South Dale Mabry Highway.
A ’72 Chevelle jumped the curb in front of a sub-budget motel.
“Serge,” said Coleman, glancing over his shoulder into the backseat. “That’s a pretty big turkey.”
“The biggest they had.”
“But there’s no way we’ll be able to eat it all.”
“That’s the whole point of Thanksgiving!” The Chevelle skidded up to their room. “Cooking way too much friggin’ food, cramming the fridge with mountains of leftovers, and then the race is on against salmonella. The most exciting holidays are the ones where not everybody is going to make it.”
Coleman opened his door. “You sure we’ll go unnoticed at this motel.”
“We loaded all that copper, didn’t we?”
“Yeah, but then we dragged that tied-up guy from your trunk and into the room.”
“Did anyone complain?”
“The guy.”
“Besides him?”
“No, but I feel pretty exposed right next to this busy highway.”
“Look, if Cuban spies can go unnoticed, we’ll blend in like ninjas.”
“Spies?”
Serge reached in the backseat and grunted to lift the turkey. “See the military checkpoint down at the end of this road? That’s MacDill Air Force Base, home of Central Command. Most people don’t realize it, but everything important in the world is coordinated on that tiny tip of land at the south end of the Tampa peninsula. Iraq, Afghanistan, you name it.”
“What does that have to do with Cubans?”
Serge waddled toward their door with the giant frozen bird in his arms. “Back in the nineties, Castro sent spies here to monitor the base. Total farce. Against an installation sealed that tight, what are a few of Fidel’s boys going to do? It was all just window dressing so Castro could tell the other Latin leaders, ‘Shit yeah, I have people in Tampa.’… Coleman, get the door for me?”
Coleman inserted the key and turned the knob. “They didn’t spy?”
“No, they starved.” Serge entered the room and hit the light switch with his shoulder. “Castro so totally destroyed his island’s economy that he couldn’t pay them anymore. They ended up pawning their binoculars and taking jobs as dishwashers. And because they were so broke, they lived in motels right along this strip, maybe even this one.”
Serge tossed the turkey on the bed and it bounced two feet.
“We’re just going to eat the turkey straight?” asked Coleman.
“Of course not.” Serge ran back to the car and returned with a large paper sack. “Thanksgiving is why they invented Kentucky Fried Chicken. We got all the fixin’s.” He began removing items. “Here are the biscuits and super-large sides of mashed potatoes and gravy, macaroni and cheese… Doesn’t it smell great?”
Coleman turned on the TV. “Football.”
Serge dug deeper into the bag. “And the piece de resistance, coleslaw to die for.” He tossed the last Styrofoam container to Coleman. “Ice that down in the sink like the Pilgrims did with the Indians.”
Coleman went in the bathroom. “But how will we cook the turkey? Everything else is ready.”
“Have to eat the turkey later. It’s all side dishes until then.”
Serge sat down at the desk facing the wall and tucked a napkin in the collar of his T-shirt. Coleman sat next to him, facing the same peeling wall. Serge set his fists on the desk, a plastic utensil gripped upright in each one, and smiled back at his buddy in their crack-den motel. “Now, this is fuckin’ tradition.”
Coleman dove into the mashed potatoes. He stopped. “Serge, what about the guy?”
“The guy?… Oh!” Serge threw his arms up. “My manners!”
He walked across the room, opened the closet, and stared down at a young, hog-tied man with duct tape across his mouth. “You completely slipped my mind. I’m so embarrassed. Come! Join our feast!” Serge dragged him across the carpet.
Coleman munched a biscuit and turned up the TV. “The Dolphins are playing the Lions.”
“The Dolphins?” Serge let go of the hostage and wandered over. “I love the Dolphins! What’s the score?”
“Don’t know.” Munch, munch.
Serge pulled up a chair in front of the TV. “It’s third and long. Pick up the blitz! Pick up the blitz!.. Ooo, they didn’t pick up the blitz.”
Coleman pushed the rest of the biscuit into his mouth and popped another Pabst. “What’s that noise?”
Serge’s nose was practically against the TV screen. “What noise?”
“ That noise.”
Serge turned the volume down. “I hear it…” He turned around. “Oh, forgot about him again. Just left him on his belly. My attention span.”
“Because you stopped taking your meds.”
“Exactly. I like my attention span.” Serge got up from his chair. “Lets me juggle multiple tasks and get more accomplished. Follow the space program, work on my total solution for the Middle East, thwart customer-service people who make up answers, determine if fifteen minutes really can save me fifteen percent, develop renewable energy source from golf balls lost in ponds, retrieve priceless brass plaques …”
“That guy’s wiggling around the floor pretty good for someone hog-tied,” said Coleman. “I think he’s trying to say something.”
“Probably wants to tell us what side dishes he wants.” Serge leaned down and ripped the duct tape off the captive’s mouth.
“Ow!”
Serge smiled with big white teeth and held a Styrofoam container under the man’s nose. “Good coleslaw! Nobody makes it like KFC. Go ahead, have the rest.”
“Serge,” said Coleman. “Doesn’t he need plastic utensils?”
“No, I’ll just set it on the floor in front of his mouth.”
“Please!” said the hostage. “Don’t hurt me!”
“Hurt you?” said Serge. “Why would I do that? Oh, I know. Like when we came to your apartment last night and requested the plaques back. And if I remember, I asked real nice, too. I might have said ‘cocksucker’ a few times, but that’s always taken out of context. And what did you do? First, you cut my friend with a knife…”
Coleman held up his arm, showing a fresh bandage on a flesh wound.
“… Then you pulled a gun on me. Luckily I had pulled mine first. Even then, I didn’t take your style of hospitality personally. But what crossed the line was when I tried to reason with you about the importance of those plaques-real nice again-explaining the difference between them and air-conditioning coils, and what did you say about the people whose names were engraved?” Serge got out his gun again and tapped his chin in thought. “Yeah, I remember now. ‘Fuck ’em.’ ” He shook his head. “Not good. That’s the problem with this generation. No sense of history. They haven’t the foggiest notion of all the sacrifices that have been made so they can safely lounge about this country texting and tweeting…”
The man began whimpering.
“Not the crying again,” said Serge. “Obviously you don’t know anything about me. I take the high road. The answer isn’t to attack you. Our nation’s too divided for that. No, the constructive remedy is to educate you and welcome you into the program. It’s Thanksgiving! So I’ve invited you here today as my guest, to break bread and celebrate the men and women on those plaques. Look around you! This room is chock-full of liberty. Some mold, but more liberty.”
Coleman raised a beer. “Pursuit of happiness.”
Serge nodded. “And pursuit of happiness.” He replaced the tape on the captive’s mouth and clapped his hands a single time. “You hungry? Let’s start getting that turkey ready!”
“But, Serge,” said Coleman. “How are we going to cook it? There’s nothing in here.”
