by Tim Dorsey
The cruise lines’ very survival depended upon people who were bad at arithmetic. And retirees on fixed incomes are the nation’s math elite. The seniors crunched the numbers. As long as they stayed away from the casinos and bars, it was a no-brainer:
God’s waiting room was going to sea.
The thrifty new breed of customer displaced free-spenders. Profits plunged. Something had to give. Cruise companies tried to summarily cancel reservations on shaky grounds, but one of the widows’ sons was an attorney. A good one. The reservations had to be honored, so they drafted a new battle plan.
The first beachhead was the cafeteria.
Edna waved from behind a bank of ferns. “Found the lasagna.”
Another hidden voice: “…Tapioca.”
People changed direction in a slow-motion Easter-egg hunt. “They’ve rearranged everything.”
“But they did that yesterday, too.”
“Weird.”
After lunch, it was nappy time. The G-Unit took an elevator to their deck. Edith opened the stateroom door. In the middle of her bed was a bath towel folded into a coiled cobra.
THE NEXT DAY
Serge walked down the hall of a utilitarian building just east of the Hillsborough River in the social services part of town. He stopped at a room, rechecking the piece of paper the psychiatrist had given him. He opened the door and stuck his head inside. “Excuse me. Is this Anger Management?”
“Suck my dick, motherfucker!”
“Thank you.” He took a seat in a grade-school desk, folded his hands smartly and grinned.
The meeting’s moderator smiled back. “Would you mind standing and telling us your name?”
He got up. “My name’s Serge.”
“Hello, asshole!”
“Sorry,” said Serge. “I didn’t quite catch that….”
FOURTEEN
SATURDAY MORNING
The dawn was unusually crisp. Two people sat at the end of a driveway in the kind of folding cloth chairs with beverage holders that parents bring to soccer games.
Tied to the street sign at the corner: a balloon and a homemade sign in the shape of an arrow. YARD SALE. The balloon was key.
Early birds had been arriving since first light, sorting through a clothesline of frayed corduroys and bell bottoms. Others browsed tables of housewares and bric-a-brac that traced decades of fierce consumerism. The Davenports themselves were amazed when they set up an hour earlier. Chinese checkers, lava lamp, Ouija board, tabletop Eiffel Tower cigarette lighter.
Jim laid out paisley potholders. “Look at all this junk.”
Martha held something up. “What were you thinking?”
“What is it?”
“A stuffed beaver.”
“I don’t remember buying that.”
Their curiosity shifted to customers. Martha made change for someone buying a golf club for fifty cents. “We’ll sell you the whole set for two dollars.”
“I don’t play golf.”
“Why are you buying that?”
“It’s only fifty cents.”
Martha made change and looked at Jim. “I’m glad we’re moving.”
“We still have to find a house.”
A man walked away with a sand wedge over his shoulder.
“Our real estate agent says it’s a buyer’s market.”
“At least we’re getting rid of all this junk. This should have been done years ago.”
“‘At least’?” said Martha. “You’re not changing your mind about moving?”
“No, I just meant—”
A new voice. “Excuse me?”
The Davenports looked up: a short, fireplug of a man in a too-tight T-shirt that said VAGITARIAN. He held a spherical black-and-white TV from the seventies.
Jim smiled. “How can I help you?”
“Does the TV work?”
“I don’t know. It’s a dollar.”
Martha: “She’s already got four houses to show us, and two are on Davis Islands.”
“Can we afford Davis Islands?—”
“Excuse me?”
Jim turned. “What?”
“I don’t want it if it doesn’t work.”
“Okay.”
Martha: “It’ll be nice to have a bigger place.”
“Bigger?” said Jim. “Prices are crazy right now. I just assumed we were getting something smaller.”
“Why would you think that?” Martha collected seventy-five cents for three Tijuana Brass albums.
“Because our second child just left for college,” said Jim. “Families need more room when growing, not shrinking.”
“Excuse me?”
Jim turned. “Yes?”
“What if I get the TV home and it doesn’t work?”
Jim shrugged. “It’s a dollar.”
“I’ll think about it.” He walked away with a round TV under his arm.
Jim whispered sideways, “Who would wear a T-shirt that says something like that?”
“I’m glad we’re moving.”
Another voice, this one hostile out of the gate: “Excuse me!”
“Yes?”
“What’s this thing?”
“A stuffed beaver.”
“What’s the deal?”
“It’s a dollar,” said Jim.
“No, I mean I don’t understand.”
“Understand what?”
“A stuffed beaver. Who would want to buy such a thing?”
Martha leaned and whispered. “A vagitarian.”
Jim chuckled.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“No,” said Jim. “Another customer.”
“What the hell kind of yard sale are you running?”
Coleman dropped a head of lettuce and chased it under a table. He came back out. “Finding anything?”
“No.” Serge inspected a tomato with a magnifying glass. “Just keep looking.”
Coleman replaced the lettuce in the produce cooler and picked up another head. “Being broke sucks.”
“That’s why we’re here.” Serge slowly rotated a bell pepper.
“I still don’t see how this is going to make any money.”
“Oh, it’ll make money all right. You see those articles about what idiots are paying in Internet auctions for vegetables that look like Elvis and the Virgin Mary?”
“No. How much?”
“A lot. But word’s out, and the market’s glutted. So I’m carving my own niche: eBayers with at least four years of college education.” He nodded at the tomato in his hand—“Cervantes”—and dropped it in his sack.
Coleman moved to another shelf. “I found something.” He held up a potato. “What do you think?”
“Who’s it supposed to be?”
“Mr. Potato Head.”
“You’re having trouble with the concept. Look at this.”
“An onion?”
“Che Guevara.” Into Serge’s bag.
Coleman looked around. “Where’s Rachael?”
“The medication aisle.” He grabbed a zucchini. “That should keep her out of our hair.”
Behind them: “Excuse me? Sir?”
Serge turned.
A smiling manager. “May I be of assistance?”
“You know what Copernicus looks like?”
“Sir, our employees couldn’t help but notice: You’re handling every fruit and vegetable in the produce department.”
“Not yet,” said Serge.
“Sir, don’t get me wrong. We want you to be a satisfied customer—”
“That’s why I picked this store,” said Serge. “‘Where shopping is a pleasure.’”
“Check it out,” said Coleman. “A turnip that looks like Merv Griffin.”
“Sir.” The manager’s smile was gone. “You’re welcome to purchase what you already have in the bags, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to—”
An assistant manager ran up. “We’ve got a problem.”
“What
is it?” asked the manager.
“Some woman’s trying to buy forty boxes of sinus capsules. She’s acting crazy.”
“Probably a meth-head,” said Serge. “And you thought groceries would be a quiet job…. Oooooo! Marcel Proust acorn squash…”
The manager turned to his assistant. “Tell her the limit’s two. Any more problems, call the police.” Then back to customers fondling carrots…
Moments later, Serge was being rung up at register three. “This is a first. Eighty-sixed from the produce section.” He finished paying and grabbed his bags.
“Look,” said Coleman, “at Customer Service. It’s Rachael.”
“Gimme my fucking Sinutabs!”
“Keep walking,” said Serge. “Life’s too short.”
Jim opened his mouth, but the angry yard-sale customer was already stomping away. “Stuffed beaver for Christ sake!”
Martha threw up her arms. “Where are these nut jobs coming from?”
Jim pointed at the corner. “Our balloon. They’re powerless in its presence.”
“I can’t wait to move.”
Jim glanced around. “Where’d that other guy go?”
“Who?”
Jim accepted a roll of pennies for a wooden tennis racket with broken strings. “The one who took the TV without paying.”
The morning wore on. Dollar for fondu skewers. Fifty cents for a lazy Susan. They got haggled down to a dime for a Baggie of non-matching poker chips.
Martha shook Jim’s arm. “I don’t believe it.”
A man walked up the driveway. VAGITARIAN.
“Maybe he remembered he didn’t pay for the TV,” said Jim.
“I seriously doubt it.”
“Excuse me?”
Jim smiled. “Yes?”
“You said it worked.”
“I said I didn’t know.”
“I took it home and tried it.” The man handed the round television to Jim. “It doesn’t work.”
“Sorry.”
The man stared at Jim. Jim smiled.
“So?” said the man.
“So what?”
“I want my dollar back.”
“You never paid.”
“Yes I did.”
“I’m quite sure,” said Jim.
“Fine!” The man grabbed the TV back and walked away again.
“Jim!” said Martha. “Stop him!”
“It’s only a dollar.”
“I can’t wait to move.”
The man with the TV continued down the street and reached the corner.
Martha turned to her husband. “Did he just pop our balloon?”
Serge sat in front of a computer terminal in the downtown public library. He stared at the screen. “I don’t get it. There must be something wrong with the Internet.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Coleman, lurking over his shoulder.
“Haven’t gotten a single hit on any of my vegetables, and I even set the starting price at ninety-nine cents.”
“I don’t think anything’s wrong with the Internet,” said Coleman. “Look…”
They turned to Rachael, tapping the next keyboard.
“Who would have guessed she’d even know how to turn on a computer,” said Serge. “It’s only two o’clock and she’s already made seven hundred dollars selling naked pictures of herself. How is that possible?”
“Because twin-headed dildo action is big!”
“I have to get my mind off this, or a major funk is brewing.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Might as well get started on my legacy.” Serge headed for the elevators.
“How do you do a legacy?”
“By being a pioneer whose groundbreaking advancements will revolutionize all aspects of modern life as we know it.” He looked at his watch. “Fifteen minutes should do.”
They got out on the first floor and passed a rack of newspapers on wooden poles. Serge marched purposefully for the information desk. A woman looked up.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes!” said Serge. “Give me The New Thing!”
“The what?”
“Make it a surprise. Hit me!”
“I’m…not sure I understand—”
Serge pointed down. “Your sign says Information?”
“Yes?”
“Fire away! And make it big. Anything special stashed behind the counter?”
Serge reminded the librarian of something. She glanced over at a communal lunatic reading area where the regular cast of homeless talked to themselves, played invisible card games, started unzipping their pants….
The librarian jumped up. “Henry!”
“Whoops. Forgot.”
She sat back down and opened her desk drawer for aspirin. “I’m sorry. Where were we?”
“The New Thing!”
“Not sure what you want, but we have a large display in fiction for The Da Vinci Code. That’s supposed to be big.”
Serge gnashed his teeth. “I hate the fucking Da Vinci Code.” He quickly covered his mouth. “Pardon my French. Actually it’s Anglo-Saxon. More hypocrisy! People use gutter language, then try to weasel out by lying that they’re talking French and being sophisticated, like menage à trois, endless possibilities! 669, 696, 969, 966, 694—that’s when the last person’s legs are crossed…”
“Sir…”
“…I love life! Always trying to stay on top of human endeavor, eager for the future: What marvelous breakthroughs are just around the corner for mankind? Will this finally be the epoch of lasting peace and disease eradication? Crap, it’s The Da Vinci Code Century.”
“You just said you wanted something new.”
“That I did. Fair enough. The Da Vinci Code it is. Maybe I can find a way to stop it.” He grabbed Coleman by the arm. “We’re off!”
The librarian jumped up again: “Henry!”
“My bad.”
They arrived in fiction and stared at the immense wall display.
“Wow!” said Coleman. “Look at all these books! The Da Vinci Code Proven at Last, The Da Vinci Code Debunked, The Da Vinci Code Diet, The Da Vinci Code for Cats, Break Free from Da Vinci Code Companion Books…”
Serge grabbed his stomach. “I may be ill.”
Coleman picked at something on his arm. “So whose code is the Da Vinci Code?”
“Is this a trick question like, ‘Who’s buried in Grant’s Tomb?’”
“No, I—”
“Coleman! You’re a genius!”
“I am?”
“Da Vinci was a renaissance man.”
“What’s that?”
“Someone who can’t keep his mind on any one thing. That’s me! I’ll leave my mark by not concentrating on leaving my mark.”
“How are you going to do that?”
Serge hurried for the door. “I’m starting a new collection.”
FIFTEEN
THAT NIGHT
Jim Davenport’s muffled voice came through the closed bathroom door of the master bedroom. “Ready?”
Martha lay tucked under the covers. “You’re not supposed to ask if I’m ready.”
“Okay, but you are ready?”
“Jim.”
“You don’t want to mess with me. I’m capable of anything. I’m a baaaaaad man!”
“Come on.”
“Okay.”
The bathroom door opened. “Don’t ask for mercy.”
Martha sat up in bed. “Jim, what’s going on?”
“You wanted a bad man.”
“You’re wearing a pirate costume.”
“I’m a pirate.”
“Are you serious?”
“From everything I’ve read, they were bad.” He crawled into bed and began stroking Martha’s hair.
She put a hand over her mouth. “Jim, I’m sorry. I can’t make love tonight.”
“What do you mean? You’re the one who scheduled this.”
“It’s the costume.”
&nb
sp; “I’ll take it off.”
“The pirate image is already stuck in my head. You know how I have to be able to keep a straight face.”
Jim fell back on his own pillow and stared at the ceiling fan. “I’m sorry. I’m new to this.”
“Please don’t feel bad.” Martha reached over and reassuringly held Jim’s hand that was covered by the plastic hook. “Maybe we should see a sex coach.”
“Martha, are we pandas?”
She reached for a book on the nightstand. “Have to get up early tomorrow anyway. Our real estate agent’s got all those houses.”
“So you definitely want to move?”
Faint cursing from street level. Martha opened her book. “Yes.”
Jim got out of bed and walked to the window. Down on the corner, three shadowy people struggled at a bus stop. More swearing. A woman in a halter top had a pudgy guy in a headlock. The third person tried to break it up. They tumbled over the bus bench and rolled across a lawn. A motion sensor tripped.
Martha turned a page. “What’s happening out there?”
“Three people were fighting, but they ran away when the Johnsons’ security lights came on…. Now they’ve stopped in front of the strip mall for a meeting.”
“Meeting?”
Jim stepped closer to the window. “Wonder what they could be talking about?…”
“What the hell’s wrong with you two?” said Serge. “Families are trying to sleep around here.”
Rachael shoved Coleman in the chest. “Fuckhead here can’t read a fuel gauge.”
“Hey,” said Coleman. “It’s not my fault we ran out of gas.”
“You moron!” She grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head side to side.
“Ow! Ow! Ow!”
“Knock it off!” said Serge. “What’s done is done. We’ll just walk to that gas station and get a spare can. Besides, there’s a silver lining.” He pointed back up the street. “We got to see Plant High School, the first stop on my new renaissance collection tour. Coleman gave me the idea.”
