Tim Dorsey Collection #1

by Dorsey, Tim

  The better psychiatrists in the Florida correctional system loved Serge. They recognized the pathology, just hadn’t seen it to this degree. A mixture of schizophrenia and attention-deficit, with a dash of dissociative. It was simply a matter of fine-tuning the chemicals in his brain, like the tracking on a VCR. It generally took a cocktail of four antidepressants and psychotropic drugs to even him out. When he was leveled, he was like an enthusiastic, sweet little kid.

  The problem was that the medication dimmed his wattage. Serge would either hide the pills in his mouth or throw them up later. He didn’t want anything messing with his gray matter; he liked the hum inside his head too much—the free commerce of thoughts and images streaming back and forth, occasional bursts of genius flashing inside his skull like heat lightning over Tampa Bay on a warm August evening.

  Serge’s first admission to Chattahoochee came in the early eighties after he was picked up at Cypress Gardens. A night watchman discovered him practicing synchronized water ballet in the Florida Pool, the famous swimming pool built in the shape of the state just north of the water ski ramps.

  The police called in a state psychiatric team when Serge refused to come out of the pool, claiming he was Esther Williams rehearsing for the hit 1953 MGM musical Easy to Love.

  Soon a crowd of cops and park officials had gathered. Serge lay on his back in the pool and made “water angels.” The theme park wanted to avoid publicity at all costs. They conferred quietly and asked if anyone knew what the heck the intruder was talking about.

  “He’s got his facts right,” the park publicist chimed in. “Part of that movie was shot in this pool. But that’s ancient trivia. Most of our own employees don’t even know that.”

  A voice from the pool turned the group. “Cypress Gardens, two hundred botanical acres on the shore of beautiful Lake Eloise. Florida’s first theme park, established 1936…”

  The publicist eventually coaxed Serge out of the pool on the pretext of an audition for Skirts Ahoy!

  Trapper Nelson was found dead by his cabin in the late sixties, and all the children whispered it was something sinister. He was shot, they said, maybe suicide, maybe murder.

  In 1995, Martin County sheriff’s department and game officials began hearing strange rumors. Trapper Nelson wasn’t really dead. The body they found more than two decades ago was some unfortunate soul who had wandered into Nelson’s camp, and Trapper had since dug in deeper. Canoeists reported a shadowy figure darting about the banks or sometimes in the windows of Trapper’s old cabin. The hermit’s local status eclipsed legend.

  A week later, deputies dragged Serge into the sheriff’s station, wearing furs and smeared with dried animal blood. He kicked and he screamed. “But I am Trapper Nelson! Lemme go!”

  So began Serge’s most recent stay at Chattahoochee. After two months, prison psychiatrists got together to discuss Serge’s case. He was their favorite, most charming patient, and they couldn’t stand to watch what was happening.

  They got a visiting specialist from Austria to put Serge under hypnosis.

  Serge babbled and grunted as he lay on the couch. He began pitching violently and they had to hold him down. His mumbling increased to a high-speed torrent of incomprehensible sonic hash.

  “Someone get a tape recorder!” yelled the shrink gripping Serge’s ankles.

  Hours later, after Serge was back in his cell under sedation, the psychiatrists met with a police evidence tech. He tinkered with the tape recording on a special machine, adjusting the treble and reverb and turning the speed way down. When the tape played at a fraction of its original rate, they began to detect human speech.

  “Florida: literally, abounding in flowers, named by Ponce de León. Statehood granted in 1845, first governor William D. Moseley”—the voice became more excited and angry—“flowing from the waters of the Kissimmee River to Lake Okeechobee and through the Everglades into Florida Bay. Along the way, nurturing a low, flat petri dish of extreme people. The rugged, the hopeful and the damned. Ridiculed as the place with no roots, no native residents and no culture, the land of shuffleboard and the nonregional, TV weatherman accent. But they’re not laughing anymore. Cocaine, Castro and carpetbaggers castrated with grooved grapefruit spoons that say ‘Life’s a Beach’ on the handle. New residents are interned in hot, dusty trailer parks populated entirely by assholes from Illinois. We get hit with storm after storm and walk through the rubble, whistling ‘Dixie’ and applying sunscreen. How does that stack up against your commonwealth? We don’t have great potatoes, we’re not the garden state, we aren’t proud to wear furry hats with earflaps and ‘Live free or die!” We’re a twenty-four-hour, dead-bolted, hair-on-the-back-of-your-neck, free-continental breakfast, death-wish vacation of a lifetime, not from concentrate. State motto? ‘Behind you!’

  “It’s an experiment in natural selectivity. We’re breeding a hardier genetic strain of American to build on the Forty-niners and Plains settlers in Conestoga wagons. The new Florida Sooners, Jimmy Buffett’s Grapes of Wrath Tour. Thousands come every year but few make the cut. Most are on vacation, but others are on business. And some are simply running toward the light. Men with beaten-dog looks driving carloads of dirty-faced kids. None of this is new to the old-timers. The outsiders just started coming here in big enough numbers to get the word out. But it’s been going on for hundreds of years, ever since the Europeans hacked and diseased the Indians in the name of God and gold, searching for the Fountain of Youth, which was recently discovered in the middle of a roadside attraction in St. Augustine. From the conquistadors and the Seminole Wars to the Civil War Battle of Olustee. The two Henrys—Flagler and Plant—running train tracks down both coasts. The railway that went to sea figuratively in 1912 and literally in the hurricane of 1935. Hemingway stumbling, scribbling and brawling his way through the Keys. German U-boats off Fort Myers. Jackie Gleason with a pitching wedge, launching divots the size of toupees. Cape Canaveral became Cape Kennedy until we said, ‘What were we thinking?’ and changed it back…. The ’68 Republican Convention. The ’72 Miami Dolphins. Claude Kirk, Reubin Askew, Walkin’ Lawton. Sinkholes, phosphate, citrus canker, Anita Bryant…the horror…the horror…”

  And Serge passed out.

  The technician turned off the tape, and the Austrian psychiatrist was stunned. “We must help him!”

  The next day the Austrian met Serge for a one-on-one. Serge sat on the edge of the couch, rocking back and forth, listening to his Walkman. The psychiatrist leaned down and took the earphones off Serge’s head and pressed the stop button.

  “Can we begin?” the doctor asked with a smile.

  The session was unproductive for the first hour. Serge wanted to talk about the fall TV lineup. He said he’d submitted a script to Friends where everyone gets killed, but he hadn’t heard back yet.

  “I’m sure it’s a fine script. Now about your childhood…”

  Shortly into the second hour, the doctor stopped talking and began looking around the room. He inspected his own hands, front and back, in minute detail. Serge knew it was time. He had scored some acid off a minimum-wage bedpan polisher and slipped the microdot of orange barrel LSD into the doctor’s coffee at the beginning of the session.

  “I hope this has been helpful to you,” said Serge.

  The psychiatrist looked up from his palms with a question on his face.

  “This role reversal,” said Serge, getting up from the couch. He began taking off his patient’s uniform. “I think you’ll make a fine doctor someday. Now, if I can have my clothes back…”

  The psychiatrist got up slowly. He took off his shirt and slacks and handed them to Serge and put on the patient’s clothes.

  Serge got dressed and adjusted his bow tie and glasses in the mirror, looking spiffy. He slicked his hair with mousse. He looked back at the doctor and saw a quivering mass of Jell-O.

  Serge had anticipated the possibility.

  “Okay, I have to escape now. But I want to make sure you’re all r
ight,” said Serge. The doctor was suffocating with dread. Serge clipped the Walkman to the doctor’s elastic waistband and pressed play.

  “This is the Sergeant Pepper’s album,” said Serge. “You’ve got the right guys in the control tower to talk you down—they’re pros. A lot of positive messages. Just keep playing the tape over and over.”

  Serge placed the earphones on the doctor’s head and checked the clock. Shift change fifteen minutes ago. New staff. They hadn’t seen Serge and the doctor come in the room. Serge pressed the intercom, and two large guards arrived.

  The guards were suspicious anyway. “Hey, you look familiar!”

  Just then the Austrian started running around the room making British ambulance sounds before perching on top of a desk like a gibbon and chattering his teeth.

  Serge shook his head sadly and made notations in a patient file.

  The guards wrote off their doubts and grabbed the psychiatrist and dragged him back to Serge’s cell, where he listened to Sergeant Pepper’s twenty-two times.

  Serge flushed his medicine down the toilet and walked out the front door of Chattahoochee, disappearing into the general population of the state of Florida.

  At daybreak, Serge opened the door of room one at Hammerhead Ranch and took a deep, satisfied breath of salt air.

  “Another day of life. Thank you, God.”

  He went jogging up Gulf Boulevard, not for exercise but from impatience. He ran across the drawbridge, waving at the cars and the fishermen. The tide was just coming in and the shorebirds scurried on the shoals in the pass. A deep-sea fishing boat motored back from an overnight cruise, loaded down with mackerel, tuna and sharks. Serge waved from the bridge, and the captain sounded his air horn. The more Serge saw, the more he wanted to see, and he ran faster.

  He was in a full sprint when he came off the bridge, and he ran up to the row of news boxes in front of a breakfast diner shaped like an Airstream. A fat man wearing a baseball cap that said “Old Fart” came out of the restaurant, working a toothpick in his mouth like he was picking a lock. Serge smiled and pulled a quarter from his pocket as he bent down to a green newspaper box.

  Serge suddenly jumped back and made a startled yip. There it was again, his face on the front page, third day in a row. “Manhunt Widens for Keys Killer.” Can’t they give it a rest? You go and do a little spree killing and they never let you forget about it.

  Serge ran back to Hammerhead Ranch double-time, looking over his shoulder. He locked the door, watched Florida fishing programs all day on TV and took a nap.

  He awoke after dark and poured himself a tall glass of orange juice. He sat up at the head of his bed and leaned back against the wall. He grabbed the remote control and turned on the TV.

  Serge’s picture immediately filled the screen, and Serge spilled juice in his lap. Florida Cable News correspondent Blaine Crease said the suspect, Serge A. Storms, had been sighted in the Tampa Bay area and a team of FBI agents was en route from Quantico, Virginia.

  “That’s the problem with the media today,” Serge complained out loud. “Too much bad news—always focusing on the negative.” He clicked the TV off and made a mental note to write a letter to the station, requesting more upbeat stories.

  “I gotta get out of this room.”

  Serge jumped in the scorched Chrysler and headed for the Howard Frankland Bridge. As he started over the bridge, he took in the sparkling lights of Tampa across the bay, the rivulet of cars cresting the bridge’s hump, and the jets landing at Tampa International. He was in his zone. He turned on the radio, to add a soundtrack.

  “…We interrupt this program to bring you an update on the manhunt for the spree killer from the Florida Keys. Authorities are now certain he’s trapped in the Tampa Bay area. They’re setting up roadblocks on all major highways out of town and posting agents at bus stations, train depots and the airports….”

  This is getting ridiculous, Serge thought. Time to hit the eject button. He hated to do it, but he would have to leave Florida, at least for a little while, until things cooled down.

  After the bridge, Serge got in the exit lane for the airport. As he approached the terminal, three police cars raced by. I’ll have to hurry, he thought, but I still have a chance if I can get through before they establish a perimeter.

  Serge skidded into long-term parking and took the Tony Janus Shuttle to the terminal. Serge held on to the subway-style pole in the shuttle and involuntarily recited from memory. “Tony Janus: Aviator who began the world’s first regularly scheduled airline route, St. Petersburg to Tampa, 1914.”

  Serge walked calmly through the concourse. Every couple of minutes, officers ran by. Serge checked gate after gate, concourse after concourse, but each time police were set up before he got there. He turned and headed back toward the exits, but now the cops were there too. More trotted through the terminal. “Shit,” Serge muttered and put his head down and walked into the cafeteria.

  He grabbed a tray and stood in the chow line, looking up at the menu board of food priced like jewelry. “I’d rather do time!” he said, and walked out without a purchase. More cops. He ducked in the newsstand and nonchalantly rifled a glossy magazine that delved into the courage of John Travolta and tastier pound cake.

  He held the magazine up to his nose and peeked over the top of Travolta’s head, looking for an angle.

  He studied arriving travelers. Businesspeople with jet lag, middle-class vacationers back from middle-America, glassy-eyed relatives arriving for a funeral, skiers back from Aspen, golfers back from Pebble Beach, nuns, and four illegal Asian immigrants slipping past customs posing as Chinese nuclear spies. Everyone rolling suitcases with wheels, moving with purpose.

  A distinguished businessman rolled his suitcase into the bar across from the newsstand, and Serge kept an eye on him. The man had touches of gray at the temples that made him look senatorial, but he was in fact the front for a Pacific conglomerate selling counterfeit gold-crown car air fresheners. The man took a seat in the airport bar, ordered a Harvey Wallbanger and wolfed Spanish peanuts from a sterling service bowl. Two seats down was an elegant, tall brunette of obvious sophistication, who initiated conversation.

  After five minutes of small talk the salesman was discreetly propositioned by the call girl. The pair left together for the airport hotel. Serge’s eyes swung across the concourse. No cops at the elevator to the airport hotel—they were expecting a fugitive to flee, not put up for the night.

  Serge put down the magazine and began following the businessman forty feet back. He looked around. Off to his right, a cop was moving toward the hotel elevator. Serge picked up his pace.

  The businessman and call girl were in the elevator, smiling at each other, waiting for the doors to close. The cop was talking in his walkie-talkie, just arriving at the elevator. Serge was fifteen feet back. The doors started closing.

  Serge called out toward the elevator and began running: “Mr. Johnson, wait up! The office has been trying to reach you all day!” He jumped through the closing elevator doors as the cop turned to say something.

  “I’m not Mr. Johnson,” said the businessman.

  “I know,” Serge said, and smiled and then looked up at the ascending floor numbers over the door.

  The businessman made an unheard joke to the call girl, and they both laughed at Serge’s expense. Serge turned to them and nodded and grinned.

  The doors opened at seven. The businessman got out a magnetic plastic card and opened a room across from the elevators. Serge headed down the hallway, looking for the stairwell.

  Serge had walked down to the fourth floor when he heard two cops coming up the stairs. He ran back up to seven and down the hall.

  When Serge burst into the hotel room with gun drawn, the businessman was sitting on the edge of the bed in a Santa Claus outfit, and the hooker was on his lap wearing altar boy vestments.

  “I can explain…” the man began.

  Serge cut him off with a pistol whip. “I do
n’t want to know. Just gimme all your money and ID.”

  He had another thought. “And gimme that red suit, too, while you’re at it.”

  11

  Welcome Miami Vice fans!” read the pink-and-aqua banner over the hotel entrance on Miami Beach.

  In the lobby, dealers sat behind dozens of card tables, doing brisk business. Jan Hammer CDs. Philip Michael Thomas 8×10s. Ferrari Matchbox cars. Board games, coffee mugs, police badges. There was a line of people with luggage waiting to check in at the front desk, wearing Ray-Bans, pastel T-shirts and white Versace linen jackets.

  Later that evening in the auditorium, a man who did not look remotely like Don Johnson was onstage playing Sonny Crockett. A woman dressed like a prostitute played Gina.

  Suddenly, “Gina” ripped off her wig and threw it to the ground.

  “I didn’t get my GED just to play a prostitute!” she yelled.

  Don Johnson grabbed her wrists and said he loved her.

  The audience whistled and applauded.

  It wasn’t part of the script. The woman ran out the side door of the hotel, and the man followed.

  He found her sitting and crying in his convertible parked on a side street off Ocean Drive. It was a pink Cadillac Eldorado. Running the length of the car down to the tail fins was an airbrushed Miami Vice logo and the words Lenny Lippowicz—The Don Johnson Experience.

  Lenny Lippowicz was the pride of Pahokee, Florida. He dropped out of high school and bounced around as a spot welder in the shipyards and Ploeti petroleum storage compounds of Jacksonville, Tampa and Fort Lauderdale. He did a little bartending, worked a carnival in Margate, and stinted as an unqualified dive operator off Boca Raton.

  He got fired from the dive boat after a bad head count left a never-found tourist behind at sea, and he drove west across the swamp. He stopped at an authentic Indian Swamp Village, where he bought authentic tribal garb woven by authentic Chinese political prisoners. When he got to Fort Myers, he put on the colorful Indian outfit and walked into the administrative office at Sunken Parrot Gardens and applied for alligator wrestler.