Three tables sat in the back of the hall by the service exit, the worst possible retail location. Behind them, Steve, Ted and Henry stood silent and idle in an unintentional line. Their tables supported a series of locked glass display cases that nobody was looking into. Mercury dimes, Indian-head pennies, Franklin half-dollars. The trio’s arms stayed firmly folded as they glared across the room at a cluster of customers gathered around prime real-estate tables near the entrance.
“Stamp-collecting fucks.”
“Look at ‘em all smug with their pussy first-day covers and upside-down airplane misprint cocksucking-“
“Shut up,” said Steve. “This is all your fault.”
“Why’s it my fault?”
“Those were supposed to be our tables,” said Steve. “How’d you let this happen?”
“They were there when I arrived.”
“The tables had reserved numbers.”
“They just grabbed ‘em.”
“And you let them?”
“Already had their supplies set up.”
“So shove those adhesive hinges up their ass!”
Ted looked at his watch. “Thought about lunch?”
“Cafeteria here stinks.”
“Your turn to make the takeout run. I’ll watch the dimes.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“What?”
“Don’t look now.”
A gloating man savored his stroll across the middle of the carpet. His tropical shirt had a pattern of airmail postage through the ages. He arrived at the tables and smiled. “I hear it’s Sh-teve now.”
Steve reluctantly returned a nod. “Gary.”
“When’s the nose bandage come off?”
Steve just stared.
Gary solemnly shook his head. “Terrible. Absolutely terrible. What’s happening to this country? That’s what I told the guys when I first heard. It was a woman, right?”
“You have any business here, or are we just wasting oxygen?”
“What’s the matter? I can’t come and say hello?”
“You just did, so why don’t you go-“
Gary looked down. “Nice threads.”
Steve winced. He knew he shouldn’t have worn his buffalo-nickel shirt.
“So,” said Gary. “How are nickels moving these days?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“You’ve obviously been out of the loop. We don’t do buffalo nickels anymore. But I guess they didn’t get the word to you over in pretend collecting land.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think you know what it means.” Steve walked out from behind the tables.
Gary stepped up to his face. “Why don’t you tell me what it means?”
Dugouts cleared. The rest of the coin and stamp vendors poured in from around the hall, encircling the two.
“Maybe I will tell you.”
“Then tell me.”
“Make me.”
“What if I don’t feel like it?”
“I’ll bet you jerk off in that stamp shirt, don’t you?”
“Motherfucker!”
Ted jumped between them. “Guys! Guys! …”
The glass facade of a massive downtown convention center sparkled in the midday Jacksonville sun. Two men approached the front entrance. The plumper one sipped a quart beer from a brown paper bag, and the taller read a computer printout: INTERNET JOB FAIR. Serge opened the door and stepped into air-conditioning.
“Whoa,” said Coleman. “Check the size of this place! I didn’t realize the Internet had so many work-at-home jobs.”
“Better than my wildest dreams,” said Serge. “We’re guaranteed to find super-high-paying gigs in a place this huge.”
They headed across the lobby for the main exhibit hall. A registration desk sat just inside. A woman dressed entirely in tight leather with shiny rivets looked up from a sea of carefully arranged name tags. “Can I help you?”
“More like, ‘Can I help you!” said Serge. “We’re ready to start immediately. I bring to the table alarming sleep patterns, world-class daydreams, an unwilting tolerance of lawn statuary, and sensible shoes. We’d like something in the six-figure range please.”
“I don’t… understand-“
“Our new jobs!” said Serge. “When I heard about your show, I told Coleman, ‘These are our kind of people!’ Not like the others who call police when the first little buffet table tips over on the outgoing president. Not my fault the water in those steam trays was too hot.”
“Sure you have the right show?”
“More than ever!” Serge energetically flapped his computer printout in the air. Then he stopped to appraise the woman’s leather ensemble and gothic tattoos crawling up her neck. He leaned forward, placing his palms on the edge of the desk. “Say, is this one of those porn sites where we have to install twenty-four/seven cameras throughout our house with no blind spots so fringe players can watch Coleman take a dump?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Internet Job Fair!”
“Internet?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard about it. Very big.”
“This isn’t the Internet Job Fair.”
“It isn’t?” Serge looked around the hall, velvet ropes surrounding dozens of stunning motorcycles. Gleaming chrome forks and gas tanks airbrushed with flames and winged skulls. First-place ribbons, gold trophies. He turned back around. “Then what strange existence is this?”
“Southeast Regional Chopper Expo.”
“I thought it was just the motorcycle section of the Internet.” He showed her his printout. “Says today’s date and the convention center.”
“It’s a big building. Maybe down at the other end.”
