Coconut Cowboy (12 page)

“Now I know you're holding back,” said Serge.

Matt and Coleman glanced at each other.

“Okay, spill,” said Serge.

Coleman cracked another dawn beer. “Might as well go ahead and play the video.”

“What video?” asked Serge.

“I took this on my cell phone,” said Matt. “
Everyone
was recording on their cell phones.”

“Let me see that.” Serge snatched it and held the tiny screen to his face. “How did I get up onstage?”

“Here's the volume button,” said Matt. “You'll want to hear this . . .”

T
he musicians backed away as Serge paced with a microphone.

“First I'd like to make a few announcements. You
are
stardust. You
are
golden. Peace
will
guide the planets. Next, I'd like to thank the band for not choking on throw-­up. Now, for my State of the Union. I'm staring out from this stage into the core of what makes America great. You're all rock stars at the Pursuit of Happiness, which is at war with the Pursuit of Blame because media personalities make a fortune inciting angry audiences: ‘You know how your life is a runaway burning garbage truck of a disaster? But it's not because you did no planning whatsoever, and used such poor personal judgment every step of the way that you had to invent new wrong decisions, like when you wanted to be an Internet celebrity: “Hey, I got it! Let's get the dirt bike on the roof!” No, your failure is the fault of that other group of Americans!' . . . And that's cool. I don't want everyone to agree. I don't want everyone to be the same. I love all of you out there and agree with almost everything you believe, but take an honest look at yourselves. If you populated the entire country, things would go right in the shitter in a serious hurry. Nothing personal. I just dig the American mosh pit. Right-­wing extremists, left-­wing socialists, religious fanatics, godless pinkos, pro-­choice, pro-­life, gun nuts, gun-­control freaks, tree huggers, oil drillers, intellectual ­elitists, the Golden Corral chocolate fountain. And everyone says, ‘Good Lord, we're so polarized!' But I look at our fantastically wide spectrum of quarreling factions, and my heart bursts with joy! The same country allows both Sarah Palin and Barbra Streisand to roam freely. Now that's
strength
! In America, you can be whatever you want! Most important of all, you can be
wrong
! So when I see some asshole, I say, ‘Don't let hospital bills crush your dirt-­bike dreams, otherwise the terrorists win.' Which brings up Eskimos. What's their fucking problem? Hiding out under the borealis like nobody will notice. ‘Yo! Put down the scrimshaw and get with the program!' And if they don't, someone new to blame. It's a win-­win . . . Repeat after me! More Eskimos! More Eskimos! . . . Why are you all looking at me like that? Okay, you're not into mindless audience repetition, which is good because that's how Hitler got started . . . Hand me that guitar!”

One of the musicians hurriedly surrendered his instrument, then retreated to the rear of the stage.

“I'd now like to play ‘The Ballad of the Easy Rider.' ” Serge strummed. “I don't know ‘The Ballad of the Easy Rider'
. . .
Any requests?”

“What the hell are you on?”

“I don't know that one either.” Serge strummed again. “Wait, I've got it. Ever see the Woodstock movie? Sizzling climax with Hendrix playing ‘The Star-­Spangled Banner.' Here we go! From the top! . . .”
Strum
. “ . . . I just remembered I don't know how to play the guitar, either, so I'll just jump to Jimi's hallucinogenic solo with rockets and bombs bursting in air.”

Rrrrrrogggoshhh . . . Waawaaawoosh . . . Yayyayahoooowackackack. . .

Serge raised the guitar over his head and smashed it on the stage until only the neck was left in his hands. “I just remembered it's not my guitar.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash—­“This should cover it”—­then grabbed the microphone one last time. “Thank you
for lettin' me be myself
!
Again!
Good night!”

The crowd stood silent. The video ended. Serge hung his head and handed the phone back. “Could it have gotten any worse?”

No answer.

Serge looked up. “What?”

“But on the bright side, nobody caught it on video,” said Matt. “Not many.”

“There's more?”

“Well,” said Coleman. “As we were hustling you off the stage, you sort of said . . .”

“Actually more of a yell,” clarified Matt. “Don't worry. Everyone took it with the best of intentions.”

Serge gritted his teeth. “What . . . did . . . I . . . say?”

Coleman spoke rapidly. “That you had learned to love your enemies and promised not to murder them anymore. Hey! What about some breakfast!”

“How can you eat at a time like this?”

Coleman poked his belly button. “My tummy tells me.”

“Now I'm definitely against drugs,” said Serge. “I obviously don't want to kill anyone else, but
promise
? That's just crazy talk.”

“Serge,” Matt said with pause. “What you said last night, and again just now. You know, the murder thing? You're just staying in character with your over-­the-­top blog, right?”

“In character. Of course.”

“That's a big relief.” Matt held up his phone. “Because more good news. You're starting to go viral.”

“What does that mean?”

­“People sharing and posting their videos. Over half a million ­people have now seen them.” He looked up from his phone with a grin. “Congratulations. You're officially a sensation.”

“That many ­people know I'm here?” Serge sprang off the hammock and ran in the cabin.

Matt followed him inside. “Where are you going?”

Frantically cramming stuff in his knapsack. “Getting away from here!”

“But you're still going to continue your weird Florida tour, right?”

Serge yanked the final zipper closed. “I never had a choice.”

Matt stared off the porch at empty space. “Boy, I sure wish I was coming with you guys.”

Serge hoisted his backpack. “Got a helmet?”

“Oh, I have a helmet all right.” Matt opened the top of his own pack. “It's a real beauty.”

 

Chapter
SIXTEEN

LATER THAT MORNING

T
he snack menu board had been supplied by the Pepsi-­Cola Corporation. It was one of those boards where you push in plastic letters. They'd run out of
L
's and instead flipped over the number seven.

A young man in swim trunks stood at the counter with money. “A hot dog and a Coke.”

“We only have Pepsi.”

“Fine.”

Someone started a microwave.

Next to the snack window was a door under a red flag with a diagonal white stripe. W
OBBLY
S
PRINGS
D
IVE
C
ENTER
. It was technically still on Main Street, but a ­couple of country miles away on the outskirts of town near the water plant. Inside were rental snorkels, a compressor to fill tanks, disposable cameras and admission tickets.

An employee appeared from the business side of the snack window with a checkered cardboard container. “Here are your nachos.”

“I ordered a hot dog.”

“Oh.” She turned. “Darlene, press start on the microwave again.”

“Forget it. I'll take the nachos.”

The man grabbed a seat at a picnic table. Others came out of the dive shop with flippers and masks, hiking a short distance through the woods to a circular rock formation. A wooden staircase led down twenty feet to a pontoon swim platform surrounded by happy, splashing visitors.

Well, almost everyone was happy. A pair of scuba divers broke the surface and spit out regulators. “This is a farce!” They climbed back up the stairs and stomped away past the picnic tables, where Vernon sat with his mini-­cooler of beer and a microwaved pretzel.

Someone took the seat across from him. “What's this you were jabbering on the phone about Peter?”

A pretzel dipped in mustard. “He was out at the construction site again.”

“But I thought we'd convinced him to let us handle that falsified report,” said Senator Pratchett. “What was he doing?”

“Walking around with a clipboard and taking digital photos.”

“That doesn't sound good.”

“Told you he was shaky.” Vern chewed with his mouth open. “That's why I phoned and asked him to meet us at the springs.”

“Why here?”

Vernon pointed at workers on ladders with another crooked Founders' Day banner. “Have to watch 'em like a hawk.”

The senator turned back around. “Okay, let's hear him out before we worry needlessly.”

“There he is now.”

Ryan hopped to his feet with the broadest smile. “Peter! Great to see you! How's the wife?”

“Testifying.”

The mayor hopped to his feet. “What!”

“Topeka. Double murder. Narrowed it down to Air Jordans.”

“Oh, shoe-­print specialist,” said Pratchett. “You told us.”

“Peter, what's going on?” asked Vernon. “Why were you back at the construction site—­”

The senator held up a hand. “Peter, you know we really like you. There are all kinds of opportunities in this town. I mean, we still have that understanding with the tiny bit of confusion over the geology reports, right?”

“Absolutely,” said Peter. “I got to thinking about it, and I'm sure you know what you're doing. You'll bring up the mistaken report in due course through proper channels. There must be all kinds of bureaucratic red tape you face every day that I'm unaware of.”

“You have no idea,” said Pratchett. “It drives me nuts.”

“And besides,” said Peter, “I promptly brought it to your attention, and you're the authorities, so I've met my legal obligation. I'll just drop the whole business and leave it in your court.”

“Now, that's what we like to hear,” said Vernon. “Neighbors helping neighbors.”

“You're a model citizen,” said Ryan.

“But what
were
you doing today at the site?” asked Vernon.

“Well . . .” Peter removed a rubber band from a file folder and spread glossy photos on the picnic table. “It's been bugging me like crazy.”

“What am I looking at?” asked Pratchett. “They're like the ­sonograms when Julie was expecting.”

“Good analogy,” said Peter. “These are the ground radar shots. They've got density issues that resulted in my negative recommendation. But given the passable resistivity tests, I couldn't pinpoint exactly why that model home collapsed. It was keeping me up nights, so I decided to take a closer look, purely off the books at no cost, to help you guys out.”

“Help is good,” said Pratchett.

“What did you find?” asked Vernon.

“First, a little overview.” Peter pulled out some cross-­sectional drawings. “For millions of years, Florida was underwater and reefs began forming from countless microorganisms that began leaving calcite particles during the Tertiary Eocene epoch . . .”

Two scuba divers with still-­full tanks marched by.
“This sucks.”

“ . . . Then the sea level fell, our peninsula emerged and these reefs became a limestone substratum covered by an overburden including clay migrating down from the Appalachians and fine quartz, or sand. When rain percolates through the surface cover, it reacts with carbon dioxide, making it acidic, and, over time, dissolving the porous limestone . . .”

Vernon made a quick spinning motion with an index finger. “Short version.”

“The result is that much of Florida's foundation is honeycombed with underground lakes and rivers, and sometimes they reach the surface, creating the many natural springs for which the state is well known.” Peter pointed at the nearby rock formation as more enraged divers emerged at the top of the staircase. “The fact that you have a spring here indicates such conditions.”

The divers passed the table.
“I want a refund.”

“But what's all that mean?” asked Pratchett.

“Fissures and instability in limestone usually aren't a problem, because the upward pressure of the subterranean aquifer acts as a counterbalance.” Peter tapped the photos on the table. “But these light areas are low-­density weak spots. I've only seen this sort of thing before from sinkhole investigations on the Gulf Coast.”

“Still not following.”

“This is what you'd see if someone was overpumping groundwater,” said Peter. “There are governing bodies that set limits, except some ­people do it anyway.”

“But we draw all our drinking water from the spring.” Vernon gestured through the trees. “The plant's right over there. We don't touch the aquifer.”

“I know,” said Peter. “The spring should be more than enough. That's why it doesn't make any sense.” He gathered up his evidence. “Anyway, just thought I'd pass it along.”

“You're good ­people,” said Vernon.

“We like your kind in our town,” said Pratchett.

“Motherfucker,”
said another diver.

“Excuse me,” Peter called out. “Why are all you divers so mad?”

“There ain't no goddamn spring!”

“Watch your language!” Vernon pulled out his police chief's badge. “We got a nice little town here and aim to keep it that way.”

Peter stood with his file. “What was that about?”

Vernon threw the rest of a pretzel in the trash. “Outside agitators.”

Peter shook hands with the senator and mayor. “Call me if you have any questions.”

The remaining pair at the picnic table watched until the geologist was out of earshot, then Pratchett leaned and lowered his voice. “How much pumping are we doing?”

“Just the usual.”

It was the truth. Except “the usual” was now up 2,000 percent from ten years ago. That's when one of the workers from the nearby water plant had gone on lunch break and snuck a joint in the woods.

He didn't come back. Two weeks later, some bird watchers found him at the bottom of a recently opened sinkhole caused by the adjacent pumping station. They named the cafeteria in his memory.

Meanwhile, the sinkhole—­in a nice cavity of limestone near the surface—­quickly filled with rainwater. So as they often do out in the country, they made lemonade.

The town's movers and shakers had long groused: Other rival small towns were far crappier, yet attracted tourists in much bigger droves. Because they had one thing Wobbly didn't. A natural spring. It wasn't fair. How could they get one?

So after fishing the body out of the sinkhole, the city council put up signs and picnic tables and a snack booth, and built a staircase down into the ground. Open for business.

It exceeded all expectations. The town had tapped into a surprisingly deep reservoir of devotees to the state's finest springs—­families, naturalists, cave divers—­who made the rounds of some of Florida's finest natural features: Rainbow Springs, Silver Springs, Ginnie Springs, Fanning Springs, Wakulla Springs, Crystal River, Alachua Sink, Devil's Den.

And now Wobbly Springs.

Then it unexpectedly got better. Leaders from surrounding communities casually began dropping by. “So, I hear you, uh, might have a spring?”

“As a matter of fact we do.”

“We seem to be paying an awful lot to those big-­city management districts on the coast for our drinking water. You don't suppose you could spare a few gallons?”

Wobbly said, “Anything for a neighbor.”

Word got around. The town was undercutting everyone's prices.

The only problem was what the scuba divers soon learned: “It's really only a sinkhole that doesn't connect to anything. There's no freakin' spring.”

No problem. They just sucked the water out of the ground with as many wells as they could dig. Of course, as Peter mentioned, there were state policies and restrictions in place to prevent the inevitable. But who was going to tell them? Wobbly's water-­pumping station became the small-­town version of a homeowner who remodels without permits and just tapes newspapers over the windows.

“Cut back,” said Pratchett.

Vernon opened his beer cooler. “On what?”

“The pumping!”

“That's good money.”

“It's nothing compared to what we stand to lose if we have any more fiascos at the construction site,” said the senator. “I trust Peter on this one.”

“But—­”

“Just do it.”

DOWN INTO THE PENINSULA

A chopped motorcycle with a coconut gas tank roared through the horse-­riding country of River Rise Preserve State Park. The rolling route south from the Suwannee music park had been town after small town. Lake City, Mason, Ellisville, High Springs. ­Peanut stands, tomato stands, baskets of peaches, sweet corn, decorative gourds, Moose Lodge, Kiwanis, Optimists, someone's front yard selling birdhouses that looked like small red barns, another selling carved wooden flamingos with wings that turned like propellers, a sheriff's car hiding behind a billboard to T
AKE
B
ACK
A
MERICA
, a diner called the Cracker Kitchen bragging about shrimp and grits, something that appeared to be a cemetery but was a tombstone outlet.

“ . . . Little pink houses for you and me . . .”

They followed Highway 441 under the interstate until wisps of another country town began to appear, this one growing a bit larger than the others.

“Radio check,” said Coleman. “Where are we?”

“Gainesville, home of the University of Florida,” said Serge. “I'm tracking one of our state's favorite sons whose wonder years paralleled mine.”

“A student?”

“No, someone who used to work at the university.”

They were still clearly on the outskirts when Serge made a right turn onto Northwest Forty-­Fifth Avenue and almost immediately pulled off the road into a newly paved parking area. Everyone dismounted and stretched.

“Matt, what kind of helmet is that anyway?”

“I played a little lacrosse.”

Coleman took off his own helmet. “What's that falling-­down barn over there on the back of this field? Surprised to find it in a public park.”

“It's the whole reason we stopped.” Serge grabbed his camera. “The old Mudcrutch Farm.”

“Mudcrutch?”

“The name of Tom Petty's formative band that evolved into the Heartbreakers.”

“But Petty's music is from the seventies.”

“That's correct.” Serge began hiking across the grass. “But his wonder years began in the sixties when his uncle brought him to see Elvis filming a movie in nearby Citrus County, which inspired little Tom to pick up the guitar. This barn is where they used to practice endlessly, making the quantum leap from wannabes to a polished group . . . Right over there is where Petty and company would drag their equipment outside on weekends and play for whoever showed up. Today, so many ­people claim they were at those concerts that they would have been bigger than Woodstock.”

Serge reached the porch steps and grabbed the broken handle of a screen door.

“There's a warning sign against trespassers,” said Coleman.

“That's just for ­people who aren't running down a dream.”
Click, click, click . . .

Ten minutes later and just around the corner on Thirteenth Street, the chopper sat on the side of the road next to a mailbox with the number 4562.
Click, click, click . . .

“Now, what's
this
place?” asked Coleman. “Looks like a boarded-­up lounge.”

“Second of three stops on the Petty tour. Used to be a nightclub called Dub's.”
Click, click, click.
“Mudcrutch played six nights a week.”

“You said he used to work for the school?” asked Matt.

“It will all be revealed at the final location. Back to the chopper!”

They cruised down into campus.