by Tim Dorsey
He smiled and sat perfectly still. He jumped up and ran out the door.
6
T HE NO NAME Pub’s screen door flew open.
“Serge! You’re back!”
Serge joined them at the bar. He sat next to one of his favorite regulars. A sensitive but self-destructive journalist named Bud Naranja, who first came to the Keys after being fired from a South Florida newspaper for writing a caption on a hurricane aftermath photo of a looter running down the street with a shopping cart. Except it was a bank president delivering relief supplies—and a major advertiser. Guards hovered over Bud in front of the whole newsroom as he packed belongings in a cardboard box and cut his giant, inflatable “news flamingo” down from the ceiling. Didn’t even go back to his apartment, just climbed in a 200,000-mile Toyota and began driving with no purpose but an earnest devotion to the principle: How can I make this worse? He headed south until he ran out of land and kept going. The Toyota started smoking on Crawl Key, and Bud had to drive across the Seven-Mile Bridge with his head out the window. The engine finally took pity and threw a rod on Big Pine, and he caught a ride with a local housepainter in splattered overalls on his way out to the No Name Pub, where Bud got drunk and slept in the woods behind the building and never went back. Decided to stay and reinvent himself. He reinvented himself as a fired journalist for a Key West newspaper who now did occasional freelance for a variety of free weekly shoppers distributed throughout the islands.
“Bud, what’s the matter?” asked Serge. “You look like someone died.”
Bud pointed at the TV. “Have you been following the airbag murder case in Miami?”
“No.”
“How could you miss it?” said Sop Choppy. “It’s been all over TV for weeks. It’s a big story.”
“So I missed it. I’ve been on the road. What’s the deal?”
“These mechanics reconditioned deployed airbags by filling them with sand to save money,” said Bud.
“What’s wrong with people?” said Sop Choppy. “How low does the bar get?”
“Not this jerk again,” said Bob, gesturing at the local TV newscast, which had switched to a regular investigative segment called “Consumer Bloodhound.” “I don’t know who’s worse, the scam artists they report on or the obnoxious reporter who chases them across parking lots and shouts questions at slammed doors.”
They stopped and listened to the story about a contractor in Fort Lauderdale who tells people they need whole new roofs when they don’t.
“I know that scam,” said Sop Choppy. “Used to work construction. It’s so common in Florida it’s a cliché. They go up on top of your house and find rust on shingle nails and say everything’s about to cave in. But it’s so humid down here you can find nail rust in the finest roofs.”
Next on the tube: Wall Street Update and the latest accounting irregularities at embattled Global-Con.
“Global-Con!” said Sop Choppy. “Don’t get me started! Why doesn’t anybody do anything?”
“A bunch of shareholders have sued,” said Bob the accountant. “But no criminal indictments, probably never, because of campaign donations.”
“I read in the papers where he’s moving down here,” said Bud. “Started building a giant mansion in Marathon.”
“Who?” asked Sop Choppy.
“The Global-Con guy. What’s his name?”
“You don’t mean Donald Greely,” said Serge.
Bud nodded.
“There goes the neighborhood.”
“But how’s that possible?” asked Sop Choppy. “I thought the courts froze his assets after the lawsuits.”
“They did,” said Bob. “But he’d already homesteaded and sheltered twenty million in construction under Florida’s no-forfeiture law. It’s the first thing they teach in accounting school.”
“That’s typical,” said the biker. “They seized my hog last year for one stinkin’ joint in the saddlebag. Then this guy steals all those retirement accounts and there’s a law protecting him?”
Jerry the bartender came over. Jerry was even more sensitive than Bud. He was naturally likable, with a chronic insecurity about being liked that got on everyone’s nerves.
“What are you guys talking about?” asked Jerry, tipping a draft handle.
“The stock market.”
“That’s a good subject.”
Serge looked at his watch. “How long have I been sitting here?”
“You just arrived,” said Bud.
Serge hopped off his stool. “I gotta move around.”
Serge was a wall-looker. Restaurant, hotel, bar, whatever—had to case the whole interior for history. Plaques and photos and clippings and stuff. He could get hung up for hours in the No Name with all the dollar bills. Serge had been coming here for years and was still only a quarter way through. He resumed where he’d left off last time behind the pool table. “The Brennans were here 11-12-02,” “Tami, Dansville Mich., Try God.” A red maple leaf drawn over George Washington’s face: “Canadian and Proud!” Without looking, Serge reached over to set his bottle of water down. There was nothing to set it on. He turned and waved his hand through an empty space of air. “Hey, Joe…”—Joe was the owner—“didn’t there used to be a cigarette machine?”
“Had to take it out,” said Joe, writing in a book of receipts behind the bar. “Always full of dollars torn off the wall. Betty and John’s Excellent Honeymoon. What’s wrong with people?”
“The common good,” said Serge. “It’s not hip.”
Joe nodded politely and returned to his paperwork. He liked Serge, despite everything. Besides, Joe was a fellow history buff. He had purchased Captain Tony’s Saloon in Key West, then the No Name, more out of preservation than business.
“Can you take me upstairs?” asked Serge.
Joe added a column of figures. “I’m busy.”
“I want to see the brothel.”
“It’s not a brothel anymore.”
“I’ll use my imagination.”
“Later.”
Serge pointed up at the ceiling. “Is it true you have the fifty-caliber deck gun from Captain Tony’s boat up there? Back when he made midnight runs to Cuba for the CIA?”
Joe nodded.
“Can I see it? I won’t touch. Okay, maybe I will. Sometimes I can’t help myself, so no guarantees.”
Joe exhaled in exasperation and started adding the numbers again from the beginning.
“If you won’t take me upstairs, can you go get Captain Tony?” said Serge. “Everyone’s met him but me. You promised.”
“He’s probably doing something.”
“But Tony’s the last living link to the Old Days. I have to meet him before it’s too late!”
“Serge, he has a life. He’s not some antique car I can just roll out of the garage whenever I feel like it.”
Serge stared at Joe a moment. “Then can we go upstairs?”
Joe took his work into the back room. Serge resumed his circuit around the pub. More dollar bills, then a bulletin board. Church raffle, baby shower on Guava Lane, missing person last seen walking down a deserted road on No Name Key at three A.M. Serge came to a Xerox of a meeting notice. Paradise Obsessive-Compulsive Association. There were a bunch of little tabs with phone numbers at the bottom of the sheet. He tore one off. The tear did not make a straight line. So he tore off another.
Jerry the bartender walked up. “Serge…”
“Hey, Jerry.”
“Can I ask a question?”
“Sure. What is it?”
Jerry looked around, then lowered his voice. “Do people like me?”
THE FLORIDA KEYS are home to the largest per-capita concentration of twelve-step programs in the nation. Some of the support groups meet at the municipal building on Sugarloaf Key, next to the fire station. The building has a long hallway of low-bid, peel-and-stick tiles.
The third room on the left was full of teens in defiant slouches. A court-ordered early-intervention program
for at-risk youth arrested on petty charges. Two older men in sheriff’s uniforms stood at the front of the room. Both were out of shape, but one more so. He held up a hand-rolled cigarette.
“This is marijuana….”
The kids: “Oooooooooooooo.”
Gus set the joint on a table up front. “It is what is known as a gateway drug….”
A teen raised his hand. “Where’d you get that?”
“Evidence. After a trial.”
“Weren’t you supposed to destroy it?”
“We did. But sometimes we save a little for training purposes.”
“That’s against the law.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Do you have a court order?” asked the youth.
“What?”
“I’m going to be a lawyer. There are very strict condemnation procedures for scheduled substances. Outside of that, only a few high-security federal research facilities are allowed to keep pot. Right now you’re guilty of possession.”
“And showing it to minors,” said a girl chewing gum.
“This is just a class,” said Gus. “If you’d all be quiet, we can wrap this up and go home—”
“You told us that possession of even a small amount of pot is a serious offense.”
Another boy in baggy jeans pointed at a phone number on the blackboard. “Maybe we should call the anonymous tip line.”
Gus turned to his colleague. “Walter, help me here.”
Walter shrugged. “I’ve never seen the guidelines. Maybe he’s right.”
“Thanks, Walter.”
A banging came through the wall from the next room. All the kids were talking now.
“Everyone, please be quiet!” said Gus. “We’re here because we care what happens to you. Drugs aren’t healthy….”
A hand went up. “I saw on TV where obesity is a leading killer. You might consider a diet.”
Another hand. “How are you supposed to catch anybody? I’ll bet you can’t get over a fence.”
Gus was red-faced and speechless.
The gum-chewing girl raised her hand. “I heard your nickname is Serpico.”
“What?” said Gus.
“Serpico. Is it true?”
“I don’t know,” said Gus. “I guess some of the guys call me that sometimes.”
The girl raised her hand again. “Is that, like, some kind of joke?”
Gus’s eyes narrowed. Why, you little shits.
More banging came through the wall.
The next room: Serge sat in the back row with folded arms. A gavel continued banging on the front table. Serge was beginning to wonder if he’d made a mistake. He’d never seen so much unconnected movement in his life, all these nervous rituals and spastic noises. Then the moderator had to bang his gavel again every few minutes to restore order before the next introduction. “Hi, I’m Sam.” “Hi, Sam.” And more ridiculous stories. Have to keep dusting the house. Have to keep making sure the doors are locked. One person couldn’t stop washing his hands, one dreaded contact with faucets, and another had both problems and just stood at sinks a long time. Serge wasn’t one to judge, but what a pack of loons!
The gavel banged again. It was Serge’s turn. Everyone was staring at him. Serge didn’t want to go.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” said the moderator.
“I’m not sure I’m in the right place,” said Serge.
“You’re among friends.”
Serge looked around at all the tense, panicky faces staring back at him. Sheesh.
“What’s your name?”
“It’s Serge, look—”
“Hi, Serge!”
Serge checked his watch. “I’m missing Space Ghost.” He reluctantly walked to the front of the room.
“What seems to be your problem, Serge?”
“Nothing.”
“Take your time. And remember, anything you say here is privileged.”
Someone kept scooting his chair back and forth. The gavel banged three times.
“Will you stop with the gavel?” said Serge.
Someone turned the lights off, then on, then off. The gavel banged three more times. The lights came back on. Serge was at the breaking point. What a crazy meeting! Actually, it was two meetings. They were in one of those double rooms with a sliding accordion divider in case a large group needed the extra space. Another meeting was under way on the other side. Someone kept opening and closing the divider. Serge caught glimpses of glazed adults in a variety of robes and talismans. The Lower Keys Chapter of People Susceptible to Joining Cults. The members attended religiously. The moderator was trying to get them to stop coming. The divider closed.
The first moderator politely touched Serge’s arm. “Everyone here is on your side.” Then he touched his arm two more times. Serge jerked away. “You’re creeping me out!”
The divider opened. A man stood at the front of the other meeting wearing a bishop’s mitre with the insignia of every ship in the star fleet. The divider closed. The gavel banged three times. Serge grabbed his head with both hands. “What the hell is wrong with you people!”
“Serge, please…”
“I will not ‘please’! All I’ve heard since I’ve been here is a bunch of whining. ‘I’m so messed up.’ ‘I need help.’ Guess what? The world’s messed up! Deal with it!”
“Could you lower your voice?”
“Dammit!” said Serge. “I thought this was going to be some kind of cool club. Like Mensa. Special crafts and hobbies, take field trips, maybe pool our awesome powers for a shot at the Guinness book. Instead, all I hear is complaints!…” Chair scooted; people made crackling sounds with fingers, necks and jaws.
The gavel banged three times. “Quiet!”
Serge snatched the gavel away and banged it at the moderator. “No, you be quiet!”
The moderator picked up the gavel. “You have to bang it three times”—bang, bang, bang—“then set it on its special presentation stand, perfectly straight, equidistant from the four edges.”
Serge picked up the gavel, snapped it in half and threw the pieces down. “There. You’re fuckin’ cured.”
The moderator made a sucking scream. He fell sobbing into his chair with the two pieces, desperately trying to fit them together.
Serge faced the room. “Don’t you understand? The answer is inside each of you! Don’t follow anyone else! Be your own leader! Lead yourselves!”
The divider was open. The moderator on the other side had lost his audience. They were listening to Serge.
The lights went off, on, off.
“That’s it! I’m history!” Serge stormed from the room.
The hallway was quiet except for Serge’s footsteps. “Unbelievable.” He glanced in the window of the next door. A deputy was at the front table. “Please! I’m begging you!…” Serge kept walking, other rooms, other agendas. People afraid of closed-in open spaces. People who love too much. People who try to get attention by staging hang-glider accidents. Serge looked in another window, a lone man tapping on a computer: People Afraid to Leave the House, telecommuting to the meeting. The next room, a sign outside: AA.
“At least it’s tradition.”
Serge passed the door and heard giggling. He took another step and stopped. “That laugh…no, it couldn’t be—” He took another step and heard it again.
The AA door creaked open. The laughter grew louder. Serge poked his head inside.
Another gavel was banging, the moderator asking the man in the back row to control himself.
“I’m sorry,” said Coleman, dabbing his eyes. “Just that last story—the image got to me. Guy wakes up naked on the bathroom floor with his glasses in the toilet and a bunch of shit mashed in his hair. I mean, how can you not laugh?”
Stern glares in response.
Coleman swallowed a final giggle. “I’m okay now….”
Serge couldn’t believe his eyes. “Coleman!”
Coleman turned around. “Serge!
”
They ran together and hugged. Coleman held Serge out by the arms. “You’ve come back!”
The moderator shhhhh’d everybody: “One of our brothers has come back.”
Serge turned. “What? Oh, no, you’ve got the wrong—”
“What’s your name?”
“It’s Serge,” said Coleman.
“Hi, Serge!”
“Welcome home,” said the moderator.
“I was never a part of your group.”
“We understand. Some of us come for years before we’re ever really a part—”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“We don’t want to rush you. Why don’t you just sit with your friend until you’re ready. He can be your sponsor.”
Serge looked at Coleman a moment, then cracked up.
“He’s hysterical,” said Coleman. “Must be the shock of the return.”
They sat down and whispered.
“I thought you were dead!” said Serge. “I even saw your body. Your face was all shot up!”
“That’s right,” said Coleman. “The face was gone. That’s why police got the wrong ID. It was my perfect chance to go underground. Everyone just assumed because it was my motel room, except it was actually this other dude who was visiting.”
“But I recognized your T-shirt. Save the Bales…the one that was always getting you hassled by the cops.”
“I met this guy at The Slushie Hut on Duval Street, and we started pounding the house special, Torpedo Juice. One part grain alcohol, three parts Red Bull. After a couple of those you’re completely fucked up but on the move. The guy says we should go look for Thai stick. So we roam all over the island and finally meet a connection behind The Green Parrot and give him the money. Then back to my room to wait, which is where the drinks clobbered the guy, and he throws up all over himself, so I lend him my shirt, and then we realize the guy we paid for the dope is taking a really long time, and I head down to the lobby—”
“Stop right there,” said Serge. “This is beginning to sound like some lame soap opera device to bring back a character they regretted killing off.”
“Yeah, but that’s just bad TV writing,” said Coleman. “This is real life.” He patted himself on the chest. “See? I’m actually here.”
