by Tim Dorsey
“I see it. And there’s an old train depot . . .”
“. . . Now a museum.” Serge pulled up to the curb in the busiest section of town, a total of three buildings long. Sopchoppy Grocery was made of red bricks with a tin awning and a sign that hung over the sidewalk with 1950s artwork of a pile of vegetables next to a slice of raw meat. Smaller signs in the windows advertised Coca-Cola and Cracker Jack, then homemade notices for septic repair, a lost dog, canoe rentals, a carpet service called Dirt Doctors, and an announcement that “local squash” was now in stock.
“You need food?” asked Coleman.
“No, a job.” Serge hopped out. “Our Route 66 pilgrimage requires that we secure new employment each week in a different town. That’s why I picked Sopchoppy for episode one. We can’t miss!”
“But how can you be so sure the grocery store will hire us?”
“They won’t,” said Serge. “We’re starting our own business.”
“What kind of business?”
Serge pointed at another sign in the window that said $2.50 a Cup next to a crayon drawing of a smiling earthworm. “Each year, people from all over descend on the tiny hamlet for the annual worm-grunting festival.”
“Grunting?”
“It’s what they call their patented technique for harvesting worms.” Serge entered the store and walked past a produce case with an eclectic decorative display on top of antique cash registers, lanterns and tennis rackets. “It seems hard to believe now, but back in the day this was a gold-rush town of pioneers supplying the region with earthworms and making fortunes, until people started calculating fortunes differently.”
“Far out.”
At the other end of the vegetable case was a dignified woman in a straw hat trying to reach a zucchini decision.
“Excuse me,” said Serge. “I know this place has seen better times, but thankfully all hardship is in the rearview mirror now that we’ve arrived. The new Route 66, episode one.”
“Do I know you?”
“Not yet, but soon everyone in town will. Extreme worm-grunting.”
“Oh, the worm festival,” she said with a laugh. “You just missed the last one by a week. The kids loved it.”
“I’m sure the little tykes were joyfully spitting up ice cream and cotton candy all the way home,” said Serge. “But we’re deadly serious. I believe I can trust you: There could soon be an employment boom around here, except we only have a week. Shooting schedule for the next episode. Sorry, but the suits make the rules.”
“What are you talking about?” The female customer was possibly late thirties. Appeared slightly older from the light sun wrinkles of an outdoor life, and acted younger because of the experience.
Serge glanced around for eavesdroppers, then leaned closer. “I can get you in on the ground floor. Just point us toward the worm fields, and the highway will soon be so full of semi trucks that they’ll have to reinforce the bridges.”
“Do you actually know anything about worm-grunting?”
“Everything,” said Serge. “Do I look like some kind of amateur? You fashion a foot-and-a-half wooden stake made of persimmon or oak that’s called a ‘stob’ and pound it into nutrient-rich soil. Next you take an equal length of metal known as a ‘rooping iron’ that’s often a leaf spring salvaged from the suspension of an abandoned truck. Then you rub the iron over the top of the stob to mimic the frequency of the earthworm’s mortal nemesis, digging moles. Consequently, your quarry flees to the surface, and before you know it”—he snapped his fingers—“you’re tits-high in earthworms. Lower property taxes for everyone!”
The woman stared a moment. “Where’d you learn all that?”
“Books, Internet.”
“But have you actually done it?”
“Knowledge trumps experience,” said Serge. “Einstein never built an A-bomb, but ask a certain country how that turned out.”
“No, I mean it’s a dead art,” said the woman. “Only a few old-timers out in the forest still practice it. Really hard work for horrible pay, maybe twenty bucks a pail if you’re lucky. And I mean big pails.”
“Never thought of pails!” said Serge. “See? I knew you’d be helpful . . . Coleman, make a note. Pails, ten. Make it an even dozen.” He turned back to the woman. “Any other wisdom you can impart? You mentioned a forest?”
“The Apalachicola, but . . . don’t take this wrong . . .” She eyed Serge up and down. “. . . You look a bit too city for this line of work. I’m not joking about how hard it is.”
Serge gleamed a brilliant smile. “My fingernails may look spotless, but don’t underestimate my laser focus and impish tenacity . . . Coleman! To the Apalachicola!”
The woman selected a vegetable.
Coleman was already in the passenger seat chugging a fresh quart. Serge stood outside the driver’s door with an ancient Gulf Oil road map. “This place called Tate’s Hell looks inviting . . .”
The door of the grocery store opened. “Let me give you some directions. It’s easy to get lost out there in the woods if you’re not from these parts.”
Serge turned and recalibrated his initial impression. The woman’s subdued beauty was more apparent in natural light. High cheekbones, the hair a bit wild and more strawberry, almost no makeup. And he hadn’t noticed the hiking boots before. Definitely a nature mama. But the main thing: green eyes, pure jade. She walked around the car and grabbed the edge of his map.
“The problem is a lot of these back roads dead-end up at the Ochlockonee River.” She leaned closer to Serge and tapped a spot on the Liberty County line. “But this one bridge west of Smith Creek . . .”
“And that’s where the worms are?”
“You’re on your own there, but it’s where I’d start.”
It was the slightest of brushes. The side of his arm and the side of hers. Was it on purpose? Either way, electricity clearly jumped.
She moved her finger along the map, leaning even closer until their shoulders were in full contact. Okay, now that definitely was on purpose. Then sense of smell came into sexual play. Scientists don’t precisely know why, but humans are individually hardwired to be aroused by certain specific scents. She removed her straw hat, and the aroma of her hair reminded Serge of those little hazelnut coffee creamers from 7-Eleven. He got a woody.
“Wait,” she said. “It’ll be much easier if I just show you myself.”
“You want to come with us?”
“Sure, I hike out there all the time. That is, when I’m not riding horses.”
Serge mentally dialed up that last image. Heart be still. He opened the driver’s door and slipped on polarized sunglasses. “Climb on in. It’s only a two-seater, so I hope you don’t mind Coleman’s lap.”
“Heck, no!”
“Coleman, I wasn’t talking to you.”
They all wedged inside. “Wow,” said the woman. “What a cool car!”
“Genuine 1964 Corvette Stingray, just like Martin Milner drove in the third season of Route 66. I have the whole series on DVD. They kept changing car models each year without explanation and it briefly caused me to retain water . . . Where are my manners? I’m Serge.” He extended a hand.
“Lou Ellen, nice to meet.” She ran her hands over the white leather interior. “Where’d you find such an old model in this condition?”
“Actually it’s not mine.” Serge pulled away from the curb. “The owner is just letting me use it temporarily.”
“For how long?”
“Until he gets home from vacation and calls the police.”
Laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
“You have a great sense of humor . . . Hey, have you seen our historic gymnasium?”
“It rocked my world.” Serge suddenly cut the wheel. “But I’d like to see it again.”
Lou Ellen braced for balance as the Corvette fishtailed its way over to the limestone landmark, until it almost crashed into it.
Serge jumped out. “Let’s
go!”
Coleman opened his door.
“Not you,” said Serge, extending a hand to help Lou Ellen out of the car.
She started up the steps. “But I think it’s locked.”
“I have a key.”
They went inside.
Coleman settled back with a new bottle of malt liquor. He stared without intent at a spot in the air a foot in front of his face. His brain was a test pattern.
Meanwhile, at center court in the middle of the gym’s hardwood floor . . .
“Oh God! Yes! Yes! Yes! Faster! Yes! . . . What are you thinking about?”
“Stobs, rooping irons, pails, the old Sopchoppy lumber mills, turpentiners, cut-rail fences, indigenous blue iris and black willows used for gunpowder, Corvettes through the ages, the Route 66 theme song, 7-Eleven . . . I’m there!”
“Don’t stop! . . .”
Coleman upended the brown glass bottle as the gymnasium’s door crashed open.
Serge sprinted down the steps and leaped into the driver’s seat.
Coleman belched. “What’s going on?”
“We have to get the hell out of here!”
Serge threw the Stingray in gear as a disheveled woman staggered out in a daze and pulled up a bra strap. “Wait! Why are you leaving?”
“To protect you,” Serge yelled as he hit the gas. “There are a lot of serial killers running around. Luckily it was just me this time, but you need to be more careful.”
Meanwhile . . .
The afternoon sun had sizzled away the remnants of the regularly scheduled rain shower, leaving greater Miami in a mild steam bath. The bustling downtown business district, from Biscayne to Flagler and Brickell, didn’t have time to regard another TV news crew as out of the ordinary. The sidewalks were thick with street crazies talking to themselves, and executives with Bluetooths talking to themselves.
A baby-faced reporter with a microphone stood in front of a steep stone building. A cameraman in earphones gave him the thumbs-up.
“Good afternoon. This is Reevis Tome coming to you live for FCN outside the Miami-Dade courthouse, where a half-dozen elected officials have been indicted in a broadening kickback scandal involving no-bid contracts awarded to top campaign contributors. As first reported here on this network, our public records search unraveled a barely concealed trail of bribery and graft leading all the way to the mayor’s office, which has thus far refused comment . . .”
The TV station cut to archive footage of a man with a coat over his head ducking into a black sedan. “Get away from me! . . .”
Then back to the reporter. “. . . We’ll have more for you as the story develops. This is Reevis Tome for FCN in Miami . . .”
FCN. That would be Florida Cable News.
Reevis Tome. That would be a twenty-seven-year-old, fiercely ethical reporter who appeared to be maybe all of nineteen. Another dying breed: the traditionally trained journalist who purely wanted to cover serious news the old way. No blogs or tweets, and definitely no Facebook posts about the newest adorable zoo baby or “six surprising beauty finds at Costco.” And because he didn’t care about money, they didn’t pay him much. One of his Datsun’s back windows was a trash bag. He only had to shave Monday and Thursday.
Reevis never imagined he’d end up on TV. In fact, he abhorred the notion. It was the ink-stained world of newspapers or nothing. Or so he thought. Then came a sea change in the industry near the turn of the millennium. The Internet had dwindled readership to the point that vulture capitalists could acquire most papers for less than the cost of the land under the buildings. Among the hardest hit was the Journal, which covered the Gold Coast counties of Palm Beach, Broward and Miami-Dade. Layoffs, salary cuts, unpaid furloughs, slashed health coverage. The paper began requiring all reporters to carry cell phones that took pictures, then disbanded the photo department. They eliminated the weekend cop reporter. They eliminated Palm Beach County.
The staff didn’t think it could get worse.
Reevis came to work one day, and they had eliminated news.
Too expensive, they said. We’ll just use stories from the wire services. Reevis was yanked off the city hall beat to cover civic luncheons where newspaper publishers received plaques.
Then they sold the land under the building.
Enter Florida Cable News. Shoestring low-budget operation. So low, in fact, that they could scarcely compete with the well-established networks and their soup-to-nuts team coverage of the most sensational stories. FCN was forced to subsist on the leftover material that was beneath the dignity of the big outfits. Reevis was assigned to cover actual news.
A TV cameraman snapped his fingers in front of Reevis’s face. “You okay?”
Reevis blinked and returned to the present. “Just another flashback.”
The cameraman was named Rock. Rock Blister. He muscularly trotted back to the satellite van as if the weighty camera and battery belt were helium balloons. “We’re rolling!”
Reevis jumped in the passenger side a half second after the vehicle had started to move. He grabbed a clipboard off the dash and scanned a grid of time blocks. “Where to now?”
“Convenience store on Biscayne,” said Rock, his short sleeves rolled all the way up to reveal tattoos of the Chinese symbols for love and hate. Except the tattoo artist had been coming off a mule-kick hangover, and the designs ended up saying love and storage unit. “The lottery jackpot rolled over again for the third time and crowds are out the door.”
“Wonderful,” intoned Reevis. “I have to act cheerful again interviewing poor people tragically wasting their money.”
The van arrived at an ethnic bodega on the edge of Miami Gardens. A line of farmworkers ran along the front of the store, giving off a pesticide funk and waiting for air-conditioning. Inside, two automated machines burped out losing tickets at a stunning rate.
A camera light came on. Reevis raised his microphone and faked a smile. “Sir, why are you buying lottery tickets today?”
“So I can afford a divorce.”
Reevis moved along the line to collect more insight: “I saw it in a dream,” “I’ll give it to the church,” “I play my grandchildren’s birthdays,” “I’m wearing my lucky copper bracelet,” “These are my husband’s ashes” . . .
Rock turned off his camera. An Asian couple behind the counter covered their mouths with the giggles. The journalists headed back to the van. The clipboard’s next time block: a water-main break under a high school. Reevis’s cell phone rang.
“Hello? . . . Sure thing, right after we get back from the flooded cafeteria . . . Well, if it’s that important.” He hung up.
“What’s going on?” asked Rock.
“Looks like the home of the Fighting Stone Crabs won’t be seen tonight.”
“We’re going back to the office?”
Reevis checked his phone for texts. “Apparently it’s something that won’t wait.”
“Can I ask you a question?” said Rock. “That couple at the counter in the convenience store . . .”
“What about them?”
“Why are Chinese people always laughing at me?”
The satellite truck pulled into a parking garage at the headquarters of Florida Cable News, located in beautiful downtown Coconut Creek. Reevis and Rock crossed the newsroom and stuck their heads in the office of the assignment editor.
“You wanted to see us?”
“Come inside and close the door.”
They weren’t alone.
“Who are these guys?” asked Reevis.
“We’ll get to that,” said Shug. “We’re doing a major lineup overhaul, and I wanted to tell you first before the rumor mill gathered steam. You know how journalists can get.”
“Right,” said Reevis. “We’re supposed to be aggressively curious about everything except malfeasance in our own company.”
“And sarcastic,” said Shug. But he was old school, too, and liked that about Reevis.
“What kind of overhaul
?” asked the young reporter.
“Nothing to worry about.” Shug leaned back in the leather chair and folded his arms. “Remember when CNN was all news, all the time?”
“Sure. They cast the mold.”
“Then ratings began to slip, so they began filling prime time with reality shows. People working weird jobs, celebrity psychiatrists, Anthony Bourdain drunk in the Alps.”
“I’m familiar,” said Reevis.
“It’s these crazy times,” said Shug. “We’re forced to evolve or perish.”
“But what’s all this got to do with me?”
From the side of the room: “We believe you have what it takes.”
Reevis turned. “Who are you?”
A British man in a blue blazer and ascot stepped forward. “Nigel Welks.”
The assignment editor cleared his throat. “Reevis, this is a production company that just flew in from Los Angeles. They’re here to develop your new show.”
“L.A.?” asked the reporter.
Shug’s chair swiveled. “We’re not remotely equipped to develop the type of shows we need to stay competitive, so corporate brought in some outside help.”
Reevis’s eyes moved back and forth. “Exactly what kind of show are we talking about?”
Nigel placed his palms together in front of his chest and smiled proudly. “This show will have all the elements: journalistic dilemmas, violent confrontation, betrayal, sex . . .”
“Sex?” said Reevis.
“Are you allergic to latex?” asked Nigel.
“What?”
“Never mind. Just keep doing what you do best and we’ll keep the cameras rolling.”
“This is starting to sound like a reality show,” said the reporter.
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” said Nigel. “And we would know the difference. We specialize in reality shows. You’ve probably seen our latest project, Full Boil, about these gourmet chefs who get into adventures.”
“What kind?”
“They solve crimes,” said Nigel. “Then there’s Deadliest Dig, a true-life look at the outrageously harrowing world of worm-grunters in the Apalachicola Forest.”
“What are worm-grunters?”
“They trudge miles across the muck to catch earthworms for fishing-bait stores.”
