Serge popped back up. “And then you’re fuckin’ dead! What kind of life is that?” Serge faced forward and nodded. “This is where I come in. I’ll give people the momentary illusion of escaping adulthood, for a fee. The market’s ripe: Everyone’s become obsessed with maturity….”
A gold ’71 Buick Riviera drove past the parked Greyhound, Coleman hitting the nub of a joint and humming in falsetto:
Coleman reached under his seat, locating a loose beer and an empty convenience-store collector’s cup promoting the Harry Potter industrial complex. He poured the beer in the cup so he could sip while driving, nobody the wiser, instead of having to hunch over and sneak with a can, because that would be dangerous.
The Buick passed a row of fiery poincianas down the median on Key Largo, then countless red and white dive flags, coral-reef murals, concrete angelfish, big plaster shark jaws for tourists to pose inside, a fish-basket restaurant with stone patio tables out front from a pool store, the famous Caribbean Club, the famous
“Let’s go get high,” said Mr. Blinky.
“Fuckin’ A,” said Uncle Inappropriate.
The clowns went behind some propane tanks as a Greyhound bus drove by in the background, the last window open, a man strumming his guitar.
SERGE STOPPED PLAYING his guitar and faced the bum. “It first hit me when I was eating dinner in Margaritaville. I had ordered the Cheeseburger in Paradise. Figured it had to be the best cheeseburger in the world if Buffett was involved. You know what? The fucking thing was inedible, a gray Keds sole. And as far as accuracy, get this: no pickle. There’s a pickle in every refrain in that song. I’ve heard it a thousand times. But was there one with my cheeseburger? They’re betting on us not noticing. Well, they bet wrong!…”
The bum began standing. “I’d like to get off—”
Serge pushed down on his shoulder. “…The waitress comes by, and I’m looking under my plate. She asks if everything is okay. I say, ‘There’s no pickle.’ I turn the burger vertical, going through it like a wallet, and the waitress says it doesn’t come with a pickle. I stop and look up. ‘Yes, it does.’ She says there’s no mention in the menu. I say I know what the menu says; lyrics overrule. Then we started yelling. Actually it was just me. Suddenly, there goes the table. Guess who they blame? So now these four beefy guys in festive shirts are dragging me toward the front door, and I’m screaming at the other customers: ‘Call Jimmy! Somebody call Jimmy!’ I land on my back on the sidewalk, and the cheeseburger patty hits me in the chest and they throw the buns and everything at me, just an ugly scene…. I have to tell you, somewhere along the line, something has gone horribly wrong in Margaritaville….”
Vehicles flew by Serge’s window. Jeep Grand Cherokee, metallic green Trans Am, brown Plymouth Duster, over the Marvin D. Adams cut, Tavernier Creek, Snake Creek, the Whale Harbor bridge, into Islamorada, the scuba industry giving way to rows of offshore charter boats at marinas with stuffed marlin and sea bass and hammerheads hanging from trophy hooks facing the road. A ’71 Buick Riviera chugged past Paradise Pawn and a motel with a faux lighthouse, then another bus shelter and the pulled-over Greyhound that Coleman had been leapfrogging the last thirty miles. The views from the bridges began opening up, and Coleman grooved on the scenery. The Long Key Viaduct was particularly inspiring, especially on the Gulf Stream side, so Coleman hit his blinker and cut into the left lane for a closer look over the top of the parallel bridge span heading the other way. Yes, sir, this is living. He smiled and hit his joint.
