furtively cupping a roach.
“Coleman!…”
He turned and looked back at the car: Serge’s face bobbing up and down in the backseat window, Rachael’s legs in the air.
“What is it, Serge?”
He bobbed up. “The sunrise…” He bobbed down. He bobbed up again. “It’s beautiful….”
Rachael growled and cursed in a sultry voice below window level. “Fuck your stupid sunrise!”
“Stupid sunrise?” Serge thrust violently. “Take that !”
“Owwww! Damn you!…Again.”
The Davenports’ master bedroom was hushed. Sheets began rising and falling. “Jim, what are you waiting for?”
“I feel awkward.”
“Please talk to me. I really want you to.”
“Okay…uh… take my hot, throbbing love-missile. …”
“Jim?”
“What?”
“Shhhh. Don’t talk.”
“Yes!…Yes!…Faster!…Faster!” yelled Rachael. “Hurt me with your hot cock!…”
Serge bobbed up. “Coleman…” He bobbed down.
“What?”
Serge bobbed up again. “Could you move a little to your left?…You’re blocking my view….”
EIGHT
ALTERNATE U.S. HIGHWAY 19
A ’73 Mercury Comet sped north from St. Petersburg, up through Clearwater and Dunedin, respective ethnic strongholds of Scientologists and Scotsmen. The January 1947 issue of National Geographic lay open to page 132 in Serge’s lap.
“Six minutes,” said Coleman. “Five minutes, fifty-five seconds…Five minutes, fifty…”
Serge gritted his teeth, blue knuckles on the steering wheel.
“…Five minutes, thirty-five seconds…Five minutes…”
Serge screamed and attacked the sun visor. “You’re driving me insane!”
Rachael crumpled an empty cigarette pack. “What’s the stupid counting about?”
“He does this every time,” said Serge, unbending the visor. “Seven A.M ….”
“…When they start selling alcohol again,” said Coleman. “Four minutes, thirty-five seconds…Four minutes, thirty seconds…Start looking for a convenience store…. Four minutes…”
Later in the countdown: Coleman stood with a beer suitcase in a Grab ’N Dash. There were two lines at the registers. One that moved, and a much longer, stationary one that stared at a wall clock and chanted. “…One minute, fifteen…One minute, ten…”
Serge paced the sidewalk. “Come onnnnnnn!” He waved a National Geographic at the store window. “This only happens once a year!” Rachael tore the cellophane off a fresh, untaxed pack of Marlboro Lights meant for export that had been sold on the black market by a Honduran gang working the port.
Coleman finally climbed back into the car, and he and Rachael ripped open the twelve-pack like wild dingos. Serge threw the Comet in gear and floored it up Alternate 19. Eagles on the radio.
“…The Greeks don’t want no freaks…”
It was a short, ten-block drag race. Serge skidded into the first available parking slot, jumped out and popped the trunk. He grabbed something from a duffel bag and slammed the hood. “We have to hurry!”
Coleman and Rachael remained glued in the backseat, cracking more beers.
“No! No! No!” yelled Serge, snatching for cans that they pulled out of range. “You’re going to make me late for my special day!”
“It’s cool,” said Coleman. “We can take ’em with us.” He reached under his seat for a pair of small, flexible magnetic sheets.
“What are those?” asked Serge.
“Watch.” Coleman wrapped one of the rectangular magnets around his beer. It had a Coca-Cola design. “This way you can drink on the street.” He handed the other to Rachael.
She curled a Pepsi magnet around her own can. “Where’d you get these?”
“They sell them wherever there’s a college nearby.” Coleman reached under the seat again and held up a plastic funnel attached to a long, clear tube. “Same place I got my beer bong.”
Serge pounded fists on the roof. “Can we go now?”
They headed up the sidewalk: ancient buildings, ancient boats, ancient storefronts with bolts
“Coleman!…”
He turned and looked back at the car: Serge’s face bobbing up and down in the backseat window, Rachael’s legs in the air.
“What is it, Serge?”
He bobbed up. “The sunrise…” He bobbed down. He bobbed up again. “It’s beautiful….”
Rachael growled and cursed in a sultry voice below window level. “Fuck your stupid sunrise!”
“Stupid sunrise?” Serge thrust violently. “Take that !”
“Owwww! Damn you!…Again.”
The Davenports’ master bedroom was hushed. Sheets began rising and falling. “Jim, what are you waiting for?”
“I feel awkward.”
“Please talk to me. I really want you to.”
“Okay…uh… take my hot, throbbing love-missile. …”
“Jim?”
“What?”
“Shhhh. Don’t talk.”
“Yes!…Yes!…Faster!…Faster!” yelled Rachael. “Hurt me with your hot cock!…”
Serge bobbed up. “Coleman…” He bobbed down.
“What?”
Serge bobbed up again. “Could you move a little to your left?…You’re blocking my view….”
EIGHT
ALTERNATE U.S. HIGHWAY 19
A ’73 Mercury Comet sped north from St. Petersburg, up through Clearwater and Dunedin, respective ethnic strongholds of Scientologists and Scotsmen. The January 1947 issue of National Geographic lay open to page 132 in Serge’s lap.
“Six minutes,” said Coleman. “Five minutes, fifty-five seconds…Five minutes, fifty…”
Serge gritted his teeth, blue knuckles on the steering wheel.
“…Five minutes, thirty-five seconds…Five minutes…”
Serge screamed and attacked the sun visor. “You’re driving me insane!”
Rachael crumpled an empty cigarette pack. “What’s the stupid counting about?”
“He does this every time,” said Serge, unbending the visor. “Seven A.M ….”
“…When they start selling alcohol again,” said Coleman. “Four minutes, thirty-five seconds…Four minutes, thirty seconds…Start looking for a convenience store…. Four minutes…”
Later in the countdown: Coleman stood with a beer suitcase in a Grab ’N Dash. There were two lines at the registers. One that moved, and a much longer, stationary one that stared at a wall clock and chanted. “…One minute, fifteen…One minute, ten…”
Serge paced the sidewalk. “Come onnnnnnn!” He waved a National Geographic at the store window. “This only happens once a year!” Rachael tore the cellophane off a fresh, untaxed pack of Marlboro Lights meant for export that had been sold on the black market by a Honduran gang working the port.
Coleman finally climbed back into the car, and he and Rachael ripped open the twelve-pack like wild dingos. Serge threw the Comet in gear and floored it up Alternate 19. Eagles on the radio.
“…The Greeks don’t want no freaks…”
It was a short, ten-block drag race. Serge skidded into the first available parking slot, jumped out and popped the trunk. He grabbed something from a duffel bag and slammed the hood. “We have to hurry!”
Coleman and Rachael remained glued in the backseat, cracking more beers.
“No! No! No!” yelled Serge, snatching for cans that they pulled out of range. “You’re going to make me late for my special day!”
“It’s cool,” said Coleman. “We can take ’em with us.” He reached under his seat for a pair of small, flexible magnetic sheets.
“What are those?” asked Serge.
“Watch.” Coleman wrapped one of the rectangular magnets around his beer. It had a Coca-Cola design. “This way you can drink on the street.” He handed the other to Rachael.
She curled a Pepsi magnet around her own can. “Where’d you get these?”
“They sell them wherever there’s a college nearby.” Coleman reached under the seat again and held up a plastic funnel attached to a long, clear tube. “Same place I got my beer bong.”
Serge pounded fists on the roof. “Can we go now?”
They headed up the sidewalk: ancient buildings, ancient boats, ancient storefronts with bolts
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