A sign marking the Florida state line stood in the distance, along with the sudden appearance of palm trees growing in a precise grid. The official state welcome center rose like a mirage through heat waves off the highway. Cars accelerated for the oasis with the runaway anticipation of traffic approaching a Kuwaiti checkpoint on the border with Iraq.
They pulled into the hospitality center’s angled parking slots; doors opened and children jumped out and ran around the grass in the aimless, energetic circles for which they are known. Parents stretched and rounded up staggering amounts of trash and headed for garbage bins. A large Wisconsin family in tank tops sat at a picnic table eating bologna sandwiches and generic cheese doodles so they could afford a thousand-dollar day at Disney. A crack team of state workers arrived at the curb in an unmarked van and began pressure-washing some kind of human fluid off the sidewalk. A stray ribbon of police tape blew across the pavement.
The Aerostar parked near the vending machines, in front of the No Nighttime Security sign.
“Who needs to go to the bathroom?” asked Jim.
Eight-year-old Melvin put down his mutant action figures and raised a hand.
Sitting next to him with folded arms and a dour outlook was Debbie Davenport, a month shy of sweet sixteen, totally disgusted to be in a minivan. She was also disgusted with the name Debbie. Prior to the trip she had informed her parents that from now on she would only go by “Drusilla.”
“Debbie, you need to use the restroom?”
No reply.
Martha got out a bottle for one-year-old Nicole, cooing in her safety seat, and Jim and little Melvin headed for the building.
Outside the restrooms, a restless crowd gathered in front of an eight-foot laminated map of Florida, unable to accept that they were still hundreds of miles from the nearest theme park. They would become even more bitter when they pulled away from the welcome center and the artificial grove of palms gave way to hours of scrubland and billboards for topless donut shops.
Jim bought newspapers and coffee. Martha took over the driving and pulled back on I-75. Jim unfolded one of the papers and read aloud: “Authorities have discovered a tourist from Finland who lost his luggage, passport, all his money and ID, and was stranded for eight weeks at Miami International Airport.”
“Eight weeks?” said Martha. “How did he take baths?”
“Wet paper towels in the restrooms.”
“Where did he sleep?”
“Chairs at different gates each night.”
“What did he eat?”
“Bagels from the American Airlines Admirals Club.”
“How did he get in the Admirals Club if he didn’t have ID?”
“Doesn’t say.”
“If he went to all that trouble, he probably could have gotten some kind of help from the airline. I can’t believe nobody noticed him.”
“I think that’s the point of the story.”
“What happened?”
“Kicked him out. He was last seen living at Fort Lauderdale International.”
The Aerostar passed a group of police officers on the side of the highway, slowly walking eight abreast looking for something in the weeds. Jim turned the page. “They’ve cleared the comedian Gallagher in the Tamiami Strangler case.”
“Is that a real newspaper?”
Jim turned back to the front page and pointed at the top. Tampa Tribune.
Martha rolled her eyes.
“Says they released an artist’s sketch. Bald with mustache and long hair on the sides. Police got hundreds of calls that it looked like Gallagher. But they checked his tour schedule — he was out of state the nights of the murders.”
“They actually checked him out?”
“They also checked out Gallagher’s brother.”
Martha looked at Jim, then back at the road.
“After clearing Gallagher, they got a tip that he has a brother who looks just like him and smashes watermelons on a circuit of low-grade comedy clubs under the name Gallagher II. But he was out of town as well.”
“I hope I don’t regret this move,” said Martha.
Jim put his hand on hers. “You’re going to love Tampa.”
Jim Davenport had never planned on moving to Tampa, or even Florida for that matter. Everything he knew about the state came from the Best Places to Live in America magazine that now sat on the Aerostar’s dashboard. Right there on page seventeen, across from the feature on the joy of Vermont’s covered bridges, was the now famous annual ranking of the finest cities in the US of A to raise a family. And coming in at number three with a bullet — just below Seattle and San Francisco — was the shocker on the list. Rocketing up from last year’s 497th position: Tampa, Florida. When the magazine hit the stands, champagne corks flew in the Chamber of Commerce. The mayor called a press conference, and the city quickly threw together a band and fireworks show at the riverfront park; the news was so big it even caused some people to get laid.
Nobody knew it was all a mistake. The magazine had recently been acquired by a German media conglomerate, which purchased the latest spelling and grammar — check software and dismissed its editors and writers, replacing them with distracted high school students listening to music on headphones. The tabular charts on the new software had baffled a student with green hair, who inadvertently moved all of Tampa’s crime statistics a decimal point to the left.
The Davenports got off the expressway and Jim threw a quarter in the automatic toll booth, but the red light didn’t change. He drove through. A wino scurried from the underbrush and pulled a quarter out of the plastic basket, where he’d stuffed a rag in the coin hole.
The family van headed into south Tampa. None of them had seen their new home yet, except in pictures. The deal was prearranged and underwritten by Jim’s company, an expanding Indiana consulting firm that had asked for volunteers to move to new branch offices in Phoenix, San Antonio, and Tampa. Long lines formed for Arizona and Texas. Jim wondered why he was all alone at the Florida desk.
Jim checked street signs as the van rolled down Dale Mabry Highway. “I think we’re getting close.”
Anticipation built. Everyone’s faces were at the windows. Antique malls, dry cleaners, Little League fields, 7-Elevens. Just like neighborhoods everywhere, but with lots of palm trees and azaleas.
Jim made a right. Almost there. Martha liked the sound of the street names. Barracuda Trail, Man O’War Terrace, Coral Circle. When they got to Triggerfish Lane, Jim made a left. Their mouths fell open.
Paradise.
The sun was high, the sky clear, and children played catch and rode bikes in the street. And the colors! Lush gardens and hedges, bright but tasteful pastel paint schemes. Teal, turquoise, pink, peach. The houses started at the bayfront and unfolded chronologically as development had pushed inland. Clapboard bungalows from the twenties, Mediterranean stuccos from the thirties and forties, classic ranch houses of the fifties and sixties. It used to be a consistent architectural flow, but real estate in south Tampa had become so white-hot that anything under two thousand square feet was bulldozed to make way for three-story trophy homes that now towered outside both windows of the Aerostar. Half the places had decorative silk flags hanging over the brass mailboxes. Florida Gators flags and FSU Seminole flags. Flags with sunflowers and golf clubs and sailfish and horses. Jim pointed ahead at a light-ochre bungalow with white trim. A restoration award flag hung from the wraparound porch.
“There she is.”
Martha’s eyes popped with elation, and she spontaneously hugged Jim.
The moving truck was already unloading in the driveway when they pulled up in front of 888 Triggerfish. A grinning realtor stepped down from the porch and walked to the van carrying a jumbo welcome basket of citrus jams, butters, marmalades, and chewies, wrapped up in green cellophane.