Tropic of Stupid

by Tim Dorsey

  “That’s nice,” she said curtly, and looked back down at the open files spread in front of her across the counter.

  Serge scooted closer. “Heard Chester was a Fuller Brush salesman. The economy is always changing, and people are always shocked. They probably thought selling toilet scrubbers door-to-door would go on forever. I also found another relative who was a big turpentiner in these parts, back in the time when something like that could be big. Today? You’re in a bread line. Did you ever read the book Who Moved My Cheese? You have to stay nimble in the business world, or you end up holding a bucket of turpentine in the woods and wondering where everybody went.”

  She smiled professionally and looked back down again.

  “You working on your own family tree?” asked Serge. “I can give you some tips. People don’t want you to plant grass plugs in their shitty yard.”

  Without emotion: “Official business.”

  “Wow!” said Serge. “I’m guessing law enforcement, and by your dress code probably FDLE. That’s the bomb! You must have gotten good grades. What’s your name?”

  A sigh. “Heather.”

  “Heather, I’m a staunch supporter of the fine men and women who lay it all out on the line every day. And what a thrill getting to watch you doing whatever it is you’re doing to protect me. This is so exciting!” He got even closer. “Mind if I look over your shoulder?”

  Still looking down. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Right, I’m being annoying again. Have to watch that. I’ve gotten the feedback.” Serge took a step in reverse and clasped his hands in front of himself, staring at her.

  After a few moments of silence, she looked sideways. “What are you doing?”

  “Not being annoying.”

  “It isn’t working.” Then she noticed something else. A plump man slumped in a nearby chair with eyes closed. “Who’s that?”

  “My trusty sidekick, Coleman.”

  “Is he drunk?”

  A shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine. So what are you really working on? Chester’s been dead forever, so it can’t be him.” Serge suddenly snapped his fingers. “If the FDLE is building a family tree, I’ll bet you’re tracking the DNA of a serial killer.”

  She stopped and turned with more attention this time. “What makes you say that?”

  Another shrug. “It’s what I’d do.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.” Heather looked back down, trying to ignore him and concentrate as best she could. And Serge did his best to remain quiet. It lasted a minute.

  Heather flipped a page and began hearing fingers tapping on the counter. Then: “Yep, it must be fascinating being a state agent.” More tapping. “I wonder where that Montclair file will lead her in the thirst for justice. Hmm.” Tap, tap, tap. “Bet it can’t top the last file I found, no sirree! Those documents told me I had a great-great-great-grand-uncle, Rafael Cortez, a lector in Tampa. Imagine my delight! Those were the guys who sat on tall stands in cigar factories and read out loud the whole day so all the workers sitting shoulder to shoulder rolling tobacco leaves for hours on end wouldn’t jump off the roof of the building. They had to sit up high so the whole room could hear, and they read all kinds of stuff: magazines, novels. The Count of Monte Cristo was one of their favorites. But what they really loved was newspapers, taking their minds all over the world for the wonders of current events . . .”

  Serge began slowly waving his arms back and forth, snake-like, as he stared at the ceiling.

  After a few moments of this, Heather dropped her pen. “What on earth are you doing?”

  Serge continued moving arms and looking up. “A fade-out.”

  “Whatever that is, could you please stop?”

  “Too late. Already begun.” Arms waving faster. “It was more than a hundred and twenty years ago, but seems like only yesterday . . .”

  The giant brick factory stood on Seventh Avenue in the section of Tampa called Ybor City, named for Vicente Martinez-Ybor, who helped found the nation’s cigar capital in the 1880s.

  In 1898, on a crisp afternoon in February, the sixteenth, a tall middle-aged man in a straw hat and suspenders climbed the steps of a small wooden stand overlooking the manufacturing floor. He had a thick, dark mustache, like most of the employees rolling cigars in dutiful silence.

  Rafael Cortez took a seat and opened a newspaper. The stories were always entertaining, but this day they were riveting. Cortez informed the cavernous room that there had been an explosion on the USS Maine, and the battleship had sunk in the harbor of Havana. Uncharacteristic murmurs rippled through the room. Cortez went on to recount that 260 men had been lost, some of whom would eventually be buried in Key West beneath a statue of a sailor holding an oar.

  More murmurs. Cigar-rolling was tedious business, but the workers couldn’t wait to get to the factory in the ensuing days for more intrigue. Most were illiterate, and Cortez was one of their only sources of information. The factory owner scratched his head at the unexplained increase in production.

  Just over two months later, on April 26, Rafael climbed up onto his stand. Everyone was waiting. The lector announced that the United States, citing in part the loss of the Maine, had just declared war on Spain. The murmurs in the room gave way to robust banter.

  That’s when Rafael went off script. He stood up on his stand, dramatically flapping the paper over his head. “This is yellow journalism, I tell you! Just designed to sell papers for William Randolph Hearst! Explosions happen on ships all the time, especially those with lots of gunpowder. Where’s the proof? This is a classic colonial expansion propaganda tactic! Don’t you believe it for a second! . . .”

  The factory’s supervisors went outside to summon police walking the beat.

  “. . . And while I’m at it, I’ll tell you what else is bullshit: this whole city! Remember the old days when we rolled cigars in Key West? We had a union back then, La Liga, better pay and conditions. And why did they move us all up here? Just to bust the union!” He threw a fist in the air. “Workers unite! Workers unite! Break the shackles of the imperialists! . . .”

  The cops came pouring in and climbed the stand.

  “Let go of me, you fascists! . . .”

  His fingers clung to the railing as they pulled him sideways by upended legs.

  “This is supposed to be a democracy, but see what happens when the individual speaks out? . . .”

  Four police officers pried his fingers loose and carried him off, still sideways.

  “When the workers unite, the power class tries to divide us,” yelled Rafael. “Mark my words! In the future, America will be dominated by politicians making us hate each other.”

  The cops reached the door with their prisoner.

  “Have you ever even been to Maine? Who lives there? You’ll freeze your balls off! . . .”

  Serge gradually stopped waving his arms and dropped them by his side. “Yep, definitely the Serge genes.” He looked around. “Where’d she go?”

  Chapter 28

  Sarasota County

  A turkey vulture swooped low over the desolate road slicing through frontier country a dozen miles east of the city. The blue-and-white Cobra slowed and turned through the entrance gate.

  Serge was already waving his green book out the window as he eased up to the guard booth.

  “Myakka River State Park! My favorite! Here’s my annual park pass, so no cash today! Been here a million times, but always before the unfettered joy of the passport book, so get out that ink pad of mutual empowerment and hit this baby!”

  The ranger smiled mildly as he stamped the appointed page. “Enjoy your visit.”

  “Is there even a doubt?” Serge was about to pull through when he stopped and squinted at the ranger. “I know you.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Yes, I’m sure of it, because I never forget a face, especially those that aren’t here anymore. Don’t read anything into that.” He leaned farther out the window. “Why can�
��t I place where I’ve seen you before?”

  “You must be thinking of someone else.”

  “No, I—” He suddenly clapped his hands. “I remember now! You’re that guy!”

  “That’s not very specific.”

  “You know, those fancy commercials for your law firm,” said Serge. “Great production values. All that Norman Rockwell shit and kittens.”

  Bobby winced at being recognized as the former Nathan. It was the main reason he had chosen a state park on the opposite coast, where the ads didn’t run.

  “You’re probably wondering how I know ’cause the ads don’t run over here,” said Serge. “But I’m a holistic Florida kind of guy, loving all parts of the state equally without judging. Much.”

  Another tempered smile from the ranger. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Seriously, what are you doing in that booth? Why aren’t you ripping insurance fat cats new ones?”

  “Sort of had a change of careers.”

  “I get it,” said Serge. “Some life-numbing event or two happened, and one day you said, ‘What the fuck am I doing with my life? I’ve lost my way. I need to follow my heart.’”

  Bobby was so startled that he uncharacteristically dropped his guard. “How do you know that?”

  “Logic. I’m a student of human nature. And the same thing happened to me. Actually it’s always happening to me. Most recently I discovered the entire meaning of life. What did you find?”

  “At least what makes me happy.”

  “And what exactly is that?” asked Serge.

  “Making others happy.”

  “Coleman! Holy shit! Did you hear that? We’re on the same spiritual journey!” He looked back at the guard booth. “We need to compare notes! I’ve been trying to make people happy, but judging by the facial expressions I think I’m a peg or two off on the concept. Maybe you can tune me in.”

  “I’m kind of busy these days with all the new park duties.”

  Serge pumped his eyebrows. “It would make me happy . . .”

  An hour later, lunch break. Bobby met Serge and Coleman at a picnic table. He was actually happy to have normal people to talk to. Well maybe not normal, just different from the Palm Beach social register.

  Here was the thing about Serge meeting new people: It was a binary event. Either they hit it off famously, or the encounter immediately crashed and burned with cringing disaster. No middle ground. Laughter or tears. Or worse, screaming and running and flagging down the nearest police car. It was just a question of where Serge currently was in his knitting-ball of intersecting mental swings. Most people quickly figured out that he was unusual. Catch him on the right node, and it would be ascribed to bubbliness, charisma, intelligence, coffee and an overactive imagination. Then it was a random matter of time before the true picture emerged. Could be two weeks, or two minutes.

  “You’re pretty bubbly,” said the ranger.

  Serge nodded hard, sipping a Styrofoam cup from 7-Eleven. He tapped his right temple. “Always thinking. Always curious. Like, from the file ‘How is this a thing?’ Ready? The coconut bra. Your thoughts?”

  “Drawing a blank.”

  “It’s not remotely functional, yet it’s out there doing its stuff. It’s been keeping me up at night for hours.”

  “Uh, what exactly is your friend doing?” asked the ranger.

  Serge turned to the seat next to him at the picnic table. Coleman glanced around suspiciously, then uncapped a prescription bottle and popped three pills in his mouth.

  Serge snatched the plastic container out of his hands—“Gimme that!”—and read the label. “Where’d you get this?”

  “Bought it on the street.”

  “It’s docusate sodium.”

  Coleman nodded. “Guy said it was good.”

  “But it’s a prescription stool softener.”

  Coleman grabbed the bottle back. “Still a prescription. Party!”

  “Oh, it will definitely be a party,” said Serge. “Remind me to RSVP an enthusiastic no.”

  The ranger stared with an open mouth.

  “Sorry about that,” said Serge. “Back to the coconut bra. It’s been keeping me up because I have this image stuck in my head. Why do we have it? I was working the problem and I thought possibly if Amelia Earhart somehow survived the plane crash and was able to swim to a remote Pacific island with all her clothes torn off. Then her navigator also survives and swims ashore, and now she’s got to see him every day at work. I’m not saying she was a prude, but she did what she had to. And now I have this persistent picture in my head of Amelia Earhart in a coconut bra. At first it was pleasant, but it’s become disturbing. If someone says: ‘Whatever you do, don’t keep thinking about Amelia Earhart in a coconut bra,’ what’s going to happen? You’re fucked!” Serge slapped the side of his head. “Still in there. Can you help me?”

  This time it took a whole ten minutes for the picture to emerge. The ranger stood up from the picnic table and tilted his head toward the guard booth. “I kind of need to be getting back.”

  “You’ve barely touched your lunch,” said Serge. “And it’s tuna salad! The Calvin and Hobbes treat!”

  “I really need to go.”

  “One more minute, please?” said Serge. “I got off track because of the image, but I seriously wanted to pick your brain. I’ve been reading the gospel of Matthew.”

  The ranger paused. “Chapters five to seven?”

  “Damn, you’re good! How on earth did you know?” said Serge. “I’ve been doing some self-searching and decided I needed to hit the reset button on my life.”

  The ranger stood in thought. From his time at the soup kitchen serving the homeless, he realized the country had a serious problem of untreated mental illness out on the streets. This Serge character might have a little or a lot. But given the ranger’s new dedication to following in Father Al’s footsteps, he couldn’t just walk away from a troubled soul. He sat back down.

  “Thanks,” said Serge. “Anyway, I bore down on those Bible chapters and it completely changed me: the poor in spirit, those who mourn, the meek, the merciful, the peacemakers. I decided to put those teachings in play with a full-court press. I offered to trim a guy’s ear hair, watched Sea Hunt with an old Greek woman, and gave detergent to the Statue of Liberty. You see my problem?”

  “Have you seen a doctor?” asked the ranger.

  “Why?” Serge beat his chest like Tarzan. “I have the physical constitution of Bo Jackson.”

  “I know this free clinic—”

  Serge waved him off. “The urgent matter at hand is my awe at the fork in the road you’ve taken. You had it all! Money, prestige, power, celebrity from the TV ads. Most people would kill for that, but you walked away. You figured it all out and centered yourself. That’s where I’m falling short. So tell me, what strategies have you employed to take your life change to the next level?”

  “If I understand your question, I volunteer,” said Bobby.

  “Volunteer?” Serge popped himself in the forehead. “It’s so obvious it wasn’t obvious.” He stood up at attention and saluted. “Reporting for duty, sir.”

  “What?”

  “I’m volunteering.”

  “Well, I know a number of places,” said Bobby. “The homeless shelter, the literacy project—”

  “No,” said Serge. “Right here and now. Life’s too short. Where do I begin?”

  Bobby took a deep breath. “Okay, we do have some volunteers at the park who help with maintenance and pick up trash.”

  “Trash?” said Serge. “But it’s a state park.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The type of people who come here are those who most respect the pristineness of nature,” said Serge. “Why would they litter?”

  “One thing I’ve learned is that human behavior will never stop surprising you.”

  Coleman popped another pill.

  “And how,” said Serge. “Let’s rodeo that litter! . . .” />
  The next evening Serge and Coleman joined Ranger Bobby at the homeless shelter.

  Serge ladled chicken and stars into a bowl, and smiled across the serving table at a man in rags. “In exchange, backstory. Was it heart-wrenching misfortune, or did you never stop screwing up?”

  “Serge,” said Bobby.

  “What?”

  “Just serve soup.”

  Three men walked down a hiking trail east of Sarasota. A candy wrapper went into a garbage bag, then a beer can and an empty Gatorade bottle that had been impaled on a tree branch.

  “That’s a tricolored heron,” said Serge. “Right?”

  “Yep,” said Bobby.

  Serge reached in his pocket for a small weather-resistant Audubon field guide. “Another project I’ve been working on. I really love these parks, which makes me feel inadequate about my flora and fauna identification skills. I’ve got most of the wading birds down, but I’m still shaky on some of the trees, particularly the palms, which should be right in my kill box. The royals and Canary Island dates are easy, but some of the low growth looks too similar. Is that a saw palmetto?”

  “Yep.”

  “And a traveler’s palm isn’t technically a palm at all but a member of another genus?”

  “Correct again . . .”

  Serge continued on, hiking, collecting garbage and working on nature education, his voice steady, calm and lucid. Almost academic. Ranger Bobby began to reassess his initial take on the visitor. Maybe Serge was on some kind of medication that hadn’t kicked in earlier. Maybe it was the coffee. Whatever, he seemed quite normal now, more so than a lot of the oddballs who streamed through the park’s entrance.

  “I have a question,” said the ranger.

  “Fire away.” Serge studied a photo of a king sago in his guidebook.

  “What religion are you?”

  “My own.”

  “You mean non-denominational?”

  “Even less structured,” said Serge. “Mine is the religion of questions. The big outfits don’t dig that.”