Coleman finished unwrapping the sandwich. “I thought our new job was visiting hotels to fill out checklists for that travel website.”
“And on every hotel listing, there’s a section called ‘local things to do.’”
“I’m not sure the websites want to send their customers under bridges at night in dicey parts of town.”
“That’s my offbeat niche: I give the people what they want before they know they want it.”
“But your new boss specifically said no more offbeat reports.”
“Everyone does what their bosses ask, and that’s precisely why you need to distinguish yourself from the herd.” Serge killed the coffee. “I stun them into paralyzed respect with my withering insubordination. First impressions are important.”
“They usually call security.”
“Because I made an impression.”
Coleman checked one of his pants pockets, then another. He pulled out his hand and raised the twisted corner of a Baggie to his eyes. “Where’d it all go? Did mice chew through here? Oh well …” He bent over.
“Thought you’d outgrown that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone now knows coke is fucked up. You had an excuse for a while, because our hypocritical government lost all credibility by lumping pot in with crack to court the weed-bigot vote. Meanwhile, congressmen crammed all orifices with huge wads of cash from tobacco and liquor lobbies. But who would have guessed they were actually right about that stupid white shit?”
Coleman raised his head and sniffled. “I just do a little bump now and then so I can stay up and keep drinking beer.”
“For a second I thought you weren’t being productive.”
Coleman’s head suddenly snapped to the side. He pointed out Serge’s window. “What was that?”
Serge turned. “What?”
“Something moved under the bridge.”
Serge returned to his notebook. “Nothing’s there. You’re hallucinating again.”
Coleman squinted a few more seconds, then shrugged. He stuck his tongue inside the empty bag and reached under the seat for another Schlitz. “We need to make some money.”
“That’s what I’m doing now.” Serge flipped a notebook page, stopped and tapped his chin with a pen. “I need travel-writing tunes.” He reached for his iPod, synched it with an RF transmitter to the Javelin’s radio and cranked the volume. “… Fly high, oh, Freebird, yeah!…”
Coleman rewrapped his tuna sandwich. “You’ve been listening to Skynyrd all day.”
“We’re in Jacksonville. I’m required to listen to Skynyrd.”
“Why? Skynyrd’s from Alabama.”
Serge began punching the steering wheel like a speed bag. “Everyone thinks they’re from Alabama! They’re Floridians! Apocryphal motherfuckers …”
“Okay, okay, they’re from Florida.” Coleman set a wax ball on the dashboard. “I don’t know this stuff like you.”
Serge pointed at the ball. “You’re messing up my horizon.”
“The sandwich is soggy.”
“Soggy’s better.”
“Fuck that shit.”
“Your little chestnuts complete my life.”
“So Skynyrd’s really from Florida?”
“Too many of our state’s native accomplishments are credited elsewhere. First Skynyrd and Alabama, then everyone thinks the Allman Brothers are from Georgia.”
“They’re not?”
“South Daytona Beach.” Serge flipped down the sun visor and gazed up at a photo attached with rubber bands.
“You sure keep looking at that picture a lot.”
“I think I’m in love for the first time in my life.”
Coleman leaned for a closer view of a smiling woman in a NASA pressure suit. “But it’s just that crazy astronaut.”
“So?”
“So she’s a basket case. Got obsessed with some rival babe, filled a tote bag with tools, and drove like twelve hours straight through the night to kidnap her at the Orlando airport.”
“Exactly.” Serge took the photo down and kissed it. “This chick’s focused.”
A dark form stepped out from behind a bridge pylon. It slowly approached the Javelin from the driver’s blind spot.
Coleman looked down at his lap. “Serge?”
“What?”
“I don’t want to wear a diaper anymore.”
“Then don’t drink so much beer. We always have to pull over while I’m doing research.”
“Ever since you heard of that batty astronaut-“
“Don’t talk about my woman!” Serge replaced the photo and flipped the visor back up. “Besides, if I can wear a diaper, so can you.”
“But why are you wearing a diaper?”
“Maturity,” said Serge. “I’ve always wanted to be an astronaut, but my psychiatrist taught me to accept things I cannot change.” He wiggled into the driver’s seat with a plastic crinkling sound, then looked out the window at the stars and smiled. “This may be the closest I get to going into space.”
INTERSTATE 10 CORRIDOR
Toby Keith on the juke. Expense-account martinis covered several cocktail tables that businessmen had pushed together in a smoky motel lounge called the Pirate’s Cove. The decor was saddles and spurs and branding irons. The sign remained a lasting testimony that pirates don’t sell drinks in north Florida, and cowboys don’t sell enough for a new sign.
Swinging saloon doors creaked; a familiar face rolled luggage into the cove.
“Steve! Get over here, we saved you a seat!”
“It’s now Sh-teve.”
“Sh-teve?”
