by Tim Dorsey
The Chevelle ramped up the bridge over Tampa Bay.
Serge glanced as the young girl tapped her cell phone. “Nicole, what are you doing?”
“Texting.” Tap, tap, tap.
“But I’m talking to you.”
Not looking up: “I hear you.” Tap, tap, tap.
Serge yanked the phone away.
“Hey!”
“It’s rude,” said Serge.
“Everybody does it.”
“And that’s the whole problem with this country today. No manners.” Serge unscrewed a thermos of coffee. “People used to hang out and actually communicate. But today they head to the mall and sit together at the Yogurt A Go-Go in their own separate spheres of mobile devices.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s destroying the art of conversation!” said Serge. “I love conversations!”
“Why?”
“Because we’re all crazy!” said Serge. “And that’s how society makes progress: imaginations getting together and glancing off each other in accidental tangents of invention.”
“That sounds crazy,” said Nicole.
“Think about it.” Serge chugged from his coffee thermos. “We all know how schizophrenics talk from our time on the streets interacting with the underpass community, and we’re thinking, ‘Jesus, I’m glad I’m not like this loopy guy jabbering about time travel, drone aircrafts, and guilt-free dog treats.’ . . . But that’s only because we’re not aware of how our own conversations sound because we’re inside them. It’s like you don’t know your own voice unless you have a tape recorder. And if you did have a tape recorder, and recorded a hundred different conversations in a restaurant, where people at leisure have no agenda other than to enjoy each other’s company, the chitchat is all over the road, jumping from topic to topic until it’s miles from where it began, which nobody can remember. In movies, the talk is a logical straight line, moving plot from A to B. But in real life, it starts with the weather, then office gossip, vacation plans, childhood mishaps, a funny story about a trombone, the benefits of testing batteries with your tongue, why Esperanto never took off, what about Morey Amsterdam?—the heartbreak of psoriasis, the trouble with Tribbles, the thrill is gone, fashion disasters throughout history, turtle migration, my bologna has a first name, you’re soaking in Palmolive, then suddenly Einstein blurts out something about the decay of matter and, boom, Nagasaki . . . So how ’bout it?” Serge looked over at Nicole. “Want to try a real human conversation where people actually listen? I’ll go first: the Ice Age. Your thoughts?”
“I want my cell phone back.”
Serge’s head fell back with a sigh. “Okay, then I want to talk about Snake.”
“What about him?”
“You two were making out at the curb in front of your house.”
“So what?”
“He was being very disrespectful to your parents.” Serge wagged a finger. “The kind of man you deserve would walk you to the door and greet your mother and father.”
“How do you know my parents, anyway?”
“Me and Jim go way back, through thick and thin.”
“I heard some of the stories when I wasn’t supposed to. My mom really hates you.”
“Because she doesn’t understand me. But she’s a good woman, and you need to show her gratitude.”
“I’m just surprised you and my dad are friends.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you guys are cool. You’re not afraid of anything.” Nicole looked out across the passing water. “And my dad is, you know, a little on the wimpy side.”
Serge hit the brakes with both feet. A long, tire-screeching stop at the top of the bridge. He turned to Nicole with a mask of rage she had never seen before. “Jim is not wimpy!”
Nicole retreated as far as she could and sank against the passenger door.
“Your dad is one of the most courageous people I know! You think guns and liquor and dope and an excellent car is cool? Well, it is. But your dad has chosen to take on responsibilities I could never dream of . . .”
Car horns blared behind them. Coleman stuck his arm out the window with a beer in his hand, waving in a “go around” motion.
“ . . . There’s a war against women going on!” yelled Serge. “Not political. Just men. And your dad has dedicated his life to protect you and your mother from all of them. Next to that, I’m the wimp! . . . Do . . . you . . . understand . . . little . . . girl!”
“Okay, okay, yes. Jesus, I didn’t realize you two were so close.”
“He’s my hero. I want to be just like him.”
“Really?”
Serge nodded. “Sorry about freaking you out there for a minute, but I’m sensitive about this.”
Nicole’s breathing was coming back down. “No biggie.”
“I’ll make you a deal,” said Serge. “Jim needs your help and love in his struggle. Do me a favor and show him respect.”
“Why not?”
“That’s better.”
“But you said a deal,” countered Nicole. “What do I get?”
“Back at the house, I heard something about you wanting a tattoo?”
“Oh man, my mom will really hate you.”
“No, she won’t. I know how to handle women like her.” Serge hit the gas again. “You leave that to me.”
“I don’t think you really know my mom. She’ll go ape.”
“It’s all about the art of conflict. Most people go in headfirst.” Serge made a skirting gesture with his right hand. “Whereas I outflank.”
“You’re going to sneak up on my mom?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Serge took another swig from his coffee thermos. “Give you an example: the Positive Protest.”
“Positive?”
“Say you’ve got some kind of protest group that wants concessions from the powers that be. But the conflict is going nowhere. So the only option is to take to the streets, creating a massive public disturbance of anarchy that brings the city to its knees. Except for some reason, the city is the only one with a riot squad. Don’t ask why, it’s just the way they set it up at the beginning. And they come storming in with shields and helmets and batons, sweeping you off the pavement like autumn leaves.”
“I’ve seen it on TV.”
“That’s where they all go wrong. If I was in charge of the mob, I’d stage a Positive Protest. And when the shock troops start goose-stepping in with the tear gas, you begin waving signs and yelling slogans demanding higher police salaries. Then their bullhorns blare for you to disperse, and you say you totally agree with what they’re asking, and it’s a shame that the people who have to make you disperse don’t receive better benefits and pensions—and that your group will vote en masse for any politician who jacks up their compensation. The riot team can do nothing but stand mute. I’m dying to try it out! Except I don’t have a cause yet . . . I could always phone in my grievances later . . .”
“What’s that got to do with my tattoo?”
“You’ll see when we get there.” Serge passed the dog track and pulled into a strip mall. “Because of your age, you’ll need parental consent. That’s me; they never check. Plus I know this guy.”
“Wow, you’re really going to help me get a tattoo. That’s so cool.”
TRIGGERFISH LANE
The front door opened.
Martha came racing out of the kitchen. “Where on earth have you been?”
“Out.” Nicole walked by with a sullen expression.
“I want more of an answer than that,” said Martha. “Did they hurt you?”
“Don’t be lame.”
As Nicole left the living room, Martha happened to glance down below the small of her daughter’s back. A tiny bit of ink peeked out above the waistband of her shorts. An audible gasp. “A tattoo! . . . Jim, come quick; it’s Nicole! It’s an emergency!”
Jim ran out of the den. “What’s the matter? Is she okay?”
&nb
sp; “She got a tattoo.”
“I thought she needed parental permission to get one.”
“She’s got one.”
“What is it?”
“Does it matter?” Martha stomped down the hall to a closed bedroom door. She tried the knob. Locked. Pounded with fists. “Open the door this instant! You’re in so much trouble!”
The door didn’t open. Thumping rock music inside. Joan Jett.
“ . . . Hello Daddy, hello Mom, I’m your ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb . . .”
Martha turned. “Jim?”
“What? Kick the door in?”
“No, get a key.” Martha kept pounding.
“Where’s the key?”
“I don’t know.” More pounding. “Try the junk drawer.”
“I’ll go look.”
Before he could leave, the door opened. “What’s all the racket out here?”
“ . . . Don’t give a damn ’bout my bad reputation . . .”
“You got a tattoo!”
“So?”
“We forbid you! And we didn’t give any permission!”
Nicole shrugged. “Serge got it for me. He’s really cool.”
“Serge!” snapped Martha. She began strangling something invisible in midair. “I’ll kill him. He disfigured our daughter!”
“You’re such a drama queen,” said Nicole.
“Turn around immediately!” said Martha. “I want to see what that monster did to you!”
“No!”
Martha looked sideways. “Jim!”
“Nicole,” said her father. “Turn around.”
The teen opened her mouth. But then remembered her promise to Serge. “Okay, Dad.”
She turned around, lifting her shirt and pulling the waistband down an inch.
The parents leaned in for a close inspection.
There it was, just below the tan line. A word in feminine cursive script:
Family.
Nicole dropped her shirt and turned around to face them again. “Satisfied?”
Her parents stood mute.
“Serge also told me to be more grateful for you guys. Whatever.”
Nicole went back in her room and closed the door.
Chapter Five
THE NEXT DAY
Coleman burped. “Look at this line.” He stuck his head around the side in an attempt to see the front. “It’s like Disney.”
“Maybe longer,” said Serge, licking a stamp.
“We drove like forever to get here, and now . . . where are we? This is the middle of nowhere.”
“Twenty miles east of Orlando to be exact.”
Coleman strained his neck for a view of the counter. “But what’s the point?”
“Because Florida doesn’t get snow, we have a chronic inferiority complex when it comes to Christmas.” Serge handed Coleman a stamp. “So we overcompensate: Santa Claus on water skis, on Jet Skis, on surfboards, Christmas cards with barefoot Santas in beach chairs drinking beer, inflatable snowmen, reindeer in tropical shirts, town celebrations where they bring in special machines that shred ice and blow out fake snow that melts immediately and makes the children cry . . . But this place just might be the weirdest.”
“What is it?”
“The post office in the city of Christmas, Florida, where thousands descend each year to get their holiday cards postmarked. It’s the best tradition we got, so fuck it, I’m rodeo-riding this cultural mutation.”
“Why’s it called Christmas?” Coleman licked his own stamp. “They have a big celebration way back or something?”
“No,” said Serge. “On the twenty-fifth of December, 1837, they began construction of Fort Christmas to fight the Second Seminole War. Nothing says the ‘Prince of Peace’ like a military installation.”
“Who are we mailing your card to?”
“Me,” said Serge. “It’s got a bitchin’ cool Florida postmark. I tried to think who might appreciate it more but drew a blank.”
Coleman looked at his own envelope. “Mine’s addressed to me, also.”
“I did that.”
“But when I open this, there’ll be no surprise.”
“You won’t remember,” said Serge.
“What’s this address, anyway?”
“You’ll find out after we drive back to Tampa.” Serge used the envelope to fan himself in the heat. “A lot of people will be surprised.”
TAMPA
Jim Davenport packed a fake-leather briefcase. “Sure feels good to be back on Triggerfish Lane.”
“It’s not like we had a choice,” said Martha. “We were upside down on the house.”
Jim shuffled papers into a file. “The economy hit everyone. We came out better than most.”
“I liked Davis Islands better.” Martha cradled a large mixing bowl and stirred. “This just doesn’t feel . . . as safe.”
Jim snapped the latches shut on his briefcase. “This neighborhood’s perfectly safe. Kids play in the street, neighbors know each other . . .”
Martha stopped stirring. “And remember what happened last time we lived here?”
“So there was a little crime.” Jim grabbed the handle of his attaché. “We also had our problems on the island.”
Stirring again. “Where are you off to?”
“Work.”
“It’s one in the afternoon.”
“You know my job has odd hours.” He gave her a quick kiss. “I won’t be back for dinner.”
“I’ll cover a plate in the fridge.”
“Love you . . .”
Jim indeed worked strange hours. And it was true the Davenports had fared the economic downturn better than most. Those two facts went hand in hand. There are opportunities in even the worst economies. Jim had caught one.
He was a consultant.
His company was called Sunshine Solutions, and his specialty was everything. Didn’t matter the industry—manufacturing, hospitality, transportation—Jim got all the biggest accounts.
Not because he had broad experience. He actually knew squat about most of the accounts. In fact, he seemed like the most ill-suited person to offer any kind of advice whatsoever. Which is why he was perfect.
“You’re perfect,” said the executive who hired him after his interview. “Here’s your first account.”
“But I don’t know anything about hospital administration.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Then how am I supposed to consult?”
“You’re not,” said the exec. “We’re in the consulting business. We don’t consult.”
“What do we do?”
“Fire people. It’s what our clients pay us for. When heads need to roll, they want the ax in the hands of someone who doesn’t work in the building and nobody’s seen before.”
Jim sat puzzled. “Why?”
“Because fired people get pissed off. Some even start shooting. I’m sure you’ve seen the headlines.” The executive came around and sat casually against the front corner of his desk. “Who needs that kind of shit in their lives?”
“So I’m getting paid to have people shoot at me?”
The executive waved dismissively and walked back around his desk. “Probably never happen. Most of the shooters have to go home to get their guns. By the time they get back, you’ll at least be able to make it to the parking lot, maybe the highway, if you’re lucky.”
“Sounds dangerous, especially if they realize I know nothing about their business and have no legitimate basis to fire them.”
“Oh, they’ll definitely realize that. It’s part of the plan.”
“Plan?”
“Most of the firings are unjust anyway, merely to dazzle Wall Street by cutting operating costs in the portfolio and making top management rich from stock options. So if these employees are given walking papers by some consultant who wouldn’t last a day in their mail room, it shifts blame for the injustice—and the direction of the gun barrel.”
“But why me?”
&n
bsp; “Because you’re non-confrontational.” The executive opened a file and removed a computer scan sheet with little ovals filled in with a number-two pencil. “The psychological test when you applied.” He leaned back in his desk chair and held the sheet toward a ceiling light. “In all our years, we’ve never seen anyone score so high in conflict avoidance.”
“I don’t think I agree with what this company—”
“You’re wrong!”
“Okay . . .”
“That’s the spirit.”
So Jim hopscotched from Clearwater to St. Petersburg to Sarasota, firing people and apologizing that it was the wrong thing to do. Then the economy picked up, and the demand to fire people dropped, so his consulting company hired another consulting company, which fired Jim.
A decade passed. The economy tanked again. Jim was back in business.
On this particular day in December, Jim took Interstate 4 out to a distribution warehouse in Lakeland, just east of Tampa.
The company gave Jim a temporary office close to the parking lot.
A knock on the door.
Jim waved the person in through the glass. The employee stuck his head inside. “They told me to see you?”
Jim gestured with an upturned palm. “Have a seat.” He faced the employee with an expression like his dog had died. “I’m afraid I have some bad news . . .”
Five minutes later:
“You’re firing me a week before Christmas!”
“I know.” Jim looked down at the desk. “It’s very wrong.”
“You don’t know shit about this business, do you?”
“Not really.”
“Then how is this fair?”
“It’s not.”
“I’ll bet your name isn’t even Jensen Beach. They’re keeping your actual name a secret to protect you from retaliation.”
“You’re right.”
“Well, I’m going to find out what it really is!” The employee got up and went to the door. “How do you sleep at night, motherfucker?”
The door slammed.
Jim hopped up, grabbed his briefcase, and walked swiftly to where a security guard was holding open a side door to the parking lot. “We moved your car closer. Hurry . . .”
Jim half walked, half trotted to his car. He stuck a key in the door.
From behind: “There you are!”