Serge.
“The guys who did the burying allegedly told their families, and the story was passed down generation to generation by word of mouth. But it’s probably just that, a story.” Cheyenne’s fork toyed with the food on her plate. “It must be fun to take road trips like you do.”
“I’m sure you’ve taken a million.”
“Not really.”
“But what about you saying there’s too many places you’ve got to see?”
“That’s why.”
“Okay, then come with us.” Serge collapsed the other side of his salad. “Shit.”
“Really?”
Kyle touched her wrist. “What about the motel?”
“I’ve piled
up a ton of vacation.”
The brother grabbed his cowboy hat from under the chair. “Then I guess I’ll need to make it a foursome. When do we leave? . . .”
Chapter 35
Pahokee
Senior year of high school arrived with all the fanfare of raging hormones.
Social calendars filled up. A few students now had cars. Others got new clothes for the merciless battlefield that is popularity. And of course there was football season, with the mandatory post-game gatherings at burger joints. Yes, they still do that.
Chris was blossoming with her own crowd. The varsity team, the cheerleading squad, the marching band and various hangers-on. She was welcome at their restaurant tables, where they laughed and relived big plays and threw french fries at each other.
But Chris was still different. She didn’t have any money. Others always chipped in for her food and told her not to worry, but good luck with that.
She never stopped smiling, but it began eating at her stomach, figuratively and literally.
One Thursday afternoon that fall, Chris thought hard about a dilemma that she’d been twisting in her mind and rotating to inspect from all angles. She made her choice. After all, how much difference can one make?”
That night, she left her grandmother’s apartment and quietly headed down the stairs. Chris glanced around one last time before running off into the darkness behind the building and disappearing like a ninja . . .
The next afternoon, community fever grew as hours counted down to another huge gridiron contest in The Muck. The Blue Devils were still undefeated, and it was the second-to-last game of the season; the last before the Big Game. Signs that normally advertised breakfast specials and free tire rotation now had their letters rearranged into some variation of Beat Cardinal Newman! The barbershop was full of experts and bullshit.
At a storefront on a downtown street, bells jingled.
The pawnshop owner’s hand was shaking a Rolex that had stopped working. He looked up. He saw her letterman jacket. “We going to win tonight?”
“Bank on it,” said Chris.
“Are you one of the cheerleaders?”
“No, a kicker.”
“You’re on the team?” He paused with a finger to his mouth. “Wait, I heard something about you . . . Well, that’s great. So how can I help?”
“I need to sell something.”
“Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Chris pulled a shiny coin from her pocket and placed it on the glass counter.
“Wow, that sure is pretty.” He turned it over. “Says twenty dollars. But of course you realize that they don’t use these anymore.”
“I know. We effectively went off the gold standard under Roosevelt,” said Chris. “Some technically argue Nixon. Now it’s full faith and credit.”
“What do you say I give you—”
Chris removed a book from her backpack and placed it on the counter. The Red Book, the bible of coin-collecting price guides. “With all due respect, I know exactly what it’s worth.”
It was the last thing the pawn man expected. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m not exactly killing it here in this town business-wise. Straight up, I need to make a profit, and who knows how long till I sell it. How about half of what it books for?”
“How about the melt value of the gold?” asked Chris. “That way you can’t lose, and you get the whole numismatic collecting up-charge.”
The pawn man thought: Where did this kid come from? Most adults don’t negotiate this well. He slowly began to nod. “I can live with that. You just need to fill out this form. I’ll get money from the register.” He began counting out hundreds . . .
The football game went pretty much as expected. The home crowd had everything to cheer about all night as Pahokee took an early lead and never looked back for the trounce. There was even a late kickoff return that went all the way for a touchdown, crowning the night.
Revving convertibles and trucks, stereos blaring, converged again on Max’s Shake Spot. It was a nicely converted old gas station from the thirties in the period’s art deco design. Max had used old photos to replicate the original green-and-orange neon that trimmed the building all the way around to the outside restroom doors. Team pennants and banners filled the walls, along with a couple of framed jerseys and photos of former players who had gone on to the pros. The school’s fall schedule and results had been dutifully tallied on a chalkboard. All the chairs were filled in the dining room, and the crowd spilled outside to the picnic tables on the porch.
“I can’t believe about Coach Calhoun!”
“What have you heard?”
“Just rumors, but they can’t be true.”
“We have to do something!”
“Chris, you were pretty close to him. What do you think?”
“I feel the same as you,” said the kicker. “But I know what he told me: Don’t worry about him. And don’t let anything distract us. We have to win the Muck Bowl.”
The Muck Bowl.
More than historic.
Pahokee versus Glades Central. David and Goliath. Except David always had his slingshot. Either team could go undefeated the rest of the year, even win state championships in their separate divisions, but it wouldn’t mean anything if they didn’t prevail in the end-of-the-regular-season rivalry.
“The Muck Bowl.” Nodding around the table. “Coach Calhoun is right. We’ll deal with it later . . .”
The waitress came over and they ordered. It was pay in advance, and Chris stood up with her wallet. “I’ve got this.”
“Chris, since when do you have money?”
“Since I started doing some odd jobs.”
“Put your money away,” said a starting lineman. “We always got you.”
Then they saw the hundred-dollar bill . . . “Please, pay away.”
The jumbo basket of buffalo wings arrived first and they dove in. Some of the loyal crowd were ex-students who had graduated in the last couple of years and were still trying to get in gear. They had minimum-wage jobs, unable to figure a way out. But they all looked forward to Friday nights in the fall, the connection to their true family. They wore their old team jackets.
The kicker felt a slap on her back.
“Chris, how’s it going?”
She turned around. A young man named Ricky, who used to push her down in the dirt.
“Don’t you mean ‘Milk Crate’?”
“Sorry about all that,” said Ricky. “And I think I owe you a football or two. Anyway, great game.”
“I didn’t even play.”
“Still, you made the team. That’s something.”
“Thanks.” She scooted over to make room. “Have some wings.”
Ortona
Kyle Lovitt looked out the rear window of a gold Plymouth speeding down the western shore of Lake Okeechobee. “Nobody can accuse you of letting moss grow.”
“Why noodle around? When it’s time to ramble, it should just be a matter of packing your bags and throwing them in the trunk,” said Serge. “Of course in my case, my bags are usually already packed in the trunk, unless there’s no room because . . . Let’s leave it at that.”
Ribbit. Coleman petted his chest. “Easy, Jeremiah.”
Serge looked across the front seat. “Been meaning to ask. Cheyenne is such a fetching name, yet all the parents today go for Brittany or Kirsten. How come?”
“Because I’m Native American.”
He pushed her shoulder playfully. “Get out of town!”
“Supposedly full-blooded, but I think someone in my family was fucking around and lying about it.”
Coleman reached over from the back seat and tapped his shoulder. “Serge, a chick who says ‘fuck.’ That is so hot.”
Serge smacked his hand away. “Shut up, you . . .” He turned. “Sorry about that on multiple male levels. But full disclosure: It is hot. Don’t let that affect your level of lurid lexicon, for more or less . . . Please continue.”
; “So that’s why I’m Cheyenne.” The Plymouth’s A/C was broken, and the wind from the open windows made her grab a rubber band and fashion a ponytail. “Imagine me. A Native American raised in Okeechobee. Half Indian, half cowboy.”
Kyle stared at Coleman a moment, sitting next to him in the back seat, trying to give beer to a frog with an eyedropper. “So what’s this next stop of yours? Ortona? I’ve never heard of it, and I’ve lived my whole life around here.”
“It’s the best!” Serge chugged coffee with a single brown rivulet running from the corner of his mouth. “A tiny hamlet down a long, inspiring country drive through our unspoiled nature. I would say it’s a forgotten place, if it was ever known in the first place. There’s a modest collection of canal-front homes down by the Caloosahatchee River, and that’s about it for population. Otherwise, just a wild stretch of Route Seventy-Eight between LaBelle and Moore Haven. With one major exception: an incredibly important historic site that is right-on-point relevant! Which can mean only one thing.”
“What’s that?” asked Kyle.
“We must balance out relevance with non sequitur or The Man imprisons us in his plastic cage of linear thought. And we all know where that leads. Except I don’t know where it leads because I’ve escaped the cage. See how it works? . . . Coleman, ready for another round of tangent? Get the list.”
“Cool.” Coleman reached in the glove compartment. “Next topic: best cowbell songs.”
“Right!” said Serge, reaching under his seat.
“You brought a cowbell?” asked Kyle.
“I always have a cowbell nearby for any circumstance. Why? Without warning in polite cocktail-party society, you might need to urgently change the subject: ‘Serge, did your friend Coleman just scratch his butt and sniff his finger?’ You can interrupt and yell ‘Gas leak!’ or, if a stampede isn’t needed . . .” He began hitting the bell with a drumstick. “. . . Get where I’m going with this? . . . ‘Honky-tonk womannnnnnnnn!’ . . .”
“Shouldn’t you be paying more attention to the road?” asked Kyle.