“Because of what he did to all of you. He was an embarrassment to my gender.”
The train lurched a final time, sliding the last twenty feet into the shallow swamp, tumbling everyone and rupturing a hole in the side of the car. Serge went headfirst into the wall. The BBB ran to help him up.
“Serge, are you okay?” asked Sam.
“Who?”
“Serge. That’s your name.”
“I don’t know any Serge.”
They began to hear helicopters.
“Look at that knot on his forehead,” said Teresa. “He really conked himself.”
“Serge,” said Sam. “Do you know who I am?”
Serge stood up and shook his head.
“We better get that looked at,” said Maria.
“You must have the wrong person,” said Serge.
The helicopters got louder and louder. Then thuds on the top of the car as a National Guard rescue team rappelled down.
Voices outside. “Hold on! We’ll have you out in a second.”
Rebecca touched Serge’s arm. “You need to sit down.”
“Really, you’ve got me mixed up with someone else,” said Serge, warily backing away from the women. “It’s been nice talking to you, but I have to be going.” And with that, Serge jumped through the ruptured side of the dining car.
“Serge!”
But Serge kept going, deeper and deeper into the swamp.
EPILOGUE
A Greyhound bus cruised down the Florida Keys on a perfect cloudless day. The ride was comfortable on the Overseas Highway. The bus had plenty of air-conditioning, the tinted windows kept out the heat and bright light, and the insulated diesel provided a soothing, rhythmic amniotic hum.
The wino thought the passenger sitting next to him was nice enough, but he sure was different, even by wino standards.
Click, click, click, click.
The passenger lowered his camera from the window. “Excellent day for photography. The polarized filter is giving me killer stuff.”
The wino offered a bottle. “Night Train?”
“No, thanks…. Hey! There’s the Grassy Key Dairy Bar!” The passenger raised his camera again. Click, click, click, click, click. He lowered it. “The Overseas Railroad has been gone many a year, but the concrete arches remain. You can see them at Long Key and elsewhere, still going strong after a century of Florida hurricanes, outliving the critics and their worst predictions for Flagler’s Folly. The trains only ran for twenty-three years, from 1912 to 1935, until an unnamed hurricane dropped a curtain on the works. Then they slapped roads down and built new spans to accommodate more lanes. And now, if you book Amtrak to Key West, you have to get off the train in Miami and take a bus the rest of the way. But imagine what it was like for just a brief period in history. You drive a car over the bridges today, and you sit low on wide bridges with tall railings. But back then, you sat high up in the train, perched naked on the narrow rails with nothing on the sides, just a wide-open view of the sea all around. How precarious and exciting it must have been!…Ooooo, there’s the Brass Monkey Lounge!” Click, click, click.
The wino began to stand, but Serge grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back down. “You know, the closest you can get today to that Overseas Railroad experience is what we’re doing right now: riding the Greyhound, way up high, the illusion of no guardrails.” Click, click, click. “Did you know that?”
The wino indicated he hadn’t considered it.
“It’s true,” said Serge. “The place we’re in now is called Marathon. And that’s the Seven-Mile Bridge coming up. The view is spectacular — better than any mind-altering drugs. I should know. They keep trying to get me to take them, but I just tell them,
The wino got up again before Serge could stop him and went up front and told the driver he would like to get off now.
“Hey, where are you going? I didn’t tell you how it got the name Marathon yet!…It’s because of how long it was taking them to build the…oh, well…
The driver walked toward the rear of the bus and looked the man over with concern. The passenger’s eyes were unfocused, staring.
“Hey, buddy. You okay?”
Serge nodded.
“We’re here. We made it to Key West.”
“I know,” said Serge.
“Will you get off my bus, already?”
A red Jaguar convertible pulled up the drive of the historic Biltmore Hotel in Coral Gables. A valet in white shorts ran around to the driver’s side and opened the door for Samantha Bridges.
A red BMW convertible pulled up behind the Jag; Teresa Wellcraft got out. Then a red Mercedes convertible, a red Audi and a red 1962 Corvette. Rebecca Shoals, Maria Conchita and Paige Turner.
