Friday afternoon, last class of the week.
Gray sky. Gusting wind.
Students in bulky coats and parkas dragged luggage down snow-covered dormitory steps. Others with wool scarves up to their eyes pumped gas.
Madison, Wisconsin. Ice scraped off windshields. Portable stereos went in trunks.
Columbus, Ohio. Car heaters warmed. Traffic stacked up at red lights heading out of town.
The same scene across the northern tier of the country. Milwaukee, Chicago, East Lansing, Hartford. Everyone in the starting gate. Heading south, expressways, truss bridges, railroad yards, brick chimneys, leafless trees, frozen riverbanks.
Rear window paint:
FLORIDA OR B UST.
In Durham, three University of New Hampshire students loaded final bags into a station wagon with wood paneling.
“Hope you didn’t forget to make reservations like last time,” said the driver.
“No,” said another student, slamming the rear hatch. “Taken care of. Alligator Arms.”
“Sounds like a dump.”
“It’s cheap.”
The driver checked his watch. “Where is he? We have to get moving.”
“He doesn’t realize he’s going yet.”
“What?”
“You know the guy. He’d never come on his own. And even if he did agree in advance, he’d back out at the last minute like he does for everything else.”
“Nobody told me about this.” The driver looked at his wrist again as a snowflake landed on the Timex. “It’s going to blow our schedule. Weather’s turning.”
“But he’s our friend. All that studying can’t be healthy. We owe it to him to show him some fun.”
“When do we break the good news?”
“When we find him.”
“You mean you don’t know where he is?”
“Sure I do. Somewhere studying.”
“This is already a disaster,” said the driver.
“It won’t kill us to do a good deed. I’m actually starting to worry about him.”
“You overthink shit.”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. The more I’m around him, the more I get this vibe.”
“What kind of vibe?”
“Like he’s trying to hide something.”
Chapter Seven
FLORIDA
A 1973 Dodge Challenger raced up the gulf coast on U.S. 19.
Coleman’s window was down, his head outside like a cocker spaniel. “Are the chicks from the videos going to be there?”
“By the thousand.”
“Cool!”
“Coleman, this is a serious documentary. We’re not interested in drunk babes flashing tits.”
“Serge, a space creature has taken control of your vocal cords.”
“Spring break is one of the most profound social influences Florida has given the rest of the nation. Because of our state, kids not only come here, but now flock to Mexico, the Lesser Antilles, even Colorado ski slopes. And it all started in a single swimming pool in 1935.”
Coleman hung farther out the window. “Show me your tits!”
“Dude, get a grip. There’s nobody around.”
“Spring break! Wooooooo! I’m Gertrude Schwartz!…”
Serge pulled him back inside by his belt. “Coleman, that’s seriously ripped, even for you.”
Saliva began stringing from Coleman’s mouth, pooling on his stomach.
Serge passed a Kleenex from his door organizer. “Thought you had that problem mastered.”
Coleman placed the tissue on his chest like a bib and handed Serge a dark-orange safety bottle.
Serge read the label: GERTRUDE SCHWARTZ. Then the contents. “Coleman, this is one of the most powerful narcotics known to man. How’d you get it? You’re not a woman.”
“
An hour later, Coleman’s head lolled on its neck swivel. “Serge, someone messed with that highway sign. Says we’re going north.”
“We
“Who drives north for spring break?”
“People who want to travel back in time.”
“I thought we were heading to a beach.”
“We are. But time travel is the structure of my award-hoarding documentary,” said Serge. “ Florida ’s always had a love-hate relationship with spring break. First a community wants the money and rolls out the red carpet. Then they get rich and weary of hotel damage- ‘Yo, students: Thanks for the cash, now scram!’-deploying police harassment. So another city with a lesser economy says, ‘Hey, kids, why put up with that crap? We’ll treat you right.’ Then
“How many times has it happened?”
“The history of spring break in Florida can be divided into three distinct epochs: Panama City Beach, the current party mecca; Day-tona Beach, which ruled the late eighties and nineties; and Fort Lauderdale, where it all began.”
“So we’re going to…?”
“ Panama City. I’m working my way back through time.”
“I thought this was about Florida.”
“What are you talking about? It
Coleman tapped an ash out the window.”Then why’s it called Panama?”
“A rare relevant question. The city’s original developer, George West, bestowed the name because if you draw a line from Chicago to the Panama Canal, it runs through there.”
“That’s fucked-up… Serge, I see fish with nipples.”
“Weeki Wachee, home of the famous mermaid shows and one of the first roadside attractions in the state.”
“Real mermaids?”
“I wish. They just wear costumes and breathe from special tubes hidden in underwater rocks. Tourists watch from below-ground grandstands through giant windows… And from the only-in-Florida file, a classic newspaper photo three decades ago of mermaids on strike in full uniform, picketing along the side of the highway.”
A billboard went by: SWIMMING OUR TAILS OFF SINCE 1947.
“You aren’t stopping,” said Coleman. “You always stop.”
“Not this place.” Serge shot photos out the window without slowing. “My mug shot’s probably posted in their ticket booths on the no-fly list. And just because I dove in the pool during one of the shows in a selfless attempt to save the attraction. Who knew they had big capture nets?”
