wasn’t designed to process it. Or at least its journey: A college president actually presented someone with a marketing diploma, and then later someone else handed that same person a bunch of money for those words. Was everyone drunk at that slogan meeting? I mean, what the fuck were they rejecting? ‘Tampa: Still waiting for the Milwaukee-Racine hub to blow the bond rating,’ or ‘Visit again soon: Almost got our shit together.’ ”
“I like the last one.” Coleman began climbing over into the front seat.
“At least it’s truth in advertising-” Serge quickly raised his right arm. “Watch the foot!”
“Whoa! Need a little help here.”
“I’m driving.”
A brief flurry of flailing.
“It’s okay now. I’m good.”
Serge looked over to the passenger side. “Coleman, your head’s down at the floorboards again and your legs are on the seat.”
“I know. It’s weird.” He twisted the end of a joint in his mouth and flicked a Bic. “At least the cops can’t see me burning a number this way.”
“It’s baffling that more people don’t ride like that.”
Coleman exhaled a pot cloud up toward his feet. “Tell me about it.”
Another skidding turn. Serge raised his hand again to block Coleman’s legs.
“Serge?”
“We have another question from the marijuana section. Proceed.”
“Why do you have that gun?”
“What gun?” Serge looked toward his left hand, where he was steering with a 9mm Glock pistol for all traffic to see. “Oh, this thing?” He waved the weapon around the Chevelle’s interior. “Completely forgot I was holding this.” Serge aimed the gun out the window and squinted with one eye closed. Then made a shooting sound with his mouth.
“But why are you holding it?” asked Coleman.
“Getting ready for the holidays.” Serge racked the slide, chambering a fresh round. “You know how I love this time of year.”
“Anyone particular in mind for that thing?”
“Actually yes. Thanks for reminding me.” He flipped open a cell phone and hit speed dial. “Manny? Serge here…”
Coleman exhaled another Cheech hit. “You mean from Manny’s Towing and Salvage?”
“Pipe down, chowderhead! Can’t you see I’m busy with a steering wheel, cell phone, and gun? Don’t be irresponsible and distract me-
… No, not you Manny. Drugs are involved. Long story, explain later. Listen, anything further on That Thing?… I see, I understand… You’re keeping your ears open, and I’ll be the first person you call… Peace, out.” Serge clapped the phone shut and aimed the gun from the window again.
Bang.
“Shit! How’d that go off?” Serge hit the gas. “We have to get the hell out of here.” Rubber squealed. “And stop smoking that dope. You’ll draw attention…”
D id you hear a gunshot?” asked Martha Davenport.
Jim Davenport looked around from the driver’s seat of a white Hyundai. “Where?”
“Watch out!”
Jim cut the wheel at the last second, rubbing tires on a curb.
A ’72 Chevelle whipped past them within inches and accelerated.
Jim let his car come to a stop, waiting for his heart to calm down.
“Why are you stopping?” asked Martha.
Rapid breaths. “Just collecting myself. That was close.”
“But they’re getting away!” Martha pointed out the windshield. “I want their license number!”
Jim sighed and sat. “Martha, you can’t keep reporting everybody.”
“Jim, what’s wrong with you?” asked his wife. “That Charger almost hit us!”
“I think it was a Chevelle.”
“Do you always have to disagree with me?”
“No-”
“That’s disagreeing.”
“Yes?”
“Then stop it.”
“Okay.”
He put the car back in gear and proceeded under the speed limit. “I know why you’re upset.”
Martha stared out her window. “I hate this time of year.”
“But it’s the holidays.”
“It’s a nightmare,” said Martha. “Like I don’t have enough to do: cook the turkey dinner, get the artificial tree down from the attic, shop at those madhouse malls, put the lights up outside, address Christmas cards to people we never see anymore because they still send us cards and we might see them again… It’s too much pressure.”
“That’s not the real reason,” said Jim.
“What is the reason?”
“My mom.”
“Why do we have to let her visit anyway?”
“Because she’s my mom.”
Martha folded her arms tight. “Whenever it’s this time of year, and the days grow closer to holiday dinners with her, I’m not even thinking about it, but the stress just subconsciously builds.”
“Because you let it.” Jim changed lanes and pulled into a grocery-store parking lot. “Relax and let me handle her.”
“That’s easy for you to say.” Martha grabbed her purse off the seat. “You’re not the one under the microscope. You’re her son. You can do no wrong. But she watches me like a hawk, every move I make, everything I say, every dish I cook…”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Whenever I offer her iced tea or something, she rewashes the glass. And it’s right out of the cabinet, like I don’t keep a clean house.”
“She’s probably not even aware she’s doing it.”
“Oh, she knows all right. You’re just blind to the whole mother-in-law-versus-daughter thing. It’s all-out war. I think she’s actually making lists and studying her battle plan for hours, because it’s always the same pattern. First she fluffs the couch cushions, then wipes down the bathroom sinks, then asks if I have bleach. Bleach! Men don’t care, but between women, bleach is a laser-guided bomb. Everything she does means something. Like when she asks you to say grace before dinner.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s an attack on me. She knows you converted when we got married, but that’s her way of pretending we never told her. She’s passive-aggressive like that. Not to mention her supposedly idle comments.”
“Maybe they really are idle.”
“Jim! Every visit without fail, right in the middle of when I finally think everything’s going nice for once, she stops and turns: ‘I’ll be dead soon.’ ”
“But your mom says the same thing.”
Martha shook her head. “Another holiday war.”
“But she’s your mom.”
“She thinks your perfect, too,” said Martha. “Concerned I’m not feeding you properly. And it’s been too long since I visited my cousin.”
“The one who got out of prison?”
“Plus she keeps hinting about moving in with us.” She stared out the window again. “I’d have to kill myself.”
