“I’ve learned a lot about structuring my pitch.” Serge drove off the ferry. “Never lead with the tourist murder rate.”
INTERSTATE 10
Truckers downshifted as they took the cloverleaf off 1-75 just north of Lake City. The air had a burnt stink from the month-long forest fire in the Okefenokee Swamp that jumped the state line.
Dawn revealed a thick layer of smoke, which dropped visibility to a quarter-mile and would soon prompt officials to close the highway and tie up traffic back to Tallahassee. But not yet.
The sun continued its rise directly over the lanes for Jacksonville, the haze making it look more like a dim Alaskan morning. A young man behind the wheel of a cobalt-blue Volkswagen Beetle began another in a series of utterly content days. Because he was on the road in Florida. People called him Howard, because it was on his birth certificate.
Howard’s love of travel was advertised by the space-maximizing configuration of his car’s interior, which resembled a professionally organized closet: interlocking matrix of clear plastic bins and tubs and filing containers from Office Depot filled the entire backseat and cantilevered over the front passenger’s; zippered, easy-reach pouches hung everywhere from hooks and Velcro straps. Contents obsessively segregated: toiletries, clothes (clean, dirty, dirtier), car maintenance, all-purpose repair tool, kitchen including complete mini pantry, coffeemaker, micro-microwave and world-class collection of condiment packets from convenience stores squirreled away in see-though flyfishing tackle boxes. On the passenger seat sat an executive mobile organizer of maps, pamphlets, guidebooks, notepads, pens, receipts and backup sunglasses. Between the seats wedged a first-aid kit, and mounted over the dash was a quick-release fire extinguisher.
But the most important cargo was under the hood of the Beetle’s trademark front-end trunk: Howard’s product line.
A fast-moving high-pressure system had lifted most of the smoke by the time the Beetle rolled into downtown Cocoa Beach. A cell phone rang. He grabbed it from a hanging pocket.
“Good morning, Howard Enterprises … Oh, hi Mom … I was going to call… I’m not just saying that… Mom, we talked yesterday … I already have a job … It is a real job … Mom, I have to go. I’m in the middle of something … Traffic … No, the other cars aren’t more important than you … You asked me if I had a girlfriend yesterday … I know you liked Cathy … Mom, she broke up with me … I did try calling … a number of times … because she said ‘never call me again’… What do you mean, ‘Maybe if I didn’t cry .so much’? It was a tough time … I know she was sweet … And beautiful … And I’ll never find anyone else like her … Mom, I’ve been trying for months to stop thinking about her … You’ll call her? Oh, please!- … You already did? … I know her answering machine says, ‘If this is Howard, I’m dead.’ … Mom, I really have to hang up … I’ve got a call on the other line … No, I seriously doubt that it’s Cathy … I really have to hang up … Right, I’ll call… And visit… I don’t know when … Love you! Bye!”
The Beetle turned up a commercial driveway and pulled around the side of a convention center. It parked next to a propped-open service entrance that was a nexus of unloading activity.
Howard made the regular rounds of the expos, and nobody knew what to make of it. From the Panhandle to points south, Howard presented his wares with incandescent pride. And left at the end of the day with everything he’d arrived with. His credit cards were maxed. The Beetle needed new oil.
It was a business-model problem that could have been diagnosed over the phone. Howard signed up for expos that had nothing to do with what he was selling, because there were no such markets for his wares. Didn’t stop Howard. He’d just find a cheap table at any event that had surplus vendor space. So what if all the customers were there for baseball cards, lapidary supplies or Star Wars figures? He was on the road. He was happy.
The Javelin pulled off the highway and into the parking lot of a budget motel.
“Serge, why are we stopping here? I thought you needed to get to your job fair?”
“Need more travel research for my first report.” Serge got out of the car. “First rule of job interviews: always bring a work sample.” He headed for the lobby.
The whiskered motel manager had little to do since switching over from the bulletproof night checkin window and unlocking the front doors. He sat in the backroom, feet on the desk, reading a hot rod magazine with a centerfold. His free hand rustled through a bag of pork rinds. A sound from the front desk:
Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!…
He popped a final rind in his mouth and furled the centerfold. Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!…
The manager appeared from the backroom, wiping pork-rind dust on a T-shirt that appeared to have been tie-dyed in motor oil. “Can I help you?”
