by Tim Dorsey
“You seem to know what you want.”
“Absolutely,” said Serge. “We’re on a journey. Small towns, Lawton Chiles, Coleman’s the drug czar.”
Coleman pointed at him. “You may be stoned.”
Bear Claw squinted, then shrugged and began walking ahead of them. “You probably want a hog. You better want a hog, ’cause I don’t carry no rice-burnin’ crotch-rockets.” He spat on the ground.
Serge spit, too. “Hogs put the American in American Dream. Plant us on Harleys!”
“Here’s a nice one. A sharknose with low miles. And we got a Super Glide . . .”
“No, no,” said Serge. “Keep going.”
“A couple of Road Kings, a Sportster, a Street Bob . . .”
“No, no, no.”
The man tugged on his beard. “That’s pretty much the range. I thought you really wanted one.”
Serge’s neck jerked around. “Where’s the Holy Grail?”
“Why don’t you just tell me straight out what you’re looking for?”
Serge’s arms shot up over his head as he gripped the sky. “A bitchin’ chopper with those super-high handlebars.”
“You mean a hardtail with ape-hangers?”
“Ape-hangers, right!” Serge’s arms stayed up. “Ooo! Ooo! Ooo! Those were chimpanzee sounds. It doesn’t come up often in conversation, so I like to go with it. Ape-hangers.”
Bear Claw leaned casually against a metal drum. “Don’t mind me asking, but what kind of riding are you fellas planning on doing?”
“The big trip, all the way through Florida!”
“Then you definitely don’t want ape-hangers. That’s insane,” said Bear Claw. “Your arms will fall off.”
Serge shook his head vigorously. “I possess a rare physical constitution that demands I ignore advice.”
“No, really. They’re just for short runs. A lot of idiots bought those bikes after Easy Rider came out and tried to take them cross-country.”
“I can’t believe you said that!” Serge hopped with glee. “Easy Rider is the whole reason we’re here! We’ve completely rededicated our lives—”
“Dear God, no!”
“What?” said Serge. “You didn’t like the movie?”
“I used to love the movie.” Bear Claw put a hand over his eyes. “I thought you guys had stopped coming in here a long time ago.”
Serge looked behind himself. “What guys?”
“Never mind.” Bear Claw exhaled with frustration. “Follow me. I got a chopper around back. It’s pretty dirty from sitting, but it’ll clean up well.”
Serge sprinted past him and disappeared behind the building. His voice echoed back. “It’s exactly what I’m looking for! I’ll take it!”
“You don’t even know the price.”
“Price, shmice!” Serge returned into view. “Now for Coleman. Got anything like Dennis Hopper rode?”
“Well, over there’s an old police bike with panheads.”
Serge ran up behind Coleman and shoved him hard in the back. “Go see how you like it!”
“Hey!”
Serge turned back to Bear Claw and pointed at some orange and black blow-by streaks on the side of the garage. “Looks like you do some paintwork.”
Another frustrated breath: “I’m guessing you want the red-white-and-blue teardrop gas tank.”
Serge pulled out a wallet so crammed with bills that he could hardly fold it.
“Dear Lord!” Bear Claw was a new man. “Anything you want.”
“I do want a new paint job on the gas tank, but—”
From behind: Crash. “A little help over here.”
They came running. “Coleman, what are you doing under that motorcycle?”
“There’s something wrong with the kickstand.”
They pulled the bike off him, and Bear Claw reached down to jerk the metal rod. “Kickstand’s fine.”
Coleman got up and rubbed something that would turn into a bruise. “I don’t like that bike.”
“Okay, so find one you do,” said Serge.
Coleman moseyed off.
“You were talking about a paint job?” asked Bear Claw.
“Yeah, the gas tank,” said Serge. “Except I don’t want an American flag. What I really need is an exquisite—”
Crash. “Bad kickstand again . . .”
A half hour later, Bear Claw handed Coleman a bag of ice. “You tried eight bikes that all fell over on you. Every kickstand can’t be defective.”
“You’re right,” said Serge. “I believe we’ve isolated the malfunctioning variable.”
“What?” said Coleman, picking at the butterfly bandage on his eyebrow. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Now it was Serge’s turn to heave in frustration. He glanced at Bear Claw. “Think I’m going to need more work on that chopper than just a paint job . . .”
Chapter NINE
THE NEXT MORNING
TV satellite trucks sat on the edge of a road.
“This is Jody Choice with Eyewitness Six, coming to you live from eastern Calusa County . . .”
Behind the news crew was an ornate brick entranceway with slate lettering. SAGE CREEK BLUFF GLEN ESTATES. And behind that lay a grid of modest neighborhood roads stretching to the horizon. Lots of street lights and fire hydrants and surveyors’ stakes marking property lines. No homes yet.
With one exception.
In the middle of the platted subdivision stood a single building, sort of.
A group of men in hard hats gathered in a front yard where a banner read MODEL HOME.
“What do you think, Peter?”
“Doesn’t look good.”
It was one of those four-bedroom mini-McMansions constructed from the lowest-bid materials and quickest methods. Two-car garage, screened-in pool, vaulted-arch portico made from stucco on wooden forms.
“How do we fix it?”
“Bulldoze it,” said Peter.
“But it’s the model home.”
“Guys,” said Peter. “The middle of the roof is practically at ground level, and probably lower by nightfall. You got a serious sinkhole. What test method did you use?”
The other hard hats stared at their shoes.
“Who did your testing?” asked Peter.
Still looking down.
“You didn’t test?” said the insurance man. “We’re pulling out!”
A black Lincoln Town Car rolled through the brick entrance and parked near the commotion. A man in a button-down oxford emerged from the backseat. “Gus, what’s your hurry? Where are you going?”
“Those clowns never tested the substrata,” said the insurance man. “That voids our underwriting!”
“Let’s just slow down,” said Senator Pratchett. “You and I go way back. Come with me so I can talk to the others and see if something reasonable can be worked out.”
“Won’t change anything.”
“Fair enough. Just a moment of your time.”
The pair returned to the rest of the group.
“Peter,” said the senator. “It is Peter, right? I didn’t know you were on this project.”
“The mayor in Wobbly personally requested me,” said Peter. “They phoned my company just after the place fell in.”
“What a coincidence,” said Pratchett. “Glad to have you on board!”
The insurance man pointed. “We’re not paying for that.”
“Gus,” said Senator Pratchett. “Fuck the model home. We’re not even going to file a claim . . . Now, everyone, listen up. My people gave me the short version, and apparently there was some kind of testing issue.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“Gus, just try to keep an open
mind. That’s all I’m asking.” The senator turned back to the rest of the group. “Here’s what’s going to happen. We’ll be performing a thorough re-testing.” He placed a genial arm around Peter’s reluctant shoulders. “And we have the best man in the business to do it. So let’s just get out of his way and allow him to go to work. And whatever he finds out, for good or ill, we’ll let the chips fall where they may . . . Gus, how’s that sound? Gus!”
“All right.”
“Peter?”
“I can’t promise you’ll like what I find.”
“We’re not asking you to promise anything. Just do what you do and give us the honest truth.”
“Okay, I can have the equipment here in a couple hours.”
“That’s the spirit. Here’s a card with my private numbers. Feel free to personally call me anytime, day or night. Leave a message.” A squeeze of the shoulders. “Now let’s all get out of here. Those TV people are making me nervous.”
SOMEWHERE BETWEEN MILTON AND BAGDAD
A ’72 Comet rolled into the lot of Ed’z Dead Sleds.
Serge jumped out and tossed a just-chugged 7-Eleven coffee cup in the trash. “Still love those little amaretto creamers. I use five, same as sugar. Now I’m ready to rock! Are we out of the car yet? Yes, good, onward . . .”
Bear Claw was already waiting with a big smile. “You’re going to love it—completely finished and ready to ride.”
“You work fast,” said Serge. “Just like me. It’s the only way. Can’t tell you how insane I get when some human snail slows me down and there’s nothing I can do about it, like at a tollbooth when a driver hasn’t even started looking for change yet and begins searching seat cracks or digging through a purse the size of a beach bag, then leans their elbow out the window and becomes chatty with the toll collector about directions and good places to eat nearby. When I said before there’s nothing I can do about it, there’s always something I can do. But my rule is to leave a cushion of courtesy because it’s only right to help the backward kids in the class keep up with the pack, like Coleman . . .”
Coleman grinned and raised his hand.
“ . . . I politely wait until the toll collector points in the third different direction, and if the driver is still yapping, I gently ease up to their bumper and give it the gas for their own good. Of course their foot is on the brake, so I have to spin my tires, generating a ridiculous amount of smoke—“Off you go!”—and they shoot through the tollbooth like a Matchbox car in a Super-Charger. Hoo-wee, the look on their faces in the rearview mirror, stunned that someone would care enough to turbo-boost their lives. Remember those classic Super-Chargers? But I opted for the Matchbox suitcase instead. Long story. G.I. Joe parachuted into the manger. How much time you got?”
“Thought you were in a rush,” said Bear Claw.
“Was I chatting?” Serge clapped his hands and glanced around. “Where’s my baby?”
Bear Claw waved an arm. “This way.”
They turned the corner of the building. Serge froze with a hand over his heart.
Bear Claw stood like a proud father. “Told you it would clean up nice. The chrome actually sparkles now. And I got the leather jacket you custom-ordered.”
Serge tiptoed over and caressed his new steed. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“And I found someone to take your Comet in trade,” said Bear Claw. “They haggled down a little on price, but—”
Serge held up a hand. “It’s all good.” His other hand pulled out his wallet. “Just remember to give the inside of the trunk a good scrubbing. You watch Forensic Files? They have microscopes.”
“What?”
“We’ll also need some of those radio headsets you have inside so we can talk to each other on our journey and play rebellious theme music.”
Bear Claw chuckled. “Sorry for being annoyed the other day. You’re a little on the eccentric side but the enthusiasm is, well, contagious. I watched the movie again last night and it’s even better than I’d remembered.”
“I made Coleman watch it again last night, too,” said Serge. “It’s a perfect film, like Citizen Kane.”
“Actually, there’s a big blooper at the beginning,” said Coleman.
“You’re talkin’ crazy,” said Serge.
“No, really. When they sell all that cocaine to the rich guy by the airport, they didn’t keep any for themselves.”
“Phil Spector, for those playing along. And that’s not a blooper!”
“It most definitely is. Anyone knows that coke gets stepped on at every stage. The buyer expects it and is almost insulted if you don’t. Those cats could easily have scraped off a few grams, tossed in some baby powder—”
“Shut up!” yelled Serge. “I’m not listening to this blasphemy!”
Coleman stared down and kicked dirt with the toe of a sneaker. “Destroyed the realism for me.”
Serge scooped currency from his wallet. “Been a pleasure doing business.”
Bear Claw tucked the cash in his jeans. “I’ll run inside and get the rest of your stuff.”
Coleman looked over at the chopper and scratched his tummy. “The motorcycle didn’t look like this in the movie.”
“Necessary adjustment for the local market.”
Bear Claw returned with an armload. “Here are your helmets, the radio headsets, and make sure this jacket fits.”
Serge slipped it on. “Like a glove.”
“You’ve inspired me,” said Bear Claw. “Soon as I get a few days, I’m hitting the road. Where you guys off to now?”
“Several answers,” said Serge, handing a helmet to Coleman. “Geographically, we’re tooling east across the Panhandle on Route Ninety, small towns all the way to Live Oak. Philosophically, the Easy Rider ethos. We’re hippies now.”
“But you have short hair.”
“That makes us more radical.” Serge donned his helmet. “Society now mocks hippies as obsolete self-caricatures, like all those people in the eighties who wore Michael Jackson Thriller jackets. But there’s something to be said for a naive optimism that you can change the world with positive energy and lawn darts.”
Bear Claw nodded. “Then you get older, have kids and bills to pay.”
“Which leads to the third and most important reason for our pilgrimage.” Serge threw his right leg over the low-slung seat and grabbed the handlebars. “Politically, we’re on a search for what in God’s name happened to the American Dream. The gap between the rich and the rest of us is now the Grand Canyon, and our pursuit of happiness has been swapped for a white-knuckled struggle not to celebrate our seventieth birthday on the side of the road spinning a cardboard sign.”
“Tell me about it,” said Bear Claw.
Serge turned on the engine and gunned the throttle. “I’m so jazzed! This is like the beginning of the movie!”
Bear Claw smiled. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“That’s right!” Serge held up his left hand. “After Fonda climbs on his new chopper to head out for the first time, he symbolically discards a symbol of the plastic society, abandoning time and choosing to live in the moment.”
As in the film, Serge removed his wristwatch and threw it on the ground. He grabbed the handlebars again. He looked back at the ground. He leaped off the bike, retrieved his watch and got back on.
“What about the symbolism?”
“My symbols can’t be late for appointments,” said Serge. “Plus I found a new symbol for what divides all of us from the top one percent. It’s something everyone else enjoys like crazy, but you’ll never, ever see a billionaire do.”
“What’s that?”
“Eat a Dorito taco.” Serge raised a knowing eye of brotherhood. “Think about it. And no flavored potato chips either, because the rich are alle
rgic to anything with a taste supplied by chemical dust that sticks to your fingers in the way the rest of us have grown to know and love . . . Come on, Coleman. Let’s get tacos!”
Bear Claw waved as they roared off down the highway.
Chapter TEN
WOBBLY
The sturdiest building in town was the bank, built in 1919 across the street from city hall. It had a clock tower. Tiny spikes on the roof fixed the pigeon situation.
As with many such small-town banks from that era, it became something else. An art gallery in 1987, then an antiquarian bookstore, a showroom for Persian rugs, and a restaurant with private dining in the vault. Now it was a bank again. It had just opened for the morning.
A collection of wooden chairs sat in the lobby. A table with magazines. The chairs were filled with unhurried men reading newspapers, drinking coffee and chewing toothpicks. Overalls and grungy caps advertising tractors.
Big-city banks tend to frown on loitering, but here it was more like getting a haircut or a slice of pie: a community gathering spot for gossip and politics. Most of the gang was present: Vernon, Jabow, Clem, Otis, Harlan. Their job of running the city involved a frantic schedule of racing from one location to another and looking laid-back for the tourists: the bank, the diner, the rib joint, sitting in a row in front of Shorty’s Garage. It was amazing how many visitors stopped to take their photos at the garage, because they deliberately framed themselves in perfect optical composition under the window with the fan belts. A consultant got a hooker for that.
The conversation this morning touched on all the day’s high points.
“Yup.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Hoo-wee.”
Pfffffft. “Ahhhhhhhh.”
“Did you just fart?”
Actually there had been a rare piece of real city business earlier in the morning that found the group gathered on the side of the highway, staring skyward in disbelief.
“Triple-A put up a billboard saying we’re a speed trap?”
“When did this happen?”
“Probably over the weekend.”
“They can’t do that!”
“Apparently they have.”
