by Tim Dorsey
Serge stood. “It’s how Coleman always enters a room.”
“You mean the guy from the stage?”
The door flew open and banged against the wall.
Coleman stumbled in, followed by a dozen students from across the eastern United States.
Serge stared bug-eyed at Coleman’s arms, overflowing with trophies. “Where’d you get all those?”
“What a great day!” Coleman walked past Serge and began lining gold statues atop the TV cabinet. “This one’s for the belly flop, this is for dirty dancing, here’s the chugging contest, goldfish eating-but they were only those little crackers because of animal rights people-and this is for the fat-guy sunburn, and… I don’t remember this one. I was pretty fucked up. They just handed it to me. And I got this big mother with these three chicks…”
Serge walked away and plopped down next to the church youth.
One of them raised a hand. “So what happened to the schism?”
“Paul prevailed and sent a bunch of junk mail to the Galatians.”
“Wow.”
Other side of the room: Coleman and a dozen helpers spread rolling papers across the coffee table. They picked apart buds from a half O-Z.
Coleman sprinkled liberally along Job 1.5s. “It’s called the Seventh Son of the Seventh Son.”
“Why’s that?”
He licked a gummed seal. “You smoke forty-nine joints, then tear open the roaches and use the contents to roll seven more joints. Then you smoke those and use the last seven roaches to twist up one kick-ass doobie with such concentrated resin it’ll blow your eyeballs out.”
“Wow.”
Someone tugged Serge’s sleeve on the other side of the room. “Are you okay?”
“I can’t believe he has a bigger congregation.”
Coleman: “… Works every time. We should try it tonight.”
“Sounds like an urban myth,” said one of the students. “Where’d you hear about it?”
“On a Keys radio station,” said Coleman. “I would have doubted, too. But you have to know the Keys-anything’s possible. Then me and my friends tried it ourselves and pay dirt!”
“How’d you do it?”
“Know how police stake out certain bars at closing time for DUIs?”
They nodded.
“Coleman,” Serge yelled from across the room, “that stupid story’s on the Internet.”
“If it wasn’t true before, it is now. Me and my friends did it, remember?”
“Sadly.”
“Never mind him.” Coleman turned back to his ring of acolytes. “My gang was tying one on at this funky Key West dive on Simonton. Almost closing time, and Johnny Law is parked across the street as usual. So my wingman, Bonzo, staggers into the parking lot, falling down, dropping his keys, getting up, tripping over the curb, crashing into garbage cans-while the rest of us leave the bar and drive away until the parking lot’s empty except for one last car.”
“Bonzo’s?”
“Correcto-mundo. And as soon as Bonzo starts the engine and moves an inch, blue lights everywhere. Cop gives him the Breathalyzer and he blows a zero. Then a field sobriety test. Walks a straight line, touches his nose, says the alphabet backward and forward.”
“Doesn’t make sense.”
“That’s what the cop thought. He says, ‘You were falling-down drunk a minute ago and now you’re sober as a judge. What’s going on?’”
“Bonzo says, ‘All my friends drove away without getting DUIs. Tonight I was the designated decoy.’”
INTERSTATE 95
A station wagon with New Hampshire plates blew through early-evening traffic.
Continuous snowbanks began showing small breaks until the breaks became larger than the frozen stretches. Another state line went under the headlights. Beers popped.
A crumpled speeding ticket hit the floor. “Let Virginia try to find me.”
The car stopped.
Slamming doors awoke Andy McKenna in the backseat. He looked around the nightscape. Cars pulling in, tractor-trailers idling, picnic tables, square building in the middle.
He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Where are we?”
“Welcome center.”
“Florida?”
“North Carolina.”
Other student vehicles arrived. Vermont. Rhode Island. Football stickers. Greek letters.
The rest of the station wagon’s occupants returned from rest-rooms and vending machines. Doritos, coffee. They switched drivers and pulled back onto the highway. Radio low.
“… Good, good, good! Good vibrations!…”
The signs began. Every few minutes. SOUTH OF THE B ORDER, 112 M ILES… 105 M ILES… 98…
“Aren’t we going to find a motel?” asked Andy.
“Absolutely not,” said Joey.
“It’s spring break,” said Doogie.
“And?”
“You have to drive straight through all the way or it doesn’t count.”
SOUTH OF THE B ORDER, 53 M ILES… K EEP Y ELLING, K IDS. T HEY’LL S TOP.
“When do you think we’ll get there?”
“Three A.M., maybe four,” said Spooge, the just-relieved driver snuggling against a backseat door with a bunched-up beach towel.
Andy opened a borrowed phone. “I’m going to try my dad again.”
“You’ve called a dozen times now.”
“I’ll eventually catch him.” He dialed. Ring, ring… Andy noticed the numeric display. “Shoot, I must be tired. Accidentally dialed my own cell number.” Ring…
“Gimme that.” Spooge snatched the phone away.
“Agent Oswalt here…”
The phone folded shut.
“What’d you do that for?” asked Andy.
“We’re on spring break. Chill out.”
A thousand miles north, Agent Oswalt looked at the unfamiliar number of the disconnected call. He hit call.
“New rule,” said Spooge, reaching for a switch on the commandeered cell. “All phones off.”
Click.
South Carolina line.
SOUTH OF THE B ORDER, I M ILE.
Andy stared out the window at a giant, lighted sombrero marking the historic kitschy rest stop. “I got Mexican jumping beans there when I was a kid.”
“What did you say?”
“Just talking to myself.”
He lay back and closed his eyes. Snoring…
A wild cheer went up in the station wagon.
Andy shook his groggy head. “What is it?”
The driver pointed at a passing sign:
WELCOME TO F LORIDA.
“How long was I asleep?”
“Two states.” A traffic citation ripped in half. “I just need to stay out of Georgia for seven years.”
They still had a good ways down to the gulf coast. But finally, twenty-nine hours after leaving their New England tundra, the students arrived in the hot, sticky Panama City night.
“There’s our hotel.”
The pasty foursome stared up at a flickering neon sign of a smiling alligator standing on its hind legs. It was one of those older, animated jobs from the sixties. Every other second, the gator pumped its reptilian claws up and down like a go-go dancer.
The station wagon pulled into the parking lot. Students rolled baggage toward the office, past a newspaper box with a photo of Andy’s father on the front page.
Next to the box, two students in orange-and-blue T-shirts sat sullenly on the curb, chins in hands.
Andy stopped rolling luggage. “You guys okay?”
“We didn’t make reservations,” said Melvin Davenport.
“That’s crazy,” said Spooge. “The whole city’s sold out. You do realize you’re not going to find anything.”
Melvin gave Cody a look.
“I got an idea,” said Spooge. “It’s a budget motel, but it’s still beach priced.”
“We could use the extra scratch,“ said Doogie.”You guys have money?”
“A
nd sleeping bags,” said Cody.
“But then we’re up to six,” said Andy. “It’s over the room limit.”
“That’s practically empty compared to our other trips,” said Doogie.
“Room limits are just suggestions,” said Spooge.
“I’ll go check in,” said Joey. “You two wait here so they don’t see you.”
The others walked the rest of the way across the lot and pushed open the lobby door of the Alligator Arms.
ALLIGATOR ARMS, ROOM 534
Loud knocking on the door.
Serge opened up. “Welcome to hell.”
Two women entered with duffel bag straps over shoulders. Country began coughing. “What’s all that smoke?”
City fanned the air in front of her face, staring at the dozen students toking up around Coleman. “Who are all these people?”
“Coleman likes to bring home strays.” Serge reached for Country’s bag. “Let me help you. Any trouble with the landlord?”
“Doesn’t know yet.”
“Smart thinking.” Serge threw the duffel in a corner. “Skipping out on rent always prevents those sentimental farewells.”
“It sucks.”
From across the room: “City! Country!” yelled Coleman. “Welcome to Party Central!”
The students were agog at the sight-“They’re gorgeous!” “I’m in heaven!”-and even more stunned when the women took seats on the couch next to them and grabbed joints.
“Coleman,” asked one of the students, “you actually know them?”
“We go way back. Very close friends.” He turned to the sofa. “Aren’t we?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Serge waved for Country to come over. She handed the number to City and met him by the kitchenette. “What is it?”
“Let me give you the grand tour.” He led her inside the suite’s bedroom and locked the door.
Soon, the rest of the unit was silent, everyone listening to ecstatic female shrieking through the wall.
“… Fuck me harder!…”
Students gulped.
The bedroom door opened and a bare-chested Serge stuck his head out, wearing a Gatorland baseball cap. “Coleman, my souvenirs…”
“Got you covered.” Coleman grabbed an antique cigar box from a dresser drawer, walked over and handed it to Serge.
“Thanks.”
The door closed. Listening resumed.
“… Oh God, oh God… I’m almost there… Fuck me faster!… Don’t stop!…”
“… And this swizzle stick is from Alabama Jack’s. That’s Card Sound Road in Key Largo for those playing along at home…”
Twenty minutes later, Serge emerged with a towel around his neck and a cigar box. Behind him, Country stumbled out of the room and bounced off a wall, looking like she’d just finished a triathlon.
The couple went out on the balcony. City joined them and closed the sliding glass door. They gazed out across the calm, moonlit Gulf of Mexico.
“What a great view,” said Country.
“Incredible,” said City, turning to Serge. “But don’t ever leave us stranded like that again.”
“I told you it was just a big misunderstanding.”
The sliding door opened. “Excuse me,” said Coleman. He stuck the end of a Heineken bottle in the door frame. The cap popped, followed by foam. A student behind him made a check mark on a sheet of hotel stationery. Coleman closed the door.
City looked through the glass. “What kind of stupidity now?”
“Who knows?” said Serge. “We’re in uncharted damage-deposit territory.”
The trio went back inside. Coleman wedged the end of another Heineken under the TV and gave the green barrel a quick smack with his fist. A cap flew. A student made a check mark.
Serge turned to someone in a Rutgers T-shirt. “What’s going on?”
“Nobody had a bottle opener, so Coleman’s showing us one hundred and one ways to open bottles with his bottle opener.”
“What’s his?”
“The room’s the bottle opener.” He read the checklist. “So far he’s shown us the flange method, pneumatic, heat exchange, friction damper… and he also got into a wine bottle with only a safety pin.”
“The guy’s amazing,” said another student. “How does he do it?”
“Easy,” said Serge. “He’s been on spring break since 1977.”
City rummaged through the mini fridge. “Country, screwdrivers?”
“I’m in.”
“Serge?”
“Coffee.”
The three huddled and watched the proceedings from the relative safety of the kitchenette. Coleman stood on a chair and raised a bottle toward the smoke detector.
City opened cabinets fully stocked with spotless plates and cups. “Impressed.” She closed them. “When you offered your place, I pictured a dump.”
“Got the one-bedroom suite. It has everything, which reminds me…” Serge opened a closet door and grabbed an electric cord. “I heard a comic say this is what separates us from animals, but I beg to differ.”
“You’re going to do housework?” asked Country.
“Observe.” Serge plugged in the vacuum cleaner.
A beer bottle shattered on the floor, and Coleman ran and hid in the bathroom.
Chapter Twenty-One
PANAMA CITY BEACH
Tradition continued.
Bars closed in the wee hours.
Ten minutes later, the night people appeared. Silhouettes on the beach against the edge of the surf. They stumbled through the sand, individually and in bunches of five or six, trying to find the way back to their hotels. Some made several passes in both directions. A freshman carrying a pizza box tried climbing over the locked back gate of the Alligator Arms.
Serge used low-light mode to film the spectacle from his balcony, then went back to bed.
Country opened her eyes. “Where’d you go?”
“The documentary continues.”
“What’s that yelling?”
“Kids on other balconies. After last call, the ones who make it back to their hotels resume partying where they’re most likely to take dangerous falls.”
Down on the pool patio, a night security guard in a smartly pressed uniform made rounds. His shoulder patches featured gallant eagles that projected the intimidating authority of someone who has cheap shoulder patches. He walked across the patio, helped a student up off the ground and peeled pizza from his chest. Then he returned to his post, stationary, back against the fence on the far side of the pool.
Staring upward.
At hotels in other cities, night watchmen patrol for muggings and car break-ins. In spring break towns, they’re on balcony duty. Some of the cheaper, off-beach joints along the Panhandle had seen enough and didn’t need the liability headaches. Balconies overlooking the pool were caged in with burglar bars or chicken wire.
These options weren’t available to the higher-priced waterfront properties, where that kind of low-rent eyesore would run off a profitable slice of their rest-of-the-year clientele. Hence the guard right now behind the Alligator Arms. Tonight he had his hands full, eyes on five different balconies spread across the back of the hotel. Kegs and coolers and shouting.
He continued round-robin surveillance, scanning two seconds on each balcony. The guard saw something three floors up and dashed around the pool. He clicked on his flashlight. “Hey!…”
A kid sat backward on the balcony railing, swaying with a plastic cup. The beam hit the side of his face. “What the hell?” He looked down.
“Are you crazy?” yelled the guard. “Get off that.”
“Sorry.”
The guard went back to his post, taking deep breaths to lower heart rate. It was the same all night, every night, like monitoring a kindergarten class issued razor blades, racing to head off the next brainless crisis almost before the last had ended.
Inside Serge’s one-bedroom suite, a crash.
Countr
y raised her head. “What was that?”
“Don’t know…” Serge listened. More bad noises, things banging. He threw the sheets off his legs. “But I have a good idea.”
He went out to the living room. “Coleman?”
No Coleman.
He turned the corner. “Oh my God! Coleman! No! Don’t do it!”
Coleman was on the balcony. He’d climbed atop a plastic chair, braced his left arm against the side wall and put an unsteady foot on top of the railing.
Serge ran forward. “Whatever it is, we can talk about it! This isn’t the answer.”
Coleman got his other foot on top of the bar, and without hesitation: “Wheeeeeeeeeeee!…” -voice trailing off as he disappeared.
Serge sprinted for the balcony.
Down below, the security guard assisted another student who’d taken a nasty spill over the locked gate. His back was to the pool when he heard the explosion of Coleman’s cannonball.
“Oh my God!” He ran toward the edge of the water, kicking off shoes, but Coleman cheerfully bobbed to the surface and dog-paddled toward the stairs at the shallow end. The guard switched from rescue to enforcement mode. He grabbed Coleman roughly as he staggered up the steps.
The watchman had the disadvantage of not seeing which balcony Coleman came from. “What room are you in?”
“Uh, five forty-three.”
“You’re in big trouble!”
Serge watched it unfolding from the balcony and filled in the coming attractions. “Damn it, Coleman!” He raced for the front door. Country came out of the bedroom. “What’s going on?”
“Just stay here.”
He sailed down flights of stairs and onto the pool deck. The unamused guard led Coleman by the arm.
Serge went for the respect approach. “Is there a problem, officer?”
“You know this man?”
“We’ve met.”
“Better get some bail together.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a misdemeanor. I’m calling the police.”
“Is that really necessary?” said Serge. “I’ll take him into my personal custody. You have my word it won’t happen again.”
“And you’re out of the room, too!”
“Wait. Stop walking,” said Serge. “We can discuss this. How much for your trouble?” He opened his wallet. “I have three hundred.”
