Coconut Cowboy (6 page)

“You think of everything.”

“My folks still made me withdraw the troops.” Serge pointed out the windshield. “There it is.”

“The Korner Kwik convenience store?”

“No, the town of Century, located in the most extreme northwest tip of the Florida Panhandle.” Serge clicked pictures out the window. “It's where Walkin' Lawton Chiles began his one-­thousand-­and-­three-­mile foot-­trek down the state to Key West in his successful U.S. Senate campaign. And he did it while
Easy Rider
was still in first run at the theaters.”

“That's some heavy shit.”

“It was a special time. I reached my sixth birthday, and opportunities were wide open, especially since I'd completed my survival plan through a regimen of strenuous exercise until I could breach coconut shells. My mom would come out: ‘Lunch is ready.' But I'd just stay sitting in the driveway, drinking coconut milk through the hole I'd bashed. ‘Mom, you've done more than enough; I'm on my own now. You don't have to worry about me anymore.' Except they did just the reverse.”

Coleman gazed out the window at the rusty tin roof on a hundred-­year-­old cracker house, then a roadside stand with boiled peanuts and a hand-­painted sign for free pet rabbits. “Could this town be any smaller?”

“That's the theme of our journey: Shun highways and modernism to discover the real Florida through its back roads, flea markets and finger-­lickin' county fairs. Small towns are the heartbeat of this country, and if anyone knows what's happened to the American Dream, it'll be the genuine folks who still live there. So our route will take us on an odyssey through a bygone time, exactly like Lawton Chiles saw, except with meth labs.”

“I see big buildings up there,” said Coleman.

“That's why we're turning.”

The Comet swung east above Pensacola, beginning a long run on a low-­slung bridge over the marshes and deltas of Escambia Bay. Serge gazed south across the water at the more massive, contemporary bridge for Interstate 10, running parallel a few miles south. A wry smile as he nodded to himself. “They never saw this coming.”

A few minutes later, the Mercury approached the twin cities of Milton and Bagdad. Old church steeples and unmowed cemeteries and onion rings at a drive-­in. They parked in front of a corrugated aluminum building with a gravel lot and a plywood sign: E
D'Z
D
EAD
S
LEDZ.

A bearded man emerged from the open garage door wearing an untucked blue shirt with oil stains. The beard was red. He would eat a pickled egg later that afternoon but didn't know it yet.

“You must be Ed,” said Serge.

“Ed's dead.” The man wiped greasy palms on crusty jeans. “Name's Bear Claw.”

“You're named after a pastry?”

“Hell no! The pegs.”

“Pegs?”

“Where you put your feet on the motorcycle,” said Bear Claw. “You
do
ride, don't you?”

“Oh, we ride all right,” said Serge. “We even ride in our sleep.”

“And we sleep when we ride,” said Coleman.

 

Chapter
EIGHT

WOBBLY

T
he afternoon sun twinkled through the oaks on Main Street.

As of that morning, each block had a banner draped high across the road that would remain for the next two weeks.

F
OUNDERS'
D
AY
C
ELE
BRATION.

Smaller banners with the same idea hung from each of the street's antique lamp posts. A fireworks tent was pitched in the parking lot of the Primitive Baptist Church. Against the last post in front of Lead Belly's barbecue stood a ladder. There was a man at the top and another at the bottom.

“Get that damn thing straight,” shouted Vernon. “We got ­people coming.”

“Yes, sir.”

Footsteps. Vernon turned. “Oh, Peter and Mary. Pleasant afternoon.”

Peter gazed up at the long row of fluttering flags with the town's official seal of a pioneer in a coonskin cap gallantly pointing at something just off the edge of the seal. “Looks like you got a big event planned here.”

“Founders' Day is the biggest!” said Vernon. “Means the world to this community.”

“I respect that,” said Peter. “Fewer and fewer ­people seem to know how important it is to preserve heritage.”

“Heritage?” said Vernon. “This is rivalry!”

“Rivalry?”

Vernon nodded extra hard. “Our section of Florida has a growing number of quaint old boutique towns fighting for visitors' dollars. You got Deland, Deltona, Debary, Casselberry, Cassadaga, Lake Mary, Lake Helen, Mount Dora.
Mount!
Give me a break!”

An unseen buzzing sound grew louder in the distance.

Peter looked around like he was trying to follow a moth. “Where's that coming from?”

“Crash,” said Vernon.

“An accident?”

“No, Crash Boggs.” He pointed straight up.

A small but nimble acrobatic plane appeared above the tree tops. Red, white and blue. If Evel Knievel had a plane, this would be it. The craft climbed skyward, glinting in the sun as it performed a series of barrel rolls.

“Your Founders' Day has an air show?”

“Forced to. These other small towns aren't fooling around.” He looked back up the ladder. “The goddamn thing still isn't straight! Don't make me come up there and kick your ass!” Then toward Peter and Mary again: “There's a fiercely aggressive competition to prove who's the most laid-­back.”

“Any way we can help?” asked Peter.

“Bring your checkbook inside and join us.”

He opened the door to the rib joint, which was hosting some kind of low-­grade organizational party. Schoolchildren made decorations, a bluegrass band rehearsed, volunteers signed various sign-­up sheets: work the ticket booths, run the concession stands, judge prize pumpkins, and prevent mishaps at the pig races like last year. One table held rows of identical tote bags.

Someone ripped a check from a checkbook, and Jabow stuck it in his pocket. “Hundred dollars makes you a platinum circle patron. Here's your tote bag.”

Vernon patted the man on the back. “Really appreciate it, Steve. Always nice when newcomers take an active interest in our community.”

“Just want to do what I can.”

“Then stop eating ribs with a knife and fork.”

They both chuckled at the semi-­joke. Steve left, and the mayor stopped to sign for delivery of the rental dunk tank.

The Puglieses stood respectfully.

Vernon handed a pen back to a delivery guy in brown shorts and turned to the ­couple. “So can I talk you into becoming patrons?”

“Uh, honey,” said Peter.

“Sure.” Mary dug in her purse for the checkbook. “What's the usual?”

“Well, twenty-­five is silver level, fifty for gold, but I saw you had your eye on a tote bag.”

“I think that's a hundred,” said Peter.

Mary handed Vernon the check and stared at the Founders' Day button pinned to his shirt pocket: S
LOW
D
OWN
IN
W
OBBLY
.

“Here's your bag,” said Vernon. “Two buttons are in there. Why don't you have a seat? Iced tea?”

“Sure.”

Mary pulled a string of ten complimentary coupons from the bag.

“Those are good for everything,” said Vern. “Kissing booth, fried elephant ears. I'll get that tea.”

Peter opened the official program with an event schedule that was subject to change. Ten a.m., pie-­eating contest; eleven, turkey calling; noon, line dancing; one o'clock, pig races, with an asterisk about stronger fences this year.

“Here's your tea.” Vernon set two dripping mason jars on the table.

Peter looked up puzzled from a certain item in the program. “Two o'clock, cornholing?”

“Kids throw bean bags through a hole in plywood, not the other.” He leaned to read Peter's program upside down. “But it should just say corn
hole
. Shit, there's an
i-­n-­g
at the end.” Vernon shouted over his shoulder. “Louise, get a Magic Marker. I need you to go through the rest of the tote bags . . .”

Peter flipped to a page with the pictorial history of Wobbly, Florida, founded 1854 by Thaddeus “Wobbly” Horsepence (1802–1856), who became destitute trying to market unpopular uses for the area's abundant persimmon trees. Black-­and-­white drawings illustrated a colorful town history. The great fire, the crop failure, cattle rustlers, Indian massacres, mining collapse, the night the levee broke.

Peter looked up. “Did all this really happen?”

“Not exactly,” said Vernon. “But we did have a crop failure, except it didn't totally fail. Actually it was pretty good. But nobody checks. All the other towns are doing it.”

Peter glanced at his program again. “Doesn't say how the founder got his nickname.”

Vernon touched the side of his head. “Some kind of bad-­balance sickness.”

“He got his nickname for falling down a lot?”

“Just once, broke his neck. Died. They found his barn full of persimmon molasses.”

“They nicknamed him posthumously?”

“Looking back, probably not the most sensitive thing for his kin.”

Peter reached the last page of the program. “This says Wobbly was founded in 1854, but you didn't incorporate until 2012?”

“Folks around here don't like to be rushed,” said Vernon. “But Senator Pratchett told us it was required if we wanted to annex the highway.”

“That reminds me,” said Peter. “There's something I wanted to ask you . . .”

The mayor suddenly felt a silent presence behind him and spun. Elroy, Slow and Slower. “Jesus, will you not
do
that anymore?”

“Sorry,” said Elroy. “We just wanted to let you know about the . . . errand.”

“What errand?”

“You know.” The youth tilted his head in the general direction of Jabow's house.

“No, I don't know!” Vernon said with growing impatience. “Speak English. Where was this errand?”

Slow rubbed his fingers together, indicating cash. “The hiding place.”

Elroy elbowed him. “Shut up!”

Vernon shot a quick, forced grin at Peter and Mary. “Apologize, but I'm going to have to take this in private. Family, you understand.” He gathered the trio in the back of the room. “Don't you ever bring that up in here! What's wrong with you guys? The last two I know the answer, but I expect more from you, Elroy . . .” The mayor turned again to smile at the ­couple. “Just be a minute. We're really talking about Founders' Day.”

The ­couple exchanged awkward glances.

Vernon finally came back. “There, then, where were we? You wanted to ask something?”

“My company called and said I had a job coming up in Wobbly. You requested me personally?”

“That's right,” said Vernon. “When we heard what you did for a living, it was a perfect fit. We always like to throw business to locals. It's only neighborly.”

“So what is this job?”

He waved a hand in the air once again. “I don't know all that fancy book-­learnin' stuff. I got common sense. But I hear it's real easy work, and the pay is more than great. Since it's government money, we spend it like it's someone else's.”

“It is someone else's,” said Peter.

“I told everyone you were sharp,” said Vernon. “Need to go check on those banners. They won't get straight by themselves.”

“I don't know how to repay you,” said Peter.

“You will.”

The high-­pitched whine of a stunt plane passed over the restaurant's roof.

THE PANHANDLE

Serge held up a finger for the mechanic to wait while he finished draining a jumbo travel mug of coffee.

Bear Claw covertly rolled his eyes. “So what can I do you fellas for?”

Serge decisively placed his hands on his hips and assessed the property. “I aim to buy some mean machines. Money up front. Where do we pay?”

“You seem to know what you want.”

“Absolutely,” said Serge. “We're on a journey. Small towns, Lawton Chiles, Coleman's the drug czar.”

Coleman pointed at him. “You may be stoned.”

Bear Claw squinted, then shrugged and began walking ahead of them. “You probably want a hog. You
better
want a hog, 'cause I don't carry no rice-­burnin' crotch-­rockets.” He spat on the ground.

Serge spit, too. “Hogs put the
American
in American Dream. Plant us on Harleys!”

“Here's a nice one. A sharknose with low miles. And we got a Super Glide . . .”

“No, no,” said Serge. “Keep going.”

“A ­couple of Road Kings, a Sportster, a Street Bob . . .”

“No, no, no.”

The man tugged on his beard. “That's pretty much the range. I thought you really wanted one.”

Serge's neck jerked around. “Where's the Holy Grail?”

“Why don't you just tell me straight out what you're looking for?”

Serge's arms shot up over his head as he gripped the sky. “A bitchin' chopper with those super-­high handlebars.”

“You mean a hardtail with ape-­hangers?”

“Ape-­hangers, right!” Serge's arms stayed up. “
Ooo! Ooo! Ooo!
Those were chimpanzee sounds. It doesn't come up often in conversation, so I like to go with it. Ape-­hangers.”

Bear Claw leaned casually against a metal drum. “Don't mind me asking, but what kind of riding are you fellas planning on doing?”

“The big trip, all the way through Florida!”

“Then you definitely don't want ape-­hangers. That's insane,” said Bear Claw. “Your arms will fall off.”

Serge shook his head vigorously. “I possess a rare physical constitution that demands I ignore advice.”

“No, really. They're just for short runs. A lot of idiots bought those bikes after
Easy Rider
came out and tried to take them cross-­country.”

“I can't believe you said that!” Serge hopped with glee. “
Easy Rider
is the whole reason we're here! We've completely rededicated our lives—­”

“Dear God, no!”

“What?” said Serge. “You didn't like the movie?”

“I
used
to love the movie.” Bear Claw put a hand over his eyes. “I thought you guys had stopped coming in here a long time ago.”

Serge looked behind himself. “What guys?”

“Never mind.” Bear Claw exhaled with frustration. “Follow me. I got a chopper around back. It's pretty dirty from sitting, but it'll clean up well.”

Serge sprinted past him and disappeared behind the building. His voice echoed back. “It's exactly what I'm looking for! I'll take it!”

“You don't even know the price.”

“Price, shmice!” Serge returned into view. “Now for Coleman. Got anything like Dennis Hopper rode?”

“Well, over there's an old police bike with panheads.”

Serge ran up behind Coleman and shoved him hard in the back. “Go see how you like it!”

“Hey!”

Serge turned back to Bear Claw and pointed at some orange and black blow-­by streaks on the side of the garage. “Looks like you do some paintwork.”

Another frustrated breath: “I'm guessing you want the red-­white-­and-­blue teardrop gas tank.”

Serge pulled out a wallet so crammed with bills that he could hardly fold it.

“Dear Lord!” Bear Claw was a new man. “Anything you want.”

“I do want a new paint job on the gas tank, but—­”

From behind:
Crash
.
“A little help over here.”

They came running. “Coleman, what are you doing under that motorcycle?”

“There's something wrong with the kickstand.”

They pulled the bike off him, and Bear Claw reached down to jerk the metal rod. “Kickstand's fine.”

Coleman got up and rubbed something that would turn into a bruise. “I don't like that bike.”

“Okay, so find one you do,” said Serge.

Coleman moseyed off.

“You were talking about a paint job?” asked Bear Claw.

“Yeah, the gas tank,” said Serge. “Except I don't want an American flag. What I really need is an exquisite—­”

Crash
.
“Bad kickstand again . . .”

A half hour later, Bear Claw handed Coleman a bag of ice. “You tried eight bikes that all fell over on you. Every kickstand can't be defective.”

“You're right,” said Serge. “I believe we've isolated the malfunctioning variable.”

“What?” said Coleman, picking at the butterfly bandage on his eyebrow. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Now it was Serge's turn to heave in frustration. He glanced at Bear Claw. “Think I'm going to need more work on that chopper than just a paint job . . .”