No Sunscreen for the Dead

by Tim Dorsey

  “We’re watching Cocoon.”

  “Cocoon?”

  “It’s a coming-of-age film.”

  “I love Cocoon!” said Serge. “One of my all-time favorites! I need one of those pod things! . . . Coleman, we’re watching Cocoon!”

  A drone of happy conversation filled the seating area. Then the volume ramped down until there was silence. And it wasn’t because the movie was about to start. Everyone was now staring at the side door, where Ike and Judy Duncan had just entered the room. They took seats on the end of a row and looked ahead. Then everyone else realized the silence was awkward and started talking again.

  “I never expected to see them here,” a neighbor whispered to Lawrence.

  “There’s no anticipating how each person will react to grief,” he replied. “Some people need a distraction like this to occupy their minds or they’ll dwell into a spiral. All things considered, they were in pretty healthy spirits this morning. I think this is a good thing.”

  A tap on Coleman’s shoulder. “What?”

  A whisper. “Got any more weed?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Great. We have a few minutes before the movie starts,” said a resident with a walker. “I want to see this movie in a whole new light.”

  “This shit’s so good, it’ll be 3-D with Dolby surround sound,” said Coleman. “Let’s go out to the pool deck.”

  The pair left the hall, and ten other residents got up from their chairs and followed.

  “What can possibly go wrong?” said Serge, watching them leave as he took a seat next to Lawrence in the back row. He uncapped a travel mug of coffee.

  Minutes later, the film began as Wilford Brimley arrived at a retirement community in a vintage Cadillac.

  “I’m crazy about this movie!” said Serge. “It sets the record straight on Florida retirees! Did you know it was shot almost entirely on location in Tampa Bay back in 1985? And Brimley was actually only forty-nine at the time and had to dye his hair gray, so it’s not much of a stretch that Coleman and I can jump into the good life. I’m just saying . . .”

  The film progressed with a silently attentive audience in the darkness, especially those who’d come in from the pool deck.

  “Do you see the nautical chart that Brian Dennehy is showing Steve Guttenberg to find the cocoons at the bottom of the bay?” asked Serge. “You can actually see where the chart says Panama City at the top, if you freeze the frame and get your face right up to the TV set. That’s what I did. It jazzed my world . . .”

  A few more scenes passed.

  “That’s the pool house, where the old guys swim with the cocoons for the first time and get stiffies and go home to their wives, and, well . . . It’s really a love story,” said Serge. “The pool house where they filmed it is located over on Boca Ciega Bay and was just a slapped-together Hollywood set, but the homeowners liked it so much they constructed a permanent one after the movie cats left town . . .”

  Someone turned around. “Shhhhhh!”

  “Do you always talk this much during movies?” asked Lawrence.

  “Yes!”

  “Can you stop?”

  “I can try.” Serge sat on his hands and pursed his lips. “How was that? The cast had their wrap party at the Dalí Museum . . .”

  The movie proceeded toward its climax. Serge sat with his mouth open as the coast guard chased the retirees’ boat through a tropical storm until it was beamed up into a spaceship. “Can you imagine working on the metro desk of a newspaper that night? . . .”

  The credits rolled to thunderous applause.

  Then a slow-motion stampede.

  “Where’s everyone going?” asked Serge.

  “To the shuttle bus,” said Lawrence.

  “Another field trip?” Serge clapped like a grade schooler, then joined the exodus.

  The official driver was waiting, and Serge handed him a C-note. “You’re in retirement.”

  The bus filled and the door closed. Serge bounced in his seat behind the steering wheel. “Where to today?”

  One of the passengers leaned forward and handed him a list.

  “What this?”

  “Local filming locations from Cocoon. That’s why we watched it just before today’s trip.”

  Another resident nodded. “So we could get all amped up before seeing the real places.”

  “Wait a second . . .” said a momentarily stunned Serge. “You mean you researched the movie to find these filming sites? You dig visiting authentic Florida spots where the state made iconic celluloid history?”

  Another resident held up a camera. “And taking lots of pictures.”

  Serge clutched Coleman’s shoulder, digging in fingernails.

  “Ow,” said his pal. “What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

  “These people are all my soul mates.”

  The vehicle started up and so did the singing.

  “. . . Don’t stop . . . thinking about tomorrow! . . .”

  The latter-day Ken Kesey bus crested the 430-foot-high peak of the Sunshine Skyway Bridge over the mouth of Tampa Bay.

  “. . . If I had a hammer . . .”

  Serge kept glancing in the rearview.

  Coleman snuck a swig from a flask. “What are you looking at?”

  “That Impala’s been back there for a while.”

  “You think we’re being followed?”

  “I don’t know,” said Serge. “We may have a tail. Or it might be my habit of playing make-believe spy.”

  They reached the bottom of the bridge and took the exit for Fifth Avenue North. Serge checked the mirror. “The Impala went the other way. But it was fun while it lasted.”

  The bus slowed as it drove along the waterfront homes on Park Street. “Remember to show respect because this is a private residence,” said Serge. “As much as I want to swim in that pool, we must defend the social code . . . Fire away!”

  Serge slowed the bus to a crawl and lenses poked out the window.

  Click, click, click, click, click . . .

  “God, I love that sound,” said Serge. “It sounds like . . .” He sniffed the air. “Victory.”

  From there it was a mad dash around the county.

  “. . . Go, Serge, go! . . .”

  The bus approached 125 Fifty-Sixth Avenue South.

  “Coming up on your right is the Westminster Shores retirement community, which was named Sunny Acres in the movie, home base for the gang. Funky tidbit: The sign in the movie retained the actual address . . . You’ll notice there’s been major work and the resemblance is lost, but it’s still a solid spiritual stop on our tour . . .”

  Click, click, click, click, click . . .

  Serge double-checked the mirror.

  “What now?” asked Coleman.

  “That Jeep’s been back there awhile . . .”

  They cruised down to 405 Central Avenue.

  “And here’s the Rutland Building, home of the old Snell Arcade from the post-coital shopping-spree scene . . . The Jeep is gone. You weren’t supposed to hear that last part . . .”

  Click, click, click, click, click . . .

  The shuttle screeched around the corner. “Saint Petersburg holds the Guinness record for most consecutive days of sunshine at seven hundred and sixty-eight, hence its nickname, the ‘Sunshine City.’ To tout this tourism headline, the city’s first newspaper, the Evening Independent, enacted its famous ‘Sunshine Offer’ in 1910 that gave away free papers on any day the sun didn’t shine. From then until it folded in 1986, it only had to make good on the promotion less than three hundred times. I know that’s a lot of math, so see me later if problems arise . . . Now we’ve picked up a Lexus . . .”

  “How many cars are following us?” asked Coleman.

  “Either three or zero depending on my mental state,” said Serge.

  “But they can’t be following us,” said Coleman. “You’re only spotting them one at a time.”

  “That’s how the best spies wor
k. They switch out cars so you don’t know you’re being followed,” said Serge. “Either these guys are really good or they’re just guys.”

  The shuttle bus rounded the serene park at Mirror Lake in downtown St. Petersburg.

  “. . . Go, Serge, go! . . .”

  “Soon appearing on your left with its trademark green-and-white paint scheme is the home of another memorable Cocoon scene, the Saint Petersburg Shuffleboard Club, founded in 1924. The world’s oldest and largest. If you don’t believe me, when have you ever seen stadium seating at a shuffleboard court? . . .”

  The bus stopped. Click, click, click, click, click . . .

  “This cathedral to old Florida fell into nasty neglect as young people basically said fuck shuffleboard, but a heroic fund-raising effort in 2008 restored the ruins to its former glory. Please visit when in town to live the history. That last part was for our home audience . . . The Lexus is gone.”

  Click, click, click, click, click . . .

  The shuttle pulled into a parking lot on Fifth Avenue.

  “And last but not least, one final stop on the tour. Also constructed in 1924, the fabulous Coliseum, known far and wide and without exaggeration as the Finest Ballroom in the South.” Serge stood to face his passengers. “And according to this list I was given, they’re having an afternoon tea dance right now, complete with the big-band sounds you all know and love! Shall we? . . .”

  Serge stood outside the door and extended an arm to assist exiting passengers. He noticed that more than a few had tiny coolers. “What are those for?”

  A woman reached the pavement. “These tea dances are BYOB.”

  “Now they’re my soul mates, too,” said Coleman. “Serge, what’s that look on your face?”

  “There’s an Impala again.”

  “Where?”

  “Don’t be conspicuous, but it’s parked a block up the street on the other side,” said Serge. “Except there’s no possible way it can be the same one.”

  Coleman used his right hand as a sun visor over his eyes and craned his neck toward the road.

  “Thanks, Captain Obvious. Let’s go inside . . .”

  The pair brought up the rear of the gang entering the majestic, cavernous space featuring curved wooden roof beams strung with cabaret-style lightbulbs. The dance floor looked identical to the one showcased by Don Ameche, Tyrone Power Jr., and Maureen Stapleton.

  The music was already under way as the residents of Boca Shores began gracefully twirling their partners across the venerable wood.

  Serge twirled Coleman.

  “This feels weird.”

  “It’s the Coliseum,” said Serge. “We’re required to dance.”

  Coleman looked up at the arched ceiling. “I have to admit this is a pretty cool place.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” Serge spun Coleman again. “First, the big shuffleboard complex we were just at, and now this grande dame ballroom, both almost a century old. There’s fantastic history to be found all around us if you’re just paying attention, but most people are looking at their phones.”

  “How did you first get so into old people anyway?”

  “It was a specific, vivid moment in time.” Serge dipped his partner. “About ten years ago I was strolling around Mirror Lake without a soul in sight.”

  “The one we passed by the shuffleboard place?”

  “The water’s surface remained perfectly still like glass, and I was in an odd state. I wouldn’t say glum, more like pensive. And as I circled the shore, I heard faint music, like a radio station from the forties. I was drawn to the source, continuing my way around the lake. And next door was a retirement home. It was a balmy Sunday afternoon, and the doors and windows were propped open to let in the breeze. As I drew closer, I heard big-band music coming from one of the doors. I was still about twenty yards away, but I could see inside. A handful of couples were dancing, just like they are here, except on a much smaller floor. And I don’t know why, but I locked on to this one couple. They were easily in their eighties, dancing slowly near the front of the room. The thing that caught me was their eyes. They were gazing into each other’s like nothing else in the world mattered. And I tried to imagine everything contained in those gazes: two lifetimes of thousands of wonderful moments spent together that led to this one. Marriage is hard, believe me. But these two were now more in love than the day they first fell for each other. They didn’t have much time left on this rocky planet, and it didn’t matter. They’d gotten life all figured out, and nothing was as important as right now.”

  “Man, that’s a fucked-up story,” said Coleman.

  “Because we don’t have it figured out,” said Serge. “I continued watching them dance in slow circles, still gazing with the hugest smiles. They were in a place of pure, distilled happiness. And as my eyes followed them across the dance floor, I suddenly realized that I had the biggest smile, too. I was drawing off them. Their happiness was filling my body.”

  “That’s called a contact buzz,” said Coleman.

  “Okay, let’s try not to ruin this with drugs,” said Serge. “Anyway, I remember straining to capture that moment, which I stored in the happy box inside my heart. Ever since then, when mundane shit starts skewing my mood toward negativity, I’ll open my box and take that memory out for a look, and all is right in life.”

  “I’m getting tired of dancing.” Coleman pointed. “I want to drink with that couple. The little cooler on their table is my happy box.”

  “Go for it,” said Serge. “I need to do something.”

  Coleman went his way, and Serge returned to the front of the Coliseum. He climbed a staircase to the balcony overlooking the dance floor. Then he grabbed a chair and sat by himself, watching the couples from Boca Shores sway and spin and gaze into each other’s eyes.

  A smile broadened across his face.

  Serge was adding something to his happy box.

  “Coleman!”

  “What?”

  “Wheels up!” said Serge. “That means lift your head from the table.”

  Coleman’s big melon rose from the wood. A mat of stray hair. “What’s going on?”

  Serge looked toward the front doors, where seniors were filing out of the ballroom. “We’re leaving now. You’re the sole deadweight.”

  “Okay, let me get it together . . .”

  The rest were all in the shuttle bus when Serge guided Coleman up the steps.

  A big cheer went up. “He lives! . . .”

  Coleman looked confused at his buddy. “I don’t remember anything. What happened in there?”

  “You tried to break-dance like Don Ameche in Cocoon,” said Serge.

  “But I don’t know how to break-dance.”

  “We’re all now keenly aware of that,” said Serge. “There was some table and chair damage that I had to cover.”

  The bus pulled out of the parking lot.

  “. . . Sweet Caroline! . . . Oh! . . . Oh! . . . Oh! . . .”

  Serge drove east toward Tampa Bay, then up North Shore Drive. A heated movie discussion about Cocoon swept the bus.

  “I would have gone on the spaceship.”

  “Not me.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I don’t need to live forever.”

  “I do!”

  “And never see the grandchildren?”

  “They don’t write as it is.”

  “What if it’s clammy and my sweats get worse?”

  “We’re clammy here.”

  “It could be a ruse, and they end up experimenting on your organs while you’re awake. Who knows what kind of people these are?”

  “It’s worth a shot.”

  “Please direct your attention to that park on the right side of the street and the old men in the long white pants,” said Serge. “That’s Saint Pete’s famous senior softball league, where you have to be at least seventy-five to join. Quite amazing to watch. There’s only one major rule change: no sliding.”


  The shuttle bus headed south into downtown. “On our way home I’d like to sprinkle in some bitchin’ history. And one cool thing about Saint Pete is they like to keep the past alive when naming stuff. Ready? Who’s with me?”

  “. . . Go, Serge, go! . . .”

  “This is First Avenue, and that brick building with the giant courtyard is Jannus Landing, home of outrageous open-air rock concerts. It was named after Tony Jannus, the aviator who started the nation’s first scheduled airline flights from here to Tampa in 1914. And part of the venue is a joint called Club Detroit. Why is it called that, you ask? . . . Go ahead, ask.”

  “. . . Why, Serge? . . .”

  “I’ll tell you!” He made a right turn on Central Avenue. “Believe it or not, there was a fifty-fifty chance that this city would be called Detroit! Totally true! The co-founders flipped a coin for the naming rights. The winner, Peter Demens, picked the city in Russia where he’d spent some of his youth. The loser, John Williams, got to name the city’s first building after his birthplace. Please look out your left windows at the illustrious Detroit Hotel, constructed in 1888, playground of such notables as Franklin Roosevelt, Will Rogers and Babe Ruth. Now it’s gone condo with rumors of demolition. Let’s pray . . .”

  The shuttle headed back south toward the Sunshine Skyway Bridge. Serge’s eyes were on the rearview.

  “Are we being followed again?” asked Coleman.

  “Yes.”

  Coleman turned around. “Which one?”

  “All of them.”

  “But we’re in traffic.”

  “That’s right.” Serge adjusted the mirror. “All traffic is following us. Just because they don’t know they’re following us doesn’t mean they’re not.”

  “And I thought weed made me paranoid.”

  “I think seeing that Impala got me rattled. I need to think of something mellow,” said Serge. “Everyone, look out the right side at the bridge’s railing, where you’ll see a series of a half-dozen special phones. What are they? Suicide-prevention hotlines for people who’ve lost the last ribbon of hope and want to jump and splat themselves. Isn’t that great? . . .”

  The bus finally arrived back at Boca Shores, and Earl waved them through.