Atomic Lobster (3 page)

THAT EVENING

S
erge worked efficiently in the dark with thick coils of rope. At this late hour he had the whole place to himself, just Coleman, the mugger and a steady drone of unseen traffic beyond the trees on Interstate 75. Serge finished the last knot and picked up a paper bag. Inside was a handkerchief gag and a tangelo orange.

“I swear!” said the punk. “I won’t do it again!”

“I know.” The gag went in the punk’s mouth. The orange was for Serge. He began peeling. “Coleman, tighten the line to that post…. Coleman?…Where’d that idiot go?”

Something that sounded like a lawnmower engine chugged to life. Serge turned around; he stopped peeling the orange. “Unbelievable.”

The noise grew louder as Serge approached a low rubber barrier. Coleman whizzed by: “Hey, Serge. I hot-wired it!…”

Serge waited until his pal made another lap around the go-cart track. Red car number eight came through turn four. Serge reached back and fired his orange like a split-finger fastball.

“Ow!”

The cart spun out and crashed into a retaining wall of threadbare tires, ending up on its side. Coleman unbuckled his seat belt and spilled onto the track. He stood, rubbing his shoulder. “Dang it, Serge! Why’d you throw that at me?”

“Because I need your help. And you owe me an orange.”

They began walking. Coleman picked between his teeth at a stubborn popcorn husk that he’d just remembered from the other day. “I’m still surprised at how you noticed the mugger. I never saw it coming.”

“To survive down here, you have to think like an air-traffic controller, constantly tracking everyone around you at all times. I had my eye on that asshole ever since he walked onto the parking lot from the highway.”

“Why?”

“Because if you’re in a parking lot and shit’s about to break, it’s most likely coming on foot from the street. Now tighten the line on that post.”

“It’s already tight.”

“Needs to be tighter.”

“Why?”

“So he can’t tip his chair over. Then my whole plan falls apart.”

Coleman pulled hard on the knot. “This is why I got bored and went over to the go-cart track. It’s taking way longer than your other projects.”

Serge pulled on his own line. “Because I’m sending a strong message to his buddies.”

“But he was by himself.”

“It’s a ‘To whom it may concern.’” Serge fished a paper-wrapped cylinder from his pocket.

“You’re using a whole roll of quarters?” asked Coleman.

“It’s a detailed message.”

Muted screams from under the hostage’s gag.

“Shut up and like it,” said Serge. “Mugging old ladies is the lowest.”

“Yeah,” said Coleman. “Good thing we were driving around looking for cars to break into.”

Serge retrieved bolt-cutters from the Comet and ran off into the dark. He snipped the lock from a fuse box and threw breakers. Then he returned and stepped up to a chest-high metal control box and cracked open the quarters. Coins clanged through a slot at a steady pace. A finger pressed the start button.

Serge and Coleman sat cross-legged on the ground behind the safety net. The neon sign over their heads was dark:
FUN-O-RAMA
.

In front of them, a machine cranked to life with rhythmic mechanical cadence. Behind them, the soothing hum of interstate traffic on the other side of a berm. Tractor-trailers, SUVs, sports cars, sedans, all racing around a ’91 Buick Electra going thirty miles under the speed limit in the left lane.

“Why is it taking so long to get home?” asked Eunice.

“She’s driving slow again,” said Edna.

“Why are you driving so slow?” asked Eunice.

“I am not driving slow!” said Edith, her seat all the way up to reach the pedals.

“Everyone’s passing us.”

“Can you even see over the dashboard?”

“I’m taller than you, bee-ach.”

“You’ve shrunk.”

“Shut up! I’m trying to concentrate!”

“Are you going the right way?”

“I don’t think she’s going the right way.”

“I know what I’m doing!”

“We’re supposed to be going north,” said Eunice.

“I think she’s going south.”

“You want to walk?” asked Edith. “I’ll pull over right now.”

“She had too many gins at dinner.”

“I did not!”

“Is that why you’re driving the wrong way with the blinker on?”

Edith looked around the side of the steering column. “Shoot.” She hit a lever.

“We’re still going south.”

“I’m going north!”

Eunice pointed at the giant floating ball attached to the dashboard with a suction cup. “That’s not what the compass says.”

“Must be mounted backward,” said Edith.

“The ball’s floating,” said Edna. “It doesn’t matter how you mount it.”

“Everyone shut up! I know where I’m going!” “South.”

LATER THAT EVENING

Coleman moaned through another five-star pass-out. Against long-shot odds, he had made it back to his bed. Bunk bed to be specific, bottom unit. The top mattress belonged to Serge. It was empty.

Another groan and eyes fluttered open. Serge’s face was six inches away.

“Ahhhhhh!” Coleman pushed himself up. “You scared me.”

“I can’t sleep.”

Coleman climbed out of bed and grabbed his bong. “How long were you staring at me?”

“Hour.”

Coleman prepared to pack the pipe. He stopped and held the bowl to his eye. “What happened to the screen?” He began going through the carpet.

“Why can’t I sleep?” said Serge.

“The dope will pull right through without a screen.”

“Let’s go do something.”

“I know.” Coleman snapped his fingers. “I’ll get a screen off the sink faucet.”

“Where should we go?” Serge walked over to the bookshelf and his collection of vintage
National Geographic
s with every issue since 1905 containing a feature on Florida.

“What the—?” Coleman stuck his pinkie up through the end of the faucet. “Someone already took the screen.”

“I got it.” Serge examined the magazines’ spines. “We’ll pick a place at random from one of the articles.”

Coleman slumped in a chair. “What kind of loser would take a screen from a faucet?”

“Coke whore used to rent here.”

“So?”

“A forensic team couldn’t comb a place better for paraphernalia.”

“I’ll just use stems to block the hole.”

Time passed. Serge turned pages. Water bubbled in a tube. A knock at the door. Coleman looked up. “You expecting anyone?”

“No,” said Serge. “Unless it’s that guy I’ve been waiting for my entire life.”

“Which guy’s that?”

“The one who knocks on the door and says, ‘Your existence has just changed totally and for the better. Please come with me.’”

“Never heard of him.”

“Neither have I,” said Serge. “That’s what separates me from the rest of society. A lot of people
say
they’re into hope, but they aim too low.”

Coleman repacked the bong. “I’m into hope.”

“Like when you give yourself date-rape drugs?”

“I could get lucky.” He held a lighter over the bowl. “I might have already, but that’s the thing: Who knows?”

“Coleman, never mock hope. You might jinx it, and the Hope Guy will knock somewhere else.”

Coleman flicked his lighter. “I hope some super-hot chick with low morals shows up for no reason and climbs into my bed.”

Knock-knock-knock.

“Coming!…”

Serge opened the door. A potbellied redneck in a mesh-back camo cap swayed drunkenly under the naked-bulb porch light. Serge raised his eyebrows. “Are you the Hope Guy?”

“What?”

“To change my life. I’m ready to be taken away. Thought you’d look different, maybe have a name tag or a cape with lightning bolts.”

The redneck squinted. “Who are you?”

“Serge. Next question.”

The man looked past him into the room. “Is Sunshine here?”

“She moved out.”

“I’m one of her regulars.”

“She’s gone.”

From inside the room: “Is it that guy?”

“No. Someone looking for the hooker who used to live here. He’s hopeless.”

“See if he has my faucet screen.”

The man continued wobbling on the porch, unfocused eyes begging Serge for something to cling to.

Serge shrugged. “Sorry. New management. This is now a think tank.”

The man bit his lip, turned and weaved off across the dark dirt yard. The door closed. An exhaled cloud drifted along the ceiling. “Serge?”

“What?”

“Why are we living in this dump?”

“It’s not a dump.”

“A coke whore used to live here.”

“Something else that separates me from society: Super-Positive Perspective! Where normal people would whine about subpar accommodations, I choose to view it as upscale camping.”

“Why are we in Sarasota?”

“Just temporary. Heat’s on up north.”

Coleman looked around their tight confines, the last of three units chopped up from a sixty-year-old clapboard house. Micro-fridge, hot plate, bunk bed, bookshelf, lawn chairs, five-inch black-and-white TV on a citrus crate. The single window faced a high-crime alley, but it was broken and boarded shut. “I’ve never seen such a tiny apartment.”

Serge grabbed another magazine. “It’s an efficiency.”

“It’s tiny.”

“You know what rent is in Sarasota?”

“I thought you said this city was classy.”

“It is—”

A rustling sound from the other side of the closed bathroom door. Serge reached under the sink for a plunger and fire extinguisher.

Coleman looked up from his bong. “What’s that noise?”

“The rat’s back.”

“Rat?”

Serge spread his arms. “Huge motherfucker. Must have left the toilet seat up again. Drinks out of it like a Saint Bernard.”

“If it’s so big, how does he get in?”

“Wood’s started to rot.” Serge put on safety goggles. “You know in the corner where the floor is, like, gone? And you can see out into the yard?”

“What’s the fire extinguisher for?”

“To blind him and make it a fair fight.” Serge grabbed the doorknob, counted under his breath and burst into the bathroom.
“Unleash the dogs of war!…”

The door slammed shut. Terrible crashing sounds. Coleman reached into his Baggie and picked apart a bud. Thuds against the walls. Something shattered. Banging sounds. Serge screamed. More pounding. Profanity. A crash.

Then it was eerily quiet. The door opened; Serge came out panting.

“What happened?” asked Coleman.

“I didn’t want to do it, but he hated me for my freedom.” Serge raised his right hand, dangling the trophy by its tail.

“Jesus!” said Coleman. “It’s as big as my head!”

Serge walked toward the front door with the rodent. “What were we talking about?”

“How classy Sarasota is. Where are you going?”

“Dispose of the body.”

“Wait for me….” Coleman trotted out into the yard.

Serge slung the rat, and it landed on a big trash pile of dried leaves and other yard waste. He stood and stared.

“What are you waiting for?”

“Making sure he’s dead. Don’t want to fight this battle twice.”

“I can make sure he’s dead.” Coleman pulled the lighter from his pocket. “Let’s set him on fire. It’ll be cool.”

“No!” Serge threw out both arms in alarm. “Whatever you do!”

“But people are always burning yard waste.”

“That’s what the guy up in Hillsborough thought.”

“What guy?”

“Made all the papers. True story: Some homeowner’s burning a yard pile just like this one. And he goes inside for lemonade and opens the cabinet under the sink to toss something in the trash, and this rat’s down in the bottom, gnawing a chicken bone. The rat had been driving the guy crazy for months, living in the walls and scampering through the attic at night like it had combat boots. So the guy grabs a rolling pin and beats it to death. Then he takes it outside and throws it on the burning pile.”

“Good story,” said Coleman. “What’s the problem?”

“The rat’s not dead. The heat wakes him up. It jumps off the pile and makes a beeline for the house. Except now its fur’s on fire. The homeowner tries to intercept, but it zips between his legs, runs back inside and gets in the walls. Ignited the insulation. Whole place burned down.”

INTERSTATE
75

W
e’re still going south.”

“Will you shut up?”

“Edith, this is why you’re not supposed to mix alcohol with prescriptions.”

Edna twisted open a small plastic pill bottle in the backseat. “Makes mine work better.”

“But you’re not driving…. Gimme one.”

“Here.”

Eunice tossed it back. “Got something to chase?”

She passed a coffee mug. “Tanqueray.”

“Oh, that reminds me!” said Eunice. “Heard the greatest dirt on Mildred. Guy at the liquor store told me.”

“Which one?”

“Speedy Turtle Package.”

“No, which Mildred?”

“Bingo Hall Mildred. Chuck who works the drive-through says she pulls up every morning with such regularity he can set his watch. Always has her order waiting in a bag—three Seagram’s airline miniatures. She’s got this travel mug on her console and starts pouring while driving away. Then she turns the corner and it’s quiet. The package guys listen and there’s three clangs in the Dumpster.”

“That’s terrible. Why do they keep selling to her?”

“Chuck said they’d go out of business. Apparently it’s across the board: All day long, all our neighbors from the condo pull through on their way back from the pharmacy, Dumpster clanging nonstop until the early-bird special.”

“Nothing happens?”

“Society’s still in the dark about us. People think the bad driving is just poor reflexes, when half of us are completely gassed….”

“…Like our southbound driver.”

“I’m not going to warn you again!”

“But Edith, what if the cops stop you and notice your breath?”

“They won’t,” said Eunice. “She just had a permanent.”

“Ethel,” said Edna. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“Shhhh. I’m adding.”

“Still with those numbers?”

Ethel continued jotting on a legal pad under a map light. Travel brochures cluttered the seat next to her. She finished the arithmetic. “Figures work out again. We should definitely try it.”

“Let me see that.” Edna grabbed the pad. “You’re saying we can actually live cheaper on a cruise ship than in a retirement home?”

“I was skeptical, too, but the key is using the industry’s business model against itself. They discount cabin rates as a loss leader and make a killing in the casinos and bars.”

“But we drink.”

“We’ll smuggle bottles from the duty-free shops in port.”

“Still sounds too good to be true.”

Eunice pointed out the window. “There’s the sign for Venice.”

“Edith,” said Edna. “You know where Venice is?”

No answer.

“Sixty miles south,” said Eunice.

More silence.

“Edith?…”

“So I went a little south. Shoot me.”

“Here’s an exit coming up,” said Ethel.

“You
are
going to take the exit?” said Eunice.

“Or she can just keep driving and at a theoretical point we’ll start going north again.”

Edith hit her blinker. “Cunts.”

Three passengers in harmony: “Ooooooooooo.”

The Buick curled down through a three-quarter-loop ramp.

“I’m telling you.” Ethel tapped her notepad. “We could save a fortune.”

They went under the overpass and back up a ramp.

“There’s got to be a catch,” said Edna. “It can’t be this easy.”

“Check the numbers yourself when we get back.”

It became quiet in the car. Two red taillights faded into the night. A Fort Myers sign went by.

“Edith, what ramp did you take?”

“Why?”

“We’re still going south…and headlights are coming at us.”

Serge washed rat blood off his hands in the apartment sink.

Knock-knock-knock.

Coleman looked up from rolling papers. “Who now?”

Serge opened the door.

The potbellied redneck. “Know where she might have gone?”

“Yeah, away. If you hurry, you might catch her.”

He closed the door.

Knock-knock-knock.

Serge opened. “You really have to stop knocking.”

“But what if I don’t find her?”

“Can’t you just use your, you know…”

The man looked down in thought. “I forgot about that.” He staggered away.

Serge waved. “Good luck.”

Coleman became involved in a full-bong resin-scrape. “Why’d you have to pick the worst part of town?”

Serge reached for the bookshelf and gently removed a first-edition hardcover in a clear-plastic library-dust-jacket protector. He turned it toward Coleman.

“Midnight Pass
?”

“Another Stuart Kaminsky masterstroke,” said Serge. “Takes place right here in Sarasota.”

“Who?”

“You know the Dairy Queen on the corner with U.S. 301?”

“I check their pay phone every day for change.”

“Kaminsky’s protagonist, Lew Fonesca, works in a building behind the Dairy Queen.”

“So?”

“This house is also behind the D.Q. It’s like we’re living next door to a literary landmark.” Serge carefully replaced the book on the shelf. “Can’t believe the landlord isn’t charging extra.”

“How’d you find this pad to begin with?”

“Sharon used to live here.”

Coleman stopped scraping. “You don’t mean
the
Sharon.”

Serge nodded. “Sometimes there’d be a little stink at the strip club in Tampa, like when she’d set up guys for us to rob, and we’d have to lay low down here with one of her friends who rented this joint.”

“Where was I at the time?”

“You were here, too. I say that loosely.” Serge opened another
National Geographic
. “Might want to start getting yourself together.”

“For what?”

“The Night Launch. I can’t sleep.”

“Don’t you mean Night
Tour
?”

“A direct offshoot of the Night Tour, but with critical distinctions.”

“Man, if it’s anything like a Night Tour, count me in! What happens?”

They grabbed chairs and took seats facing each other. Serge rubbed his palms together. “Okay, this is going to be so excellent. You know the concept of the Night Tour?”

“Intimately.”

“Same idea except way more insane.”

“But Serge! How is that even possible?”

“It starts when you’re up in the middle of the night with insomnia.
All societal conditioning says you must keep trying to get back to sleep because you have obligations in the morning. But the Night Launch says: Break the chains! Jump in your car and drive as far as you can! Watch the sun come up, then keep on truckin’ into the next day, reality bent through the lens of sleep-deprived adventure! Never felt so alive! But you don’t want to make a habit of it if you plan on owning a big house someday.”

“What started the Night Launch?”

“Limits of the human brain. I’m perpetually contemplating life’s mysteries, but God’s put us on a no-fly list when it comes to all the big questions.”

“Like, ‘Why are we here?’”

“Please. I figured that out in third grade. I’m talking relativity, the daily transactions between mass and energy, when does inanimate matter make the jump to self-aware life? Got so frustrated one night I just jumped in the car and took off without knowing it was the first Night Launch. Three days later, I’m still awake in this state park, staring at a stone and a squirrel. What’s the connection? Come on, concentrate. Looking back and forth: stone, squirrel, stone, squirrel…Blam! Hit me between the eyes! There
is
no jump. Life’s already there, locked in the charges and orbits of subatomic particles, yearning to become more complex.”

“Stones are alive?”

“Remember the Pet Rock? Everyone thought it was a joke. Except me. Bought mine at a Walgreen’s. We were inseparable.”

“Did it have a name?”

“Rocky. Went everywhere together. Finally he died. But since he was a rock, I didn’t notice for a week. Of course a few days later, you know, it was just obvious.”

“Were you taking your medication?”

“No. Anyway, I buried him on a warm summer afternoon. Terribly sad. I was going to get him a headstone, but then I’d have to bury that, and then bury that, and then that, and then I’m at the end of my life with a shovel and a long beard. So instead I bought a turtle. People laugh at turtles, but they’re existentially unambiguous.”

Coleman held a toke. “Where are we going on this launch?”

“Haven’t decided yet. But check this out.” He spread several magazines across the floor. “
National Geographic
is the best! Look at the progression of these articles: January 1940, ‘South Florida’s Amazing Everglades’; October 1967, ‘Threatened Glories of Everglades National Park’; January 1972, ‘The Imperiled Everglades’; April 1994, ‘The Everglades: Dying for Help.’ Hello? Tallahassee? Anyone home?” Serge picked up an issue and began thumbing. He stopped. “What day is it?”

“I don’t know. March twenty-something?”

“Coleman, it’s the beginning of January.”

“I was at the right end of the year.”

Serge checked a bank calendar on the wall. “Can’t believe it.” He looked in his lap and slapped the photo on page 132. “This is a sign from God. He wants us to go here.”

“Where?”

Serge answered by swinging into tactical mode, packing up anything of importance. He filled two duffel bags and gripped a rubber mouthpiece in his teeth, taking a test breath from a metal canister the size of a fist.

“What’s that?” asked Coleman.

Serge pulled it from his mouth. “You were with me in the Keys when I bought it.”

“I was?”

“The scuba shop. Remember asking that guy to modify your nitrous-oxide cylinder? Meanwhile, I found this. Diver’s tiny emergency tank, ten minutes of reserve air. Another intensely cool gadget I had absolutely no use for, which meant it was as good as bought. And that brings us back to the Creator’s hand of fate: Now I need it for the Night Launch.”

A thud against the front door.

Serge and Coleman turned. Rustling sounds, then keys dropping. More fumbling. Keys dropping again.

“Should we grab a weapon?” asked Coleman.

Serge shook his head. “Whoever it is can do us no harm.”

“How do you know?”

“Because those are the sounds you make when you’re trying to get inside.”

They walked across the room, and Serge opened the door.

Their jaws fell.