by Dorsey, Tim
“What kind of a name is Stingray Shuffle, anyway?”
“You’ve never done the stingray shuffle?” asked Serge.
Lenny shook his head.
“When it’s stingray season in Florida during the summer, stingrays lie on the bottom of the water near the shore, under a thin blanket of sand, and you can’t see them. The stingrays would much rather flee than fight, but if you walk normally in the water and step on one, you pretty much pin it to the bottom and leave it no choice but to hit you in the leg with its poisonous tail barb.”
“That’ll wreck a buzz.”
“So instead of walking normally when you’re in shallow water, you shuffle your feet along. That way, if you accidentally come across a ray, you just bump it on the edge, and it spooks and swims away. It’s also a perfect metaphor for the on-your-toes, aware-of-your-surroundings, ready-to-jump-any-second dance you have to do every day in Florida to stay alive and ahead of the dangerous humans.”
Serge opened his hypnosis book again. Lenny leaned across the front seat and looked over his shoulder, trying to read along.
“Why are you reading about hypnosis?”
“Because I’m into it now. I’ve decided to completely dedicate my life to the study of hypnosis.”
“I thought you’d dedicated your life to trains.”
“Trains and hypnosis.”
“That’s an odd combination.”
“I’ve learned not to question my muse…” Serge pointed forward at the road. “Will you please?”
“What’s the book about?…hic…”
“I told you. Hypnosis.”
“…Hic…I know that from the cover.”
“That’s what it’s about. I can’t change it.”
“I mean, what specifically about it?…hic…”
“Well, there’s a story here about a hypnotist in Europe who killed a woman onstage in 1894 by commanding her soul to leave her body. She had a heart attack.”
“Oh…hic…right!”
“I wasn’t there, but that’s what it says…. Lenny, you can’t read over my shoulder and drive at the same time. Pick one.”
Lenny reluctantly returned to his side of the car and the approved ten-o’clock, two-o’clock steering-wheel grip.
“Okay, Mr. Skeptic,” said Serge. “Want to get rid of those hiccups?”
Lenny nodded. “Hic.”
Serge turned sideways in his seat and spoke in a monotone. “Concentrate on my voice.”
“What are you going to do?…hic…”
“Make your hiccups leave your body.”
“Not with my soul!…hic…”
“Good point. I’ll try to make sure I get the pronouns right in the incantation.”
“Don’t you need to swing a pocket watch…hic…or have me look at a pinwheel or something?”
“That’s bullshit. Besides, you’re challenged enough with just the road.”
“Hurry up,” said Lenny. “I hate hiccups…hic…”
“Focus on my voice. Relax. Take deeper and slower breaths. Hiccups cannot survive at low rates of respiration….”
“…Hic…I still have the hiccups.”
“Shhhh! Don’t listen to the hiccups…. Only my voice…. You will continue to relax, the interval between hiccups growing longer each time…. Each hiccup is one less until they’re gone for good…. Okay, I’m not talking to Lenny anymore. Hiccups, do you hear me? I’m talking to you now. I command you—in the name of Christ, leave Lenny’s body!”
Serge heard a rattling sound. He turned forward and saw they were off course, running over the raised reflectors as they crossed the inside breakdown lane, then down into the narrow median. Serge looked over at the driver’s seat and saw Lenny’s head slumped to his chest. He reached over and grabbed the wheel, but it was too late. They had already entered the construction zone, and the temporary cement retaining walls funneled them into oncoming traffic.
“Lenny! Wake up!”
“Huh? What? What is it?…Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
“So that’s what happened,” said Lenny. “I hate it when I wake up driving.”
“How are your hiccups?”
Lenny thought a second. “They’re gone.”
“What do you think about hypnosis now?”
“Gimme a break,” said Lenny. “That didn’t do it.”
“What do you mean? It did it and then some. You were fuckin’ out.”
“That was the weed,” said Lenny. “It was already making me feel like nappy time.”
“Atheist.”
Lenny lit another joint, started up the car and pulled back on the road. Serge put down the hypnosis book and picked up the morning paper as they passed a thousand-acre brush fire.
“Anything good?” asked Lenny.
“Second-grader brings gun to school. Jesus, what ever happened to just sticking out your tongue?”
“I still do it.”
“Here’s an item on a drunk bridge tender who sent a car airborne,” said Serge, oblivious to the wall of flame down the side of the highway. “And someone stole the Picasso cat again from the Hemingway House. A funeral home is being sued for putting voodoo dolls in a chest cavity. Eleven more Floridians die from smoke inhalation trying to stay warm by barbecuing indoors. Man convicted of killing his dog because it was homosexual….”
“How did he know?”
“It says the Yorkshire made advances on another terrier named Bandit. That’s when the owner decided to put a stop to the godlessness.”
“What is it about this state?” asked Lenny. “All my friends up north keep asking me: Does the freak show ever take a break down there?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Serge looked back down at his newspaper.
Up ahead, Lenny saw a small stampede of flaming rabbits running from the brush fire and into the road, where they were snatched up by turkey buzzards circling overhead, whose claws were singed by the burning fur, and the rabbits began dropping by the dozen on passing vehicles, one splattering on the Cadillac’s windshield and bouncing over Lenny’s head.
Serge looked up from his newspaper at the sound of the thud. “What the hell was that?”
Lenny’s jaw fell open, the joint sticking to the spit on his lower lip.
Serge pointed at the bloody stain on the windshield. “What kind of bug did you hit?”
“It was a bunny.”
“How’d you hit a bunny with your windshield?”
Lenny pointed up at the sky.
Serge shook his head. “You’re higher than a motherfucker.” He went back to his newspaper.
Lenny took the joint out of his mouth, looked at it a second, then threw it out of the car.
“Serge.”
“What?”
“Do you think I’m dysfunctional?”
“No, Lenny. You know those nagging sensations you’re always having? Total alienation, utter lack of self-worth, chronic-masturbation guilt and perpetual dread of impending death?”
“Yeah?”
“That’s all normal. Feel better now?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Your problem is you lack focus. The key to life is hobbies, otherwise you’re asking for trouble. You know what they always say—if Hitler only had a train set…”
“Who says that?”
“Nobody ever says that. I have no idea where I get some of these thoughts, and you know what? I don’t care! Because I’m alive and the sun is shining!” Serge reached in his back pocket and pulled out a folded-up piece of paper.
“What’s that?”
“It’s my Life List.”
“What’s a Life List?”
“The list of things you want to accomplish before you die. The idea is to keep you planning for the future or else you end up seventy years old on your porch with a rusting chain-link fence around a front yard full of barking Dobermans and a dismantled Skylark, and you never know why.”
“Where’d you come up with this list
idea?”
“First heard about it from Lou Holtz. ‘Become coach of Notre Dame’ was on his list, and you know what?”
“He became coach of Notre Dame?”
Serge nodded. “I said to myself, ‘I gotta get me one of them lists.’”
“So what’s on yours?” asked Lenny.
“Item number one: space flight.”
“You’re too old to join NASA.”
“That’s why I’ll have to deal with the Russians. After the Soviet collapse, everything’s for sale over there.”
“What else?” asked Lenny.
Serge held up his piece of paper: “Swim the Florida Straits, communicate with the monkeys on Key Lois, steal the DeLong Ruby, break a bull at the Okeechobee Rodeo, get into a Disney ride in less than an hour, locate the Fountain of Youth, win the Daytona 500, bring the panthers back to healthy numbers, travel in time…”
“But time travel’s impossible.”
“I know,” said Serge. “I wanted to keep the list realistic, so that’s why I only want to travel one week. And that way, if something goes wrong with the time ship and I can’t get back, I’m not stuck in some strange future land where the government makes everyone wear tunics and report unwelcome behavior.”
“I hate that,” said Lenny.
“Tell me about it.”
Serge stuck the list back in his pocket and got out the global tracker.
“How’s the signal?” asked Lenny.
“Real strong. Solid all the way.” Serge pointed at a traffic sign. “Take the causeway. It’s our best bet.”
They crossed US 1 and the Indian River, then went down the bridge onto Merritt Island.
“Are those real alligators in that canal?” asked Lenny.
“That’s what those are.”
The pair began seeing the tips of shiny metal tubes over the trees.
“Look,” said Lenny. “Kennedy Space Center.”
“And there’s the new shuttle mock-up they put on display at the visitor center.” Serge grabbed his camera from under the seat and snapped half a roll of film as they went by. He faced forward again. “Oh my God!”
“What is it?”
“The signal!” said Serge, holding up the tracker. “It changed direction. It’s pointing back at the visitor center. Turn around!”
Lenny swung across a break in the median and headed back. The Cadillac turned in the entrance of the space complex and parked next to a row of idling Gray Line buses. Serge jumped out and tucked a pistol in his waistband. He reached back in the car and grabbed the global tracker off the passenger seat. The signal pointed toward the admission gate.
“This is it! Payday!”
They took off running.
14
Another month, another book club meeting. Miami Beach this time. Books, Booze and Broads cruised down A1A in a rented Grand Marquis.
“We’re finally going to meet Ralph Krunkleton,” said Maria.
“Not at this rate,” said Sam, checking her wristwatch. “Just look at this traffic jam.”
“We’ve still got plenty of time,” said Teresa.
“How much farther?”
“Twenty miles.”
Twenty miles ahead, a strip mall:
“Get a move on!” the owner shouted in the back room of The Palm Reader. He leaned over and did a line. “We have to close up and clear out before that stupid author shows up for his stupid signing!”
The buzzer at the rear service door rang. The boss jumped. “What was that?”
“The door.”
He opened it a crack. Four people stood behind hand trucks stacked with brown cartons. In the background, a white commercial van from a book distributor in Hialeah.
“Hi, I’m your wholesaler,” said a smiling woman holding a dachshund.
No response. The door stayed open only a slit.
“Is everything all right?” she asked, trying to see inside.
“Fine. Go away.”
“But we brought some more books.”
“We didn’t order any.”
“I know,” said the woman, smiling again. “We got so much more press than we expected that I was afraid you’d run out. I took it upon myself to bring extras. You’ve been such good customers…”
A pause.
“Go away.”
“If you don’t need them, then we do. We’d like to get them signed for our other stores. This is our hottest title.”
One of the tropical shirts tapped the boss from behind. He jumped again. “What?”
“Someone’s out front asking for you.”
“Get rid of them.”
“I think it’s the author.”
“Shit!”
“What should I tell him?”
“Tell him we’re out of books.”
“You’re out of books?” said the woman at the back door. “Then I’m glad we came.”
The employee tapped the boss again. “I don’t think I can get rid of them.”
“Why not?”
“There are others.”
Blinding lights came on in the front of the store, the strings of beads breaking them into hundreds of bright shafts that showered the back room. The boss shielded his eyes. “What the fuck is that?”
“TV cameras. I was trying to tell you….”
“Who called the TV station?”
“I did,” said the woman. She had pushed the back door open and was directing hand-truck traffic. “Just set those cases over there.”
The tropical shirts scrambled to hide cocaine. A man stuck a microphone through the beads. “Sir, can I get a quick interview?”
“No! Go away!”
More TV people arrived, then writers from the Herald, the Sun-Sentinel and the Post.
The boss burst through the beads. “Everybody out!”
A long line of regular patrons waited at the cash register, and they weren’t leaving until they got what they came for. Neither were the reporters. A TV camera panned down the customers, who for some reason were all covering their faces. The camera swung to a newswoman: “As you can see, the rising popularity of Ralph Krunkleton seems to cross all economic, ethnic and social lines…”
“Turn that camera off!”
The boss grabbed the newswoman’s arm, but she jerked free and stomped on his instep with a high heel.
“Ouch!”
“You, sir, what does Ralph Krunkleton say to you?” The woman held her microphone toward a businessman, who froze in the lights, then broke from the line and sprinted out of the store.
“Obviously camera shy…. What about you, sir?”
“Uh, good plot?” said a schoolteacher, grinning nervously.
“Good plot. That seems to be everyone’s verdict tonight at The Palm Reader, where author Ralph Krunkleton will be signing copies of his latest bestseller in just a few moments. Back to you, Jerry…”
The camera lights died, and the newswoman spun on the store’s owner. “Don’t you ever fuck with me while I’m on the air!” She jammed her microphone in his stomach, knocking the wind out of him, and walked away.
The owner doubled over. “Can this get any worse?”
“Hi, I’m Ralph Krunkleton.” A big man in a fishing cap extended a hand.
“The signing’s off. We don’t have any more books.”
“What are those?” asked Ralph, pointing at three tall stacks of his books behind the counter, selling quickly at a hundred dollars each.
“Those are special. They’re on reserve. People have already bought them.”
Ralph took out a pen and stepped toward the piles. “I’d be happy to sign—”
“No!” The owner grabbed him by the arm. He stopped and lowered his voice. “I mean, no, that won’t be necessary.”
A college student had just purchased a book. Ralph reached for it. “How about you, son? Would you like an autograph?”
“Touch it and I’ll kill you!” The student jerked the book away and left the store.
The owner turned and gasped. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
People were unfolding Samsonite chairs. “Setting up for the reading,” said the woman with the wiener dog.
“No!” shouted the owner, grabbing a chair out of someone’s hand. “No reading! Go away!”
A TV cameraman looked through his viewfinder, talking to his news director. “There’s something strange about these people. I can’t quite put my finger on it….”
“I know what you mean,” said the director. “I’ve never seen an author appearance where nobody gets an autograph or stays for the reading. Smells fishy, like this is some kind of front….”
The owner overheard them and began clapping his hands sharply. “Okay, we’re about to start the reading. Everybody take a seat.”
A debutante paid for a book and started for the door. The owner blocked her path.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“My boyfriend’s.”
“You’re staying for the reading.”
“I’ve been waiting all day to get off.”
The owner lifted the edge of his tropical shirt to reveal a pistol tucked in his Dockers. “Have a seat.”
The owner kept lifting his shirt at departing customers, and the chairs began filling with fidgeting, sniffling people.
Unsuspecting readers who had seen the TV spot started arriving, a few at first, then dozens. The parking lot overflowed. Police officers came into the store.
“Are you the owner?”
He fell into a chair and grabbed his heart.
“We’ll take care of traffic. The chamber of commerce already called and is paying for the overtime, so there’s no charge. Just wanted you to know.” They went back out into the street, waving lighted orange batons.
The legitimate customers began mixing with coke fiends in the book line. The books kept selling, although the cost dropped sharply to the regular cover price when the new customers expressed outrage and the cashier panicked. Everyone was happy again, especially the dopers, who discovered the price of cocaine in Miami Beach had just fallen to $6.99 a gram.
The normal people took their new books and joined the others in the audience until it was standing room only.
“I guess we were wrong,” the TV director told his cameraman. “They’re staying for the reading. Some of them still seem a little weird, but on average it’s about what you’d see in any mall around here.”