Tim Dorsey Collection #1

by Dorsey, Tim

  Joe looked like…well, it was kind of difficult describing Joe. The more reporters thought about it, the more they realized it was impossible. He had no distinguishing features whatsoever. It was like interviewing robbery witnesses who didn’t get a good look. “Average height, average build, really don’t remember anything about him—just like a million other guys on the street.” If police ever asked people to create a composite of Joe’s face with a computer program, they’d point at the original generic mug the computer started with. “That’s him!”

  This time around, the reporters had begun showing up three weeks before the election, carefully charting everything Joe did. The stress was getting to be too much. His wife couldn’t go shopping without being tailed by test marketers from Kellogg’s and Frito-Lay. His children came home crying, saying their classmates were calling them “lukewarm,” “pedestrian” and “pablum.”

  Joe Blow would head out to his car each morning before work with a mug of coffee.

  “What did you have for breakfast, Joe?”

  “Please leave us alone! I’m begging you!”

  “How much coffee do you drink a day?”

  “Is that perk or crystals?”

  Joe lurched out of the driveway and raced off to his job as an orange juice taster at the Tropicana plant.

  The shopping habits of the Blow clan may have been intriguing, but it was Joe’s political views that drew the most attention. Because he was so average, he instinctively gravitated toward the candidates who would ultimately poll a majority of the electorate, and he began predicting races with oracular certainty. At first it was novel; then it became scary. Joe accurately called twenty-six consecutive races before the street filled up with TV trucks and he refused to give any more predictions, but the genie was already out of the bottle.

  Joe Blow came home from work. He got out of his car carrying his lunch pail.

  “How was your day at work, Joe?”

  “Who do you like for governor?”

  “How many times did your bowels move?”

  “Fuck off!”

  22

  FIRST THING THE next morning, a state trooper pulled the Orange Crush over again.

  Marlon rolled down the window. “I thought we’d settled this.”

  “Mail call,” said the trooper. He passed a small cardboard box through the window and left.

  “I asked them to do that,” said Escrow, taking the box from Marlon. “If we’re gonna be on the move, we have to stay plugged in.”

  Escrow sat down on the floor behind the driver’s seat and began sorting the cards and letters.

  Marlon pulled back onto the road, and Pimento came up front with a stack of newspapers and climbed into the passenger seat.

  “The Times-Union is leading with your unorthodox campaign in a Winnebago and the disgruntled gunman rampage. The Herald is leading with your campaign and the Willie Nelson Bandit. The Times is leading with your campaign and the shoot-out at the kindergarten. The Tribune is leading with your campaign, a quadruple shooting and the discovery of a head in a crab trap in Tampa Bay. The Sentinel is leading with the campaign, a triple drive-by and a shocking exposé revealing that students are drinking at college football games.”

  “My turn,” said Escrow. “You got a lot of mail. It generally falls in three categories—donations, requests and insane rants…. Here’s ten thousand dollars from Big Insecticide, five thousand from Big Trial Lawyers, another thousand from Big Nursing Home, five Gs from Big Lap Dance, and, what’s this? Two-fifty from Little Businessman?” He tossed it out the window. “Three thousand from Big Asbestos Removal, five K from Big Indicted Highway Contractor—”

  “Toaster Strudel?” offered Pimento.

  Escrow waved it off, but Marlon took one.

  “Time to pay the piper,” said Escrow. “Here are the requests: ‘Get the charges dropped against my company,’ ‘File charges against my competitor,’ ‘Loosen smokestack rules,’ ‘Give us the bridge contract,’ and ‘Come to my daughter’s wedding.’ I don’t know about that last one—sounds a little presumptuous.”

  The shadows of two blimps criss-crossed each other on the highway.

  “The rants are basically still the same,” said Escrow. “The first one is the standard ‘You suk!’ and a few more cover the same ground: ‘Bite it!’ ‘Eat it!’ ‘Suk it!’ Here’s another ‘You suk!’ followed by ‘No UN in the U.S.’ ‘The Trilateral Commission Suks!’ ‘When will you wake up to the Jewish world conspiracy?’ ‘Stop lying about the flying saucers!’ and ‘You suk!’”

  Marlon turned on the radio.

  “Sir,” said Escrow. “I want to pick out something to listen to.”

  “I don’t know…” said Marlon.

  “C’mon. If we’re going to have fun, like you say, then you have to let me play, too.”

  Marlon relented, and Escrow turned the knob until he came to a station playing John Philip Sousa military marching music. He swayed side to side and smiled.

  “Aaaauuuhhh!” screamed Pimento, heat-butting the lavatory door. “Make it stop!”

  “He’s right,” said Marlon, changing the station. “Don’t take it personally.”

  They crossed the bridge over the inlet at Fort Matanzas and soon saw a blue arch on the left.

  “Is that Marineland?” said Marlon.

  Pimento nodded. “Opened in 1937. World’s oldest marine attraction. You’ll never again see one built in such an incredible location, just a ribbon of land between A1A and the ocean. It’s like a museum of old roadside Florida.”

  “I’ve never been,” said Marlon.

  “You’re kidding!” said Pimento. “Then we absolutely have to stop!”

  “By all means,” said Escrow. “Let’s stay a week.”

  They pulled over in a gravel lot and parked next to a red Ferrari with a vanity tag, DAY-TRADR. A man got out of the sports car talking on the phone. He wore a tight-fitting golf shirt, tighter slacks and loafers without socks. “Sell the bonds! Put an eighty stop-limit on the IPO!…”

  Marlon and the gang went inside. Things didn’t look good. The gift shop’s air-conditioning had been cut off, and the shelves were nearly empty. Marlon flipped through a few sun-bleached postcards from the sixties, and Escrow picked up a seashell toilet seat and stared through the opening at the others.

  They went out to the dolphin tank and had the whole thing to themselves. Ten dolphins lay around the water, no shows, nobody to perform for, listlessly pushing a basketball around the pool with their noses.

  One dolphin flicked the basketball up to Marlon. He caught it and threw it back. The dolphin got its bottlenose under the ball and flicked it up again.

  “Where is everyone?” said Marlon, catching the ball, throwing it back.

  “This is a tragedy,” said Pimento. He clapped his hands, and the dolphin threw him the ball. “We’d better take a good look—it might not be here much longer.” He threw the basketball back.

  “Hey, it’s market forces,” said Escrow. “Sink or swim.”

  Pimento caught the ball again and threw it back. “Escrow—try real hard not to poop on this moment.”

  The dolphin flicked the ball again, and it went wide.

  A young woman in a wet suit caught it. She made a clicking sound with her mouth, threw the ball back in the water and dove in after it.

  The men stopped talking and watched her. She swam around and caught rides from the dolphins. One dolphin spun on his side, and she rubbed his belly. She didn’t smile once—almost a frown the whole time. She was chewing gum.

  They guessed her age at around twenty. She was tall and fit, with developed shoulders from swimming, and she had dark hair in a tomboy Buster Brown cut. Her posture was fiercely independent, but her face seemed vulnerable. It was a corny picture of everything that was right in America. Marlon and Pimento felt hopelessly paternal.

  The woman rolled on her back and grabbed a dorsal with her left hand. She closed her eyes, and the dolphin took h
er around the tank, over and over.

  On the sixth lap, there was shouting. They turned and saw a man hanging over the side of the tank.

  “Why haven’t you returned my calls?”

  Her eyes opened fast, and she let go of the dolphin.

  She swam to a ladder, and the man followed her, walking along the tank railing and yelling. “I asked you a question! Nobody treats me like that!”

  She climbed out without a sound and started to walk away.

  “Did you hear me?” He grabbed her by the arm. The others recognized him. It was DAY-TRADR. “How come you don’t want to go out again? Too good for me?”

  He shook her. She didn’t resist, just let him yank her back and forth and gave him an empty stare.

  “You think you’re a tough little bitch!”

  She finally spoke. “L-l-l-l-let g-g-g-go. You’re h-h-h-hurting m-m-m-me!”

  He slapped her across the face.

  Out of the blue, Pimento erupted with a wild aboriginal scream and charged. The man saw him coming and released the woman’s arm just as Pimento tackled him high. They fell into the life preservers. Pimento had the upper hand, but the man pulled a gaff hook off the wall.

  So Marlon dove in.

  He wrestled the hook away, and he and Pimento began punching the piss out of the man’s kidneys.

  Escrow jumped up and down. “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!…” He looked around for tourists, but the place was still empty.

  If the woman hadn’t pulled them off, Marlon and Pimento might have cashed out DAY-TRADR.

  “We have to get out of here!” yelled Escrow.

  Marlon and Pimento seemed to be taking their time, having trouble registering what they’d just done. Pimento rubbed his scuffed knuckles, and Marlon pulled one of his fingers, popping it back into joint.

  “What are you waiting for?” shouted Escrow, pushing them in the direction of the exit.

  The woman was also lollygagging, standing over her unconscious assailant.

  “You’ve got to come, too,” Escrow told her. “We need to debrief you.”

  She didn’t respond at first, but when the man started regaining consciousness, she turned and ran after them.

  They sprinted down the steps and across the street to the Winnebago and took off south.

  The woman was sitting up front with Marlon. He went to say something but stopped. He looked at her profile. Gentle features except the cheekbones, which were high and sharp. There was a small scar on her chin. Her wet suit was black-and-aqua and getting the seat damp.

  “What’s your name?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You want something to eat?”

  He looked over at her, but she stayed facing forward.

  “I’ll stop anywhere. Just say the word. We got your Checkers and your Pizza Hut…”

  She pointed.

  “That’s more like it.”

  Marlon looked to see where she wanted to go. “Hey, that’s not a restaurant. Those are batting cages.”

  She pointed again, more emphatically.

  “You’re the boss,” he said. “Batting cages it is.”

  There were five machines in ascending order of velocity. Marlon got out some quarters and walked to the first machine, but she grabbed a bat and helmet and went right for the last one. She squared off at the plate and looked over her shoulder impatiently, waiting for Marlon to put in the quarters. When the last coin fell, the twin wheels began spinning and the balls fell into the chute.

  The pitches smoked. Marlon had never seen anything that fast. She fouled off the first three, then found her rhythm and clobbered the next seven. The machine stopped. She turned and stared.

  “Okay, okay!” Marlon put in more quarters. The machine began firing again. She kept her streak going, hitting eight in a row with the meat of the bat, most ending up high in the net.

  A ball misfed into the wheels and came curving through the batter’s box, knocking her down.

  She jumped up, tore off her batting helmet and slung it at the machine. Then she crowded the plate and crushed the bat handle in her grip.

  The next pitch was another curveball inside, and she opened her stance and pulled it with authority. She stomped away from the plate, handed the bat to Marlon and left the cage.

  Pimento waited until she was out of earshot, then came up to Marlon. “What the hell was that?”

  “I think it’s what’s called ‘unresolved issues.’”

  23

  THE YOUNG WOMAN from Marineland was sleeping in a bunk in the back of the Orange Crush as it continued south along the shore. Escrow tapped on his laptop. Pimento sat up front with Marlon.

  “Volkswagen! I called it!” said the governor. He slid an orange window over the Beetle on his card. “I almost have bingo.”

  “No fair,” said Pimento. “I want to draw another card. I got a silo, a snowplow and a mountain on mine.”

  “Did she say anything?” asked Marlon, pointing over his shoulder.

  “Nope. Went right to sleep.”

  “I don’t get it. Won’t tell us her name, address, anything.”

  “She’s probably still shook up. Can’t say I blame her after what we saw.”

  “Speaking of which, what happened back there?” asked Marlon.

  “What?”

  “Jumping that guy. Not that he didn’t deserve it. It just isn’t you.”

  Pimento paused awhile. Finally: “I don’t remember.”

  “Don’t remember what?”

  “Everything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know who I am.”

  “We’re all trying to discover ourselves.”

  Pimento shook his head. “That’s not it.”

  “What are you saying?” Marlon chuckled. “You have amnesia or something?”

  Pimento nodded.

  “Forget about it!”

  But Marlon saw it wasn’t a joke.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “For months, the only thing I could remember was all these history facts and trivia. It was the damnedest thing,” said Pimento. “But recently I’ve started to have these little flashbacks. It can be triggered by something that reminds me of my childhood…. Or it can be from The Dark Side, when something makes me angry. Then I start remembering bad things, and I black out. Like back at Marineland, I can only remember that guy yelling at the girl. The next thing I knew he was unconscious and I was standing over him.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything to us?”

  “I was afraid you’d fire me. This is the best job I’ve ever had. Then again, how would I know?”

  “I can’t believe this!”

  “So you’re not going to fire me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Someone I know would.”

  “Escrow thinks you’re dangerous,” said Marlon.

  “Escrow’s dangerous.”

  “So your memory’s on the hazy side. So what? It doesn’t change your character. I’ve been around you long enough to know you’re good people.”

  “I’d just like to remember. Sometimes I find myself in the bathroom for like twenty minutes staring in the mirror…”

  “Don’t worry—I’m sure it’ll come back eventually. Meanwhile, you’re my best speechwriter. You’re my only speechwriter. I can’t fire you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Just don’t attack any more people.”

  “Deal.”

  Escrow came forward to report an urgent phone call.

  “Sir, we have to move on the tax exemption for the new stadium in Orlando. Von Zeppelin’s starting to call people. It’s getting nasty.”

  “I’m going to block the exemption,” said Marlon.

  Escrow became nervous, then laughed. “Okay, you got me. Good one.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “You’re starting to scare me,” said Escrow. “The joke’s not funny anymore.”

  Marlon was
quiet.

  “Sir, you’ve been doing a lot of crazy things. But this one you don’t want to mess with. He’ll crush us. He could even have us killed.”

  “There are a lot better uses in Florida for thirty million dollars,” said Marlon.

  “I’m sure there are. But that’s irrelevant.”

  “Why does he need an exemption, anyway?” asked Pimento.

  “He doesn’t,” Escrow said like he was talking to the simple. “That’s not the point. The point is that he can get it.”

  “Not this time,” said Marlon.

  “What is the fucking problem with sports team owners, anyway?” said Pimento. “It’s like they took business classes on the Death Star.”

  “What are you, some kind of Trotskyist?” said Escrow.

  “They’re not warm-blooded,” said Pimento. “I’m convinced they hatch from subterranean membrane pods.”

  “There you go again—blame it all on the businessman,” said Escrow.

  “I just want them to show a smidgen of humanity, something we can examine under the microscope to prove there’s a few platelets carousing through their arteries instead of that phosphorescent green Prestone ooze I saw when the Buccaneers’ owner was riding on a parade float and accidentally cut himself on a money clip suffering from metal fatigue.”

  “Are you hearing this?” Escrow asked Marlon.

  “Play nice,” said the governor, trying to concentrate on driving. “Don’t make me pull over.”

  The argument awoke the dolphin woman, and she came forward in the RV rubbing her eyes. She was wearing some unflattering clothes they’d picked up along the way at a strip mall. Jeans, sneakers and a 3 FOR $10 T-shirt from a defunct serpentarium.

  “You ready to stop for something to eat now?” asked Marlon.

  Escrow checked his watch. “Not enough time, Governor. The debate’s set for nine at the speedway, and it’s still a long way to Daytona.”