Gator A-GO-GO

“But America was founded on a barter economy.” Serge reached for his wallet. “That’s the whole problem with stores. It’s all about money.”

Serge walked across the parking lot and opened the Challenger’s trunk. A head popped up. He smacked it with a tire iron. “Not your turn.”

Coleman peed on the side of the building. The front side. He straggled over. “We didn’t sell any signs… What are you doing now?”

“The free market was built on artificial demand.”

Serge rummaged through the trunk and removed a larger sign on a wooden stake. He hammered it into the ground next to the road.

They drove away. Downtown came into view.

“ Fort Myers, City of Palms!” Serge raised a camera. Click, click. “And there’s the new baseball stadium!”

“Serge, do we really have to watch a stupid baseball game?”

“It is not stupid.”

“Nothing happens. Dudes stand in a field a long time, then every once in a while someone runs a little bit, then they stand around again.”

“They serve beer.”

“I love baseball.”

A few miles back, passing motorists stared curiously at a sign in front of a strip mall.

CLEAN P UBLIC R ESTROOMS (S OLICITORS E AT F OR F REE).

“We’re here!” said Serge, screeching into the parking lot. “Spring training home of the Red Sox!”

“Thought the Tampa Bay Rays were your favorite team.”

“They are,” said Serge. “ Boston was my team before Florida had any, but now we do. And that’s why we drove down here today. They’re playing the Rays! Anyone who doesn’t root for his home team deserves to be spat upon and have his head shaved like those French chicks who screwed Nazis during the Resistance.”

“Are there Nazis at spring training?”

“Yes, but they keep a low profile in the bleachers and are now too old to goose-step and start their shit again.” Serge grabbed a baseball glove from the glove compartment. “I’m getting a ton of foul balls!”

“How can you be so sure?”

“You haven’t seen me in action.”

19 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

City plows had pushed the previous day’s snowfall into dirty banks. People bundled in thick coats walked quickly along Lans-downe Street, heads ducked low in the icy wind. They were made even colder by a structure towering up the south side of the road that blocked the sun. At its top, thirty-seven feet above street level, sat a cantilevered balcony. More foot traffic came around the corner, scurrying past the back side of the Green Monster, the fabled left-field wall at Fenway Park, home of the Boston Red Sox.

One of the pedestrians blew into freezing hands as he reached Brookline Avenue and made a sharp right turn, climbing through the gray, wet crust. He grabbed a door handle and jumped inside. Rambunctious chatter and cheering. Waitresses rushed by with teetering trays.

Overhead TVs everywhere, all the same channel.

The man rubbed his arms and climbed onto one of the few vacant stools. A finger went up for the bartender. “Sam Adams.”

The televisions showed a news correspondent in bright natural light, surrounded by palm trees and dozens of screaming, waving people with baseball caps and ghostly non-tans fighting their way into the camera frame.

“This is Jill Montgomery down in sunny Fort Myers, Florida, where the temperature is a fabulous seventy-eight degrees, and the faithful of Red Sox Nation have begun their annual migration to the spring training home of their beloved team. Let’s talk to one of them right now…” She motioned for a bald man in a Josh Beckett jersey. “ Sir, where are you from?”

“Red Sox going all the way! Wooooooooo!”

“And where are you from?”

“Yankees suck!”

Beer arrived. The man on the next stool looked out the windows at dreariness, then up at the TV. “I’m jealous.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, if you can’t be there in person…”-he glanced around the pub’s crowded interior-“… Cask’n Flagon is the next best.”

“Won’t argue with that.”

The man extended a hand. “Carl Lemanski.”

They shook. “Patrick McKenna.”

Eyes back to the TV. “Lucky sons of bitches.”

“… But a down note this morning as emergency personnel hospitalized an eighty-one-year-old fan from Quincy bludgeoned in a local economy motel. Under arrest are two unemployed construction workers who were on a weeklong crack binge in the next room… Now, back to the game!”

“I’m a supervisor at the water department,” said Carl.

“Day off?”

“No.” He signaled for another beer. “So what are you into, Pat?”

“Hard to explain.”

“Try me.”

“Fancy title is ‘commercial location specialist.’”

“Never heard of it. What do you do for that?”

“Count parking spaces.”

“Spaces?”

“Or at least ones with cars in them.”

“Seriously, what do you do?”

“Seriously.”

“… Varitek doubles to the right, bringing home Pedroia!…”

“That’s really a job?”

“Boring stuff.”

“I’d like to hear.”

“You would?”

In most circumstances, Patrick was economical about himself. But more beer came and the Sox took the lead. “Niche specialty, skyrocketing demand.”

“From who?”

“Chain stores and mall developers,” said Patrick. “Always expanding into new markets. But pick the wrong location, it’s an expensive mistake. And at least one person’s job.”

“That’s where you come in?”

“Scout the competition. If a rival chain’s already got a store in the target locale, we count customers’ cars in the parking lot. Various hours, weekdays, weekends, Christmas rush. Then crunch raw numbers into usable data that determines whether the location can support a second store. Or a whole shopping center.”

“… Youkilis takes strike two, looking not happy with the call…”

“But doesn’t that take a lot of time?”

“Back in the day, it took a hell of a lot of time,” said Patrick. “We actually had to drive to the sites, stand on ladders and count manually with binoculars.”

“Every car?”

Patrick shook his head. “Estimates with geometric sampling equations, but statistically reliable.”

“I had no idea this was going on.”

“It isn’t anymore. Today, computers do it all.”