by Tim Dorsey
Serge looked at Coleman another moment, then back at the road. “I was just trying to say sunrises are pretty.”
“So where is this big sale, anyway?”
“Mega Deals.”
“You mean that giant place that sells electronics and video games super cheap?”
“That’s right,” said Serge. “They’re selling the first one hundred Play-Box Fours for ninety-nine dollars. Whatever happened to real toys? Or just running around the woods with sticks. But today, kids asks Santa for a fortune in swag. What did you used to ask Santa for?”
Coleman exhaled a hit out the window. “Nothing.”
“How could you ask for nothing?”
“Because I was whining and kicking the whole time. The whole business of tossing a kid in some weirdo’s lap creeped me out.”
“One year I only asked for two things, because they were the things I really needed,” said Serge. “Keep it simple so there wouldn’t be any screwup.”
“Needed?”
“Frosty the Snowcone Machine and the Matchbox car suitcase.”
“What for?”
“Survival. It was 1965, and we’d just ridden out Hurricane Betsy.” Serge joined a long line of traffic with blinkers turning into an enormous parking lot. “Guess it scarred me. It was a different time back then: People didn’t evacuate like they do now, just like they also didn’t wear seat belts and sold candy cigarettes to children. I was afraid my family and the neighbors might be wiped out by another storm or nuclear attack—they were still talking about that on TV at the time because the Cuban Missile Crisis was only three years earlier—and I’d have to survive on my own. I really sweated out those last months till Christmas. And that Christmas morning was more relief than joy. I’m like, ‘Whew! Now I can survive.’ I got the snowcone machine. You can get ice anywhere, and the machine came with flavor packets, so I’ll be able to eat, and I ripped the dividers out of the Matchbox case and filled it with clothes and a toothbrush, and hid it under my bed for emergency departure. And before dark every night, I made sure my tricycle was pointed out of the driveway. Then I’d conduct drills each week, racing from the house and throwing the little suitcase and Frosty in the tricycle’s basket and take off up the sidewalk. My folks later told me they’d stand in the window, thinking, ‘Look at that intense expression on his face. And look at him pedal! It’s almost like his life depends on it.’ ”
“You always have a plan.”
“But the one thing I don’t have is the Christmas memory I want most. I’ve never seen snow, not on December twenty-fifth or any other day. People find that outlandish, but among us who have lived our entire lives in Florida, it’s actually quite common. And I even had my chance once. On January twentieth, 1977, there was like a super-rare two-hundred-year storm event, and it happened in my lifetime. It snowed all the way down to Miami Beach. Just tiny flurries and no accumulation, but it was snow, and the Miami Herald ran headlines like when man landed on the moon. Except I was inside or something and I missed it! . . . I’d give anything to see snow.”
“Look!” said Coleman. “There must be a thousand people outside that store!”
“Speaking of which . . .” Serge pulled into a parking slot that seemed like a mile away. “You ready for this one? We’re taking Christmas big!”
Coleman pushed his elf hat on tight. “Let’s rock.”
They got out, walked to the back of the Chevelle, and popped the trunk. A third elf, bound and gagged, squirmed like a caterpillar. Serge grabbed the edge of the duct tape across the man’s mouth. “Sleep well last night?” Then ripped the tape off, prompting a verbal deluge.
“Oh, please don’t hurt me! I wasn’t going to do anything to that woman! I swear! I’ll do anything you want! Please don’t hurt me!”
“Of course we won’t hurt you,” said Serge, producing a hypodermic needle from a shaving kit.
“W-w-what’s that for?” asked the captive.
“Fun, fun, fun! . . . Coleman, where would a junkie inject? I wouldn’t want to leave the false impression of foul play.”
Coleman tapped the inside of the man’s left arm. “That vein there.”
Serge held the syringe upright, delicately pressing the plunger with his thumb until a bead of liquid dripped off the tip of the needle, then he stuck it where Coleman showed him and emptied half the chamber.
The hostage raised his head. “What was in that . . . ?” The sentence trailed off into merry humming.
“What was in that?” asked Coleman.
“Liquid Valium. I smashed up some of your pills.”
“Serge!”
“Consider it your contribution to the War on Christmas.” Serge grabbed an arm. “Now let’s get him out of the trunk.”
They got their captive upright and began guiding him slowly across the parking lot.
“Serge,” said Coleman. “He’s got spaghetti legs.”
“Just don’t let go.”
The man continued humming and looked at Coleman with a hapless smile. “You have a funny hat.”
They eventually finished traversing the parking lot.
“The crowd’s even bigger than I thought!” said Coleman. “And we’re way in the back. We’ll never get in.”
“Yes, we will.”
“I don’t see how? They’re packed like sardines.”
“You underestimate the power of the Christmas spirit. Just don’t let go of him . . .” Serge raised his chin and his voice. “Elves coming through! Elves coming through! . . .”
The crowd magically parted, then closed back up behind them after they had passed.
“Serge, it’s working.”
“Elves here! Elves at work! . . .”
The trio reached the front of the crowd, which sandwiched them against the store’s locked doors. Coleman’s nose and cheek flattened against the glass. “These people are really pushing!”
“They must seriously want those Play-Boxes.” Serge needed to check his wristwatch, and struggled to get his arm up to his face like he was in a straitjacket. “I have a minute to nine. And here comes the manager with the key. Just remember what I told you.”
“My face is getting numb.”
Just as the manager reached the door and began inserting his key:
“Excuse me!” Serge shouted back at the crowd. “I’m the head elf at this store, and it is with deep regret that I must inform you we don’t quite have one hundred Play-Boxes . . .” Serge paced his words as he watched the manager’s key in slow motion. The lock clicked free. “We only have ten!”
Doors flew open and the mob charged.
The three elves were carried inside like surfers riding a wave, and it didn’t stop until Serge and Coleman fell off the left side of the wave near car audio.
Coleman got up and brushed dust from his felt stomach. “That was a rush . . . Sorry about losing my hat.”
“We lost something else,” said Serge, standing on tiptoes and craning his neck.
“Where’d he go?” asked Coleman.
“Probably wants a Play-Box. Let’s check out the DVDs.”
THE NEXT DAY
Bayshore Manors.
A low-rise residential complex tucked between the towering condos along Tampa’s Bayshore Boulevard.
It advertised an “active retirement lifestyle,” but it was more of a rest home.
Occupants sat around the dayroom. The sole TV was playing The View.
A ninety-two-year-old woman shuffled across the terrazzo floor in slippers. She glanced around, concealing something inside her nightgown.
Three women about the same age waited on a sofa.
“Did you get it?” asked Edith.
Eunice looked back over her shoulder and nodded, then pulled a bottle from her nightgown. “Absolut. I bribed one of the therapists.”
“I got the eggnog mix,” said Ethel.
“Pour that shit,” said Edna. “And don’t be stingy.”
Everyone got their serving, and E
unice stuffed the bottle between sofa cushions. They settled in.
Edith grabbed a morning paper. “Listen to this: ‘Elf Trampled to Death in Holiday Sale Stampede.’ ”
“Every year the same headlines,” said Eunice.
Edna frowned at the television. “What’s happened to Barbara Walters?”
“I hate this show,” said Ethel.
“I hate this whole place,” said Edith.
“It’s not so bad.” Edna finished her glass. “Break out that bottle again.”
“It’s a terrible place,” Edith emphasized. “The kind of joint where they stick you when they won’t let you drive anymore.”
“You shouldn’t drive,” said Ethel. “Last time you went the wrong way on the interstate. The semi missed us by inches.”
“The traffic signs were confusing.”
“ ‘Do Not Enter,’ ” said Eunice. “Yeah, that’s a mystery for the ages.”
“I’m warning you!”
“Or what? You’ll spit up on me?”
“That’s it!” A cane came out.
“Girls! Girls!” said Edna, getting between them. “We shouldn’t be fighting with each other. We should be fighting them.”
“Who?” asked Eunice.
Edna nodded across the room, toward a small group of young women chatting next to their supervisor’s desk. “Our caregivers. Look at ’em so smug.”
“Always condescending,” said Ethel.
“And they always find our vodka,” said Edith.
“But what are you going to do?” Eunice poured another cup. “We’re practically prisoners here.”
“No we’re not,” said Edith.
“But they won’t let us drive anymore,” said Edna.
“So what? You’re not seeing the big picture. We’re now free to do whatever we feel. Instead, we’ve sat around bitching and moaning for the last six months.”
“What’s your point?”
“We’re not responsible for ourselves anymore. The possibilities are endless,” explained Edith. “We can do absolutely anything we want, and they’ll just chalk it up to our age and ailments.”
“Example?”
“Watch this: . . . Yoo-hoo!” She waved toward the caregivers’ station as if she needed something.
Two spritely young women walked across the room. The one on the left bent down and smiled like a kindergarten teacher. “And how may I help you today?”
Edith smiled back. “Go fuck yourself.”
The caregiver stood up and turned to her colleague. “Tourette’s.” They walked away.
Four women on the sofa snickered.
“Who’s in?” said Edith.
“For what?” asked Eunice.
“An adventure,” said Edith. “The world out there is our oyster.”
“But we can’t drive,” said Edna.
“They took away our licenses, not our hands and feet.”
“But we’ll get in trouble.”
“They’ll just bring us back.”
“So what’s your plan?” asked Ethel.
“I know where they keep the keys to the shuttle bus.”
“Let’s do it,” said Eunice.
“Grab the vodka,” said Edith. “We’re blowing this Popsicle stand.”
Chapter Fourteen
TRIGGERFISH LANE
Two men in green outfits stood on the corner.
Cars automatically hit the brakes as they approached the intersection.
“You’re right,” said Coleman. “They’re actually slowing down.”
“Told you,” said Serge. “Every year there’s newspaper stories of cops who dress up as holiday characters to catch speeders. So I figured since we already have the costumes, and these assholes drive way too fast in a neighborhood full of kids . . .”
“That doesn’t look like a radar gun.”
“It’s not,” said Serge, aiming at another car that slammed the brakes. “It’s just a black caulking gun from Home Depot.”
“Wouldn’t a hair dryer work better?” asked Coleman. “Why not use that instead of a caulking gun?”
“Because I don’t want to look foolish.”
Coleman watched another driver slam on the brakes. “You sure we won’t get in trouble doing this?”
“There’s no law against standing on a street corner dressed like an elf and pointing caulking guns at traffic. That’s the whole problem with the general population: They’re blind to the obvious possibilities.”
“But isn’t it against the law to impersonate police officers?”
“I’d say the elf suits are a good defense that we’re making a strong effort not to look like cops.”
“But you said they dress up like holiday characters to catch speeders.”
“That’s right.” Serge aimed the caulking gun at an approaching car. “It’s the police who are impersonating elves. We’re the ones who should have the beef.”
Crash!
“Serge.” Coleman pointed at steam shooting out from under a hood. “That guy hit the brakes when he saw your caulking gun, and the other guy rear-ended him.”
The drivers were out of their cars, cursing each other in the street. Just about to come to blows.
“Everybody just calm down!” yelled Serge, running into the road. “You were speeding, and you were following too close. But since it’s so close to Christmas, I’m going to let you off with a warning.” He began walking away.
One of the motorists: “Thank you, officer.”
“Oh, I’m not a police officer,” said Serge. “Just a concerned elf with a caulking gun. Please drive safely.”
They went back to the house.
An hour later, electrical cords crisscrossed the lawn.
Serge stood at the top of a ladder, one step above where the warning label said not to step above. “Coleman, hand me another string of lights.”
“I’m tired.”
“Just hand ’em!”
Coleman grudgingly complied, reaching into an enormous box at his feet. “You bought twenty cases of lights. It filled the whole car and trunk, and I had to sit with the last box in my lap.”
“This is going to be the best display in the whole city! . . . Give me another string.”
Coleman handed it up. “But why do we have to go through all this work if we’re just going to take it all down in a couple weeks?”
“Because that’s the true meaning of Christmas. Running up the December electric bill.” Serge draped another strand over a palm frond.
“How much more do we have to do?”
“Almost finished.” Serge jumped down from the ladder. “We covered all the shrubs, and the roof, and palm trees, and garbage cans, and the pile of yard waste, and the broken washing machine we rolled down to the curb. And just in time because it’s starting to get dark. I can’t wait to turn it all on and win total respect from the street.”
“What about that giant display on the next block with the inflatable snowman and life-size reindeer?”
“That guy’s obsessive. The street will just think he’s weird like the people who fill their yards with birdbaths and Roman statuary.”
“Serge, the sun’s almost down and you have four cases left. I don’t think we’re going to make it.”
“I will if you don’t slow me down.” Serge tore open a cardboard flap. “Here, take some lights from this case and make your own decoration.”
“Where?”
“The blank spot on the wall next to the front windows. Use this special tape.”
Serge resumed with accelerated motion, frantically festooning case after case. Coleman slowly taped up a few strings of his own lights.
A half hour later, they finished at the same time. Serge beamed with pride. “There! Now, to set the whole neighborhood ablaze with good cheer!”
He grabbed the main power supply cable from the house, ready to plug it into the primary string of lights. “Countdown! Five, four, three, two, one—”
A sc
reech of tires. A GTX with gold rims skidded up to the curb in front of the Davenport residence.
Serge squinted and growled.
Inside the car, heavy necking.
“Wow,” said Coleman. “They’re really going at it.”
“Mr. Snake is getting on my last nerve. Nicole is just a kid.”
“They’re going at it even more.”
Serge stepped forward for a better view. “That’s too much activity for making out. Something’s not right.”
“Maybe they’re doing it.”
“Shut up, Coleman.”
From the car: “Stop! Let go of me! I said stop! . . .”
“Look,” said Coleman. “He’s grabbing her wrists. Now she’s screaming bloody murder.”
“Motherfucker!” Serge was ready to blast into a sprint.
Coleman became puzzled. “Why are you stopping?”
“Over there.” Serge pointed. “The front door opened. Jim’s running down to the street. It will be better in Nicole’s eyes if her father rescues her.”
The screaming brought other neighbors out onto their porches, just in time to see Jim reach the car. He opened the passenger door and pulled Nicole free. They both tumbled backward onto the lawn.
The driver’s door flew open. Snake raced around the car, tackling Jim. He jumped on top and began smashing away with pile-driver fists. Jim covered up the best he could, but still took an ugly beating to the face. Nicole jumped on Snake’s back. “Get off my father!”
Snake turned and gave her a wicked backhand slap across the face, knocking the girl to the ground. Then returned his attention to Jim, pummeling away again.
Suddenly Jim felt Snake’s deadweight collapse on him. He slowly uncovered his eyes to see Serge standing over them with brass knuckles on his right hand.