Naked Came the Florida Man

by Tim Dorsey

  “I still like peanut butter and jelly,” said Coleman.

  “Those sandwiches are critical to keeping your childhood taste buds in shape, or you end up an asshole in a restaurant mispronouncing foie gras— . . . Shit, terror time!”

  “What is it?”

  “That cowboy’s starting to slide off the horse but it looks like his left foot is stuck in the stirrup! . . . We’re on!”

  Serge dashed out into the arena, just as the bronco rider hit the ground and began being dragged through the dirt. Other clowns ran in from the other direction, trying to distract the horse and slow it down. The rider was taking a beating.

  Then something nobody had seen before. Serge kicked off his clown shoes, running alongside the slowed horse to get his timing right. Suddenly he leaped, grabbing the saddle knob, getting a foot in the right stirrup and pulling himself aboard. He had the advantage of being able to use both hands, while the horse was hampered by the weight of what he was dragging.

  Serge leaned all the way forward, wrapping his arms around the horse’s neck, stroking it and whispering in a big brown ear. The horse began to calm until it stopped. They freed the rider’s foot as Serge hopped down and walked around to the front of the horse. He said a few more words in private. The horse whinnied, nickered and snorted. Serge patted him above the nose.

  Nearby, the fallen cowboy leaped to his feet.

  “Let’s hear it for Kyle Lovitt!”

  Thunderous cheers.

  An older man in a white Stetson ran out onto the dirt. “What have you done?”

  “Official clown business,” said Serge.

  “You broke my bronco!”

  Serge patted the side of the horse’s head. Another whinny. “He doesn’t look broken.”

  “I mean he won’t buck anymore,” said the ranch owner. “He’s useless at rodeos now.”

  Serge held out upturned palms. “No good deed goes unpunished . . .”

  Meantime, the thrown rider named Kyle had walked over to one of the officials at the fence, who relayed a message up to the PA booth.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is quite unusual, but just before our intermission Kyle is going to ride again. Of course it won’t count in the official standings, but it’s the least we can do for one of our brave military veterans.”

  More wild cheering.

  Kyle climbed onto another saddle, gripped tightly with one hand and nodded that he was ready . . .

  Chapter 27

  A Few Months Earlier

  Senior year.

  Coach Calhoun had finally resigned himself to wearing bifocals.

  He was sitting behind his desk going over the tryout sheet for the upcoming season. Seemed everyone wanted to play for Pahokee. He ran a finger down the list of names. The finger stopped. A slight smile. No surprise there.

  A knock at the door.

  He removed the glasses. “Chris, come in.”

  “Thanks, Coach.” She’d gone through a growth spurt over the last three years and was nearing five ten. The chair on the other side of the coach’s desk was getting small.

  “As usual, you want to talk about something?”

  “I’m not asking for any favors . . .”

  “I already know where this is going,” said Calhoun. “You signed up again for tryouts.”

  “Four years in a row,” said Chris. “This is my last chance.”

  The coach took a deep breath with paternal eyes. “Chris, I want you to listen carefully to me and take it to heart. I never saw this coming when we first met, but I can’t tell you what a pleasure it’s been. You make all this worthwhile. You’re the kind of student that inspires teachers to teach, and coaches to coach. You’ve got the best attitude, been the best manager, but most important, you’ve kept your grades way up.”

  She sat silent and serious.

  “Look,” said Calhoun. “Yes, a lot of these boys are going to get athletic scholarships, but I’d be more than shocked if you didn’t land an academic one. You’re going to go on and make everyone at this school proud.”

  “Thank you. It means a lot.” She looked down.

  The coach sighed in frustration. “Chris, you’re asking the unrealistic.” He held up the tryout sheet. “Do you know how many students we’re going to have to cut as it is?”

  “Coach, I don’t care if I have to ride the bench. I don’t care if I never play. I would just be proud to wear the uniform.” She placed a hand on her chest where the numbers would go. “As I said, no favors. If I don’t earn it, so be it. But I’ve really been working on my kicking over the summer. Can you just come out to the field and take a look?”

  Calhoun slowly began to nod. “Okay, you’ve more than earned a look. But promise me that this won’t get your hopes up . . .”

  The receivers coach, the one named Odom, had been promoted to the head position a couple seasons back. He heard a knock on his office door.

  “Lamar, come in. What’s up?”

  The coach pulled out a chair. “I want you to keep an open mind.”

  “Uh-oh, I’ve heard that one before.”

  Calhoun explained what he had in mind. “What do you think?”

  A long pause. “Lamar, I know how fond you are of Chris. And you know I am as well. But we already have two solid place kickers coming back from last year, and an even better punter.”

  “A lot of teams carry three place kickers,” said Calhoun.

  “I know, in case of injury or ineligibility,” said Odom. “But often the third-stringer plays another position. We have a cornerback who can easily fill in.”

  “Would you send him out for a field goal in the final seconds?”

  “Are you trying to tell me Chris will be our best kicker?”

  “No, third best. But a solid third,” said Calhoun. “Can you do me a favor? . . .”

  Minutes later, both coaches stood with folded arms on the side of an empty field. Chris was waiting at the thirty-yard line with a big sack of footballs spilled onto the ground.

  “Okay, Chris!” shouted Lamar. “Show him what you showed me.”

  She teed up a ball between the hash marks, took the requisite steps back and stopped. She let her arms dangle in concentration. Then she loped forward and let it fly.

  It was a perfect end-over-end kick—that hooked left of the upright.

  Calhoun looked sideways. “But it had plenty of distance.” Odom didn’t respond.

  She teed up another. It split the uprights.

  “See?” said Calhoun.

  “That’s just one-for-two,” said Odom.

  Chris proceeded through the rest of the balls on the grass. Except for one that bounced off the crossbar, they were all true down the middle.

  “What do you think now?” asked Calhoun.

  “It’s different in helmet and pads,” said Odom. “Even more so in game situations . . .”

  The next day, all the returning players and would-bes covered the field. Whistles blew. Students were sorted according to position. And a handful collected around the coach in charge of kickers. They started at the fifteen-yard line. The coach made notes on a clipboard as each player took shots at the goalposts.

  The field had been such chaos earlier, with so many more players than usual, that they didn’t notice. But now they did, nudging each other and pointing downfield at a particular player with the number 00.

  Chris kicked a modest-length field goal. Then the players didn’t pay any more attention. They were too busy trying to make the team. They moved the kicking tees back ten yards and the hopefuls went at it again . . .

  Tryouts continued pretty much as they all do. Triage. The ones who were definitely going to make the team, the ones who had no prayer, and the middle group clinging to a dream.

  The day of reckoning came. Tryouts were over. Players filled a hallway, nervous silence, waiting. A door opened and they perked up. The head coach came out of the locker room and taped a sheet of paper on the wall. The final list. Students lined
up single file, taking turns, one by one, looking for their name. Then either an under-the-breath “Yes!” or demure heartbreak.

  Chris’s nerves couldn’t take it. She had deliberately placed herself at the very end of the line, because she didn’t want anyone else around when she got the news. Finally there was only one boy left in front of her. He read down the list, twice, then hung his head and walked away. She watched until he was out of sight, and took a deep breath. “This is it.”

  She stepped up to the wall and read down the first column with no luck. Her eyes started down the second and she had to take a break from the tension. There weren’t a lot of names left, and that would be it. Chris summoned courage and went back to the list. Almost exactly where she had left off, she immediately saw it. And her hand went over her mouth. “Oh, my God.”

  Her name.

  She kept blinking and checking again because she didn’t trust her eyes. But each time it was still there.

  The empty hallway echoed with joy. “Wooooo-hooooooooo!”

  She jumped up and down and spun around, crashing into Coach Calhoun. He steadied her by the arms. “Easy, you don’t want to hurt yourself before the season.”

  “I didn’t know you were there. Where’d you come from?”

  “I kind of wanted to be here.”

  “Oh, thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

  Now Calhoun grabbed her wrists and pulled them back. “Okay, new rule. You don’t hug coaches.”

  “Sorry, it’s just . . .”

  “I know.” He began walking away. “Get some sleep. Practice starts tomorrow.”

  Chapter 28

  Okeechobee Rodeo

  The gate burst open wide with an explosion of horse.

  It was the encore performance everyone had been awaiting from the service veteran. This bronco bucked even meaner than the first, but Kyle Lovitt was more than up to it. This time, the ride went flawlessly through the required eight seconds, and Kyle jumped down like a dismounting gymnast to stick the landing.

  The PA announcer needn’t comment. The crowd was already on its feet.

  A smaller gate opened, and a cowgal ran into the arena. She tearfully hugged Kyle. “You were magnificent!”

  Serge strolled over. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  The woman turned, and suddenly Serge had tight arms around his neck. “I saw what you did for Kyle! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! . . .”

  “Easy now.” Serge grabbed her wrists to pull them down. “All in a clown’s day, Cheyenne.”

  “Thank you . . . Wait, how do you know my name?”

  The clown removed his red-ball nose and replaced it. “It’s me, Serge, from the motel. You’re my little history helper.”

  “Serge?” Cheyenne said in surprise. “I didn’t know you were with the rodeo.”

  “Neither do they,” said Serge. “So I guess Kyle’s your boyfriend.”

  “No, silly. My brother.”

  Serge extended an earnest hand. “I always appreciate a chance to thank one of our heroes who protects the cornucopia of freedoms in this land.”

  Kyle shook the hand. “I’m not a hero.”

  “And that’s exactly what every single hero says, or they wouldn’t be heroes,” added Serge. “If you walked around all day bragging about how great you are, I guess you’d be . . . I don’t know, elected something?”

  Cheyenne squeezed his hand. “Thanks again for helping him with that horse.”

  “And thanks again for his service,” said Serge. “Kyle, where were you stationed?”

  “Two tours Afghanistan, one Iraq.”

  The cowgal glanced around. “So is your friend with you?”

  “Coleman?” Now it was Serge’s turn to look around. “I completely forgot in all the excitement. Where is that idiot?”

  They checked in every direction, until Serge’s eyes stopped. Smoke was drifting out of one of the barrels. “Excuse me,” he said. “This will only take a sec . . .”

  The lid of a wooden barrel was raised, and Coleman looked up. “Hey, Serge.”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Nuthin’.”

  “I never thought I would utter this sentence, but you can’t smoke dope in a clown barrel.”

  “I got scared,” said Coleman. “Just trying to take the edge off.”

  “Well, don’t!” snapped Serge. “Now get out here. There’s someone I want you to meet . . .”

  Serge grinned with embarrassment as he led his pal back across the arena. “Coleman, I’d like you to meet Cheyenne’s brother, Kyle, one of our nation’s military heroes.”

  Coleman stared at an empty sleeve in Kyle’s cowboy shirt. “You only have one arm.”

  “Coleman! For God’s sake! You can’t just go up to people and say they only have one arm. Especially when they only have one arm.” Serge turned. “My deepest apologies.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Kyle.

  “What happened to the arm?” asked Coleman.

  “Jesus!” Serge smacked his forehead.

  “That’s all right,” said Kyle. “IED went off outside Kandahar. We lost a good woman that day. She was my flank. Next to that, the arm’s nothing.”

  Serge lowered his head. “Your breed never ceases to amaze me. Living by your own high moral code when the rest of us seem to be living by an anti-code. Just so you know, I also live by my own code, drawn from ancient Greeks, Renaissance thinkers, the Age of Reason, President Lincoln and Stones lyrics—‘the better angels of our nature,’ and ‘you can’t always get what you want’—if you catch my drift. A lot of my code still doesn’t make sense, but that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Kant borrowed from the Roman poet Horace the Latin phrase sapere aude, which translates to ‘dare to know,’ or essentially, ‘Challenge yourself to accept hard and inconvenient truths,’ as opposed to the current prevailing wisdom: ‘Fuck you and the facts you rode in on.’ I don’t know the Latin for that.”

  A pause. “What are you talking about?” asked Kyle.

  “I’m not sure,” said Serge.

  “Uh, you don’t know what you’re talking about?”

  “No, I mean that’s the title of my life’s philosophy. The only thing I’m absolutely certain of is that I’m Not Sure,” said Serge. “It’s my catchphrase. Walk through the concrete human rain forest with that perspective, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred you’ll be more correct than the people who are sure. Why? you ask. Okay, hold on to your hat, Kyle, because you’ve been out of the country for a while . . .” Serge leaned closer and dropped his voice “. . . believe it or not, it’s now totally okay to make up every single thing that comes out of your mouth.” He stopped and nodded hard. “I know, I know. It’s hard to believe, but it’s so widespread it’s often the person standing right next to you.”

  “I agree,” said Coleman, “because pot makes me smart.”

  “Excuse me.” Cheyenne pointed to activity in the starting gates. “Intermission’s ending. We need to be going before the Brahma bulls start.”

  “Good talk!” said Serge, glancing toward the far side of the arena. “Back to live action . . .”

  Elbows rested atop the barrels again. A gate swung open. A bull bucked.

  “Those were some good folk,” said Serge. “Gives me hope.”

  “One arm, geez.”

  “Can you stop?”

  “No, I’m just trying to remember what not to say. Anything else?”

  “If someone has a mole on their face the size of a pepperoni,” said Serge.

  “How many times do I have to apologize for that?”

  “But did you actually have to use the word ‘pepperoni’?”

  Yelling and gasps from the crowd.

  “Uh-oh,” said Serge. “We’re needed again.”

  Serge took off across the dirt, and Coleman dove in a barrel.

  A frenzy of clown activity swirled in the middle of the arena. The rider had been thrown clear, but
the bull came back to stomp and gore, as they’re prone to do. The clowns jumped and whooped to distract the ton of fury from the hapless cowhand . . . Across the arena, a curious head popped out of a barrel and peeked around, puffing a joint.

  For some reason, this interested the bull. He turned and stared toward the barrel.

  Coleman casually looked around the arena as he puffed. Until his eyes locked with the bull’s. He shrieked in alarm. The joint went flying, and the bull came running.

  “Crap!” Coleman pulled the lid back down on top of the barrel and squeezed his hands together in prayer. “Please, please, please . . .”

  Thundering hooves approached. The point of a long white horn pierced the barrel, and the whole thing was suddenly on its side. Another horn attacked the wood as the container began to rotate across the dirt under the momentum of the raging steer. If it had been a car wreck, it would have been called a barrel roll. In this case, it literally was a barrel roll.

  Coleman looped and spun and looped some more in an unending violent cascade down the length of the arena. He covered his mouth between bulging cheeks. “Starting to get a little sick in here . . .”

  Meanwhile, everyone else was able to flee to safety either through hurriedly opened gates or by wildly scrambling over fences. After he helped vault the last person’s butt up over the barrier into safety, only Serge was left.

  He spun in highly emotional concern. “Coleman, my best pal! . . .”

  Angry horns drove the barrel forward, rolling by in front of Serge.

  “I don’t like this anymore,” Coleman yelled with an echo, as if he was shouting from the bottom of a well. “I’m too high.”