“I’m also thinking of getting at least three more cameras that run continuously.” He held up the current unit. “This will be angle one, pointing forward with the viewfinder. Then I’ll have two waist-mounted cameras on a special belt, and finally a fourth in a sling on my back, aimed behind me, in case something important happens after I leave.”
Serge drained his coffee and turned off the camera. “My documentary on everything is complete.”
“Thought there were seven hundred volumes.”
“Flexibility is critical during production.” Serge ejected the tape from his camera. “The key to filmmaking is knowing what to leave out. That way you make the audience think, filling in gaps themselves and arguing about it on the way home.”
Coleman scraped out his bong and strolled over to the row of garbage bags.
“Been meaning to ask,” said Serge.
“The bags? I’m letting them age.”
“Silly question.”
“It’s all timing.” Coleman bent down and read adhesive labels he’d stuck on each: drugstore addresses and dates. “This one’s ready.”
Serge watched, puzzled, as Coleman carried it into the kitchen and dumped the contents on the table. “Let’s see what we’ve got…” He pawed through refuse. “Here’s something promising… here’s another… and another…”
“Prescription bags?”
“Three weeks old,” said Coleman. “Between the pharmacy counter and the front door, a lot of people just rip their sacks open, pocket the bottle of pills and toss the rest in the trash can outside the door. Then I make my rounds.”
“I’m guessing there’s a point, but I’ve been wrong before.”
Coleman held up one of the small paper bags. “See? Got all the information: patient’s name, medicine, day prescribed and, most crucial of all, any refills.”
Serge sat back at the table with amused attention.
“Of all people, I thought you’d figure it out by now,” said Coleman. “When was the last time they asked for ID picking up a prescription?”
“Never, but-”
“I calculate the pill quantity and dosage directions off the bag, then call a day or two before the person would normally order a refill.”
“What if the real customer’s already called? You’ll get caught.”
“Let me see your cell.”
Serge handed it over. Coleman dialed. He read the side of the bag, pressed a sequence of numbers and hung up.
Serge took the phone back. “What just happened?”
“Big chain stores now use automated phone refill systems. If the customer already called, you’d get a robot’s voice saying it’s too soon to refill. No harm, no foul.”
“I’m amazed at the level of thought,” said Serge. “And yet you still put your shoes on the wrong feet.”
Coleman looked down. “There’s a difference?”
Serge logged on to his laptop.
“Whatcha doin’?”
“Planning my next documentary. But not too hasty: This one must be stunningly insightful and redirect the flow of culture as we know it.”
“Why?”
“My Documentary on Everything set the bar prohibitively high. Reviewers unfairly hold that against you.”
Coleman pulled up a chair. He took off his shoes and switched them. “The pain’s gone.”
“It definitely has to be about Florida.” Serge surfed various history sites. “Just haven’t zeroed in on the specific topic.”
“Why does it have to be about Florida?”
“To set the record straight. Remember the highest-grossing movie ever filmed here?”
“You told me.
“Bingo. And the state’s bestselling documentary?”
Coleman shrugged.
“
“Oh, yeah!” said Coleman. “Great plot!”
“Plot?”
“Get chicks drunk and have them make out with each other.”
“That’s your idea of a plot?”
“The best there is,” said Coleman. “Unless, of course, they can convince
“That’s exploitative!” Serge tapped his way around the Internet. “I cannot idly stand by and allow that gooey stain to sully my home state’s fabric.”
“There’s a sequel,” said Coleman. “They have this hot tub-”
“Enough!”
Time flew. Coleman passed out at the table with his cheek on a wicker place mat.
“… Sports? Rail infrastructure? Osceola’s heartbreak? Our chief export behind citrus: fucking up national elections?…”
Coleman raised his head and looked around. “Am I here?”
“Why can’t I find the hook?”
Coleman drank from the open beer he discovered in his hand. “Just remembered. What about the horn-honker in your trunk? He’s been in there a day now.”
“That’s why I hung gerbil-pellet and water dispensers from the spare tire.”
“What are you doing?”
“Checking my in-box.”
“Wow, you really won the Irish lottery?”
“Coleman-”
“We’re rich!” He jumped up and broke into a Riverdance jig. “We’re rich! We’re rich! We’re-rich-we’re-rich- we’re-rich!…”
“Coleman-”
He plopped back down and wedged his head between Serge and the laptop. “How much did we win?”
“Nothing.”
“No, really?”
“I’m serious.”
“Nothing?” Coleman sat back in his chair. “Then why do the Irish buy the tickets?”
Serge scrolled down the screen, deleting more spam. He stopped.
“What’s this?”
“What?”
Serge opened the next junk e-mail:
“Coleman, it’s a sign from God!” Serge got up and pulled a suitcase from the closet. “That’s two references this afternoon, which can be no coincidence. I’ve just got my new documentary.”
“What’s the subject?”
“Serge and Coleman do spring break!”
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
