Triggerfish Twist

by Tim Dorsey

  10

  T HE BARRACUDA SKIDDED to a stop on Triggerfish Lane. Serge had returned from his supply run. He unloaded hula hoops, Frisbees and giant soap-bubble wands. He unrolled a slick yellow Slip ’n Slide on the lawn behind the metal cows and the remains of Lady Bird.

  Serge bounded up the front steps and into the house. He dashed from room to room. Sharon was on the couch with a vibrator and no pants.

  “Where’s Coleman?” he asked.

  Sharon didn’t look up. She pointed out the side window.

  “Next door?” he asked.

  She didn’t respond.

  “Nice talking with you.”

  The middle finger.

  Serge crossed the lawn and ran up the steps. He stood in the open doorway of the college rental.

  Two students knelt next to the turntable, turning a vinyl record slowly with their fingers. Waste-oid’s ear was pressed against one of the speakers.

  “What’s up?” said Serge.

  “Listening to ‘Stairway to Heaven’ backward for secret messages,” said Bernie.

  “Heard anything yet?” asked Serge.

  Waste-oid took his head away from the speaker. “I think he just said, ‘Please pass the butter, Satan.’”

  Coleman walked in from the kitchen, carrying a roll of tinfoil, a plastic scouring pad, a tube from a Windex bottle, duct tape, Saran Wrap and a rotisserie chicken.

  “There you are!” said Serge.

  “Don’t break his concentration,” said Bernie. “We’ve been waiting for this.”

  Coleman sat cross-legged on the floor and stuffed the scouring pad into the chicken.

  The students gathered around and paid attention for the first time all semester.

  “There’s no way,” Frankie whispered to Chip.

  “It can’t be done,” said Bill.

  A hush fell over the room.

  Coleman was a flurry of deft motion, hands moving fast all around the chicken with unconscious muscle memory. Moments later, Coleman sat the chicken upright on a newspaper in the middle of the floor, then pulled his hands clear like a rodeo rider after tying off a calf.

  “Time!” said Bernie.

  Chip clicked the stopwatch button on his chronograph. “Three minutes, eighteen seconds.”

  “Incredible,” said Waste-oid. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. A bong made from a chicken.”

  Frankie was still skeptical. “But does it work?”

  “Does it work?” said Coleman. “Pot!”

  Waste-oid handed him a baggie, and Coleman began stuffing buds in the bird.

  “Be careful with that stuff,” said Bernie. “It’s some nuclear weed.”

  Sharon showed up in the doorway, ragged from a night of partying, but in a very hot way. She cocked her hip and twirled a lock of blond hair with a finger. “Anyone got any coke?”

  “Shhhhhhh!” said the students.

  It was the first time in history her coy look had been rebuffed. She sidled up to Serge. “What’s going on?”

  Serge nodded toward Coleman. “He’s holding court.”

  “I still don’t think it’ll work,” said Frankie.

  “Never count this guy out,” said Serge. “He can make a delivery system out of the contents of any home in America. I’ve seen him do it with bicycle pumps, hot-water bottles and a souvenir coconut carved into a monkey’s head.”

  Coleman held an unlit lighter near the chicken. “Okay, when the smoke bubbles in the water, it’ll filter through the scouring pad, breaking it into thousands of even tinier bubbles. That increases the surface area of the gas in contact with the water, because the smaller bubbles have a shorter radius, which is squared and multiplied by four pi—whereas the larger bubbles have most of their volume on the interior of the sphere. The water scrubs the increased surface area, removing impurities and giving you higher THC content per airborne particulate. Hence, a smoother, more potent smoke. And now, in new chicken flavor!”

  “Where’d you learn all that?” asked Bernie.

  “Spent a year at Hillsborough Community College. Drugs were an incredible education. I learned all about physics, the metric system, jurisprudence, economics, agriculture, politics, pharmacology and home ec.”

  Sharon turned to Serge. “How come he’s such a numb-skull about everything else?”

  “He’s like a savant,” said Serge. “The Rain Man of Dope.”

  Coleman shotgunned another beer and belched. “Enough batting practice.” He grabbed the chicken and leaned over it.

  “Stand clear,” said Serge. “Let the doctor operate.”

  Coleman flicked the lighter and pulled hard. A bubbling sound came from deep inside the chicken; smoke squirted out under the drumsticks.

  “Oh, man,” said Chip. “He’s fucked.”

  Finally, Coleman cut the lighter, pulled away from the chicken and inhaled deeply. He fell back in a sitting position. His face turned red and he put his hand over his mouth, but it was no use. The coughing came hard and furious, and he blew out all the smoke. The hacking went on and on. He rolled on the floor, grabbing his throat.

  A student rushed up with a glass of water, but Coleman refused it. “No,” he said, pushing the glass away. “Coughing gets you higher.”

  The fit finally subsided, and Coleman sat upright. A sugary glaze descended over his eyes.

  “Uh-oh,” said Serge. “Here it comes.”

  “How do you feel?” asked Bernie.

  Coleman looked slowly around the room. “High, stoned, hammered, bent, twisted, ripped, wrecked, wasted, trashed, annihilated, polluted, stewed, baked, fried, cooked, toasted, roasted, lit, torched, burnt, buzzed, blind, blotto, blitzed, blasted, blown, bombed, pie-eyed, glass-eyed, shit-faced, blue-faced, tight, booted up, hopped up, messed up, screwed up, goofed up, fucked up, numb, paralyzed, wired, knee-walking, wall-hugging, floating, flying, peaking, sailing, rushing, tripping, zooming, zonked…”

  11

  E VERYONE WAS TRYING to console Jim Davenport. Martha drove him home after picking up a tranquilizer prescription written by a police psychiatrist. Jim sat in a daze on his porch swing, and Martha went inside to make some lemonade.

  Gladys ran over from next door. “Are you all right, Jim? I just heard what happened. It’s terrible!”

  Martha came back on the porch with a pitcher of lemonade. There was a commotion across the street. Coleman had taken a wild tumble down the front steps of the college students’ house, tearing off the side railing. The students helped him up. After they determined nothing was broken, they followed Serge next door and began playing with the Wham-O equipment.

  A Florida Cable News satellite truck pulled up in front of the Davenport residence. Correspondent Blaine Crease walked up to the porch with a microphone, wanting an interview about the killing of the vicious bandit Skag McGraw.

  Jim said he didn’t feel like talking. Blaine begged. Jim stood his ground.

  Blaine went across the street to see if any of the neighbors would agree to go on the air.

  “Sure thing,” said Coleman. He stepped up to the camera, and Blaine held a microphone in front of him. They began broadcasting live.

  “What is your name, sir?” asked Blaine.

  “Heywood.”

  “Heywood what?”

  “Jablowmey.”

  Blaine faced the camera. “We’re standing here with Mr. Heywood Jablowmey…”

  Coleman and the college students began snickering in the background.

  Blaine turned around. “What? What’s so funny?”

  Coleman and the students contained their laughter. “Nothing.”

  Blaine faced back to the camera. “We’re speaking with a close personal friend of the man who foiled today’s deadly bank robbery, Heywood Jablowmey…”

  Coleman and the students cracked up again and were unable to stop this time.

  The satellite truck drove off after the aborted interview. Serge unspooled a garden hose and took something o
ut of a bag.

  “What’s that he’s putting on the hose?” asked Martha.

  “A Water Wiggle,” said Gladys.

  “A what?”

  “Water Wiggle—don’t you remember?” said Gladys. “They must have sold a million. A yellow plastic cone with a goofy face painted on it. You attach it to the end of a hose. It redirects the water backwards, and the cone and the hose fly like crazy all over the yard.”

  “What for?” asked Martha.

  “For fun,” said Gladys. “Just look.”

  Coleman stood in the middle of the yard, chugging a beer and doing a wobbly hula hoop. The Water Wiggle took an erratic course and struck Coleman in the back of the head.

  “Ouch!”

  But Coleman didn’t think to move beyond its range.

  Serge put The Lovin’ Spoonful on a boom box. The students played Frisbee. Siddhartha sat next to the hedge, mollified by the soap-bubble wand.

  The Water Wiggle hit Coleman again.

  “Ouch!”

  “…Hot town, summer in the city, back of my neck gettin’ dirty and gritty…”

  Serge went to the end of the Slip ’n Slide and paced off his approach like an Olympic long jumper. He took a few moments to mentally prepare himself, then: “Cowabunga!” He sprinted toward the yellow chute.

  Coleman’s face was up to the sky as he drained his beer. The Water Wiggle hit him in the head again and knocked him off balance. Serge sailed down the Slip ’n Slide on his stomach like Superman. Coleman stumbled onto the plastic tarp. They collided. Coleman was upended and landed on his clavicle; Serge’s left arm got caught in Coleman’s hula hoop, spinning him around and sending him off the side of the chute into the chicken-wire Gettysburg.

  The Water Wiggle was still flailing in the background as the students applied ice to Coleman and untangled Serge from the snarled metal.

  Gladys poured another glass of lemonade and shook her head. “Renters…”

  A van with a magnetic sign on the side cruised slowly down the street and stopped four houses to the left.

  “Who lives there?” asked Martha.

  “The Sanchezes,” said Gladys. “Actually, there’s just one Sanchez now. Raul. They’re separated. Simone recently moved out after they got hooked up to the Internet and Raul began spending eighteen hours a day at Gillian Anderson websites.”

  Four men with greased hair got out of the van and walked toward the house. They all wore the same black pants and sleeveless black T-shirts.

  “What are they supposed to be this time?” asked Martha.

  “An ersatz Sha Na Na,” said Gladys. “But they’re pretty good.”

  Mr. Sanchez answered the door. The shortest Sha Na Na handed Raul some legal papers and blew a pitch pipe. The men broke into four-part harmony.

  “Ohhhhhhhhh, you’re getting a divorce, you’re getting a divorce, you’re getting a divorce…”

  Bowzer: “Bow, bow, bow.”

  “You wife is leaving town, no more sex for you, you don’t make enough money…”

  Bowzer: “Bow, bow, bow.”

  “And you have a small pecker, toooooooooooooo!!!!”

  Raul disappeared into the house and came back seconds later firing wildly with a large revolver. He hit one Sha Na Na in the shoulder, and the singing group scattered across the lawn.

  “Jesus! Did you see that!” said Martha. “He shot Bowzer!”

  “I think it was just someone who was supposed to look like Bowzer,” said Gladys.

  Police surrounded the Sanchez homestead. It was a brief standoff. A negotiator got on the phone with Raul, and they even had Sha Na Na apologize over loudspeakers. Since the shooting, Raul had been going through his liquor cabinet at an impressive clip, and his list of demands grew to include a lap dancer. Police sent in an undercover stripper trained in Kama Sutra and Tae Kwon Do, who quickly subdued Raul with a private dance that dislocated his hips. They stretchered him away in silent ceremony.

  “You watch,” said Gladys. “That’ll be a rental now.”

  Martha looked up. “It’s starting to rain.”

  “It’ll be over in a few minutes,” said Gladys. “Does this every day in the summer.”

  “Is that your car?” asked Martha, pointing at a blue Trans Am parked in front of the Davenport house. “It’s been there since yesterday.”

  “No,” said Gladys. “I thought it was yours.”

  “The Trans Am’s windows are down. It’s getting wet,” said Martha. “We’ll soon see who owns it.”

  They waited. Nobody came.

  “That settles it,” said Gladys. “It’s stolen. Someone probably dumped it when they ran out of gas.”

  “Stolen? This neighborhood?” said Martha.

  “Oh, sure,” said Gladys. “We live in a grid.”

  “Grid?” asked Jim.

  “All the streets are straight east-west and north-south like a chessboard. Easy in, easy out from the city’s arteries. Criminals prefer to duck into grid neighborhoods. They avoid winding streets where they get turned around or lost or end up on a dead end. Living on a grid street puts us a whole lot closer to Tampa’s scumbag element than we’d like to admit. Stolen cars get dumped here all the time. If I ever get rich, I’m moving into a serpentine neighborhood.”

  “I’m calling the police,” said Martha. She ran down to the street, got the tag number and ran inside the house.

  Martha came back out. “You were right. It’s stolen. Police are sending a tow truck.”

  “The rain stopped,” said Gladys.

  “Evening!”

  They turned and saw a smiling man in front of the porch, covered with chicken-wire scrapes.

  “Been meaning to introduce myself. You know how it is. Work, work, work.” He walked up the steps and stuck out his hand. “I’m your new neighbor. Serge. Serge Storms.”

  They all shook hands.

  “Great neighborhood you have here. Mind if I have a seat?”

  They reluctantly scooted over on the swing to make room.

  “Yes, sir. Great place to raise kids. Not like some other places I’ve lived. I firmly believe neighbors have an obligation to each other. I mean, who can you really turn to in this unpredictable world? That’s right, your neighbors!…”

  Gladys nodded, but Martha and Jim leaned away.

  “You know what makes this place so special?” asked Serge. “Front porches! It’s because most of the homes are so old. They’re pre-Levittown. That’s where the trouble started if you ask me. The suburbs. Parade magazine examined the phenomenon. None of the houses had front porches. Instead, the focus shifted to the backyards, which they fenced off, shutting out their neighbors. Pretty soon, nobody knew anyone anymore. They turned inward and became self-absorbed, sacrificing the fabric of the community on a hibachi altar. But now there’s talk of a new re-urbanization movement, and you know what? It smells like hope!”

  A ’76 Laguna screeched up the curb. The shirtless tattooed man in the driver’s seat looked at the Davenport residence and leaned on the horn.

  The front door flew open. Debbie ran down the porch steps and across the yard.

  “Debbie, where are you going?” yelled Martha, standing up. “Who is that guy?”

  Debbie jumped in the Laguna.

  “I forbid you to go,” yelled Martha. “Do you know what your father’s been through today?”

  The Laguna peeled out. Martha sat down.

  “Wow!” said Serge. “I’d be completely freaked out if I was her parent! I know some guys like that. They’re up to stuff you don’t even want to know about. It would turn your hair white!”

  Eight-year-old Melvin came out the front door wearing a baseball cap and carrying a glove and ball. He was a little small for his age, and the cap floated around his head.

  “Who’s this?” Serge asked cheerfully.

  “Melvin,” said Melvin. He tugged his dad’s shirt. “Can we play catch?”

  Serge jumped off the swing. “May I?”

>   Jim was still shaken from the day’s events. He spoke quietly in a tired voice. “It’s not necessary.”

  “It’s the least,” said Serge. “You know what they say—‘It takes a village.’”

  “I—”

  “C’mon, Melvin,” said Serge. “I’ll teach you a spitball.” The pair bounded down off the porch into the front yard.

  “Shouldn’t we do something?” asked Martha.

  “He’s just trying to be neighborly.”

  “I’m not sure,” she said, “but I think there’s something wrong with that man.”

  “They’re playing harmlessly.”

  Serge rolled Melvin a grounder. “Always remember, baseball is a vicious game of intimidation. Sometimes you have to throw a little chin music.”

  Across the street, a professional landscaping crew relaid six pallets of St. Augustine sod in Jack Terrier’s front yard. A red Ford Excursion drove up the street and turned into the driveway. The Excursion’s passenger door opened and a tall boy got out wearing expensive baseball cleats. He was almost the size of a man but thinner, and he wore an immaculate home-white baseball uniform with black trim. Across the front of the jersey, in classic Yankees font: RAPTORS. On the back: BAY-WIDE DRY CLEANERS. ONE-HOUR MARTINIZING.

  The boy seemed too big for Little League, because he was. His dad had doctored his birth certificate. The youth looked across the street and sneered at Melvin. “We’re gonna murder you runts!”

  Jack walked over to his son. His own Raptor uniform said COACH across the back. He looked across the street with the same smirk. “You hear that, Davenport? We’re gonna murder you!”

  “Jim, is he talking to you?” asked Martha.

  “He’s just a little on the competitive side.”

  “I don’t think I like them talking to our family that way.”

  “You hear me, Davenport!” yelled Terrier. “You and that scrawny kid of yours—dead meat!”

  “You jerk!” Martha yelled, jumping up. “You, you—”

  Terrier smiled bigger. “You got some fight in ya, lady. More than I can say for your husband.”

  “Don’t you talk about my husband that way!”

  “Martha, please sit down,” said Jim. “It’s just trash talk. That’s what sports is about.”