TRAFFIC BEGAN SLOWING on U.S. 1. Soon it was backed up to Little Torch, Big Pine and all the way to Bahia Honda. Rubberneckers inched past the Chevron station on Ramrod Key. Others pulled off the road altogether and got out with cameras, snapping pictures of the armadillo on its back, holding a can of Budweiser to its mouth with rigid front claws.
The gas station clerk was too busy to notice. He’d hit the big red emergency shutoff button and placed fluorescent cones around the fuel slick, according to corporate training. He ran back inside and looked up the phone number for environmental recovery.
More vehicles pulled over. Business at the gas station picked up despite the closed pumps. College students jumped out of a Jeep Grand Cherokee and headed for the beverage cooler. A woman in a Hog’s Breath T-shirt stuck her head through the door. “Disposable cameras?”
The clerk was on the phone. He pointed at a Fuji display.
The students set cases of beer on the counter. “Bags of ice?”
The clerk pointed at the freezer next to them.
Then, the first of the wrecks, a nasty rear-ender next to a SLOW DOWN — ENDANGERED KEY DEER sign. Traffic was at a standstill by the time the students came out the door. So they walked the edge of the highway, took off their shirts and plopped down on the discarded sofa. The volume went up on a boom box. Van Halen’s “Beautiful Girls.” Sunscreen squirted onto chests.
COLEMAN WAS FAT and happy, sunk deep into his living room couch with bad springs that he had considered swapping for the one on the side of the road. He ate and drank and worked the remote control. Outside: sirens and helicopters. Coleman surfed past something on TV. He backed up a channel. Local newscast. Live feed from one of the overhead choppers.
“Hey, that’s my gas station.”
The airborne camera swept to the horizon, showing U.S. 1 at a standstill over endless islands and bridges. The picture panned back down to the filling station, where tiny college students drank and smoked on a little sofa. One of the youths tossed a cigarette over his shoulder.
Coleman’s head jerked back as a fireball exploded on TV, engulfing the Chevron pumps.
“Cool!”
THE GANG FROM the No Name Pub was down at the Bogie Channel bridge when the fireball cleared the trees in the distance.
“Wonder what that was,” said Sop Choppy, hair blowing as another helicopter took off from the bridge.
“Let’s get a drink,” said Bob.
They started walking back to the pub. A pink taxi came up the road from the opposite direction. The gang reached the bar as the cab pulled into the gravel parking lot. Serge got out of the backseat with his guitar case. He pulled cash from a pocket and leaned through the open passenger window. “Sure you won’t reconsider my offer? Ground-floor opportunity. I’m going to be the next Buffett.”
“Hey buddy, I got another fare….”
“Last chance,” said Serge, handing over money. “You wanna be a fuckin’ cabbie your whole life?…”
Serge and his guitar spun to the ground as the taxi took off.
COLEMAN SPENT THE rest of the morning taking on the shape of his couch. He had never watched one channel so long. People running all over the place at the gas station. A lone fire truck had somehow gotten through and foamed down the pumps. Coleman raised a can to his lips. Empty. He went to the fridge. Out. He pulled cushions off the sofa and collected coins.
Coleman walked three blocks to the charred gas pumps. Firemen folded hoses. Excited witnesses filled the parking lot, repeating stories for latecomers. Coleman went inside and grabbed another six from the cooler. He set it on the counter next to a windproof-lighter display showing a woman with a cigarette in a monsoon. Coleman fiddled with one of the lighters, broke the lid and set it back. He eventually realized nobody was coming. Out the front window, the clerk was giving a statement to a fire official with a clipboard. Coleman reached in his pocket and dumped coins on the glass counter. Pennies rolled off. He counted exact change for the sixer, including tax, which he knew from genetic memory.
Coleman pulled one of the cans off the ring and pushed open the front door. There were several clusters of people on the side of the road, each surrounding someone who said he “saw the whole thing.” Coleman walked up behind the nearest group, sticking his head between two people in back. “…Then this idiot drove off with the fuckin’ handle in his tank!…”
Coleman raised his face to the sky, chugging the rest of the beer. He popped another off the plastic ring and moseyed to the next group. The man in the middle was pointing at the road. “The armadillo committed suicide, an accident. I know all about this. They jump when startled. If they stayed put, they’d be fine, but instead they spring up and fracture their skulls under the cars. I’m from Texas.”
