Class rings came off fingers.
The manager laughed. “Should be a betting man.” He thoughtfully examined each, announcing price as he set one down and picked up another.
“Can’t you go any higher? The Dunes are gouging us because we didn’t have reservations.”
“Market’s glutted in every spring break town. Even the old ones.” He pulled three velvet display trays from under the counter. “I keep the best in these. Beat-up ones go there…”-he pointed back at two brimming metal pails near the waste basket-“… for melting.”
More haggling that didn’t work.
The students reluctantly accepted crisp twenties that the manager counted out in their hands. “And I’ll need your drivers’ licenses.”
“What for?”
“Have to file all sales with the police department within twenty-four hours.”
“Who steals class rings?”
“Nobody. But they’ll pull my permit if I don’t.”
Students reached for wallets. “That’s a lot of paperwork.”
“Used to be, but now it’s all computers. I file instantly so there’s no misunderstanding.”
Back at the Dunes, Serge unlocked room 24. “Coleman! I finally did it! I finally rode the Loop!… Coleman?…“ He walked to the balcony and back.”Where’d everyone go?“ He sniffed the air.”What smells so good?”
Serge traced the scent to the kitchenette. “Oooooh! Brownies! My favorite!”
Chapter Twenty-Six
PANAMA CITY BEACH
The shore was packed again by noon. Bikinis, boom boxes. Frisbees and footballs flew along the waterline behind the army obstacle course. Guys dug holes to keep beer cool.
A ten-man camera team zigzagged through the giant quilt of beach blankets, all wearing identical red T-shirts: GIRLS G ONE H AYWIRE.
Everywhere they went, young women reached for their chests.
Rood Lear led the way. “This is even better than last year.” He turned to his newly promoted chief assistant. “Sisco, we getting all this?”
“Need more cameras.”
“And I thought five would be plenty.”
On the other side of the hotels, a series of SUVs and minivans pulled off the road. Middle-aged women jumped out with posters and rushed the beach.
The film crew continued south, bikini tops coming off everywhere.
Then jackpot. An entire sorority stood up in a row.
“Perfect,” said Rood. “Have them take ’em off in sequence like the Rockettes…”
Sisco gave the instructions. “Roll film. On three… One, two…”
Angry shouting in the background.
“Where’s that coming from?” said Rood. “It’s wrecking our take.” Yelling grew louder as cameras panned a row of bare chests. The chief assistant pointed toward a break between hotels.
“Oh, no,” said Rood. “Not them again.”
The older women ran down to the blankets and stood behind the sorority, waving signs over their heads:
MOTHERS A GAINST G IRLS G ONE H AYWIRE.
“
“
“
The cameras turned off.
“I think we need to move along,” said Rood.
Behind every hotel, it just got worse and worse. Yelling moms ruining all the shots. For miles up the sand, picketers relentlessly dogged the crew.
“They just don’t give up,” said Sisco.
“It’s so unjust,” said Rood. “What did I ever do to them?”
“Maybe this is a good time to audition for in-room sessions.”
“Not a bad idea.”
The crew began checking IDs and handing out waivers on clipboards.
Same song, different verse.
“
“
“
Clipboards came back unautographed.
An hour later, protesters stood in a resort hotel parking lot, cheering as the custom GGH motor coach drove away in surrender and out of Panama City.
DAYTONA BEACH
Coleman reached in his pocket for the room key.
“Still think we should have held out,” said Spooge. “Twenty bucks for a five-hundred-dollar ring.”
“You saw those pails.”
“This will soon make it all better,” said Coleman, opening the door. “It’s brownie time!”
They went inside.
“Hey, Serge.”
Serge sat on the couch, reviewing video footage. “Where’d you guys go?”
“Pawned class rings.” Coleman went into the kitchenette and froze. “Holy shit! Half the brownies are gone!” He looked toward the sofa. “Serge, please tell me you didn’t eat all those brownies.”
“Sorry. I was hungry.” He set the camera down and picked up a book of vintage Daytona postcards. “And they smelled so good.”
“Serge!”
“What’s the big deal? If it means that much, I’ll buy some fresh ones from a bakery.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. Those were laced with ferocious weed.”
“You mean marijuana?”
Coleman ran over. “Serge, you just ate the most pot brownies I ever heard of in my entire life.”
“I don’t feel anything.”
“How long ago did you eat them?”
“Maybe twenty minutes? Why?”
“There’s a delayed effect.”
Serge went back to his postcard book. “I’m probably impervious. My metabolism and all.”
“An elephant can’t eat that much and not be affected.”
Serge wasn’t convinced. He held a magnifying glass over Model Ts driving on the sand. “So when is it allegedly supposed to kick in?”
“Believe me, you’ll know.”
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
