Nothing oncoming for the first three miles. The sky went from dark to light blue, the world waking up. Coleman smelled salt. The sun finally broke, orange blotches of light flickering through breaks in the mangroves. Coleman popped nuts in his mouth. Formations of wading birds flew over the causeway. Then more birds on foot, vultures standing around overnight roadkill with the posture of guys loitering outside an adult video store. Every other mile: dead raccoon, dead snake, dead opossum, dead armadillo. Traffic began filling Coleman’s rearview, and he was soon being passed nonstop by convertibles and SUVs and rental cars. Coleman was always being passed because the Buick couldn’t go faster than fifty without vibrating like a paint shaker. Some of the other drivers leaned on their horns. Coleman didn’t pay no mind. He was one of the most carefree creatures you’d ever meet, which meant he was an enemy of the state. He finished his peanuts and tossed the empty bag on the dashboard, which had become one of those trash gardens you frequently see on the highway: crumpled burrito wrappers, smashed soda cups, napkins, matchbooks, lottery tickets, coffee stirrers, dead AA batteries, Gulf Oil road map of Arkansas, intact vending-machine Condom of Ultimate Optimism, still-folded litter bag. As new layers of garbage were added, the older ones compacted into the seam between the front of the dash and the tapering windshield, where you could trace Coleman’s downfall like a museum cross-section of an Indian shell mound. On the floor of the passenger side was a chewed pencil, an umbrella handle and a broken answering machine he’d found in a field. The AC didn’t work.
Mile Marker 108 went by. The Buick slowed as it struggled up the incline toward the bridge over Jewfish Creek, the official border between mainland Florida and the Keys. Coleman was passed in the left lane by a Greyhound bus with some kind of commotion in the backseat.
“Wake up! Wake up!” yelled Serge, shaking the bum. “You don’t want to miss this!”
The bum was having one of those fantastic drunk dreams, like if Georgia O’Keeffe did claymation of organic decomposition. “Wha—? What is it?”
Serge pulled him upright and pointed out the window. “There’s the bridge! We’re about to enter the Keys! It’s one of those relaxing little life pleasures you should get into.
The bus rattled across the metal grating of the drawbridge. Serge threw his arms in the air like he was on a roller coaster but remembered not to yell.
Then it was over. He smiled at the bum. “Like no other place on earth. Raw natural beauty, relentless freedom, unorthodox natives. A friend told me something else about the Keys I never forgot: Down here, nobody is who they seem to be. When people in other parts of the country want to reinvent themselves, they come to Florida. But when people in Florida want to reinvent themselves, they come to the Keys. That’s what I’m doing….”
They passed Overseas Insurance, Paradise Tattoo and a house trailer with a hand-painted sign on the side of the road. WANTED: GRAND PIANO OR LEGAL ADVICE.
Serge began strumming his guitar again. He stopped and silenced the strings with his hand. “Got a ground-floor opportunity for you.” He looked around to make sure nobody else was listening, then leaned closer. “I’m going to be the next Jimmy Buffett.” He winked. “Only better…” He resumed playing.
The bus pulled over at a roadside shelter. The bum started getting up. “This is my stop.”
Serge pulled him back down. “You need to
