Gator A-GO-GO

The southern border of New Hampshire is guarded by a string of sales-tax-free state liquor stores, militarily positioned like pillboxes. Their parking lots are full of Massachusetts plates, half customers, half Massachusetts alcohol agents who follow residents back over the commonwealth line for citations. Except they can’t, because New Hampshire agents block them in until customers make a clean getaway. Such is the delicate fabric of the republic, no more evident than in a state with the motto “Live Free or Die” stamped on its license plates, which comedians note are manufactured in prison.

New Hampshire’s trademark is the Old Man of the Mountain, an uncanny, eons-old geological rock formation high up the side of Franconia Notch. Its profile is ubiquitous: postage stamps, the state quarter, a thousand highway signs, flags, welcome centers, the capitol rotunda, history books, maps, pot holders, paperweights, snow globes and every tourist brochure ever printed. Residents proudly identify with the Old Man in a fierce emotional bond, much like Parisians and the Eiffel Tower or Texans and the Alamo. On May 3, 2003, the face slid off the mountain and disintegrated.

Somewhere between the liquor stores and the collapsed head is Durham, home of the University of New Hampshire, where a team of FBI agents raced down dormitory steps.

It began to snow.

A phone rang.

An agent flipped it open on the run. “Oswalt here… No, still at the college… Not yet… Of course we checked the dorm… It’s spring break. Everyone’s either gone home or to Florida… I realize that… I know that… We did try his cell phone… Three times, no answer… You sure he wasn’t going back to Dorchester for the week?… I didn’t mean it that way… We’re headed to the student paper where he works… Right, I’ll call as soon as we learn something.”

The phone went back in a jacket.

PANAMA CITY BEACH

Heavy foot traffic on the strip.

Everyone over thirty was ignored or insulted. There were always exceptions.

Young women’s heads universally turned as a suave Latin hulk strolled down the sidewalk. Tanned six-pack abs; long, sexy dark hair. Easily a movie double for Antonio Banderas.

Two blondes wore long, wet Indiana State T-shirts over bikinis, giggling at suggestive boys in passing pickups. Then they saw him.

“Rrrrrrrrrrrow!”-double-taking as he went by.

“But he’s old enough to be your father.”

“So fucking what?”

“Good point.”

Two pairs of bare feet made a U-turn on the sidewalk.

Johnny Vegas continued along the strip to more female rubbernecking. He’d just had his fortieth birthday, and he wasn’t playing around anymore.

The reaction of the opposite sex had been the same Johnny’s entire life. His trust fund didn’t hurt either. Almost as much attention from the same gender: “That son of a bitch must have more tail falling off his truck than we’ll ever see. It’s not fair.”

It wasn’t.

Despite appearances to the contrary, Johnny Vegas held a deep secret that would have shocked the populace. He’d never been able to close the deal. Not once.

Oh, sure, with the least flirtatious glance from those smoldering dark eyes, he could form a rock-concert line of willing partners. But it was always something. Always Florida. Some kind of typical Sunshine State strangeness invariably erupted at the worst possible moment. Hurricanes, brushfires, wayward alligators, overboard passengers, meth freaks, bodies under hotel beds, Cuban exile unrest. The odds were off the charts. Then again, there are a lot of guys in the world, and someone’s chips had to be resting on the unluckiest roulette square.

That would be Johnny Vegas, the Accidental Virgin.

His body clock ticked deafeningly between his ears. How long could he count on his drop-dead looks? Time to go fishing with dynamite.

Johnny had seen the Girls Gone Haywire spring break videos. What the hell was wrong with the world? Here he was, the ultimate bachelor. Then he pops in a DVD, and all these hometown-values girls are stripping for dorks with video cameras. What a colossal corruption of youth and moral decay. Johnny had to get there as fast as possible.

It wasn’t five minutes since he’d parked his Ferrari when the wolf whistles began.

“Hey, handsome.”

Johnny turned around on the sidewalk. Indiana State blondes. Good Lord, two, and he’d just gotten into town. No need for some dishonest ruse; Johnny would take the high road.

“I work for Girls Gone Haywire.”

“Let’s party.”

The roommates made the choice for him. “I think I’ll get some more sun on the beach. Behave yourself, Carrie.” Wink.

She took him by the arm.

“My name’s Johnny,” he said as they continued up the sidewalk.

“Johnny, where’s your hotel?”

Chapter Twelve

PANAMA CITY BEACH

Serge and Coleman wove up the sidewalk against the college tide. Standard mix of rolling luggage and coolers. Serge held his running camcorder at chest level. People handed out coupons for nightclub drink specials; the Coors girls waved; an airplane dragged a banner for faster Internet service; church youth flapped posters at traffic, offering free pancakes and a road map to salvation.

The pair stepped into a beachwear shack to adopt the proper spirit and came out in new T-shirts reflecting their respective outlooks.

COLEMAN’S: ALCOHOL, TOBACCO AND FIREARMS SHOULD BE A CONVENIENCE STORE, NOT A GOVERNMENT AGENCY.

Serge’s: THERE ARE IO TYPES OF PEOPLE IN THE WORLD: THOSE WHO UNDERSTAND BINARY, AND THOSE WHO DON’T.

The documentary continued.

Coleman drew a steady stream of insults. Frat boys noticed something on Serge’s ear, snickered and made sideways wisecracks to their buddies. Until Serge returned the look. They noticed something unfamiliar in his eyes and wanted to keep it that way.

“Serge,” said Coleman, “what’s that funny thing on your ear?”

“A Bluetooth.”

“I never figured you for the Bluetooth type.”

“That’s why it’s not a real Bluetooth. I hate Bluetooth types, walking around all self- important like they have to be plugged in every second of the day. Can’t tell you how many times I’m in a public place having a pleasant conversation like a normal human being, and one of these fuck-heads walks right between us talking at the top of his lungs.”

“If it’s not a real Bluetooth, then what is it?”

“A piece of plastic garbage I found on the street that I rigged with paper clips. Got the idea from the smash-hit HBO series Flight of the Conchords. Except that guy had a real Bluetooth, just no