Tropic of Stupid

by Tim Dorsey

  “Going tangent?”

  “He came home to Key West from some kind of macho trip and found she had given him a present of a new swimming pool. At first he was thrilled. Then he learned the cost of chiseling and blasting through solid rock, instead of just scooping out dirt for a pool.” Serge’s hands continued along the wall. “Check out the cross-sections of these fossilized corals and sea fans.”

  Coleman pointed the other way. “What are those rusty things?”

  “Some of the digging machines they left behind. And over there are a bunch of the multi-ton blocks that I guess were extras, now sitting here like some mystery from Easter Island.” Serge made a military-style pivot at a corner of the wall and headed west. “This is one of those tranquil places where I like to review my philosophy on the human condition.”

  “Such as?”

  “You’ve heard that we are now in the post-fact era?”

  “No.”

  “It’s been in the news but nobody believes it.” Serge climbed over another root. “Anyway, I figured it out. The problem is that the human brain has evolved faster than its ability to cope with the consequences of what it perceives. That’s why denial is so big these days: ‘I can’t believe my car just ran out of gas. Who did this to me? I need to vote against some group that looks different.’”

  “Denial?”

  “Think about it,” said Serge. “Humans are the only creatures on earth with the capacity for denial. With the possible exception of cats: ‘Not my hairball. Ask the other cat.’”

  “I had a hairball once.”

  “Understanding denial is all part of my mission to make other people happy.” Serge pushed away some vines that swung back and smacked Coleman.

  “Ow! I’m not happy.”

  “Here’s the Whole Deal of Existence,” said Serge. “When you’re born, life presents you with a precious basket of golden droplets, and each drop is a fleeting second on earth to be happy. It makes no sense to just scatter them in the street because you’re typing another twenty angry posts in a Twitter diss-war.” Serge pulled out his state park passport book, flipping to an element-worn page.

  “Why do you keep looking at those upside-down stamps if they make you angry?”

  “I’m conditioning myself not to waste the golden droplets,” said Serge. “When I’m able to look at these fucked-up stamps with acceptance and unconditional love for the bait industry, I’m ready to move on to the Sermon on the Mount.”

  “How’s it working out?”

  He stowed the book. “I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s get out of here . . .”

  They ended up in another economy motel, this one at Everglades City.

  A red pushpin stuck a notecard to a corkboard. Serge tied a purple strand of yarn to it, and stretched it down to another pushpin.

  Coleman regained consciousness on the floor. “What are you doing?”

  Serge stood back and inspected his work. “Running out of corkboard.”

  “Just buy another one.”

  Serge turned around. “I see you missed the beds again.”

  “It’s too tricky.”

  Another notecard went up. “You know, I’ve been revisiting my thoughts on the Statue of Liberty,” said Serge. “I think I need one of those costumes.”

  “What for?”

  “It dovetails with the Sermon on the Mount,” said Serge. “There’s a plaque in New York Harbor at the base of the statue that bears repeating: ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost, to me.’”

  “I can dig it.”

  “But judging from the current mood of the nation, apparently that plaque has become caked over with mud,” said Serge.

  “What mood?”

  “Haven’t you been paying attention?” said Serge. “The whole nation’s constantly pissed off. And over what? Sure, there are always improvements to be made, but fundamentally it’s a fantastic country full of loving people and neighborhoods with unlimited potential if we just come together as a family, from sea to shining sea, in the only country that cites the pursuit of happiness in its founding creed.”

  “What’s changed?”

  “The heartbreak of squandered golden droplets. Large groups of enraged people chanting God knows what,” said Serge. “The funny thing is that they really seem to be enjoying themselves. Who would have ever guessed this is where the ‘pursuit’ would lead? Millions of Americans aren’t happy unless they’re unhappy.”

  “What a bummer.”

  “Someone needs to jump-start those words at the bottom of the statue,” said Serge. “That’s why I want one of those green costumes. I’m thinking of making a sign.” He approached the corkboard and wrote something on another notecard.

  Coleman sat up and yawned. “How’s it coming?”

  “Not bad.” He snipped an orange piece of yarn. “I never knew what an interesting family I had, how it spanned the Florida experience. There’s that Greek sponge diver from the family album we saw, a cowhand who drove cattle through Yeehaw Junction, a bellhop from old Miami Beach when the Marx Brothers filmed The Cocoanuts, a tender of the Canaveral lighthouse, an Ybor reader—”

  “What’s that?”

  “Back in the late nineteenth century, Tampa had all these cigar factories in the Cuban section of town, called Ybor City. A few hundred people would sit at long tables in a massive open room rolling cigars all day.” Another notecard was tacked up. “Of course, it got tedious, and the radio hadn’t been invented, so one person would sit at the front of the room on a tall stool and read the day’s newspapers.”

  “You got all those notecards from your saliva?”

  “No, I told you, I only got three distant familial hits.” He turned on his laptop and logged into a website with sepia-tone photos. “But there are other genealogical services that don’t use spit. You take what few facts you have—last name, birthday, city, whatever—and plug them in, and sometimes you’ll get lucky, and it coughs up more family data, and you plug that stuff in, and so on.”

  “You’re really getting into it.”

  “And how,” said Serge. “Tracking a serial killer makes the family-tree hobby a much happier experience. The services should be adding that as a bonus feature.” He stared with his nose a few inches from the cards. “Which ancestor will be the one who cracks the case?”

  Coleman got up and pointed with a freshly popped beer. “One of the cards is blank.”

  “The third familial hit that I’ve been trying to reach. Remember me calling and calling from the state park?” He flipped open a notebook. “I only got an address in Craftsbury, Vermont, so I paid five bucks for an online directory service and got the phone number I’ve been trying to call, except it’s looking like a dry hole.”

  “Vermont,” said Coleman. “Fuck.”

  “But I don’t know the word ‘failure.’”

  “I do,” said Coleman.

  “Shut up, I’m dialing again.” He listened. “It’s ringing. At least that’s something . . .” Suddenly, surprise: “Oh, uh, hello? Is Mr. Lee there? . . . Who’s calling? A long-lost relative that’s dying to catch up. . . . He’s not there? When will he be back? . . . What do you mean, possibly May? . . . He’s in Florida? What’s he doing down here? . . . Yes, I know it’s winter. . . . No, I don’t know how freezing Vermont gets. Who would live in such conditions? Why are you there? . . . Oh, the caretaker. . . . Listen, actually I’m down in Florida myself, so this is a huge break in tracing my kin and tracking the serial—uh, serial numbers, antique pocket watches, yeah, that’s it, a hobby. Any possibility that I can contact him? . . . He likes to stay off the radar? No cell phone or even a clock? Darn! . . . What? An address? Yes, I have a pen . . .” Serge wrote in the palm of his left hand. “Thanks, you’ve been a great help. And really give the Vermont thing some more thought. Later.”

  “What happened?” said Coleman.
>
  “Road trip!”

  Chapter 17

  Palm Beach

  Lights twinkled over the water. Champagne glasses clinked. Young men in white shorts sprinted down the driveway with exotic key fobs.

  Inside on a flat-screen TV, brilliant red-white-and-blue bursts in the night sky on a Fourth of July. The commercial ended.

  Congratulatory slaps on Nathan Sparrow’s back.

  “I don’t know how you do it . . .”

  “This one’s the best yet . . .”

  “You can never go wrong with kittens and string . . .”

  Laughter and liquor-loosened chitchat filled the mansion.

  “He’s late,” someone told Sparrow.

  “The food’s ready,” said someone else.

  Nathan paused and took a deep breath for a decision. “Okay, let’s just get started . . . Everyone! Can I have your attention?”

  The hubbub died down. The agenda was slightly different from all the other cocktail parties. A series of elongated dinner tables had been trucked in and now filled the more-than-ample open floor plan of the party room overlooking the water. People took seats, and the white-gloved catering staff began serving the $75,000-a-plate guests.

  Goat cheese and walnut salad. Quail. Truffles. Foie gras, created by torturing ducks to enlarge their livers for the enjoyment of the political-donor class.

  Six police motorcycles with flashing blue lights came up the street and scattered valets onto lawns.

  A limo.

  Someone saw the lights through the front windows. “He’s here.”

  The candidate entered with a million-watt smile. Food got cold as guests rose from the table for handshakes and well wishes for the rising star and current darling of half the population. A long, upward career: city council, mayor, congressman, and now the front-runner for bigger things. The candidate wormed his way through the crowd, waving at pretend friends.

  The catering staff stood back respectfully, hands clasped in front of them as rehearsed. They’d seen their share of these cynical fetes, but many actually came to like some of the politicians. Most of the candidates were savvy enough to carve out time and visit the kitchen to individually thank the help. But good luck tonight.

  After everyone was full and signaling for cocktail refills, Nathan Sparrow tapped a water glass with a spoon.

  “Good evening, and thank you all for coming. Oh, and for your money . . .”

  Ripples of laughter.

  “. . . But we’re all in agreement that it’s for an excellent cause. Good government can’t be taken for granted, as unfortunately many do nowadays . . .”

  Nodding around the tables. Everyone knew who he was talking about.

  “. . . Enough of my yapping,” said Sparrow. “I’m humbled to introduce the person you’ve all come to see, the next senator from the great state of Florida, Jack Grayson!”

  Grayson patted Sparrow’s arm as he took his place at the front of the main table. “Thank you, Nathan, for all your years of support. We go back how far? The council?”

  “Actually, school board,” said Nathan.

  “That’s right. Time flies.” He faced his audience again for boilerplate platitudes and stale jokes that produced staler laughs.

  “. . . Anyway, I’m glad you’re all here, because our nation faces serious problems . . .”

  He meant the taxes they were all paying, and how the money was all being spent. The remarks were tailored for the private audience. And they went over big, as only divisive remarks can go over. The uglier it got, the happier they got.

  So happy, in fact, that nobody noticed the security guard standing along the back wall, holding his cell phone in an unobtrusive manner to conceal the red “record” button.

  “. . . Thank you! Thank you!” said Grayson, pushing down with his hands. “Please, hold your applause for victory night! . . . In conclusion—”

  Shouting suddenly cut him off.

  “Stop! What’s that?”

  “Get your hands off me!”

  A scuffle broke out. The candidate strained to see. All heads turned toward a pair of security guards pinning a third guard against a doorway.

  Sparrow raced over. “What’s the meaning of this outrage! You interrupted our guest of honor!”

  “Sir,” said one of the guards, “we caught him filming with his phone.”

  The guard handed the confiscated device to Sparrow, who looked like he had just been given a wet turd. “This is unheard of! Get him out of here! And I’ll be calling your company tomorrow!”

  The candidate’s handlers arrived. Sparrow explained the problem, but said they had nothing to worry about. He had quashed it in time and seized the contraband phone.

  “But you swore to us you had procedures in place!” said one of the handlers. “Remember what happened to Romney in Boca?”

  “That’s right,” said Sparrow. “That’s why I hired security to check all the caterers. They even use metal detectors.”

  “But it was one of the security guards who was recording!”

  “That’s why I have other security guards. The procedures worked.” Then he turned with a large smile toward the rest of the silent, curious room. “Everything’s fine. Just a little hiccup, but it’s all over now.” Another turn of his eyes. “. . . Senator—I mean our next senator, please continue.”

  The guests knew that everything definitely was not fine, but they took their host’s cue and adopted the fiction that all was dandy. Polite, aside comments.

  After an understandably fumbling start, the candidate regained his poise to wrap it up. Finally, a huge two-armed wave. “Thank you all so much for coming!”

  There was the usual perfunctory post-event glad-handing. Grayson was still smiling as he whispered out the corner of his mouth to an assistant. The assistant whispered back. The candidate remained cheerful as he shook the last of the hands. Then he stormed down a hallway into one of the many bedrooms, the master, and summoned Sparrow.

  A door slammed shut behind them, and Grayson spun toward the lawyer. “Of all the goddamn stupid fucking things! I trusted you, you worthless moron! . . .”

  Sparrow held his counsel. He had dealt with enough politicians in his day, which meant enough childishness. How these people could run anything, much less govern, was beyond him. He thought: Grayson just needs time to vent a little.

  A minute went by. Then two, and three.

  “This could blow up in my face, you ignorant cocksucker! . . .”

  Okay, this was past venting. Nobody had talked to Sparrow like this in almost thirty years. And in his own house. His own bedroom.

  The candidate’s handlers squirmed as they waited just outside the closed door. At moments like these, it was unspoken that they were not to enter under any circumstances. But the shouting was getting too loud. So much so that departing guests were craning their necks to see down the hall.

  The loudest profanity yet reverberated from the door. “Recording me? Jesus Christ! How am I supposed to tell these assholes what they want to hear and still get elected? Fuck me! No, better yet, fuck you! . . .”

  The chief of staff outside the door: “Screw it!” He burst into the room. “Sir! You’ve got to lower your voice! People can hear! Everyone can hear!”

  The candidate gritted his teeth and paused to barely regain control. Finally he stuck a finger in Sparrow’s face that actually brushed the tip of his nose. “I’m not done with you!” He stormed back out of the room.

  “Sorry about that,” a handler told the attorney. “He’ll be fine.” The chief of staff followed the candidate to the street, and an array of flashing blue lights led the whole ugliness away.

  Chapter 18

  Pine Island

  Just north of Fort Myers, the 1970 Cobra crossed a small bridge with a sign: Island Time Starts Here.

  “Hey, I remember this place.” Coleman cupped a joint below window level. “It’s that hippie-dippy little town with all the psychedelic buildings.” />
  “More like Jamaican buildings.” Serge drove extra slow to avoid all the pedestrians hugging the shoulders of the narrow road. “It’s the hidden small-town jewel of Matlacha. Arts and crafts galleries and waterfront seafood dining to die for.”

  The Cobra left the town behind and, a few miles later, crossed another bridge into one of those laid-back communities with no stoplights.

  “A cop! He’s waving at us!” Coleman swallowed the still-lit joint.

  Serge turned slowly. “You have seen a traffic cop before, haven’t you?”

  “No hard questions right now.” Drool down his shirt. “There’s something wrong with my tongue.”

  The cop waved the Cobra onto Stringfellow Road near the Pine Island Public Library. Serge looked at the writing in his left palm. “I wonder where this address is.”

  Several miles north, past all the palm tree farms, he would have his answer. The Cobra slowly wound through the snaking turns on Pineland Road until they came to the water. “I remember now. This is one of the places to catch a ferry to Cabbage Key.” He slowed even more, checking house numbers against his palm. After several mini-mansions of fresh construction, he stopped at a different style of home across from the Tarpon Lodge. Weathered wooden vernacular construction with a screened porch wrapping all the way around. A tiny widow’s walk stuck out of the attic. And all of it sitting atop an ancient Indian shell mound. The house number matched Serge’s hand.

  “How do I know this place?” Serge opened the driver’s door. “Oh, well, it’ll come to me.”

  The pair climbed the mound and Serge knocked hard on a wooden screen door that rattled like the hinges were about to give up. “Mr. Lee? Are you in there? . . . Mr. Lee!”

  Coleman got on his tiptoes to peek in a window. “Maybe he’s not home.”