“Welcome! Welcome!” The realtor pumped Jim’s hand, then Martha’s. “Gonna love it here in Florida. Couldn’t live anywhere else!”
Jim went out on the lawn and triumphantly pulled up the For Sale / Sold! sign.
A boy on a skateboard stopped at the end of the driveway. “You bought a house on this street?”
The realtor grabbed Jim by the arm. “Let’s go inside.”
“What did that kid mean?”
“Guess what!” said the realtor. “The cable’s already hooked up!”
Despite the serene surface appearance of the street, there was an unexpected amount of drama on Triggerfish Lane. Much came from the juxtaposition of family homes with mortgages and rental houses with itinerants.
For instance, across the street from the Davenports, a rental sign had recently been pulled up from the lawn by a tall, wiry man accompanied by a shorter, plump companion. Serge and Coleman, the ultimate odd couple. And fugitives.
Coleman wasn’t the brightest bulb but was otherwise normal, except for his unabated substance intake that left him uniformly blunt and inert at all hours. Conversely, Serge was highly intelligent. And criminally insane. Part of his mental illness was the contradiction of possessing a rigid moral code, and some of his most heinous acts were the result of the noblest of intentions. Complicating matters was his consuming curiosity and savant penchant for improvised mechanics dating back to childhood. More than once, his elementary school science projects prompted responses from the local fire department. Psychiatrists believed Serge could lead a virtually normal existence with daily cocktails of mind-numbing medication, which he refused to take because it made him too foggy to seize every day for maximum value.
And there lay the pair’s combustible dynamic: Coleman wouldn’t stop taking drugs, and Serge wouldn’t start.
Weeks passed after they moved in, much of their time spent relaxing on the front porch, respectively consuming sparkling water and whiskey. And watching their neighbors across the street.
One evening the Davenports stepped onto their front porch and Jim cheerfully waved across the street.
“What are you doing?” asked Martha.
“Waving.”
“Why?”
“Because he waved at me,” said Jim. “It’s only neighborly.”
“Jim! There’s something seriously wrong with them!” said Martha. “The fat one is always wasted, and the other one is just weird!”
“You’re imagining things,” said her husband.
Across the street, Serge was showing Coleman a National Geographic article about a tribe in Africa. “Check out how they make their necks really long with metal neck coils.”
Coleman popped another beer. “We should get some neck coils.”
“I have an idea.”
They walked over to the hedge and Serge pulled out a long garden hose, the collapsible flat kind full of pinholes that inflates with water to irrigate flower beds. Serge started wrapping it around his neck. “Okay. When I give the signal, turn on the water, and I’ll have neck coils.”
“Right,” said Coleman, pushing his way through the hedge to the faucet.
“You’re overreacting,” Jim told Martha.
“Those men are deranged!”
“Maybe they’re just simple,” said Jim. “Wouldn’t you feel bad if you found out that was the case and you’d been talking like this?”
“They’re not retarded! They’re dangerous!”
Jim and Martha heard something across the street. Serge was flopping around the front yard, turning blue and fighting a garden hose wrapped around his throat like an anaconda. Coleman thrashed drunkenly in the bushes, trying to turn off the water.
Coleman finally cut the pressure, and the hose deflated. Serge unwrapped his neck and sat up, panting.
Jim turned to Martha. “I don’t think you’re supposed to use the word retarded anymore. It’s offensive or something.”
Coleman pointed across the street. “Are the Davenports looking at us?”
“Yeah, they are.” Serge smiled and waved again.
Jim waved back again.
“Will you stop that!” said Martha.
Serge rubbed his neck. “Another close call. I think God is trying to tell me something.”
“Like what?”
“I think I’m going to try going straight.”
“You?” Coleman laughed. “That’s a hoot!”
“I’m serious.”
“What brought this on?”
“We’ve been staying here a few weeks now, and I’ve been watching Jim over there. I’ve decided to pattern my life after him.”
“You mean that wimp who never does anything?”
“Don’t you dare call him a wimp!” said Serge. “His gig may look mild from our perspective, but talk about living on the edge. Guys like him never get any glory. They’ve just quietly put away childish things to face the relentless adult responsibility of taking care of their children. We’ve been in a lot of close scrapes over the years. Car chases, knives, gunfire. But I think I’d crack under the kind of pressure Jim deals with every day. He’s kind of become my hero.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
A week later, a ’76 Laguna with chrome hubs screeched up in front of the Davenport residence. A young Debbie Davenport and the shirtless driver got out and kissed.
“Hey,” Jim yelled at the driver, “I want to talk to you!”
Jim ran down from the porch as fast as he could, but the Laguna took off again. Jim stood in the middle of the street, in the middle of swirling worry.
Suddenly, a voice from behind: “You’re Jim, right?”
Jim spun around. “Uh, yeah.”
“We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Serge.” He extended a hand to shake. “You’re like my hero.”
“What?”
Serge nodded hard. “The brutal stress you constantly face. And I think I just witnessed some of it. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
Serge wrapped a consoling arm around Jim’s shoulder. “Come on, you can tell me. We’re neighbors after all. It’s about the fabric of the community! So my new hero buddy, what’s burdening your soul?”
“It’s just my daughter Debbie.”
“Yeah, I saw her get out of the car and go in the house,” said Serge. “How old is she now? Sixteen?”
“Next month,” said Jim.
“Then that guy in the car is way too old for her.”
“I know. I’ve forbidden her to see him, but she’s rebelling. I need to strike the right balance of discipline or risk damaging our relationship.”
“Then attack the problem from the other end,” said Serge. “Just leave that guy to me. I have these friends and some baseball bats—”
“No. I have to handle it myself. I’m her father. I heard her talking on the phone with one of her friends. I think his name’s Scorpion. He’s twenty-two. And what was the deal with his underwear hanging out like that? Didn’t he realize it was showing?”
“I think that’s on purpose,” said Serge.
“Really? That’s what they’re doing these days?” Jim pointed toward Serge’s front yard, where Coleman was bending over to drink from the garden hose. “So your roommate does it on purpose too?”
Serge shook his head. “That’s not fashion. That’s congenital.”
Tires screeched in the distance. Serge and Coleman looked up the street. A ’76 Chevy Laguna tore around the corner and down Triggerfish Lane.
Serge stood up on the porch and yelled: “Hey! Slow down! Kids play around here!”