Clownfish Blues

by Tim Dorsey

  “Serge?”

  “Huh?” He looked around with a glazed stare. “Why are we here? What are you doing in that costume?”

  “The new sign-spinning job.”

  “Oh, right. It’s coming back now.”

  “Serge, when was the last time you filled out a form?”

  “I don’t know, two years? Three? But that’s the thing about trauma.”

  A panda arm extended from under the bus shelter’s overhang. “I think the rain is letting up like you said.”

  “But the streets will stay flooded for hours.” Serge deftly navigated a small touch screen.

  “You sure love your new cell phone.”

  “These new babies are now called smartphones. I don’t know how I’ve managed to get along without one!” Tap, tap, tap. “I’ve never possessed a cooler gadget in my life, and I’ve only begun to scratch the surface of its potential. But from what I’ve seen so far, these phones are the pinnacle of human achievement. Forget nuclear fission and stem-cell research. Every culture on every continent now has instant, around-the-clock, multiple media platforms to share with the rest of the globe that cats like to sit in boxes.”

  “There’s an app for everything.”

  “And here’s the crucial reason I needed it for our mission. While we’re crisscrossing the state tilting at lighthouses, we can watch all the old episodes of Route 66 that were filmed in Florida . . . Hold on, I’m trying to pull one up now.”

  “I’m still having trouble believing the two main characters could land a new job every week.”

  “It was a golden age,” said Serge. “The baby-boom economy became so robust that people had no trouble getting any job in any city at any time if they were the stars of a hit TV series.”

  “Wow.”

  Vehicles on U.S. 1 continued speeding by with a rhythmic whoosh of tires on the slick roadway. Clouds began to part. Pedestrians folded umbrellas.

  “Okay, check it out,” said Serge. “I just finished a show from season four where Martin Milner—who would later star in Adam-12—gets hired as a safety diver for the mermaids at Weeki Wachee. And here’s one from season three, when they’re over in Punta Gorda doing yard work, and the town rises up after Linc is falsely accused of injuring a family dog with pruning shears. Back then the viewing public required less stimulus.”

  Coleman peeked over Serge’s shoulder at the phone. “I don’t see anything.”

  “That’s because it’s not finished loading,” said Serge. “Just keep watching the screen! This is going to seriously rock! I’m getting the tingles! It just finished loading! It’s starting! . . .”

  A taxicab went by, followed by a red Porsche just off the factory line. The Porsche’s driver spotted the bus shelter and cut the wheel at the last second, swinging over for the lane closest to the curb. The motorist timed his skid perfectly, hitting a deep roadside puddle like a slaloming water-skier.

  The wave of spray drenched a pair of people at the bus bench.

  Serge stared silently at the road as bulbous droplets fell off his eyelashes and streamed down his cheeks. The departing Porsche had a vanity plate: Scrw U.

  Coleman tapped his shoulder. “Hey, Serge, you were just about to show me something really cool on your new phone. Why’d you turn it off?”

  Florida Cable News

  The assignment editor saw Reevis heading across the newsroom and waved him into the office.

  “I just caught it on TV,” said Reevis. “I can’t believe they’re dead. What happened?”

  “Accidentally shot each other while disposing of a body in the Apalachicola Forest,” said an Australian accent.

  Reevis turned to find two people he hadn’t noticed sitting against the wall. “Who are you?”—then, turning to the editor’s desk, “Who are they?”

  “Reevis,” said Shug. “I’d like you to meet your new film crew. This is the acclaimed producer Cricket Brisbane and the equally renowned videographer Dundee.”

  Reevis covered his face. “It doesn’t end.”

  “I know you’re still in shock,” said the editor. “But I think you’ll have a much better working relationship. After all, they broke the story about Nigel and Günter’s violent demise. That’s the kind of hard news you’ve been begging for.”

  Brisbane tipped his bushman’s hat. “We also went back and reviewed their work. Tonight we’re airing a segment that discredits them professionally. They manufactured a hoax story.”

  “I’m getting dizzy,” said Reevis. “They hoaxed about a hoax?”

  “Who knows? But we ran it by the focus groups.”

  “The important thing,” said the editor, “is that all of you get to know each other and find a chemistry.”

  Brisbane stood. “No time like the present. Saddle up, buckaroo!”

  Reevis meekly turned to his editor. “Help . . .”

  . . . When the SUV arrived on the scene, U.S. 1 was backed up all the way to downtown Miami. It wasn’t congestion. It was rubbernecking.

  Drivers slowed and stuck their heads out windows and stared up. No fewer than five news trucks were already there. Reevis climbed out of the sixth. “Dear God!”

  Cameraman Dundee got down on one knee so he could film Reevis at an upward angle, framing the source of all the curiosity.

  “Look this way,” Brisbane told the reporter.

  “But we can’t film this,” said Reevis.

  “Why not?”

  He pointed skyward. “Because the body is still hanging up there. We never show victims on TV when they’re still— . . . I mean, look!”

  The three of them did. It was one of the countless lottery billboards across the state with an insane new jackpot number . . . and not the figure that was up there when the body was discovered, but the one state officials in Tallahassee had ordered put up while he was still swinging, because police interviews of witnesses were taking too long. And hanging by a noose in front of the digits was a lifeless state employee in a short-sleeve dress shirt with a laminated badge clipped to his pocket. The badge said Dagwood Foote. Can’t buy that kind of publicity.

  “Ready when you are,” directed Brisbane.

  “I told you, we don’t show corpses!” said Reevis.

  “New directive.” Brisbane flapped a sheet of paper as proof. “This is the future. We posted crime scene photos on the Internet and took a poll, promising to ‘like’ the page of anyone who approved. They couldn’t get enough, the more grisly the better, especially if there were sexual overtones or the victims had funny haircuts . . . Just look at all the people around us taking selfies with the billboard over their shoulders.”

  “Because there’s something deeply wrong with them,” said Reevis.

  “That’s our specialty,” said Brisbane. “All of my audiences have problems. That’s why they watch.”

  “But journalism is supposed to lead the way,” said Reevis. “Not follow.”

  “Not anymore.” Brisbane held up a page with another directive. “I’ll feed you your opening line: Has lottery fever claimed its first victim?”

  “I’m not saying that!”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Yes! It’s distastefully flip! The man probably has a wife and kids, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Do I need to call your assignment editor?”

  “Fuck you! Fuck all these callous people!”

  Brisbane leaned sideways to his cameraman. “Did you get that?”

  “Every word.” Dundee adjusted the lens for a close-up.

  “Good!” said Reevis. “Go show it to my supervisor, for all I care. Now you have your evidence that I’m insubordinate.”

  “No,” said Brisbane, high-fiving his cameraman. “You nailed it!”

  “Nailed what?”

  “The confrontation that was essential for the segment.” Brisbane nodded. “They said you were a genius. Forget feeding scripted lines. From now on, you work best organically.”

  “But that was just a confrontatio
n between you and me.”

  “That’s why they call it editing.”

  Chapter 23

  The Next Day

  A mom-and-pop motel sat on a corner of Biscayne Boulevard between Miami and Fort Lauderdale. A simple turquoise court topped with white barrel tiles. It was once a sparkling postcard oasis where families on a budget drove two days in station wagons from Illinois and Indiana to enjoy a safe and happy vacation in paradise. Manicured lawn, shrubbery trimmed to strict angles, an intoxicating tropical palette of azalea, jacaranda, bougainvillea, poinciana. Children splashed in the pool, newfangled window air-conditioning units dripped on the sidewalk, and everyone bought ice cream next door from a stand in the shape of a large sugar cone. It was actually called the Florida Motel, with a neon sign in the shape of the state, bragging about color TV and shuffleboard.

  That was then.

  Today it clung to life as one of the countless old joints tucked among pawnshops, liquor stores and victim clinics, with its own constellation of the undead orbiting at all hours. The swimming pool had an aggressive aroma of chlorine ever since the crime tape came down, and police required the office to supply photocopies of driver’s licenses from everyone who checked in, except the manager let that slide for ten bucks.

  The sun was at that point just below the horizon where approximately half the cars whizzing by had their lights on. A taxi pulled over and picked up a gorilla. Most of the motel rooms were dark, but number four had a glimmer of life. Inside it was quiet. The wall over the bed featured a faded Edward Hopper painting of a lonely person staring out a motel window at a lot of wheat. On the other side of the room, a lanky man stood intense and motionless at the sink, as he had for an obsessively lengthy time.

  “Serge,” said Coleman. “Why do you keep staring at that bag of uncooked rice?”

  “Because my new cell phone is in it.”

  “Why?”

  “Rice is supposed to absorb the moisture if you get your phone wet.” Serge crouched down and inspected the bag two inches from his face. “This is the coolest gadget I’ve ever owned, so I’m going balls out with household tips. The most crucial step is not to turn your cell back on too soon. If you do and there’s any wetness still inside, the power surge will fry the circuitry. It’s a test of patience now.”

  Coleman popped the cap off a beer bottle. “Why am I wearing a skin-diver suit with rubber gloves, boots and a mask?”

  “More on that later.” He checked his wristwatch. “Hmm, I wonder if I’ve waited long enough. I must have waited long enough because my feet are starting to throb.”

  “I say go for it.” Fart.

  “That means I better wait . . . What are you drinking now?”

  “Miller High Life!” Coleman thrust the bottle above his head in triumph. “The champagne of beers!”

  “Coleman, do you realize what a ridiculous advertising slogan that is? Had all the executives just chugged a case of the stuff before green-lighting that chestnut?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “In marketing, it’s not just what you call attention to, but what you don’t,” said Serge. “I mean, ‘the champagne of beers’? That’s like ‘Miami Mass Transit: The Rolls-Royce of riding the bus.’”

  “Miller gets me fucked up. That’s all I know.”

  “Now that’s a slogan.”

  Serge raised the bag of rice and shook it. Coleman popped another beer, using the drawer handle on the nightstand. A police officer left the motel office with a stack of photocopied driver’s licenses. Someone screamed and clawed their eyes after jumping in the swimming pool. Coleman threw up in the nightstand’s drawer and closed it. “I say the phone’s ready.”

  Serge slowly began to nod in agreement. “I’ve definitely given it more than enough time. Now I’m just wasting my life.” He swiftly yanked the phone out of the bag and turned it on.

  Coleman walked over with a squeaking of neoprene. “Look! It’s working!”

  “So it is,” Serge said with a satisfied grin.

  Coleman pointed as the tiny screen suddenly zapped to black. “What just happened?”

  “Son of a bitch!” Serge flung the broken device in a rage, and now the room’s Edward Hopper painting featured a lonely person looking out at a field of wheat with a giant cell phone in the middle.

  “That was pretty interesting,” said Coleman.

  Serge walked over to the window and peered outside. “It’s almost dark enough.”

  “What for?”

  “Back to the wet suit you’re wearing.”

  “Almost forgot I had it on.”

  “How does it feel?”

  “Wet again inside.”

  “Hold this in front of you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the panda costume wasn’t cutting it.”

  “You don’t mean . . .”

  “That’s right.” Serge nodded again. “We’re taking sign-spinning big!”

  Fifteen minutes later, Serge and Coleman stood in front of a narrow storefront with extra burglar bars and reinforced concrete pylons to prevent smash-and-grabs using stolen vehicles to ram the entrance. A cardboard sign lay at their feet: We Buy Gold.

  “It finally stopped raining,” said Serge.

  “The streets are flooded again.”

  “Doesn’t affect your big debut.” Serge grabbed a plastic atomizer bottle. “Now hold out the left arm again.”

  Coleman reluctantly complied. “I don’t know about this. What if something goes wrong?”

  “I’m a professional. What can possibly go wrong? . . . Now stick out your right leg . . .”

  “There’s got to be another way.”

  “Trust me,” said Serge. “We’re about to turn the sign-spinning world on its head!”

  “Then why don’t you wear the wet suit?”

  “Stop whining! You’re about to become an Internet rock star!” Serge reached in his pocket. “If anything, I’m the one making the sacrifice . . . Stay still. The only thing you have to remember is not to panic . . .”

  Thirty seconds later, Coleman ran shrieking in terrified circles in the parking lot.

  “You’re panicking,” yelled Serge.

  Motorists on U.S. 1 slammed their brakes and dialed emergency numbers, watching in disbelief as a person fully engulfed in flames ran around a parking lot with a burning cardboard sign.

  “Look at all the attention you’re getting!” said Serge.

  Coleman sprinted by. “I’m all on fire!”

  “I told you I used low-burn-temperature cooking alcohol,” said Serge. “It’s just a little bit of fire.”

  Coleman dashed back the other way. “Aaaaauuuuuhhhhhh!”

  “Shit, he’s running into traffic.” Serge grabbed an extinguisher. “Coleman, stop moving so I can put you out.”

  Cars jumped curbs and rear-ended each other as Serge chased his friend around the street with blasts of foam.

  Coleman eventually stopped in the intersection, removed his mask and looked at the steam coming off his arms. “Am I out?”

  “Except for that foot. Stick it in that puddle on the edge of the street.”

  Sizzle.

  Serge gave the smoldering black suit a final blast of foam. “There, good as new. Now don’t you feel silly?”

  “Holy turds,” said Coleman. “Look at all the people pulling into our strip mall to sell their gold.”

  A horrible squealing of tires. Crash.

  A horn continuously blared from the wrecked car.

  “Uh-oh,” said Serge. “That guy just had an accident, and of course he’s probably going to try and blame us.”

  “Some people,” said Coleman.

  “We better go help . . .” Serge ran up to the side of the convertible. “Sir, are you okay?”

  The woozy driver raised his head off the steering wheel. “What happened?”

  “You smashed up your car because you weren’t paying attention.”

  Coleman pulled off c
harred rubber gloves. “Nothing we did.”

  A mother with two small children ran over. Serge looked them up and down. “What happened to you?”

  “That jerk drenched us! He deliberately swung over from the center lane to hit a deep puddle while we were waiting in the bus shelter. I just bought this phone!”

  Serge turned back to the car. “Wait a second . . .” He took a step back to appraise the color and model-year of the Porsche. Then walked around back to check the license plate.

  Scrw U.

  “Sir.” Serge opened the driver’s door. “On second thought, you need to come with us.”

  “Why?”

  “As a safety precaution, you should be held for observation.”

  Just Up the Street

  The stitching above the pocket on the oily shirt said Jeremy. The auto mechanic looked down into the glass case. “I’ll take the Big Bucks scratch-off, Money Bags, Huge Loot, the Price Is Right, a Lotto quick-pick, a pack of Winstons and the beer.”

  The convenience-store clerk rang him up while arguing with his girlfriend on the phone.

  “Oh, and can you check if this one’s a winner?”

  The clerk scanned an old ticket and handed the mechanic a crumpled five-dollar bill. The next customer stepped up. “Let me have a Ruby Riches, King’s Gold, Bejeweled Diamonds . . .”

  Outside in the surveillance van, the supervising agent leaned over a shoulder at a computer screen. “So this one store is responsible for how many, now?”

  The tech pressed buttons. “Twelve different straw buyers have each won at least fifty times in the last year, all over five hundred a throw. But that’s a tough prosecution with complicit customers, so we have to nab them ripping off the unsuspecting ones.”

  The undercover agent in a mechanic’s shirt climbed into the van. “Only gave me five dollars.”