Coleman hung farther out the window. “Show me your tits!”
“Dude, get a grip. There’s nobody around.”
“Spring break! Wooooooo! I’m Gertrude Schwartz!…”
Serge pulled him back inside by his belt. “Coleman, that’s seriously ripped, even for you.”
Saliva began stringing from Coleman’s mouth, pooling on his stomach.
Serge passed a Kleenex from his door organizer. “Thought you had that problem mastered.”
Coleman placed the tissue on his chest like a bib and handed Serge a dark-orange safety bottle.
Serge read the labeclass="underline" GERTRUDE SCHWARTZ. Then the contents. “Coleman, this is one of the most powerful narcotics known to man. How’d you get it? You’re not a woman.”
“Dfjoiakl-said I was her son- msdffkdsflsd…”
An hour later, Coleman’s head lolled on its neck swivel. “Serge, someone messed with that highway sign. Says we’re going north.”
“We are going north.”
“Who drives north for spring break?”
“People who want to travel back in time.”
“I thought we were heading to a beach.”
“We are. But time travel is the structure of my award-hoarding documentary,” said Serge. “ Florida ’s always had a love-hate relationship with spring break. First a community wants the money and rolls out the red carpet. Then they get rich and weary of hotel damage- ‘Yo, students: Thanks for the cash, now scram!’-deploying police harassment. So another city with a lesser economy says, ‘Hey, kids, why put up with that crap? We’ll treat you right.’ Then that place prospers and asks, ‘Why do we have to put up with this crap? Get ’em out of here!’ And so on.”
“How many times has it happened?”
“The history of spring break in Florida can be divided into three distinct epochs: Panama City Beach, the current party mecca; Day-tona Beach, which ruled the late eighties and nineties; and Fort Lauderdale, where it all began.”
“So we’re going to…?”
“ Panama City. I’m working my way back through time.”
“I thought this was about Florida.”
“What are you talking about? It is Florida. The Panhandle.“
Coleman tapped an ash out the window.”Then why’s it called Panama?”
“A rare relevant question. The city’s original developer, George West, bestowed the name because if you draw a line from Chicago to the Panama Canal, it runs through there.”
“That’s fucked-up… Serge, I see fish with nipples.”
“Weeki Wachee, home of the famous mermaid shows and one of the first roadside attractions in the state.”
“Real mermaids?”
“I wish. They just wear costumes and breathe from special tubes hidden in underwater rocks. Tourists watch from below-ground grandstands through giant windows… And from the only-in-Florida file, a classic newspaper photo three decades ago of mermaids on strike in full uniform, picketing along the side of the highway.”
A billboard went by: SWIMMING OUR TAILS OFF SINCE 1947.
“You aren’t stopping,” said Coleman. “You always stop.”
“Not this place.” Serge shot photos out the window without slowing. “My mug shot’s probably posted in their ticket booths on the no-fly list. And just because I dove in the pool during one of the shows in a selfless attempt to save the attraction. Who knew they had big capture nets?”
“How were you trying to save it?”
“By spicing up their act as the Creature from the Black Lagoon-1954, filmed in Florida -which is why I dragged that mermaid to the bottom, but then I forgot which rock had the breathing tubes.”
“What happened?”
“Reached the surface just in time, but no thank-you, only another ‘We’re calling the police.’ That’s usually a good time for lunch. On the bright side, a disgruntled mermaid with Broadway aspirations chased me across the parking lot and asked for a lift. Hit it off right away. And the sex!”
“You had mermaid sex?”
“Around the clock. Name was Crystal, like the river. Barely left the motel room for a week, but finally had to slow down when I started walking bowlegged. Then we broke up.”
“Why’d you break up with a mermaid?”
“Other way around. You know how women are? Mermaids are even worse. Started getting pissed that I always insisted she wear the costume to bed. Accused me of really being in love with it instead of her. I said, ‘Is that a problem?’ When chicks decide they’re leaving you, they really fly. At least I got to keep the suit.”
“Did you try it on?”
“Of course. How often do you get the chance? Except those things are pretty binding, and I had to cut a long slit in the tail to go shopping, but it turned out the stores didn’t want my business anyway.”
Onward. North.
Flea markets, RV parks, drive-through liquor barn, civil war reen-actment, sign beside a house selling Peg-Boards, direct-to-you outlets of preformed pools tipped up toward traffic. Sun umbrellas shaded roadside squatters hawking fresh produce, Tupelo honey, jumbo shrimp, salted mullet… Into Citrus County. Homosassa city limits. Serge jumped the curb and dashed into a visitors’ center.
Coleman ran after him. “Serge? Serge, where are you?…” Peeking through doors. “Serge?… There you are.” He looked around. “What is this place?”
A digital camera flashed nonstop. “The Florida Room at Homo-sassa Springs Wildlife State Park. Exhibit honoring my favorite artist, Winslow Homer.” Sprinting around the room, flash, flash, flash. “Painted these watercolors of local nature during vacation in 1904. And look! Here’s a page of the guest register he signed at the Homo-sassa Lodge!” Flash. “I could stay here forever! Back to the car!”
Farther north, Crystal River, swim-with-the-manatees country. Tour boats and dive specials and viewing platforms. Red-white-and-blue manatee statue in front of city hall.
“Coleman, did you know that hundreds of years ago, manatees were thought to be mermaids?”
“By who?”
“Pirates at sea too long.” Bang, bang, bang.
Coleman turned around. “I think the guy in the trunk wants something.”
“Gerbil dispensers are probably empty.”
MIAMI
People in smartly pressed suits came and went through a high-security gate.
Inside the utilitarian government building, an anthill of movement and efficient activity. Phones rang, reports filed.
CNN was on. A repeat of the breaking story on the missing college student found alive in Massachusetts.
A case agent named Ramirez looked up at the TV.
Patrick McKenna’s face filled the screen.
“… I don’t feel like a hero…”
Agent Ramirez closed his eyes. “Oh, no.”
NORTH FLORIDA
A ’73 Challenger entered Levy County.
The tiny hamlet of Inglis. REDUCED S PEED A HEAD. Serge tried to time a stoplight but lost.
He punched the steering wheel. “Life drains from my body at red lights!”
Coleman popped a can. “I use them to drink beer. Green lights, too.”
“Come on! Come on!…” He began unscrewing a thermos. “Hold the phone. I can’t believe it!”
“What?”
Serge pointed up next to the traffic light, where a green-and-white sign marked the cross street.
Coleman squinted. “Follow That Dream Parkway?”
“It’s a sign.”
“Yeah, metal. See them all over the roads.”
“No, I mean a religious one. God wanted that light to turn red, like a burning bush. From now on, I’ll never question the apparitions of the red lights.”
“What are you going to do?”