by Tim Dorsey
“No, just frustrated.”
“But you must have been at least a little angry. Like in the elevator. Probably wanted to slug him.”
“Not really.”
“No anger at all?”
“I don’t think so.”
“That’s not good.”
“I thought keeping your temper was positive.”
“Usually, but under the proper provocation it’s perfectly normal to get angry. In fact, it’s quite abnormal not to.”
“You want me to lose my temper?”
“That’s not what I’m saying. It isn’t about acting out; it’s about having the appropriate feelings for the circumstance. Then you deal with them in the proper way. If you let it bottle up inside, it can lead to problems down the road. You’ve probably written articles about people who one day just detonate.”
“Many times.”
“Neighbors always say how nice and quiet the guy was.”
“You think I’ll go postal?”
“No, that’s extremely rare. The more common result is depression, which I’m beginning to see clear signs of.”
“What should I do?”
“You belong to the Y?”
“No.”
“Join. Swim laps. Work out on a punching bag, pretend it’s Justin. Then leave it at the gym. Or do something else.”
“But I don’t feel depressed,” said Jeff. “I don’t think there’s anything building up in me.”
“You were in here crying for the first twenty-five dollars,” said the doctor. “Something’s going on.”
“Something’s going on,” said the female doctor in the next room. “While telling me the story about those scientists, you were reliving the rage like it happened five minutes ago. You allow the transgressions of others to replay in endless, obsessive loops inside your head.”
Serge looked over his shoulder at the clock. “Is that what’s happening?”
“You have to cut the loop. Learn to block out the background noise of hostile thoughts.”
“How do I do that?”
“Give them a name.”
“How about ‘bad monkey’?”
“If that works for you. The important thing is not to let the ‘bad monkey,’ as you put it, enter your Happy Place. I’d like to try an exercise.”
“Go for it.”
“Are you mad at anyone right now?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“We don’t have that kind of time.”
“Pick one.”
“Those scientists. They’re still pissing me off.”
“That’s the loop I’m talking about. Here’s what I want you to do. Are those thoughts of rage in your head right now?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Take control. Tell them to get out of your Happy Place.”
“What?”
“Just say it.”
“Get out of my Happy Place?”
“Use the name.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I couldn’t be more serious. Please say it.”
“Get out of my Happy Place…bad monkey…?”
“Louder! With feeling!”
“Get out of my Happy Place, you bad monkey!”
“There you go. You turned your aggression on the negative thoughts. How do you feel?”
“Stupid.”
“Try it again. Even louder this time…”
Gulf Coast Psychiatric Center, Office Number Three.
Agent Mahoney lay on the sofa reading a dog-eared paperback from the fifties. The cover had a steno pad and a snub-nose. When Secretaries Go Bad.
The doctor sat across from him, slumped and nodding off from the pills Mahoney had given him to provide peaceful reading time.
The walls were a bit thin.
“Bad monkey!…”
Mahoney sat up quickly and looked around. It began to rain. He lay back down and opened his book.
Office Number Two.
The psychiatrist raced around setting out pails. “Sorry. Roof leaks. But the rent’s so low.” He hurried back to his seat. “Where were we?”
“Justin.”
“That’s right. You mentioned these things he does to you.”
“That’s just Justin.”
“It’s not Justin. It’s you. I want to find something he did that actually made you mad, and then we’ll try an exercise.”
“But he’s just obnoxious.”
“There has to be something.”
“Let me think…. Oh, yeah. How could I forget? I almost got mad.”
“Almost?”
“Yeah, he really went over the line this one time. We have these tour groups that come through the office. Reporters rotate and give little goodwill speeches in the auditorium. You know, civil service of journalism, duty to the community. I hate public speaking as it is.”
“Most people do. Common fear.”
“The auditorium’s packed to capacity. I’m already soaked with sweat. Then I get diarrhea. But there’s no time. I’m up right after Justin. He’s at the podium, and I’m holding my speech, trying to get in some last-second rehearsing. I start mouthing the words, and suddenly I can’t believe what I’m hearing over the sound system.” Jeff stopped and looked around. “Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“Like someone yelling ‘bad monkey.’”
Office Number One.
“I don’t want to play ‘bad monkey’ anymore,” said Serge.
“But you were doing so well.”
“I feel silly. Can we please talk about something else?”
“All right, but I want to return to this later.” She reviewed notes from earlier sessions. “You mentioned last time an interest in religion. How’s it going?”
“I went to confession.”
Genuine surprise. “You’re kidding.”
“That part didn’t go so well. In fact, I was just about to give up on the whole faith thing when I decided to research its history. Am I glad I did. I almost made a serious mistake. I love religion!”
“You do?”
“Unbelievably violent. I can’t get enough. They practically have to kick me out of the library every night at closing time. Take murder. Most of the major brands have a regulation against it. But when it’s cage-match time against another denomination, let the party begin!…”
“Serge…”
“…The key is to yell how excellent God is when you’re waxing dudes. That’s the get-out-of-hell-free card. And the methods! I’d heard the terms—‘drawn and quartered,’ ‘burned at the stake,’ ‘disemboweled’—but it was so long ago it’s like bubonic plague: We can all laugh about it now. Then I saw the pictures in some of those library books. Holy shit! Well, not real pictures, because they didn’t have photography back then, but apparently the easel used to be as ubiquitous as the camera phone, because all the painters just happened to be strolling by—‘Dum-de-dum. What a rough night. Mental note: Never drink with Vikings and…Oh, my God! What are they doing to that guy over there? I have to get this on canvas!’…”
“Serge…”
“…I saw this one painting of some poor schlub who was probably just sitting in the park feeding the birds one day and happened to look up—‘Wait just a minute! Could it be that it’s the earth that revolves around the sun?’ But some devout people were standing nearby, and two minutes later the guy’s strapped down: ‘Leave my intestines in there!’ ‘Sorry, God is stupendous’—”
“Serge!”
“What?”
She turned to a fresh page on her note pad. “Maybe you need to take a break from religion.”
“Why?”
“It seems to be having a violent influence on you.”
“Isn’t it supposed to?”
“So Justin’s finishing up his speech,” said the doctor. “What happened?”
“It’s really embarrassing.”
“Probably not anywhere near as bad as you think
you remember. Please continue.”
“Okay. He’s still talking, and I’m looking at the copy of my own speech that I’d been rehearsing, and suddenly I realize Justin’s saying the same words. He stole my presentation out of the computer system! Then he finishes, and on his way off the stage he hands me the speech: ‘Want an extra copy, asshole?’”
“How’d you deal with it?”
“Threw up on the podium.”
“Wow. That’s embarrassing.”
“And made in my pants.” Jeff covered his face. “I felt so humiliated.”
“And angry?”
“Just humiliated.”
“That’s not good. You’re fighting yourself on the inside. You have to find a way to get the fight out.”
“You want me to get in fights?”
“Absolutely not. But it’s dangerous if you keep letting the internal pressure build. It’s like not being able to perspire. There are actually people like that, weird condition.”
“I can perspire.”
The doctor looked at the clock. “Hour’s up. Before we meet next week, I want you to go to the gym like we discussed. In the meantime I’ll write you a prescription.” He clicked a pen open.
“They make anger pills?”
“No. This is the good stuff.” He handed Jeff a slip of paper.
McSwirley read the script. “Isn’t this what Rush Limbaugh was taking?”
“Give me half and I’ll comp you a session.”
“But that’s illegal.”
“Don’t worry. My code of ethics doesn’t allow me to tell on you.”
Across the hall a door opened. Serge thanked the doctor and bounced down the stairs in excellent spirits. He left the building and headed up the sidewalk full of hope.
“Hey, look everyone! It’s a crazy guy coming out of the shrink’s office!”
Serge turned and saw a gang of day laborers taking the day off. He pointed at his chest. “Me?”
“Yeah, you, Looney Tunes!” yelled the biggest. “Bats in the belfry?”
Serge took a quick skip-step like a cricket player, weight and velocity behind the first punch. “Bad monkey…” Wham, wham, wham. “…Out of my Happy Place!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
LANDFALL PLUS TWO
Coleman grabbed the dashboard. “Watch out!”
“I see it,” Serge said evenly, cutting the wheel. Screeeeeeeeeech.
Coleman bounced off the door panel and turned around quickly to look out the back window. “What the hell’s a washing machine doing in the middle of the road?”
“What about a hurricane do you not understand?”
“The part where we were supposed to stay in the eye, like you promised.”
“If you didn’t smoke so much dope, you’d have better judgment and not listen to me. Even I don’t know what I’m going to do next. Caveat emptor.”
“What’s that mean?”
“‘Non-Latins bite.’” Serge executed more evasive maneuvers around mid-road debris, briefly two-wheeling. The H2 lurched back down onto its suspension.
“I can’t take it anymore,” said Coleman, trembling to light a joint.
“If you want to get out of this, you need to pay attention to the laptop. What’s our position?”
Coleman’s hand still shook as he pointed at the screen. “Looks like we’re near the east side of the eye. Or is it the west?”
“Which is it?”
“I can’t tell.”
“Jesus, Coleman! Is it the right side?”
“My right or your right?”
“Just turn it toward me!…Ooooh. That’s not good.”
“Serge!”
“Might as well turn that thing off and save the battery.”
“We’re going to die! Look at that wind!”
“Forget the wind,” said Serge. “There’s all kinds of stuff you never heard of that you should be worried about.”
“Like what?”
“Like some hurricanes we’ve had in the past—most of the death toll was from snake bites.”
“Dang it, Serge! Why’d you have to tell me that?”
“Because it’s a fun fact.” Serge held out an empty travel mug. “Coffee me.”
Coleman unscrewed a thermos and poured. Serge chugged the entire mug in one long pull. He began tapping the steering wheel. His head bobbed. “Goddamn, this is a great hurricane! I’m really starting to groove on the baby! Can you feel it? I can feel it! Coleman! Feel it!”
Coleman grabbed the dash again. “Refrigerator!”
“Woooo-hoooo!” Screeeeeeeeech. They came out of the wild swerve. Serge reached down under his seat for a small tin barrel. He placed it in his lap and opened the lid.
“Where’d you get Charles Chips?” asked Coleman.
“They sell ’em in bags now. So I had to get my own can and glue the bag around it.” He popped a chip into his mouth and bobbed his head. “I’m ripped on this ’cane! Isn’t she great? This is the best moment of my life! I couldn’t be in a better mood!”
Muffled noise from the backseat. Serge grabbed a .45 automatic by the barrel, turned around and gave a wicked butt-crack to the forehead. “Shut the fuck up!”
“Serge, you’re going to kill him if you keep hitting him that hard.”
“He’s killing my storm buzz!”
Coleman reached for the potato chips. “Can’t believe we already got another hurricane. We’re barely finished with the last one. That’s three right on top of each other.”
“And two more on the way, plus that tropical depression off the Canaries they’re starting to watch. Living here has turned into some kind of demented Lucille Ball skit where cream pies come down the conveyor belt too fast.”
Mumbling from the backseat.
“Shut the fuck up!” Crack!
Serge turned back around and wiped blood from the pistol grip. “Why can’t he be pleasant like the other guy back there?”
“Serge, I don’t think the other guy can talk.”
“The perfect traveling companion.”
“I still don’t understand it.”
“Understand what?”
“Whenever I’m on road trips with other guys, we usually lose people and possessions along the way.”
“So?”
Coleman pointed at the backseat. “You always gain shit. There’s those two new guys, your guitar, portable amp, that old bullhorn you strap to the roof, the electrical equipment and all that other stuff that I don’t even recognize.”
“Hurricanes are unpredictable that way.” Serge extended the empty travel mug toward Coleman. “Coffee me.”
“But you just had a cup.”
“Do I count your joints? Coffee me!”
“Yeah, but you know how you get—”
“Coffee me!”
Coleman nervously opened the thermos and poured.
Serge chugged the mug dry.
Coleman saw veins pulse in Serge’s neck. “Uh-oh.” He fastened his seat belt.
The vehicle began accelerating, Serge punching the wheel. “I love this hurricane! I know all about her! Want to know all about her? You really don’t have a choice: She bloomed a low-pressure trough near Trinidad, went tropical over Kingston, in the Caymans hit the magic seventy-four-miles-per-hour maximum sustained winds to be classified a category one. Category two starts at ninety-six, three at a hundred and eleven, and so on. You have to know the numbers. Do you know the numbers? I know the numbers. But now I have to learn the Greek alphabet, too, even though there are plenty of perfectly good names left, like mine, but they never use it. Scientists! Blow their brains all over their precious fuckin’ viewing platforms. She weakened briefly crossing the mountains of western Cuba, then hit warm Gulf waters and howled back to life, barreling straight for the Keys. You’ve never truly been Florida-initiated until you’ve had to evacuate from the Keys. I did. Five years ago. Mandatory. Kicked out of my motel, then I hear this music—‘Trying to Reason with Hurricane Season�
��—I go next door to a Buffett convention. Fucked up sight. Panicked hotel staff running everywhere, fastening shutters and pulling in pool furniture, dodging Parrot Heads getting utterly hammered, dancing to calypso bands and taking flying palm fronds to the face. I’m thinking they’re nuts to stay. Of course I was staying because I was determined to witness history. Yes, sir, there was absolutely no way anyone was going to drag me off that island! A few minutes later, I got bored and left. I was the last car out before they closed U.S. 1 behind me. What a rush! A hundred miles all to myself, racing fate. Then more surrealism. I’m crossing the Seven-Mile Bridge, and you know picturesque Pigeon Key under the old span?”
“No.”
“Very popular with weddings. Guess what? They’re holding a wedding! I can’t believe it! The white tent had torn loose and was floating up Moser Channel, but there she was, the anti–runaway bride, leaning sharply into the wind, veil whipping horizontally, determined to get hitched at all costs. Good for her. I reached Homestead and the turnpike. They always suspend toll collecting during evacuations, and the woman in the booth is windmilling her arm, frantically waving me through like a third-base coach sending a runner home. Another Florida rush!”
Backseat mumbling.
“I’m talking up here!” Crack.
“Sofa!”
Screeeeeeeeech.
“But the storm never hit Key West. Veered at the last second for the Dry Tortugas, which wouldn’t have meant anything, except for ‘wet foot, dry foot.’ What’s that, you ask? I’ll tell you. Hey, I’m out of coffee. Fuck it—we’re going anyway: The Tortugas are a scattering of seven tiny islands seventy miles west of Key West, home of Civil War–era Fort Jefferson and a migratory-tern rookery. Only accessible by boat or seaplane, so nobody’s there except a few park rangers and camping ornithologists. Until ‘wet foot, dry foot,’ the federal immigration policy on Cuban refugees. Get picked up at sea by the authorities, you’re repatriated to Havana. Set one foot on dry U.S. land, it’s celebration time with the Miami relatives. For years the human-smuggling boat captains and Coast Guard had been playing cat and mouse the entire length of the Keys. Then brainstorm. Nobody was guarding the Torgs. Most Americans don’t even know the islands exist, let alone that they’re part of Florida. But the captains did. The little islands filled with refugees, who had to be evacuated to the mainland ahead of the storm. Hmmm, wonder if, like, a gust of wind blew one of them into the water, if they’d have to be taken back to Cuba. I should have been a lawyer. Anyway…”