Coleman and followers continued along the Daytona shore.
“What’s going on over there?” A student pointed up the beach. “Looks like a concert or a fight. There’s a big crowd.”
And getting bigger. Word spread about something happening at the historic band shell. People running over from the hotels, the water, the bars.
Coleman’s gang arrived at the back of the audience. Someone in a necktie took notes. A press ID hung from his neck. Davis.
“Why are you taking notes?”
“I’m a reviewer for the News-Journal”-not taking eyes off his steno pad.
“What’s the deal onstage?” asked a student. “Is that some DJ warming up for a band?”
The reviewer shook his head and kept writing. “Incredible mono-loguist, like Eric Bogosian or Spalding Gray. He’s been going nonstop for over an hour. I don’t know how anyone can jump rapidly between so many topics and keep it all straight, let alone memorize an act this disjointed and long.”
“I didn’t know they had monologuists on the beach,” said a student.
“Neither did I.” The reviewer flipped a page. “Nothing about it in our events calendar-going to complain to the city about not getting us a press release. Luckily, I was down here covering something else.”
Coleman felt a tug on his arm. “Melvin, what’s the matter?”
“Holy cow! Look who it is.”
“Serge!”
“You know that guy?” asked the reviewer. “My best friend,” said Coleman.
“What’s his secret?”
“Special diet.”
They looked back up at the band shell. Serge cartwheeled toward the front of the stage, doubled over and laughed until his sides ached.
“Ooo-gah-chaka! Ting-tang-walla-walla-bing-bang! Su-su-ssudio!” He stood upright. “Sorry, got the giggles. Just thinking about Florida’s first family. That’s right, the Hulk Hogans. They’re everything our state stands for: weird, dangerous, crazy, childish, attention addicts, but above all, a freakin’ hoot! Victimized by a car-crash victim! Hurts too much to laugh! They nearly killed the guy and tried to squeeze a reality show from his morphine-drip bottle! News flash: They already have a reality show, and all of us are in it, too. It’s called the Sunshine State. Watch any national news. It’s the local news: Passenger boards plane at Tampa International with three gunshot wounds and asks flight attendant for Band-Aids, youth sodomizes grandmother’s Yorkshire terrier named Duchess, man arrested for selling beach sand on eBay, body found in orange grove, body found half-eaten by gator, body found in line at Disney, ‘The lone clue was a sawed-off thigh bone,’ ‘Wesley Snipes’s tax attorney claims the truth will shock and surprise the public.’ And who can forget those future brain surgeon teen girls who beat the snot out of a classmate, videotaped it and posted it on the Internet? Then Dr. Phil invites one of the attackers on his show, and everyone gets bent in pretzels. I say, No! No! No! Those Rhodes scholar predators are exactly the global TV face we want to put on our state. How else are we going to stop this viral, doomsday overdevelopment? The Hogans and that chick posse deserve citizens of the year. They’re helping get the word out that the quality of people down here is so fucking bad, you don’t want to come near us.“ He doubled over again with giggles.”Whoa, just noticed my feet. Aren’t feet insane? All day long: left, right, left, right. How do they do it? I suddenly want five pizzas and a loud stereo. Look, there’s an osprey. It’s got a fish in its claws. Every time I see an osprey flying with a fish, I always think: Fish lives entire life in the sea, then at the end, he’s looking down at everything from hundreds of feet up, thinking, ‘Oh, now I get it.’ “ More giggling.”Actually, he’s thinking, ‘Hey, watch the talons, man.’ Back to the headlines! Trapped retiree dials 911 with big toe; hurricane reporters in Key West jeered and hit with Super Soakers; frozen iguanas rain from trees during cold snap, injuring five; more families opting to live in storage units; man attempts to avoid DUI by abandoning car and jumping on horse in pasture; armed bandits invade home demanding nothing but an egg beater. Let’s sing! Everybody, after me: Biscayne Bay, where the Cuban gentlemen sleep all day… Free-credit-report-dot-com… Don’t you love those ads? Here’s mine: Florida-crime-report-dot-com, don’t let winos pork your mom. F-L-A, that spells flaw, tourists goin home in a box, doodah. Is it me, or do colors seriously rock today? I’m looking in your direction, Mr. Green.“ Another giggle fit. Serge felt something and looked down at a growing bulge in his pants.”Yowza. Who out there owns a stereo, wants to fuck and eat five pizzas? But you say, ‘Serge, what can I do about development?’ Give money to every street-corner lunatic you see with a cardboard sign and pipe cleaners in his hair. It’s like those minimum-wage roadside people in gorilla suits, waving you off the road for tax preparation. Except in reverse: The cardboard-sign brigade drives would-be residents away. But again, I know what you’re thinking: ‘Serge, if we promote “crazy,” then what kind of place is left for us to live in?’ And that’s exactly the litmus test for any true Floridian. It may be crazy, but it’s our crazy, it’s fun crazy, and in Florida, being crazy is the only way to stay sane. That circus-geek colony in Gibsonton is now the most normal place we got. The whole state’s an asylum, and I love every last freak show, even the schizos at the bus station who yell at me, ‘Motherfucker, we know the planetary council sent you to implant transmitters!’ And I smile and go, ‘Say no more. You had me at “motherfucker.” ’… Speaking of transmitters, I’m picking up ten channels in my noodle: Rooftop bandits steal copper from strip mall air-conditioners, DNA proves restaurant’s grouper is Asian catfish, Patriot missile found in Ybor City junkyard, missing children, missing wives, drag queen bingo night, boot camp deaths, baby formula thefts, loggerhead die-offs, red tide outbreaks, ‘Anglo flight,’ Solarcaine beats sunburn pain… Why am I so hungry? Could eat a horse, don’t cry over spilled milk, all that and a bag of chips, Jimmy crack corn, Jack Sprat could eat no fat, proof’s in the pudding, plum tired, bought a lemon, selling like hotcakes, bun in the oven, on the gravy train, my meal ticket, since sliced bread, we’re toast, you’re dead meat, stick a fork in it… Coleman!… Where are you?… How… do… I… turn… this… shit… off!…”
PERRY, FLORIDA
Blastoff.
Guillermo had the gang packed and loading the car in record time. Peaceful in the parking lot-silence so complete that when it was broken by the occasional car, the vehicle could be heard coming and going a half mile in both directions. Then stillness. Nothing but a lone pedestrian with a bag of pennies and a spatula, who suddenly disappeared into bushes as a career move.
The last door slammed, and the Oldsmobile Delta 88 sped away from the Thunderbird Motel.
“How did Madre find out?” asked Miguel.
“One of our informants. Been following the APB in state police computers. He pawned his class ring.”
“Never been to Daytona,” said Raul. “Hear you can drive on the beach. That’s fucked up.”
“We’re not on vacation.” The AC had been leaking freon since the Panhandle. Guillermo rolled down his window and held a flapping map against the steering wheel. No direct shot across the peninsula for where they were heading. Country roads, a spur at Bucell Junction, up through Foley and Fenholloway. Water towers, boarded-up feed stores, ancient granite courthouses from when there was population. Then across a wide, rolling expanse of Florida where the economy is state prisons and renting inner tubes out the backs of trucks to people rafting the Ichetucknee.
A couple hours later, they reached the Daytona coast and cruised down A1A. Guillermo found a parking space in front of the old Stamie’s Swimwear shop with a vintage fiberglass bathing beauty diving off the porch roof.
“Bathing suits?” said Pedro.
Guillermo ignored him, looking one block up at a logo with three dangling balls from the crest of Italy’s Medici family.
LUCKY’S P AWN.
