Tiger Shrimp Tango полностью

“So she plugs it in and says it’s not defective. And I say, ‘Oh, it’s defective all right. It doesn’t meet my toast requirements.’ ” Slurp, slurp. “I need ‘fast’ toast with my coffee for today’s balls-out lifestyle . . . Oh, if that last phrase was offensive, I meant like juggling a lot of balls in a hectic schedule, as opposed to, say, my balls. Darn, I’m just making it worse. Anyway, I love toast, especially with runny yolk, but toast is like the last food left that you can’t microwave, even though I’ve tried with special homemade reflectors that they ‘say’ you’re not supposed to put in the microwave, but I wasn’t believing it . . .”

“Excuse me—”

“. . . Now I have to return a defective microwave, and they asked, ‘What the heck did you put in here? and I said, ‘Just toast and hope.’ And they wouldn’t give me my money back because of so-called misuse. But here’s the remedy for that scenario: If you approach ten employees in these stores, you get ten different answers. So I waited until they went on break and found someone else at the counter who was busy texting and gave me my refund, which I wanted even less than to vote right now . . .”

“Excuse me—”

“So if you don’t mind, I’d like to try someone else in this office for a different answer. What about that fat lady over there eating a bag of Funyuns? Maybe I’ll ask her.”

“Sir, I’m quite sure of this.”

“What about early voting? Or absentee voting? Or one of impenetrable ten-paragraph constitutional amendments on homestead ad valorem reform. I’m ready to be counted!”

“Sir, there aren’t any elections for weeks.”

Serge pouted and pooched out his lower lip.

The woman smiled warmly. “Why don’t you just register to vote for now, and then it’s taken care of and you’ll be ready to vote when the election does come?”

Serge slowly sat up straight. “Alllllll right. I guess that will have to do.”

“Good,” said the clerk, getting out the forms. “Do you want to register with one of the political parties so you can vote in the primaries?”

“Definitely,” said Serge.

“Which one?”

“Both.”

The woman looked up. “You can’t join both.”

“Why not?” asked Serge.

“That’s just the way it works.”

“Are you sure you don’t have to leave work early?”

“I’m positive you can’t be in both parties.”

“Can I register to vote twice?”

“No.”

“I’m not getting this,” said Serge. “You can have dual citizenship. Surely loyalty to a political party isn’t more important than the country.”

“Actually it is.”

“Let’s fix that.” He opened a notepad and scribbled.

“Why do you want to join both parties anyway?”

“Because each has some great ideas, as well as some that are quite stinkaroo.” Serge stuck the tube in his mouth again. “Why not harness the best that both have to offer so it’s morning in America again? I already did the math.”

“You sound like you mean well, but the parties’ rules don’t permit it.”

Serge raised a fist over his head. “That’s the whole problem! I have no issue with fellow citizens pushing opposing viewpoints as long as it doesn’t involve drum circles or long-term magazine subscriptions. In fact, I’ve changed so much over the years that now I disagree with most of the people I used to be. And I liked those guys, who were me. Where is that tube? Oh, it’s in my mouth.” Slurp, slurp, slurp. “My beef isn’t philosophical; it’s strategic. The parties want half of America to hate the other half so we’re distracted from their real game. ‘Look! Over there! Two dudes are making out!’ ‘Where? I don’t see anything . . . Hey, I’m upside down on my mortgage, and my retirement account just lost three fucking decimal places!’ ”

“Sir, your language.”

“I’m on it.” Slurp, slurp. “You do that long enough to people and there’s open insurrection in the streets until we’re Northern Ireland, spending entire lives cutting through fields of shamrocks so we don’t pass any parked cars. I have enough on my plate already.”

The county clerk saw a way out of the quicksand. “You do realize there’s no rule against volunteering for both parties.”

Serge stopped for a moment with his mouth open. Then he grabbed Coleman by the arm and ran out the door.

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Chapter Twelve

TROUBLES-VILLE

A rusty freighter sailed down the Miami River, destined for Jamaica and Hispaniola, where they delivered stolen electronics. Once empty, the freighter would buy stolen electronics and head back.

The small ship cruised under the Interstate 95 bridge. On one bank was a series of business endeavors that required barbed wire. Then a vacant lot with copulating dogs and a run-down two-store office building at 15 percent occupancy.