by Tim Dorsey
“Stay where you are!” ordered the officer. He sniffed the air. Even at a range of three paces, Coleman smelled like a brewery. The cop turned to Serge. “Let me see that can.”
Serge gave it to him. The officer turned it over. Nothing came out. Street discretion time. Drunk guy with no beer can; sober guy with empty one. The whole situation was highly weird and utterly routine. “Okay, I actually believe you.” He returned the cuffs to their leather holster and snapped it shut.
“You’re kidding,” said Coleman. “You’re just going to let him go? Because cops can be real pricks.”
The officer handed the can back to Serge. “Throw it away first chance you get. And you might want to take care of your friend. He’s dangerously close to disorderly conduct…. Have a nice day.”
The trio resumed walking. A small boy crawled from shrubbery. “Guys! Wait up!”
Serge’s face reddened. “Can’t tell you how much I hate bullies! People think you just grow up and forget about it. But you don’t. See what’s already happening to that kid?”
“No.”
“The syndrome of seeking approval from your tormentors, who only continue sapping self-esteem in a vicious circle that leads to a colorful menu of emotional disturbance in later years. Luckily I caught mine in time. Probably never guessed I was picked on.”
“You were?”
“Well, once. Nobody could prove anything, and the bully was too freaked to rat me out, but after they cut him down from the radio tower even the guidance counselors avoided me.” Serge looked up the sidewalk. “I wish I was that kid’s guidance counselor.”
“What would you say?”
“Find a radio tower.”
They took a few more steps. Serge stopped. “Where are they going?”
“Who?”
“Those kids turned up that street. They’re heading the wrong way. They’ll miss the big event.” Serge ran to the end of the block and looked around the corner. “Shoot! Of course! We’re going the wrong way! I just naturally assumed it was Dodecanese Bayou at the sponge boats, but it’s the other by the war memorial.”
GAINESVILLE
A black Camaro raced down a dirt driveway and joined traffic on Route 24. From the road, it was difficult to make out the third body on the farmhouse steps.
Tex McGraw worked his way across campus and passed the stadium. He reached Interstate 75 and sped south. On the other side of the highway, a late-model Cadillac Escalade headed north.
“I think this is our exit,” said Martha.
Jim hit the blinker and began getting over, but a Mustang saw the flashing taillight and sped up to close the gap. Jim jerked the wheel back to avoid a collision. “Where’d that guy come from?”
“He did it on purpose!” said Martha. “What’s with people who accelerate as soon as they see your turn signal?”
“Martha, please stop giving people the finger in traffic.”
“He made us miss our exit!”
“There’s another in two miles. We’ll double back.” Jim broke into a smile. “Can’t believe Melvin’s already halfway through his freshman year. Seems like only three seconds ago he was in Little League.”
Martha looked out her window at higher learning. Traffic snarls, flirting between cars, low-speed fender benders, and thousands of empty vehicles left at crazy angles across lawns, curbs and sidewalks like they’d just held the Rapture. “I don’t know why he wanted to ride with his friends instead of us.”
“It’s natural.”
“But he doesn’t mind using our car to lug all his stuff.”
Jim took the next exit. Slow going across town. Massive, chaotic foot-traffic in all directions, a designer-brand refugee movement of students pack-muling stereo systems, plasma TVs, computers, golf clubs, wet bars, no books.
“This really brings back memories.”
“I don’t remember all the kegs.”
“Martha, we were exactly the same when we went to school…. Here’s his apartment building.”
“There he is!”
Jim turned into a crowded parking lot. “Where?”
“Waving to us from the balcony.”
TEN
DOWN ON THE BAYOU
The church could withstand any hurricane.
Built from huge quarried slabs, it stood proudly as it had for over a century at the corner of Tarpon and Pinellas avenues. The architecture was exotic even for Florida.
For the last hour, a throbbing crowd had gathered on the sidewalk. The front doors finally opened. Cheers went up. A bearded man appeared in an immaculate robe and tall bejeweled hat. He waved with dignity during his short walk to a waiting car, which drove him another brief distance.
A second, larger crowd at Spring Bayou erupted when the vehicle’s doors opened. The adulation grew louder as they followed the bishop down to the gently curving seawall. A small fleet of wooden dinghies was already anchored in the water, each containing several boys in white swim trunks, sixteen to eighteen years of age.
On the opposite side of the bayou, Serge tapped page 132 of National Geographic. “The kids in the boats. Looks exactly the same sixty-one years later. These people are all about tradition. Like St. Nicholas Church we passed earlier. One of the state’s greatest landmarks that nobody even knows exists. The Mediterranean dome and spire were patterned after Aya Sophia in Istanbul….”
“Can we go now?” asked Coleman.
“But we haven’t seen it yet.”
“Seen what?”
“It’s January sixth. I’ve been waiting for this my whole life. The ultimate Greek tradition.”
“But you’re not Greek.”
“But I love Greek Orthodox,” said Serge. “I’m down with any faith that’s into bitchin’ pastry.”
“Wait a minute,” said Coleman. “These aren’t the people who drink ouzo….”
“The same.”
“Those cats rock!”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“Can we stay?”
“Sure.”
“Catch me up on what’s happening,” said Coleman.
“Okay, billions of years ago primitive nuclei began forming on the ocean floor and evolved into one of the earliest multicellular organisms in the phylum Porifera….”
“You have to go back that far?”
“I don’t do half-ass history.”
“When’s the ouzo part?”
“Not for billions of years. These creatures developed tiny pores called ostia, which filtered nutrients from the water, becoming the first sponges….”
The religious ceremony on the other side of the bayou continued. Time passed. “…Ten thousand years ago, migratory peoples began settling along the Aegean coast….” Serge woke Coleman with a nudge. “…Frescoes appeared in Crete depicting the sponge’s role in hygiene….”
Rachael’s half-conscious head peeked over the sill of the Comet’s back window and tried focusing on Serge and Coleman at the edge of the water.
“…Next, the Bronze Age…”
She reached for another Valium but passed out again first.
The bishop bestowed blessings. The crowd brimmed with building anticipation.
“…Non-Greeks triggered the Key West sponging boom of the nineteenth century. But sponges aren’t known for their fleetness and greedy divers soon wiped out their own harvest. Meanwhile, savvy Athenians overtook them by expertly managing the warm Gulf waters of Tarpon Springs….” Serge poked Coleman again. “…Where they remain to this day. The high school team is the Fighting Spongers.”
“Must have dozed. Did I miss anything?”
“Just the terrible spicule fungus of 1938.” Serge grabbed the tote bag at his feet. “Looks like they’re starting.”
The crowd’s roar increased as the bishop approached the water’s edge, his vestments sparkling in the winter sun. Children waved small American and Greek flags. Suddenly, the bishop raised a white cross over his head, and the mob went berser
k. He rotated in a semicircle, displaying the religious treasure for all to see. The cheering seemed like it would go on forever. Then, abruptly, quiet. Nobody had to tell them. The moment was here. The bishop pulled the cross back over his shoulder. The youths in the boats crouched like swimmers on starting platforms of a hundred-meter freestyle.
One final pause for drama…and the cross was flung.
All eyes followed the brilliant white icon, soaring higher and higher before reaching its apex, flashing briefly in the light and arcing over into the water. The boys leaped from their boats; the bayou erupted in a splashing froth to the deafening encouragement from shore.
The 102nd Epiphany dive for the cross was under way.
UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA
Melvin ran down the stairs and hugged his parents.
They unloaded the back of the Escalade, carrying boxes past open doors of other rooms furnished with stolen milk crates and cinder-block shelves. The Davenports made the top of the stairs. Blaring music and snatches of conversation.
“…Then you scrape the inside of the banana peel and smoke it.”
“That’s a myth.”
At the end of the balcony, three students were steadying a fourth, whose head hung over the rail. “You’ll feel much better if you just throw up the toxin and ease into a mellow trip.”
Melvin stopped in front of the last unit and shifted the cardboard box he was holding for a better grip. “Here we are.”
Martha pointed behind her. “What’s that about?”
“Just my roommate.” Melvin pushed the ajar door open with his foot.
Two more trips and the SUV was empty. They sat around and had a nice visit until Martha grew concerned.
“What is it?” asked Jim.
“He doesn’t have enough cleaning products.”
“You brought two full boxes.”
“We have to go to the store.”
“All right.” They headed downstairs.
Coleman stood in chest-deep water under a boat lift. He peeked out from behind the concealment of an oyster-encrusted pier, straining to see what was happening on the other side of the bayou. Some kind of confusion around the dinghies. Kids diving over and over. The crowd on the seawall exchanged puzzled glances.
Coleman ventured from behind the pylon for a closer look. “What the hell’s taking so long?”
Behind him, a loud splash as something broke the surface.
Coleman turned and grabbed his chest. “Jesus, don’t do that!”
Serge pulled the emergency air canister from his mouth. “Hurry up. We don’t have much time.”
Coleman raised the disposable, underwater camera attached to his arm with a rubber wrist strap. He aimed it at his pal.
Serge grinned and held a white cross next to his face.
Click.
Coleman lowered the camera. “Can we go now?”
“Professionals never just take one picture. What if my eyes were closed? Then we’ll have to come back next year.”
Coleman advanced the film with his thumb. Click.
“Again!”
Click.
“One with me kissing the cross.”
Click.
Dozens of baffled teens dog-paddled in the background. Now and then, one would take another deep breath, dive back down and come up empty.
Click.
“A profile shot. Which is my good side? Screw it. Shoot both.”
Click. Click.
“Underwater action sequence.”
They submerged. Click, click, click…
Coleman came up breathing hard. “I’m out of film. Now can we go?”
“Absolutely not. I have to return this thing.”
“You got to be shittin’ me. We spent all this time getting that, and you’re just going to give it back?”
“Coleman, I have to give it back.” Serge rinsed spit from the air canister’s mouthpiece. “This is a sacred religious event. It would be grossly disrespectful to interfere.”
“But I want to party. I only agreed to all this because I thought the ouzo part was coming up.”
“It is. Just a little longer.”
“So I’m going to be stuck here waiting again?”
“No. Here’s what I want you to do….”
Coleman listened until Serge finished. He furrowed his brow. “That’ll never work.”
“Just do it!”
Serge stuck the mini-tank back in his mouth and disappeared beneath the water.
ELEVEN
GAINESVILLE
The Davenports were on a cleaning-product run. For five seconds. Less than fifty feet from his son’s apartment door, Jim stopped behind a Jeep with homemade plywood speakers built into the rear bay.
“What the hell’s he doing?” said Martha. “The road’s clear.”
“I think he’s talking to that girl in a bikini leaning against his door.”
“I know what he’s doing,” said Martha. “That’s no place to talk. He’s blocking the parking lot’s exit.”
“I’m sure he’ll just be another moment.”
“If you’re not going to do something, I will!”
“Martha, please.”
She rolled down her window. “Hey! You in the Jeep! Move it!”
“He couldn’t hear,” said Jim. “Stereo’s too loud.”
Martha reached across her husband and leaned on the horn.
“Martha—”
A tanned, muscle-bound man got out of the Jeep and walked back to Jim’s door. A meaty fist pounded the window. “You just fuckin’ honk at me?”
Jim lowered his window a slit. “Actually my wife—Yes, I honked at you.”
“What’s your fuckin’ problem?”
“No problem.” Jim grinned.
“You just honk at me for fun?”
“Jim!” yelled Martha. “Don’t take that from this creep!”
“Martha, please. Let me handle this.” He turned back to the window. “You’re blocking the exit.”
“Out of the car! I’m going to seriously fuck you up!”
Jim hit the electric button closing his window. He faced forward.
“Jim!” said Martha. “What’s wrong with you? You’re twice his age!”
“Martha, that only works if I’m twenty and he’s ten.”
More banging on the window.
“So we just take it?”
“He’ll eventually go away.”
The bishop took off his hat and scratched his head.
The kids from the dinghies were milling around back on land now, everyone staring perplexed into the dark water. Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Coleman strolled along the seawall and came up behind the audience. One of the people in back was much smaller than the rest, hopping on tiptoes for a view. Coleman tapped his shoulder.
Nikolai turned. Coleman bent and whispered. He stood back up and smiled.
The boy was suspicious. “Who are you?”
“A friend of a friend,” said Coleman. “What have you got to lose?”
Nikolai shrugged and began worming his way through the crowd. Without notice, the small boy stepped up to the seawall, took a deep breath and dove in.
“What the heck’s he doing?”
Nikolai reached the bayou’s silty floor and felt his way through typical Florida bottom debris. Gun, gun, knife, gun, human femur, brass knuckles, gun…He was just about to surface when something seized his ankle. He panicked and thrashed, trying to reach air, but the hand’s grip was too strong and pulled him back down. Another hand pressed something into the youth’s right palm and curled his fingers tightly around it. The ankle was released.
Nikolai broke the water’s surface, gasping for breath.
The crowd exploded.
The youth was so unnerved he didn’t realize what was going on until he noticed they were all pointing at his hand.
The cross.
On the other side of the bayou, Serge surfaced and climbed over the se
awall. He joined Coleman beside the Comet and watched Nikolai being carried away on shoulders toward the promise of another daylong street celebration. Serge opened the trunk and tossed his spent air canister in a tote bag.
“Sorry about complaining earlier,” said Coleman. “That was an awfully nice thing to do.”
“Community service is underrated.” Serge zipped the bag closed. “I think my karma just got ten thousand frequent-flier miles.”
“Are we finally to the part about the ouzo?”
“Yes,” said Serge, grabbing a newspaper out of the trunk. “Here’s the part about the ouzo: It’s illegal in this country.”
“Serge!”
“Makes people crazy.” He flipped through the paper. “Glad I saved this thing from breakfast. I’m clipping the Epiphany article for my scrapbook.”
“Okay,” said Coleman. “Then can we at least go to that dive?”
Serge flipped another page. “Which one?”
“The Bridge Lounge.”
“Just over the Anclote River. Good choice. Excellent vintage sign with martini glass.” Serge tossed the newspaper back in the trunk; it randomly fell open to a small article about a notorious inmate named McGraw being released from Raiford.
The trunk slammed shut.
INTERSTATE 75
A champagne Cadillac Escalade drove south. It passed the Ocala exit and a faded billboard for Silver Springs. A snapped-off sideview mirror dangled by its electrical control cord outside Jim’s window.
Silence.
“Martha, please say something.”
“We just bought this car.”
“I’ll get it fixed.”
“But why should we have to pay? It’s not fair.”
“Honey, life’s not fair. We need to focus on our blessings.”
“And we just let these jerks walk all over us every day?”
“Not every day.”
“Yes, every day!”
“I know it’s frustrating, but we made the smart move.”
Martha folded her arms tightly and stared out the window.