“Because you guys are cool. You’re not afraid of anything.” Nicole looked out across the passing water. “And my dad is, you know, a little on the wimpy side.”
Serge hit the brakes with both feet. A long, tire-screeching stop at the top of the bridge. He turned to Nicole with a mask of rage she had never seen before. “Jim is not wimpy!”
Nicole retreated as far as she could and sank against the passenger door.
“Your dad is one of the most courageous people I know! You think guns and liquor and dope and an excellent car is cool? Well, it is. But your dad has chosen to take on responsibilities I could never dream of…”
Car horns blared behind them. Coleman stuck his arm out the window with a beer in his hand, waving in a “go around” motion.
“… There’s a war against women going on!” yelled Serge. “Not political. Just men. And your dad has dedicated his life to protect you and your mother from all of them. Next to that, I’m the wimp!
… Do… you… understand… little… girl!”
“Okay, okay, yes. Jesus, I didn’t realize you two were so close.”
“He’s my hero. I want to be just like him.”
“Really?”
Serge nodded. “Sorry about freaking you out there for a minute, but I’m sensitive about this.”
Nicole’s breathing was coming back down. “No biggie.”
“I’ll make you a deal,” said Serge. “Jim needs your help and love in his struggle. Do me a favor and show him respect.”
“Why not?”
“That’s better.”
“But you said a deal,” countered Nicole. “What do I get?”
“Back at the house, I heard something about you wanting a tattoo?”
“Oh man, my mom will really hate you.”
“No, she won’t. I know how to handle women like her.” Serge hit the gas again. “You leave that to me.”
“I don’t think you really know my mom. She’ll go ape.”
“It’s all about the art of conflict. Most people go in headfirst.” Serge made a skirting gesture with his right hand. “Whereas I outflank.”
“You’re going to sneak up on my mom?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Serge took another swig from his coffee thermos. “Give you an example: the Positive Protest.”
“Positive?”
“Say you’ve got some kind of protest group that wants concessions from the powers that be. But the conflict is going nowhere. So the only option is to take to the streets, creating a massive public disturbance of anarchy that brings the city to its knees. Except for some reason, the city is the only one with a riot squad. Don’t ask why, it’s just the way they set it up at the beginning. And they come storming in with shields and helmets and batons, sweeping you off the pavement like autumn leaves.”
“I’ve seen it on TV.”
“That’s where they all go wrong. If I was in charge of the mob, I’d stage a Positive Protest. And when the shock troops start goose-stepping in with the tear gas, you begin waving signs and yelling slogans demanding higher police salaries. Then their bullhorns blare for you to disperse, and you say you totally agree with what they’re asking, and it’s a shame that the people who have to make you disperse don’t receive better benefits and pensions-and that your group will vote en masse for any politician who jacks up their compensation. The riot team can do nothing but stand mute. I’m dying to try it out! Except I don’t have a cause yet… I could always phone in my grievances later…”
“What’s that got to do with my tattoo?”
“You’ll see when we get there.” Serge passed the dog track and pulled into a strip mall. “Because of your age, you’ll need parental consent. That’s me; they never check. Plus I know this guy.”
“Wow, you’re really going to help me get a tattoo. That’s so cool.”
The front door opened.
Martha came racing out of the kitchen. “Where on earth have you been?”
“Out.” Nicole walked by with a sullen expression.
“I want more of an answer than that,” said Martha. “Did they hurt you?”
“Don’t be lame.”
As Nicole left the living room, Martha happened to glance down below the small of her daughter’s back. A tiny bit of ink peeked out above the waistband of her shorts. An audible gasp. “A tattoo!.. Jim, come quick; it’s Nicole! It’s an emergency!”
Jim ran out of the den. “What’s the matter? Is she okay?”
“She got a tattoo.”
“I thought she needed parental permission to get one.”
“She’s got one.”
“What is it?”
“Does it matter?” Martha stomped down the hall to a closed bedroom door. She tried the knob. Locked. Pounded with fists. “Open the door this instant! You’re in so much trouble!”
The door didn’t open. Thumping rock music inside. Joan Jett.
“… Hello Daddy, hello Mom, I’m your ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb …”
Martha turned. “Jim?”
“What? Kick the door in?”
“No, get a key.” Martha kept pounding.
“Where’s the key?”
“I don’t know.” More pounding. “Try the junk drawer.”
“I’ll go look.”
Before he could leave, the door opened. “What’s all the racket out here?”
“… Don’t give a damn ’bout my bad reputation…”
“You got a tattoo!”
“So?”
“We forbid you! And we didn’t give any permission!”
Nicole shrugged. “Serge got it for me. He’s really cool.”
“Serge!” snapped Martha. She began strangling something invisible in midair. “I’ll kill him. He disfigured our daughter!”
“You’re such a drama queen,” said Nicole.
“Turn around immediately!” said Martha. “I want to see what that monster did to you!”
“No!”
Martha looked sideways. “Jim!”
“Nicole,” said her father. “Turn around.”
The teen opened her mouth. But then remembered her promise to Serge. “Okay, Dad.”
She turned around, lifting her shirt and pulling the waistband down an inch.
The parents leaned in for a close inspection.
There it was, just below the tan line. A word in feminine cursive script:
Family.
Nicole dropped her shirt and turned around to face them again. “Satisfied?”
Her parents stood mute.
“Serge also told me to be more grateful for you guys. Whatever.”
Nicole went back in her room and closed the door.
Chapter Five
Coleman burped. “Look at this line.” He stuck his head around the side in an attempt to see the front. “It’s like Disney.”
“Maybe longer,” said Serge, licking a stamp.
“We drove like forever to get here, and now… where are we? This is the middle of nowhere.”
“Twenty miles east of Orlando to be exact.”
Coleman strained his neck for a view of the counter. “But what’s the point?”
“Because Florida doesn’t get snow, we have a chronic inferiority complex when it comes to Christmas.” Serge handed Coleman a stamp. “So we overcompensate: Santa Claus on water skis, on Jet Skis, on surfboards, Christmas cards with barefoot Santas in beach chairs drinking beer, inflatable snowmen, reindeer in tropical shirts, town celebrations where they bring in special machines that shred ice and blow out fake snow that melts immediately and makes the children cry
… But this place just might be the weirdest.”
“What is it?”
“The post office in the city of Christmas, Florida, where thousands descend each year to get their holiday cards postmarked. It’s the best tradition we got, so fuck it, I’m rodeo-riding this cultural mutation.”
“Why’s it called Christmas?” Coleman licked his own stamp. “They have a big celebration way back or something?”
“No,” said Serge. “On the twenty-fifth of December, 1837, they began construction of Fort Christmas to fight the Second Seminole War. Nothing says the ‘Prince of Peace’ like a military installation.”
“Who are we mailing your card to?”
“Me,” said Serge. “It’s got a bitchin’ cool Florida postmark. I tried to think who might appreciate it more but drew a blank.”