the rules of gun safety. A lot of people pick them up like this and-”
Bang.
Martha gasped. “My china cabinet! And favorite plates!”
“Guess that’s my cue to leave… You need anything at all, we’re just across the street.”
“Serge,” said Jim. “That gunshot. The police will be coming. I think you need to clear completely off the street.”
“Don’t be ridiculous…”
Sirens in the distance.
“… On second thought.” He stuck his head out the door. “Hey, gals, looks like a road trip’s in the cards.” Then he slapped Jim on the shoulder. “Merry Christmas, dude!.. Merry Christmas, Nicole!
… And, Martha… Martha?… Looks like she’s overcome with emotion over my departure… Give her my best.” Serge trotted out the door. “And try not to use that bathroom for a couple days…”
A ’72 Chevelle was backed into its parking slot to hide the license plate.
Another anonymous run-down motel along the Gulf of Mexico in St. Pete Beach. But run-down in a positive way in Serge’s book: un-updated, the original furniture and fixtures and god-awful period paneling, freezing the room in time, but clean. Relatively. And it really was anonymous, no sign, address number gone. Looked like it might be closed down, which was almost accurate. A few naked lightbulbs, the old-style orange ones, ran along the walkway by a single row of rooms. But to Serge, the biggest draw was the wild foliage, the canopy of sea grapes, birds of paradise, beach sunflowers, and anything else that not only required no maintenance, but would take over without it.
Serge had hit the brakes just after midnight. “This is it! I love Christmas in a depressing setting like a dumpy motel. Makes you appreciate it more.”
Hours later.
Coleman snored with an alternating high-low-pitched whistle through a big booger.
“Wake up! Wake up!” said Serge. “It’s Christmas!”
“Huh, wha…? What time is it?”
“Five A.M.! It’s been Christmas for hours! I wanted to wake you earlier, but I thought it might be too early, so I hung out with the night manager. You know what’s funky? Little space heaters! I just love hanging out by one early Christmas morning with someone working alone on the overnight shift. Especially if they have whiskers and wine breath and seem like they want you not to bother them, which means they’re lonely, so I offered to buy him Ripple from the convenience store across the street, but not before talking to the convenience store guy, because he also had a space heater, and almost forgot about the first guy until the cops came in for coffee and Slim Jims, so I ran back across the street with the Night Train, and the manager had fallen asleep, and I said, ‘Wake up! Wake up!.. It’s been Christmas for hours!’ and then he said ‘fuck’ a lot until I got the wine in him and he kicked his feet up and said his bones told him it was going to be a cold morning. And then I noticed the clock and remembered you, so here I am. Merry Christmas! And the old man was right: It’s only forty-two degrees outside, overcast, and I’m flipping out!”
Coleman sat up on the side of the bed and smacked his cottonmouth lips together. “Why are you flipping out?”
“Since a white Christmas is out of the question, the best you can hope for in Florida is a non-sweaty Christmas. Let’s open presents! Santa came! Santa came!”
Serge ran across the room and Coleman followed at a less enthusiastic pace. They took seats across from each other at a small table next to the window overlooking Gulf Boulevard. Clusters of predawn traffic raced by at intervals dictated by the traffic light up the street. In the middle of the table stood a pitiful little Christmas tree that Serge had bought overnight at a twenty-four-hour drugstore. Some of the lights blinked.
“What did I get! What did I get!” said Serge. He reached in a shopping bag, finding two cheerfully wrapped packages. “This one’s for you, and this one’s for me. Who goes first? Can I go first? Please?”
Coleman rubbed crust from his eyes. “Sure…”
Serge savagely ripped through the paper. “Oh my God, a vintage View-Master with a reel inside.” He held it to his eyes and clicked through the 3-D photos. “It’s the Overseas Highway from the forties! Here’s how Sloppy Joe’s looked almost seventy years ago!” He lowered the viewer. “Where’d you find it?”
“Antique store. You’re always going on about those things.”
Serge clapped his hands like a trained seal. “Open yours! Open yours!”
Coleman’s present was round. He tore off the paper, then rotated the gift in his hand. “A coconut carved like a monkey’s head. Cool.” He began setting it down.
“But that’s not all,” said Serge.
Coleman looked at it some more. “I see now; it’s a tropical drink cup. There’s a hole on top for a straw.”
“Getting warmer…” Serge said coyly.
Coleman scrunched his eyebrows and turned the coconut over again. “Wait, there’s another hole in the back of the monkey’s head, and a third in its mouth with a little bowl. It’s not a cocktail cup at all; it’s a bong!.. But where’d you learn how to make one?”
“You helped me assemble it last night and then we wrapped it.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Surprise!”
“I’ll try it out right now.” He packed the bowl.
“And I’ll play with my View-Master. And then we’ll watch the Charlie Brown special in the portable DVD player that I wired to the TV. Charlie Brown has a crappy Christmas tree just like ours. But if we stand around it and wave our arms, it becomes a great tree!.. Coleman, stand up, join me! Let’s wave our arms!.. Why isn’t it working?”
Several hours later.
A knock at the door.
Actually a foot kicking. Coleman answered. Serge rushed in with arms loaded down, followed by gusts of frigid air. Coleman closed the door quickly.
Serge set the bags on the table. “Christmas dinner’s ready!” He shivered and rubbed his shoulders. “Man, the temperature’s still dropping. The old dial thermometer they got nailed up outside the office says it’s thirty- nine.”
Serge and Coleman had rented room number three, which connected on either side to two other rooms, respectively occupied by the G-Unit and City and Country. They had all gathered in Serge’s room, sitting on beds and awaiting his return with a promise of an ultra-traditional holiday meal.
“Here are the sides,” Serge said as he emptied the bags. “And I got two buckets each of regular and extra crispy.”
They dug in.
Coleman munched on a drumstick. “So what presents did you girls get?”
Edith bit into a crispy wing. “We all bought each other Yule logs.”
Country licked her fingers and held up an envelope. “Serge got us gift cards for Hooters.”
“That’s a historic present,” said Serge. “The very first one is just off the Courtney Campbell in Clearwater.”
The afternoon wore on. Listless, overstuffed dinner casualties lay about the room digesting way too much food. Rum began to flow. Laughter filled the musty air as the eclectic group shared jokes and bonded. Serge continually darted in and out.
“Serge!” yelled City. “You’re letting all the cold air in. Why do you keep running in and out?”
“Because the temperature’s still dropping! The dial on the thermometer is down to thirty-three and still going south.”
“What’s that thing?”
Serge plugged an electric cord into the wall. A warm glow near the floor. “I bought a tiny space heater at the drugstore.”
