by Tim Dorsey
A click from a rifle. “Stop! Who goes there!”
He stepped into a clearing. “I’m Serge.”
The rifle lowered and eyebrows went up. “You’re just a little kid.”
“Correct.”
The man suddenly jumped up and down. “Yah! Yah! Yah! Get out of here!”
Serge covered his mouth and giggled.
“Why are you laughing?” asked Trapper Nelson.
“You’re funny.”
“You’re not scared?”
“Why?”
Trapper scratched his forehead. “Where are your parents?”
“I don’t know.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
Trapper examined Serge. Another scratch of his forehead, thinking, This is the strangest kid I’ve ever met. And they call me weird. “Well, you must be hungry after all that paddling. You like possum?”
“We’ll find out.”
They headed to an outdoor fire pit.
“What’s that tall thing over there?” asked Serge, pointing at a rusty pyramid of corrugated metal sheets.
“My personal water tower made out of recycled scrap.”
“Cool.”
They passed one of the cabins. Something painted on the side: Hurricane Log, 1947, 1948, 1949 . . . with different numbers of stars next to each year. Then the empty pens where the animals had once been. Trapper handed Serge a plate and fork, and the stories began. “. . . Celebrities used to come to my zoo. The Hollywood actor Gary Cooper, and Gene Tunney, the boxer . . .”
A half hour later, the boy’s plate was licked clean.
Trapper leaned back. “Then came World War Two, and I was in the army at Camp Murphy right near here. It’s part of the park now, but in those days it was an ultra-secret radar installation with five thousand soldiers . . .”
“Cool . . .”
The Present
Arms splashed in the dark water.
Someone doing the backstroke a hundred yards offshore as the rising sun peeked over the Gulf Stream. A shrimp trawler sailed by. Pelicans and gulls looked for breakfast.
Serge finished his ocean laps and removed swim goggles as he trudged onto the beach. He beat his chest like a gorilla. “Yes! Another day of living!”
He went back inside, wet feet across the marble, stepping over a body. “Coleman, rise and shine!”
“Grrrr, the mean high tide . . .”
“Come on, buddy, get up! . . . Our new friend is already wide-awake.”
And how. Sterling Hanover’s head snapped side to side. “Spots!” He looked down. “And I’m trying to make my fingers move, but my toes move instead.”
“No,” said Serge. “Those are your fingers.”
“Man,” said Coleman. “He must really be hallucinating.”
“One of the symptoms. A gentler one. The sledding only gets rougher, and you know what that means?” Serge hopped up and down in childlike excitement. “Time for Step Four.”
That was Coleman’s call to action. He strained and pushed himself up. “I’ve got to see Step Four!”
Serge circled behind the captive and cut the ropes with a pocketknife.
Sterling massaged his free wrists. “You’re letting me go now?”
“Unless you want a different Step Four.”
“No, no, no. I like this one.”
“Good, but first I’m curious about something,” said Serge. “You’ve caught every break in life. Yet instead of giving back, you choose to inflict misery and hardship on the least fortunate. Is money that important?”
“I get it now,” said Sterling. “You’re one of those people.”
“What people?”
“The ones who don’t know anything about business.” Sterling stood up and put his arms out for balance like he was on a high wire. “Do you have any idea what it takes out of me to run a company? Talk about a burden! When you have a monopoly in a desperate-customer situation, it’s your responsibility to gouge prices, but lazy people just expect handouts.”
“Twelve dollars to seven hundred a pill sounds like the mother of all handouts,” said Serge.
“Just the opposite,” said Sterling. “Few have ever achieved such a profit margin. But do I get any credit? No, the press is so unfair, like I’m supposed to just ignore the shareholders. Since when is infant mortality my fault?”
“That’s enough,” said Serge. “Just checking to make certain Step Four fit the crime . . . You’re free to go.”
Sterling sat back down.
“You don’t want to go?”
“I’m a little shaky, for some reason.”
“Oh, the amoebas,” said Serge. “It’s their breakfast time.”
“You really were serious about them?” Panic arrived on the scene. “What am I going to do?”
“You’re in luck!” Serge pulled a copy of a scientific article out of his pocket. “It’s fascinating reading, and I have you to thank! Your company’s drug fights parasitic infection by inhibiting key metabolism that the protozoa need to thrive in infants. Likewise the amoebas currently doing the conga between your ears are also parasites, but much more aggressive, and only early treatment with a top-shelf anti-fungal drug will work. Guess what? Your anti-parasite pills work on amoebas, too, and they’re some of the best money can buy!”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It’s because there aren’t enough amoeba cases to justify pharmaceutical TV ads like, ‘Find yourself having to pee too much during golf matches and bar mitzvahs? Ask your doctor if Urinex is right for you!’ . . . So my advice is that you get to the nearest drugstore toot-sweet.”
“Of course!” Sterling wove across the marble floor to a cell phone sitting on a cabinet. “I’ve got a doctor on call and he’ll phone in the scrip.”
“Good thinking,” said Serge. “But not a word about us or it’s the chair again and more steps.”
“Don’t worry . . . Hello? Doctor Spiel? I need a prescription . . .”
Sterling finally hung up and felt his pants pockets. “Where’s my wallet?”
Serge held out an Italian billfold. “Right here.”
“What are you doing with it?”
“Stealing it,” said Serge. “We’re criminals. It’s our responsibility to take wallets, and you want to talk about bad press?”
“But I need it.”
“I need it, too. Credit cards. People always wonder how I pay for my research trips. And I wouldn’t report them stolen if I were you, unless you’d like us to come back for another fun-filled-yet-always-educational visit.”
“But how am I supposed to pay for my medication?”
“I don’t know why, but I took pity and put some of your cash on that counter.” Serge tapped his wrist. “Tick-tock.”
Sterling grabbed his keys, and Serge snatched them away. “You’re in no shape to drive. Amoebas are worse than texting. We’ll take my car.”
The green Nova cruised a half mile, and Serge dropped Sterling off at a shopping center. “Don’t forget to write.”
Sterling staggered in a circuitous course across the parking lot before reaching the drugstore entrance.
Coleman placed a cool can of beer against his forehead. “What was Step Four anyway?”
“Wait and see,” said Serge. “In the meantime, I have a confession to make, and you’re the only person I can trust. Promise not to tell anyone?”
“Pinkie swear.” They interlocked fingers.
“Okay, here goes,” said Serge. “And promise to be understanding because this is as personal as it gets . . .” A deep breath. “I’ve come to accept that I have an alternate sexual orientation.”
“Wow, that is a big confession,” said Coleman. “But you’ve been my best friend forever, so I’ll support your lifestyle. What is it?”
“This is kind of embarrassing,” said Serge. “Uh . . . I’m turned on by women in plaid.”
“Plaid? That’s your big secret?”
“Coleman, I’m baring my soul here.”
“Sorry. Go on.”
“I wasn’t aware of it for the longest time, but I finally put two and two together.” Serge averted his gaze out the window. “Just about every woman I’ve ever fallen for has had a plaid shirt or two. And many a relationship ended just because they had to do the laundry.”
Snicker. Coleman quickly covered his mouth.
“This isn’t funny!”
“I know.” Another suppressed giggle. “It’s just that it’s so weird.”
“That’s why we have to keep this quiet until it gains acceptance,” said Serge. “I dream of the day when I’ll be leading a parade with a banner of a plaid rainbow, but until then . . .”
“I watch a lot of TV,” said Coleman. “The country’s changing.”
“Not fast enough. Who would have thought that the last social barrier would be the politics of sexual arousal?” said Serge. “There’s no accounting for what wakes up a stiffy. It’s on autopilot, doing whatever it wants without clearance from the tower. That’s why they’re so personal and private, yet the bongo-beaters of hate want to know all about mine. I don’t think about theirs. You tell me who’s the sick one.”
“Plaid.” Coleman whistled.
“I have a theory: The United States is over-sexed and under-laid. Way too much suggestive media and not enough follow-through. The pressure builds until there’s bound to be a problem.”
“Two words,” said Coleman. “Shower soap.”
“Anyone with a quality love life has neither the time nor inclination to blame national woes on marriage certificates,” said Serge. “And if you are doing that nonsense, you’re unwittingly advertising to the entire world that the people you want to fuck don’t dig you. Those are cards you should definitely play a little closer to the vest.”
“A plaid vest.”
“Shut up.”
Chapter 6
1968
Surfboards. Everywhere.
Wood and fiberglass, long and short, single and twin fin.
The kids came in a variety of ages and heights, but all their hair was bleached from the sun and salt. All fit and strong and, if you saw a photo of the scene today, it might take a few minutes to notice, but then: Hey, none of them are overweight. Oh, right, no cell phones or video games yet.
The Amaryllis had been aground at Riviera Beach for almost three years now, and word had swept the surfing culture that this was The Spot on the east coast of Florida. They paddled and splashed and waited on their stomachs for the next big one to ride in. A good number of curious adults were also showing up along the shore, taking in the sights and sounds of their changing world.
It was a glorious time.
“. . . Sittin’ on the dock of the bay . . .”
“. . . Mony, Mony! . . .”
“. . . Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson . . .”
And it was all about to end. The ship was so heavy and the bow so far into the sand that for the longest time nobody could figure out what to do, at least not with the small local budget. But the Army Corps of Engineers had gotten involved, and in less than a month, the accidental landmark would be dismantled and sunk offshore as an artificial reef, ushering in a new era of scuba diving, but that’s another story.
Darby Pope paddled his board out past the propeller again. Kenny was right beside him. He was fifteen now, not as scrawny, but he still tagged along behind the Pope everywhere he could.
The next wave approached. “Kenny,” said the Pope. “Just stay outside of me from the ship.”
“Okay.”
After a brief run, they neared the shore, the Pope gracefully, Kenny not so much. They grabbed their boards out of the shallow water.
“See you still got it,” said a sweaty man in street clothes.
Darby looked up. “Oh, Councilman Finch. How’s the family?”
“Better than the campaign.” A laugh.
“You’ve got my vote.”
“That makes you, me and my wife.” Another laugh. “By the way, thanks for helping my son the other day with those bullies.”
“Anyone would have done it . . .”
Kenny grabbed his board and caught up with Darby. “Who was that?”
“Just a friend on the city council.”
“You know everyone.” Kenny stopped and looked south down the beach to the end of the island. “Nobody’s at the Pump House anymore.”
“Waves are better here,” said the Pope. “And less dangerous.” He sat down in the sand near their stuff and opened a novel.
“You’re always reading.”
“I like books.” Darby turned a page.
Kenny got out his board wax. “Did you see the new surfing book that just came out called The Pump House Gang?”
“By Tom Wolfe,” said Darby. “Read it the day it went on sale.”
“Naturally,” said Kenny. “Is it about us?”
Darby shook his head. “Another group of surfers in La Jolla, California, that hung out on the beach near a sewage pumping plant. The name’s a coincidence.”
Kenny looked out at the ocean. “Want to go again?”
“Got another idea,” said Darby. “Want to see something you’ve never seen before?”
“What is it?”
Darby told Kenny his plan.
“You actually know him?”
The Pope knew everyone.
Little Serge got on his tiptoes to touch a giant beached alligator skull mounted on the wall of a cabin.
“Why is that here?”
“Why not?” said Trapper.
“Why do you leave your doors open?”
“Because it doesn’t matter.”
“Can I hold your gun?”
“No.”
Serge ran outside. “Why do you have animal pens?”
“Slow up.” Trapper chased after him. “You sure are a curious little sumbitch.”
“What’s a sumbitch?”
“If you settle down, I’ll teach you some stuff about dangerous animals. Deal?”
Serge sat on the ground and closed an invisible zipper across his mouth.
“Okay, that big rack yonder is where I stretch my pelts. Right now I’m drying a big snakeskin. Lots of constrictor around here. Grab ’em fast behind the head, and the other hand a few feet back before they coil.” He pointed toward trees. “On the south side are several families of wild boar. People think: pigs, cute, harmless. But these are several hundred pounds with tusks and can easily run down and kill a large man. That’s why I always carry a sidearm over there. Follow me . . .” They crawled on their bellies through underbrush. “See where it’s been pushed down? This here’s a rabbit trail. You take a piece of vine like this and fashion a snare like that and hang it on twigs in a narrow spot, and by morning you got a rabbit.”
“You kill bunnies?” asked Serge.
“Ya gotta eat. Or use ’em for snake bait.” He gestured at a spot on the small trail. “That’s scat. You probably know it as poop. It’s also great bait. All the animals out here use scent. That’s how I catch stuff. Remember, it’s all about scent, and I baited this trail earlier.” Trapper suddenly dove into the brush and disappeared, then came out with a modest-sized python by the neck.
“Wow!” said Serge. “That’s how you catch snakes?”
“And bobcats and—” Trapper’s head suddenly jerked. “What’s that sound?”
“What sound?” asked Serge.
“Shit, somebody’s coming . . . Stay here.” Trapper crept from the brush and silently dashed through the trees on a secret route he used when he wanted to get the drop.
Serge bumped into him from behind.
“I thought I told you to stay back there!”
“Are you going to shoot someone?”
“Don’t be so inquisitive.”
“What’s ‘inquisitive’ mean?”
“Just pipe down!”
Trapper clicked his rifle and burst through the last
branches protecting the bank of the river. He fired a shot in the air. “Get the hell off my property!”
“Trapper, relax. It’s just me.”
Trapper lowered the gun. “Darby, what are you doing here?”
“Been a while.” Tying the canoe to the dock. “Thought I’d pay a visit. I brought a friend. His name’s Kenny.”
Just then, a small head poked out around Trapper’s legs.
“Who’s the little fella?” asked Darby.
Trapper shrugged. “Damnedest thing. Just showed up like the world’s his oyster.”
“All alone?” asked Pope. “How’d he get this far up the Loxahatchee?”
“Was wondering the same thing till I saw all the energy he had running around.” Trapper grabbed the sides of his head. “And the questions! This is definitely the weirdest kid I’ve ever met.”
Darby bent down and smiled. “What’s your name.”
“Serge. What’s yours?”
“Darby.”
“Why do you have a tattoo?”
The Pope reached in his canoe for the walkie-talkie he always carried when he went upriver. He got ahold of the ranger station back at Jonathan Dickinson.
“Oh, hey, Darby. We were just talking about you. Haven’t seen your face in a while.”
“Was just here three weeks ago.”
“For you, that’s a while.”
“Listen, you wouldn’t happen to be missing a kid back there, would you?”
“As a matter of fact, frantically so. And one of our canoes is gone.”
“I think I found both.”
“Where?”
“Trapper’s.”
“Trapper’s? How on earth did he get all the way up there?”
“Hold on. He’s loose.”
“Loose?”
Darby dropped the walkie-talkie, and they all took off into the woods.
The Present
Inside an unassuming drugstore in the Florida Keys, Sterling Hanover leaned maniacally over the counter at the pickup window. “Please hurry!”
“One second,” said a graying pharmacist with bifocals. He twisted the childproof cap shut. “Just have to ring you up.”
“Eeeeeeee.” Sterling slapped himself in the head to throw the parasites off balance.
