“And yet we’re still not manufacturing anything you can hold in your hands,” said Serge. “There’s your downfall of a global superpower. When space aliens visit centuries from now, they’ll whisk the dust away and conclude that America was dominated by a race of tiny-thumbed people who drove badly.”
“We’re not?”
“You may have a point,” said Serge. “And think about this: the simultaneous rise of texting and car insurance. Coincidence?”
“Last night’s episode of
“Those
“Yow! Watch out!” Coleman lunged and grabbed Serge’s arms in an attempt to take over the steering wheel. The Firebird swerved across the lane. “Don’t you see it!”
“Coleman, get your fucking hands off me!” Serge swatted the arms away. “You almost made us crash. What’s gotten into you?”
He grabbed his chest. “You almost hit that weird beast in the road!”
“Coleman, it was a hooker.” Serge looked sideways with an odd expression. “And she’d already made it through the crosswalk.”
“You sure it was a hooker?”
“No question,” said Serge. “We’ve lived in Florida long enough that you should be able to identify them now without flash cards.”
“It must have been the snakes coming out of her head,” said Coleman. “That means it’s kicking in.”
“Why? What did you take?”
“I don’t remember,” said Coleman. “But it must have been good shit. That’s a sign of good shit: You don’t remember taking it and then see monsters and almost crash.”
Serge stared at him with scorn, then faced forward. “We need to buy insurance.”
“More head-snakes,” said Coleman, face pasted to his passenger window. “Where are we?”
The Trans Am raced due south on a major artery. They passed an open-air drug supermarket with handshake exchanges of bindles and cash, then pawn and beauty-product shops with door buzzers and baseball bats under the counters, a run-down motel full of police cars responding to aggravated domestic violence and an escaped monkey that had been in the news. More prostitutes, guys drinking from brown bags, shopping-cart pushers, slumped-over bus bench urchins, and run-on-sentence conspiracy preachers. The intersection people beckoned drivers at red lights to roll down windows for one-dollar flowers, bottled water and an underground newspaper written by hand. The area had become so notoriously sketchy that civic leaders snapped into action and fixed everything by installing new rows of expensive, decorative light posts.
“I absolutely love Orange Blossom Trail,” said Serge. “Also known as OBT and south Orlando’s red-light district, but that’s a bit judgmental.”
“Two dudes are having a sword fight with broken-off car antennas.”
“Ooo! Look, look!” yelled Serge. “They put up those supercool new light poles that tell people they’re in the wrong part of town.”
“The poles are bending toward the car and growling.” Coleman nodded. “Good shit.”
“I always seek out those poles,” said Serge. “They steer you to interesting new friends . . . Like this guy.”
A light turned red. The Firebird stopped. A bearded man on the curb made a rolling-down motion with his hand. Serge cranked the glass open. “What’s the good word, my fine fellow statesman?”
“Can I have a dollar?”
“Sure thing.” Serge uncrinkled a George Washington from his wallet and passed it out the window.
“Appreciate it.”
“Hey, wait,” said Serge. “Where’s my underground newspaper? I saw you give one to that other driver.”
“It was my last. Actually my only. Handwritten. That way no stray copies can fall into the wrong laps. That’s how they got Charlie.”
“Serge,” said Coleman. “The light turned green . . . I think.”
“Let ’em go around.” Serge hit his blinking hazards and turned back to the man. “Then what else do you have?”
“Let’s see.” The man reached in his back pocket with a quizzical expression. He removed a wad of paper. “Oh, yeah. I drew this last night.”
Serge took it through the window. Coleman looked at the page, then screamed and flattened himself against the passenger door. “Swarms of locusts with scorpion tails, people’s intestines sliced out, nuns with wooden rulers . . .” Quietly weeping in his hands now. “Serge, please make this stuff wear off.”
“It’s not the drug you took,” said Serge. “He really did draw this . . .” Then at the man: “And not too bad, if I do say so. What’s it represent? The Apocalypse from Revelation?”
“No, I was just doodling in the hardware store up the street.” The man wiped his brow. “They have air-conditioning. I get some of my best inspiration in there.”
