by Tim Dorsey
“Will it include Danny Bonaduce?”
“Volume three hundred and twenty-four.”
“But how can you do a film on everything?”
“Spare batteries.”
“That’s it?”
“I’m also thinking of getting at least three more cameras that run continuously.” He held up the current unit. “This will be angle one, pointing forward with the viewfinder. Then I’ll have two waist-mounted cameras on a special belt, and finally a fourth in a sling on my back, aimed behind me, in case something important happens after I leave.”
Serge drained his coffee and turned off the camera. “My documentary on everything is complete.”
“Thought there were seven hundred volumes.”
“Flexibility is critical during production.” Serge ejected the tape from his camera. “The key to filmmaking is knowing what to leave out. That way you make the audience think, filling in gaps themselves and arguing about it on the way home.”
Coleman scraped out his bong and strolled over to the row of garbage bags.
“Been meaning to ask,” said Serge.
“The bags? I’m letting them age.”
“Silly question.”
“It’s all timing.” Coleman bent down and read adhesive labels he’d stuck on each: drugstore addresses and dates. “This one’s ready.”
Serge watched, puzzled, as Coleman carried it into the kitchen and dumped the contents on the table. “Let’s see what we’ve got…” He pawed through refuse. “Here’s something promising… here’s another… and another…”
“Prescription bags?”
“Three weeks old,” said Coleman. “Between the pharmacy counter and the front door, a lot of people just rip their sacks open, pocket the bottle of pills and toss the rest in the trash can outside the door. Then I make my rounds.”
“I’m guessing there’s a point, but I’ve been wrong before.”
Coleman held up one of the small paper bags. “See? Got all the information: patient’s name, medicine, day prescribed and, most crucial of all, any refills.”
Serge sat back at the table with amused attention.
“Of all people, I thought you’d figure it out by now,” said Coleman. “When was the last time they asked for ID picking up a prescription?”
“Never, but-”
“I calculate the pill quantity and dosage directions off the bag, then call a day or two before the person would normally order a refill.”
“What if the real customer’s already called? You’ll get caught.”
“Let me see your cell.”
Serge handed it over. Coleman dialed. He read the side of the bag, pressed a sequence of numbers and hung up.
Serge took the phone back. “What just happened?”
“Big chain stores now use automated phone refill systems. If the customer already called, you’d get a robot’s voice saying it’s too soon to refill. No harm, no foul.”
“I’m amazed at the level of thought,” said Serge. “And yet you still put your shoes on the wrong feet.”
Coleman looked down. “There’s a difference?”
Serge logged on to his laptop.
“Whatcha doin’?”
“Planning my next documentary. But not too hasty: This one must be stunningly insightful and redirect the flow of culture as we know it.”
“Why?”
“My Documentary on Everything set the bar prohibitively high. Reviewers unfairly hold that against you.”
Coleman pulled up a chair. He took off his shoes and switched them. “The pain’s gone.”
“It definitely has to be about Florida.” Serge surfed various history sites. “Just haven’t zeroed in on the specific topic.”
“Why does it have to be about Florida?”
“To set the record straight. Remember the highest-grossing movie ever filmed here?”
“You told me. Deep Throat.”
“Bingo. And the state’s bestselling documentary?”
Coleman shrugged.
“Girls Gone Wild: Spring Break.”
“Oh, yeah!” said Coleman. “Great plot!”
“Plot?”
“Get chicks drunk and have them make out with each other.”
“That’s your idea of a plot?”
“The best there is,” said Coleman. “Unless, of course, they can convince three-”
“That’s exploitative!” Serge tapped his way around the Internet. “I cannot idly stand by and allow that gooey stain to sully my home state’s fabric.”
“There’s a sequel,” said Coleman. “They have this hot tub-”
“Enough!” Tap, tap, tap. “Now I absolutely must make this film. But what subject? Calusa shell mounds? The eight ‘lost’ Florida parishes when the Panhandle used to extend to Louisiana? Tampa ’s Great Blizzard of 1899? Mosquito control through the ages?…”
Time flew. Coleman passed out at the table with his cheek on a wicker place mat.
“… Sports? Rail infrastructure? Osceola’s heartbreak? Our chief export behind citrus: fucking up national elections?…”
Coleman raised his head and looked around. “Am I here?”
“Why can’t I find the hook?” Tap, tap, tap…
Coleman drank from the open beer he discovered in his hand. “Just remembered. What about the horn-honker in your trunk? He’s been in there a day now.”
“That’s why I hung gerbil-pellet and water dispensers from the spare tire.” Tap, tap, tap…
“What are you doing?”
“Checking my in-box.”
“Wow, you really won the Irish lottery?”
“Coleman-”
“We’re rich!” He jumped up and broke into a Riverdance jig. “We’re rich! We’re rich! We’re-rich-we’re-rich-we’re-rich!…”
“Coleman-”
He plopped back down and wedged his head between Serge and the laptop. “How much did we win?”
“Nothing.”
“No, really?”
“I’m serious.”
“Nothing?” Coleman sat back in his chair. “Then why do the Irish buy the tickets?”
Serge scrolled down the screen, deleting more spam. He stopped.
“What’s this?”
“What?”
Serge opened the next junk e-mail: Online Pharmacy Spring Break Blowout! Quality meds without prescription!
“Coleman, it’s a sign from God!” Serge got up and pulled a suitcase from the closet. “That’s two references this afternoon, which can be no coincidence. I’ve just got my new documentary.”
“What’s the subject?”
“Serge and Coleman do spring break!”
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
Friday afternoon, last class of the week.
Gray sky. Gusting wind.
Students in bulky coats and parkas dragged luggage down snow-covered dormitory steps. Others with wool scarves up to their eyes pumped gas.
Madison, Wisconsin. Ice scraped off windshields. Portable stereos went in trunks.
Columbus, Ohio. Car heaters warmed. Traffic stacked up at red lights heading out of town.
The same scene across the northern tier of the country. Milwaukee, Chicago, East Lansing, Hartford. Everyone in the starting gate. Heading south, expressways, truss bridges, railroad yards, brick chimneys, leafless trees, frozen riverbanks.
Rear window paint:
FLORIDA OR B UST.
In Durham, three University of New Hampshire students loaded final bags into a station wagon with wood paneling.
“Hope you didn’t forget to make reservations like last time,” said the driver.
“No,” said another student, slamming the rear hatch. “Taken care of. Alligator Arms.”
“Sounds like a dump.”
“It’s cheap.”
The driver checked his watch. “Where is he? We have to get moving.”
“He doesn’t realize he’s going yet.”
“What?”
; “You know the guy. He’d never come on his own. And even if he did agree in advance, he’d back out at the last minute like he does for everything else.”
“Nobody told me about this.” The driver looked at his wrist again as a snowflake landed on the Timex. “It’s going to blow our schedule. Weather’s turning.”
“But he’s our friend. All that studying can’t be healthy. We owe it to him to show him some fun.”
“When do we break the good news?”
“When we find him.”
“You mean you don’t know where he is?”
“Sure I do. Somewhere studying.”
“This is already a disaster,” said the driver.
“It won’t kill us to do a good deed. I’m actually starting to worry about him.”
“You overthink shit.”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. The more I’m around him, the more I get this vibe.”
“What kind of vibe?”
“Like he’s trying to hide something.”
Chapter Seven
FLORIDA
A 1973 Dodge Challenger raced up the gulf coast on U.S. 19.
Coleman’s window was down, his head outside like a cocker spaniel. “Are the chicks from the videos going to be there?”
“By the thousand.”
“Cool!”
“Coleman, this is a serious documentary. We’re not interested in drunk babes flashing tits.”
“Serge, a space creature has taken control of your vocal cords.”
“Spring break is one of the most profound social influences Florida has given the rest of the nation. Because of our state, kids not only come here, but now flock to Mexico, the Lesser Antilles, even Colorado ski slopes. And it all started in a single swimming pool in 1935.”
Coleman hung farther out the window. “Show me your tits!”
“Dude, get a grip. There’s nobody around.”
“Spring break! Wooooooo! I’m Gertrude Schwartz!…”
Serge pulled him back inside by his belt. “Coleman, that’s seriously ripped, even for you.”
Saliva began stringing from Coleman’s mouth, pooling on his stomach.
Serge passed a Kleenex from his door organizer. “Thought you had that problem mastered.”
Coleman placed the tissue on his chest like a bib and handed Serge a dark-orange safety bottle.
Serge read the label: GERTRUDE SCHWARTZ. Then the contents. “Coleman, this is one of the most powerful narcotics known to man. How’d you get it? You’re not a woman.”
“Dfjoiakl-said I was her son- msdffkdsflsd…”
An hour later, Coleman’s head lolled on its neck swivel. “Serge, someone messed with that highway sign. Says we’re going north.”
“We are going north.”
“Who drives north for spring break?”
“People who want to travel back in time.”
“I thought we were heading to a beach.”
“We are. But time travel is the structure of my award-hoarding documentary,” said Serge. “ Florida ’s always had a love-hate relationship with spring break. First a community wants the money and rolls out the red carpet. Then they get rich and weary of hotel damage- ‘Yo, students: Thanks for the cash, now scram!’-deploying police harassment. So another city with a lesser economy says, ‘Hey, kids, why put up with that crap? We’ll treat you right.’ Then that place prospers and asks, ‘Why do we have to put up with this crap? Get ’em out of here!’ And so on.”
“How many times has it happened?”
“The history of spring break in Florida can be divided into three distinct epochs: Panama City Beach, the current party mecca; Day-tona Beach, which ruled the late eighties and nineties; and Fort Lauderdale, where it all began.”
“So we’re going to…?”
“ Panama City. I’m working my way back through time.”
“I thought this was about Florida.”
“What are you talking about? It is Florida. The Panhandle.“
Coleman tapped an ash out the window.”Then why’s it called Panama?”
“A rare relevant question. The city’s original developer, George West, bestowed the name because if you draw a line from Chicago to the Panama Canal, it runs through there.”
“That’s fucked-up… Serge, I see fish with nipples.”
“Weeki Wachee, home of the famous mermaid shows and one of the first roadside attractions in the state.”
“Real mermaids?”
“I wish. They just wear costumes and breathe from special tubes hidden in underwater rocks. Tourists watch from below-ground grandstands through giant windows… And from the only-in-Florida file, a classic newspaper photo three decades ago of mermaids on strike in full uniform, picketing along the side of the highway.”
A billboard went by: SWIMMING OUR TAILS OFF SINCE 1947.
“You aren’t stopping,” said Coleman. “You always stop.”
“Not this place.” Serge shot photos out the window without slowing. “My mug shot’s probably posted in their ticket booths on the no-fly list. And just because I dove in the pool during one of the shows in a selfless attempt to save the attraction. Who knew they had big capture nets?”
“How were you trying to save it?”
“By spicing up their act as the Creature from the Black Lagoon-1954, filmed in Florida -which is why I dragged that mermaid to the bottom, but then I forgot which rock had the breathing tubes.”
“What happened?”
“Reached the surface just in time, but no thank-you, only another ‘We’re calling the police.’ That’s usually a good time for lunch. On the bright side, a disgruntled mermaid with Broadway aspirations chased me across the parking lot and asked for a lift. Hit it off right away. And the sex!”
“You had mermaid sex?”
“Around the clock. Name was Crystal, like the river. Barely left the motel room for a week, but finally had to slow down when I started walking bowlegged. Then we broke up.”
“Why’d you break up with a mermaid?”
“Other way around. You know how women are? Mermaids are even worse. Started getting pissed that I always insisted she wear the costume to bed. Accused me of really being in love with it instead of her. I said, ‘Is that a problem?’ When chicks decide they’re leaving you, they really fly. At least I got to keep the suit.”
“Did you try it on?”
“Of course. How often do you get the chance? Except those things are pretty binding, and I had to cut a long slit in the tail to go shopping, but it turned out the stores didn’t want my business anyway.”
Onward. North.
Flea markets, RV parks, drive-through liquor barn, civil war reen-actment, sign beside a house selling Peg-Boards, direct-to-you outlets of preformed pools tipped up toward traffic. Sun umbrellas shaded roadside squatters hawking fresh produce, Tupelo honey, jumbo shrimp, salted mullet… Into Citrus County. Homosassa city limits. Serge jumped the curb and dashed into a visitors’ center.
Coleman ran after him. “Serge? Serge, where are you?…” Peeking through doors. “Serge?… There you are.” He looked around. “What is this place?”
A digital camera flashed nonstop. “The Florida Room at Homo-sassa Springs Wildlife State Park. Exhibit honoring my favorite artist, Winslow Homer.” Sprinting around the room, flash, flash, flash. “Painted these watercolors of local nature during vacation in 1904. And look! Here’s a page of the guest register he signed at the Homo-sassa Lodge!” Flash. “I could stay here forever! Back to the car!”
Farther north, Crystal River, swim-with-the-manatees country. Tour boats and dive specials and viewing platforms. Red-white-and-blue manatee statue in front of city hall.
“Coleman, did you know that hundreds of years ago, manatees were thought to be mermaids?”
“By who?”
“Pirates at sea too long.” Bang, bang, bang.
Coleman turned around. “I think the guy in the trunk wants something.”
“G
erbil dispensers are probably empty.”
MIAMI
People in smartly pressed suits came and went through a high-security gate.
Inside the utilitarian government building, an anthill of movement and efficient activity. Phones rang, reports filed.
CNN was on. A repeat of the breaking story on the missing college student found alive in Massachusetts.
A case agent named Ramirez looked up at the TV.
Patrick McKenna’s face filled the screen.
“… I don’t feel like a hero…”
Agent Ramirez closed his eyes. “Oh, no.”
NORTH FLORIDA
A ’73 Challenger entered Levy County.
The tiny hamlet of Inglis. REDUCED S PEED A HEAD. Serge tried to time a stoplight but lost.
He punched the steering wheel. “Life drains from my body at red lights!”
Coleman popped a can. “I use them to drink beer. Green lights, too.”
“Come on! Come on!…” He began unscrewing a thermos. “Hold the phone. I can’t believe it!”
“What?”
Serge pointed up next to the traffic light, where a green-and-white sign marked the cross street.
Coleman squinted. “Follow That Dream Parkway?”
“It’s a sign.”
“Yeah, metal. See them all over the roads.”
“No, I mean a religious one. God wanted that light to turn red, like a burning bush. From now on, I’ll never question the apparitions of the red lights.”
“What are you going to do?”
Serge hit the left blinker as the light turned green. “Follow that dream!”
The Challenger skidded around the corner. “There’s the chamber of commerce. They’ll have answers.” He pulled into the parking lot.
“Serge, it’s closed.”
“What the hell? The economy doesn’t stop on Sunday.”
Coleman burped. “Back there, I saw a-”
“Not now.” Serge grabbed his camera. “Maybe I can find answers through the office window with my zoom lens.”
“But, Serge-”
He was out of the car. He came back.