Coconut Cowboy

 

DEDICATION

For Fred “Catfish” Dorsey

 

EPIGRAPH

A sane person to an insane society must appear insane.

KURT VONNEGUT

 

CONTENTS

 

PROLOGUE

SOMEWHERE IN FLORIDA

M
otorists watched helplessly as the man in a panda suit was beaten stupid in front of the strip mall.

His bulbous black-­and-­white head had been twisted around so the eyeholes were over his left ear, blinding him to vicious rib-­stomps. A second, smaller panda had escaped with the aid of a skateboard and a stun gun.

As they say in the Sunshine State: If you don't like the weather, wait a few seconds. Same thing with boredom.

Moments earlier it was normal. A red light turned green. Drivers accelerated and resumed driving duties: painting nails, playing invisible drums, making out, scratching lottery tickets, taking selfies, rehearsing arguments for upcoming pricks, eating pasta.

The traffic wove around motorized wheelchairs and women pushing baby strollers full of scrap metal and attic insulation. Others wheeled luggage far from any transportation hub. In the highway's median, ­people sat in lawn chairs selling bags of shrimp in the sun. A prostitute who couldn't get anyone's attention took a seat at a bus stop and filled out an application for the Border Patrol.

Inside a nearby building, a man in a baseball cap and dark sunglasses approached a window and handed a robbery note to the teller, who looked up. “Sir, this is where you pay your water bill.” The man sighed again in a long, imprecise life footnoted entirely by sighs. He went out and took a seat next to the hooker. They both sagged in the humidity and gazed across the road at a cardboard arrow:

C
HINESE
B
UFFET

The red-­and-­yellow arrow was twirled by a dancing panda with earphones inside his costume head. The panda was required to learn new choreography to increase his pay, but the mobility of the panda arms was holding him back. The headphones played an audiobook about improving relationships by talking less.

Next to him was his partner, a smaller panda who wore a kamikaze bandanna and waved his own sign indicating Sino-­Japanese détente:

S
USHI

The tiny panda flung his sign in the air and caught it behind his back, worth an extra seventy-­five cents an hour and a growing source of tension with the larger panda.

Traffic lights continued changing, a hooker licked a postage-­paid envelope with penalty for private use. Shrimp went bad. Such is the milieu of modern inertia.

Then the Florida un-­boredom switch was thrown.

A Toyota screeched to the curb. Out poured more costumes: pirate, Statue of Liberty, gorilla, and a large foam pizza with a pepperoni-­colored face in the middle.
“There they are!” “Get 'em!”

The beat-­down had begun. The gorilla wrenched the bigger panda's head sideways and thrust a knee to the groin. Then they all piled on, clubbing him with his own cardboard arrow. The pirate went for the smaller bear.
“Ahhh! He zapped me! . . .”

Out in the street, a thunderous roar as a massive vintage motorcycle idled up to a red light. High handlebars, low-­slung seat, gleaming chrome forks. The rider wore amber-­tinted hippie sunglasses as he stared at the Statue of Liberty peeing on an advertising arrow.

Suddenly, yelling from the other three corners of the intersection.
“Hey! Leave them alone!”
The new ­people all dropped their own arrows and dashed through traffic.

The gorilla finished dumping a garbage can on the bear.
“We better get out of here!”
The attackers crammed back into the Toyota and sped off as other sign-­spinners arrived and helped the panda into a sitting position.
“Bill, are you okay?”

The motorcyclist calmly removed his sunglasses and wiped them with a lint-­free cloth. He watched as they pulled off the panda head and opened a first-­aid kit. “Another turf war,” said Serge, replacing the sunglasses and nodding to himself. “The economy is bouncing back.”

The light turned green, and he cranked up the stereo in his helmet.

“Born to be wild! . . .”

The chopper roared away.

 

Chapter
ONE

ONE MONTH EARLIER

T
he index finger had a nail that was painted pink with a dollar sign. It pressed buttons on a keypad to enter the secret code.

A tiny compartment opened behind the keypad, and an actual metal key was removed. The hand inserted it into a knob and opened a door.

“Come on in!” said a bubbly Realtor named Maxine, wearing an aggressively bright orange blazer that suggested self-­empowerment seminars. “You're going to love this house.”

A demure ­couple from upstate New York tentatively entered, as if they were intruding. Peter and Mary Pugliese, to be specific. They'd lived their whole lives in the Empire State and had loved it the way you love not stubbing your toe. Then Peter had received a job offer in an exploding new field in Florida that doubled his pay. Can't turn that down. Mary was a traveling expert trial witness and could live anywhere. It was a job that required specialization, and hers was shoes. She had been the chief tri-­state purchasing agent for a chain of mall footwear boutiques and could now testify to a 95 percent certainty that a plaster footprint mold pointed to the killer. They had a son. Feet were paying for an Ivy League tuition.

The Realtor's orange blazer was optional. While showing homes the day before, Maxine had sported culottes and a yellow T-­shirt that indicated she had once run five kilometers to raise awareness. Her energetic pace had opened a distance from the ­couple. There was an empty can of sugar-­free Red Bull in her car. “I see you're admiring the original hardwood floors. Solid oak. All the wiring's been updated. Call me Max.”

The Puglieses exchanged glances. They felt they had been playing catch-­up ever since driving onto the property. It was a modest Victorian clapboard estate built in 1909 that would have been on the historic register, but the town was so small it didn't have one. It was painted periwinkle blue, with the white gingerbread trim found on many of the older southern country homes in the central part of the state.

“Check out the kitchen! Look at all the space in these antique cabinets . . .”—­which she opened—­“ . . . and extra-­large windows . . .”—­which she also opened—­“ . . . for exquisite cross breezes. You can almost see an apple pie cooling. And you're on a hill! You don't get many of those around here. The view! Where are you from?”

“Saratoga Springs.”

“Where's that?”

“The Adirondack Mountains.”

“So I guess this is kind of flat.”

“It's fine.”

She was already running upstairs. “Come see the master bath!”

They arrived in the doorway.

“It's got an old cast-­iron tub,” said Max. “And it's on claw feet. I don't know what kind they are.”

If they were in shoes, Mary would be able to tell her.

“You'll never beat the price of this place because it's a divorce sale.” Max opened more roomy cabinets. “State law says I'm not supposed to tell you that, so I didn't.”

Peter turned around. “Where'd she go?”

Mary pointed. “Down the stairs.”

They regrouped in the living room.

“Most ­people who move to Florida want the beach,” said Max. “But there's much more value in these small inland towns.”

“We like small towns,” said Peter.

“The smaller the better,” said Mary. “I see enough cities in my work.”

“Me, too,” said Peter.

“What do you do?” asked the agent.

“I'm a geologist.”

“What do you do for that?”

“It basically means I'm one of those white-­collar guys who wears a hard hat.”

“That's super,” said Max. “Have you seen enough?”

“Think so,” said Mary. “But we need to—­”

“No problem. I'll let you talk it over in private.” Max went into the next room and hid against the wall to listen.

“What do you think?” Peter asked his wife.

“We've already looked at eleven others and nothing's even close. I love how the second story also has a wrap-­around porch.”

“And she's right that we can't beat the price,” said her husband. “But you know the old saying: Never buy property in a small town you don't know about.”

The agent barged into the room. “Oh, I thought you were finished. I just wanted to tell you it's a great small town. Lived here my whole—­ . . . last three years. The charm, the churches, the schools, the annual fair where the farmers—­”

“What about neighbors?” asked Mary.

“What about them?”

She looked down the hill into wooded lots. “Well, the houses on each side look a little . . . Are they trailers?”

“In this town, even the bad houses have great ­people. Salt of the earth, give you the shirts off their backs. Plus you know how they say that fences make for good neighbors? But even better than fences are acres, and you've got over five. You'll probably barely ever see them.”

Mary nodded at her husband.

“We'll take it,” said Peter.

“Great.” Max reached in her purse and pulled out a contract with sticky yellow arrows next to blank spots for signatures. She handed them a pen.

“It's already got our names and everything typed in?” asked Mary.

“I just had a feeling about you two.”

“But it also has the price,” said Peter. “And we haven't negotiated yet.”

“My advice?” said Max. “It's a steal. Can't tell you how many times other buyers have scooped up a place while someone was indecisive.”

Mary looked at her husband. “Remember when that happened to us?”

“Okay,” said Peter. “Where do I sign?”

“Arrows.”

They finished up the paperwork and Max told them to keep the pen.

“When will we know?” asked Mary.

“It's a done deal.” The Realtor hoisted the purse over her shoulder. “If you offer the full listing price, they have to sell or else pay the full real estate agent's commission. It's state law.”

“Who got a law like that passed?”

“Us agents. Welcome to town!”

MEANWHILE . . .

A '72 Mercury Comet sped west across the part of the Florida Panhandle in the gravitational orbit of Alabama. Vegetable stands, Dollar General, John 3:16, T
IRE
R
EPAIRS
written on a half-­buried tire in a front lawn.

“It's all about small towns,” said Serge. “That's where I'll find my answer.”

“What was the question?” asked Coleman.

“Haven't you been listening this whole time?”

Coleman picked at a dried stain on his shirt, then tasted it. “What?”

“The American Dream! That's my new mission in life: to find out where it went.” Serge grabbed a travel mug of coffee. “When I was growing up in a small town in the sixties, the American Dream was all around. Back then, if you worked hard and followed the rules under the Declaration of Independence, you got to pursue happiness on the weekend with a Barcalounger and a hibachi. The mood of the middle class came down to one word. Relaxed.”

“And today?”

“You do everything right and you're rewarded with a weekend of dread: Will I get a pay cut? Will I get laid off? What if I get sick? Are we all destined to work part-­time? How will my kids do better than me? Which other Americans did that radio host say I should hate about this?”

“But what do small towns have to do with it?”

“They still play lawn darts in small towns.”

“Darts?”

Serge nodded. “The sixties were a looser time. Parents remained relaxed enough under the American Dream to give their kids lawn darts to fling around the backyard. What could possibly go wrong?”

“I remember getting stuck in the foot.”

“Everyone does,” said Serge. “And nobody thought of shutting down the whole program just because we were all limping.”

“I had to get stitches.”

“It's a kid's job to get stitches,” said Serge, cranking up the radio. “Since then, cities have evolved with franchised ferociousness, but small towns still preserve the old ways.”

“ . . . Pulled into Nazareth . . .”

“It's like an archaeological dig,” said Serge. “Drive into any tiny hamlet and you can still see what we used to stand for. You can still see
hope
. Like when I was the lawn dart champion.”

“I didn't know they had champions.”

“They weren't exactly passing out bushels of trophies for everything like they are now,” said Serge. “Which I blame for the decline of the current generation. Every little kid has a bedroom full of gold hardware. ‘What did you get this one for?' ‘Showing up.' ‘And this one?' ‘So my feelings wouldn't get hurt.' But when I was their age, I competed for the love of the sport, which I revolutionized. None of the other children could see the possibilities until I said, ‘Hey everyone, we're limiting ourselves by throwing darts for accuracy when these babies were built for distance. Give me some elbow room!' ”

“What happened?”

“I set the record, but it was unfairly nullified just because I hit the side of an aboveground pool two houses down. It might have gone better if just the tip poked a tiny hole, but my ballistic arc built up such force that the whole dart went through the pool, fins and all, bursting a seam and spilling water in the house so fast it shorted out a bunch of electricity. And shoddy engineering is
my
fault?” Serge pulled up to a red light. “I tried to explain that the civil defense siren made me jump at the moment of release.”

“I remember those sirens, too.”

“Every Saturday at noon, the Riviera Beach Fire Department would blast a siren that could be heard for miles. And once again the other kids wouldn't cooperate. We all knew it was a test, but by definition tests are meant to be taken. The rest of the first graders continued playing in the sprinklers, ignoring my commands: ‘We're under atomic attack! Gather the lawn darts and follow me!' ”

“What did you do?”

“Mustered at the rallying point to take cover,” said Serge. “There was this storm-­water drainage canal on the next street, and since it was the dry season, I could walk right in the big concrete spillway and get myself deep beneath the city. In the event of hydrogen bombs, you need several feet of earth to stop fallout radiation. But the adults instead told children to get under furniture, which I saw as a ploy to thin the herd because food would be scarce in a nuclear winter. During the sixties, it really was us against them.”

“What did your folks say when you got home?” asked Coleman.

“Deaf ears again,” said Serge. “I waited until nightfall just in case the Russians heard about our siren and planned their attack at noon to throw us off. I walked in the house after dark, and my parents are like ‘Where on earth have you been all day!' I say, ‘Obviously under the city.' My mom says, ‘What were you doing there?' I say, ‘Fallout buffer. Nobody else is doing the tests right.' Then she holds something in her hand. ‘Is this your lawn dart?' I said, ‘You're obsessing. Where were
you
during the test?' That's the thing about parents: If the kid is right, he gets spanked twice as hard.”

They rolled up to another intersection. “Something's going on at the corner,” said Coleman.

“Looks like that old man is having problems with his electric wheelchair,” said Serge. “The battery's dead or wires have come loose. He's rocking back and forth trying to get it to budge.”

“And he's got to be a long way from his house because there are just stores around.”

“Probably his only mode of transportation to get food and medicine,” said Serge. “He's in a serious jam, stranded out here in the sweltering concrete badlands with a bum wheelchair, no better than if he was floating alone in the ocean.”

“Why'd you hit your blinker?” asked Coleman.

“Because we're coming to his rescue,” said Serge. “Remember in the sixties when there used to be ‘shut-­ins'? You never hear about them anymore. I guess they're now shut-­
outs
. Is that progress?”

“Serge, look at those two thugs,” said Coleman. “They're going after the guy!”

“Just when I thought we'd scraped bottom.” Serge reached under his seat for an automatic pistol. “What's next? Hospice invasions?”

“Both of them are reaching down behind his chair,” said Coleman. “They're going to dump him in the gutter!”

“No doubt to pawn the scooter.” The traffic light turned green. Serge put on his hazard lights. “And I was hoping to cut back on my office hours . . .”

“Hold on,” said Coleman. “They're not dumping him.”

“No, they're twisting wires together.” Serge stowed his gun. “They're doing repairs like good citizens. I love small towns!”

“They got it fixed,” said Coleman. “The old man is rolling away and waving at them.”

“I'm overcome with emotion.” Serge wiped away tears. “My work in this state might finally be coming to an end—­”

Bump, ba-­bump, bump, ba-­bump . . .

“What the heck is that sound?” said Coleman.

“I don't know,” said Serge, “but it's getting closer.”

Bump, ba-­bump, bump, ba-­bump . . .

Coleman bent around in his seat. “I still can't locate it.”

“Because it's so loud it's echoing off buildings from all directions,” said Serge. “And it just knocked my rearview mirror out of my favorite position.”

Bump, ba-­bump, bump, ba-­bump . . .

The growing reverberations splashed Coleman's drink in his lap. “What on earth can it be?”

“Oh no, not again,” said Serge.

“What is it?”