just the way they set it up at the beginning. And they come storming in with shields and helmets and batons, sweeping you off the pavement like autumn leaves.”
“I’ve seen it on TV.”
“That’s where they all go wrong. If I was in charge of the mob, I’d stage a Positive Protest. And when the shock troops start goose-stepping in with the tear gas, you begin waving signs and yelling slogans demanding higher police salaries. Then their bullhorns blare for you to disperse, and you say you totally agree with what they’re asking, and it’s a shame that the people who have to make you disperse don’t receive better benefits and pensions-and that your group will vote en masse for any politician who jacks up their compensation. The riot team can do nothing but stand mute. I’m dying to try it out! Except I don’t have a cause yet… I could always phone in my grievances later…”
“What’s that got to do with my tattoo?”
“You’ll see when we get there.” Serge passed the dog track and pulled into a strip mall. “Because of your age, you’ll need parental consent. That’s me; they never check. Plus I know this guy.”
“Wow, you’re really going to help me get a tattoo. That’s so cool.”
The front door opened.
Martha came racing out of the kitchen. “Where on earth have you been?”
“Out.” Nicole walked by with a sullen expression.
“I want more of an answer than that,” said Martha. “Did they hurt you?”
“Don’t be lame.”
As Nicole left the living room, Martha happened to glance down below the small of her daughter’s back. A tiny bit of ink peeked out above the waistband of her shorts. An audible gasp. “A tattoo!.. Jim, come quick; it’s Nicole! It’s an emergency!”
Jim ran out of the den. “What’s the matter? Is she okay?”
“She got a tattoo.”
“I thought she needed parental permission to get one.”
“She’s got one.”
“What is it?”
“Does it matter?” Martha stomped down the hall to a closed bedroom door. She tried the knob. Locked. Pounded with fists. “Open the door this instant! You’re in so much trouble!”
The door didn’t open. Thumping rock music inside. Joan Jett.
“… Hello Daddy, hello Mom, I’m your ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb …”
Martha turned. “Jim?”
“What? Kick the door in?”
“No, get a key.” Martha kept pounding.
“Where’s the key?”
“I don’t know.” More pounding. “Try the junk drawer.”
“I’ll go look.”
Before he could leave, the door opened. “What’s all the racket out here?”
“… Don’t give a damn ’bout my bad reputation…”
“You got a tattoo!”
“So?”
“We forbid you! And we didn’t give any permission!”
Nicole shrugged. “Serge got it for me. He’s really cool.”
“Serge!” snapped Martha. She began strangling something invisible in midair. “I’ll kill him. He disfigured our daughter!”
“You’re such a drama queen,” said Nicole.
“Turn around immediately!” said Martha. “I want to see what that monster did to you!”
“No!”
Martha looked sideways. “Jim!”
“Nicole,” said her father. “Turn around.”
The teen opened her mouth. But then remembered her promise to Serge. “Okay, Dad.”
She turned around, lifting her shirt and pulling the waistband down an inch.
The parents leaned in for a close inspection.
There it was, just below the tan line. A word in feminine cursive script:
Family.
Nicole dropped her shirt and turned around to face them again. “Satisfied?”
Her parents stood mute.
“Serge also told me to be more grateful for you guys. Whatever.”
Nicole went back in her room and closed the door.
Chapter Five
Coleman burped. “Look at this line.” He stuck his head around the side in an attempt to see the front. “It’s like Disney.”
“Maybe longer,” said Serge, licking a stamp.
“We drove like forever to get here, and now… where are we? This is the middle of nowhere.”
“Twenty miles east of Orlando to be exact.”
Coleman strained his neck for a view of the counter. “But what’s the point?”
“Because Florida doesn’t get snow, we have a chronic inferiority complex when it comes to Christmas.” Serge handed Coleman a stamp. “So we overcompensate: Santa Claus on water skis, on Jet Skis, on surfboards, Christmas cards with barefoot Santas in beach chairs drinking beer, inflatable snowmen, reindeer in tropical shirts, town celebrations where they bring in special machines that shred ice and blow out fake snow that melts immediately and makes the children cry
… But this place just might be the weirdest.”
“What is it?”
“The post office in the city of Christmas, Florida, where thousands descend each year to get their holiday cards postmarked. It’s the best tradition we got, so fuck it, I’m rodeo-riding this cultural mutation.”
“Why’s it called Christmas?” Coleman licked his own stamp. “They have a big celebration way back or something?”
“No,” said Serge. “On the twenty-fifth of December, 1837, they began construction of Fort Christmas to fight the Second Seminole War. Nothing says the ‘Prince of Peace’ like a military installation.”
“Who are we mailing your card to?”
“Me,” said Serge. “It’s got a bitchin’ cool Florida postmark. I tried to think who might appreciate it more but drew a blank.”
Coleman looked at his own envelope. “Mine’s addressed to me, also.”
“I did that.”
“But when I open this, there’ll be no surprise.”
“You won’t remember,” said Serge.
“What’s this address, anyway?”
“You’ll find out after we drive back to Tampa.” Serge used the envelope to fan himself in the heat. “A lot of people will be surprised.”
