Coleman drifted away from the second gathering and approached the edge of U.S. 1. People with cameras formed a line on the opposite side of the road. One had a picture-taking cell phone, beaming the action to his tax attorney in Buffalo. Coleman walked out into the traffic jam, picked up the armadillo, stuck it under his arm and headed home. The people on the side of the road lowered their cameras and became depressed. Cars began moving.
A HANDFUL OF regulars stood outside the No Name Pub, watching Serge jump up and down on a guitar. He crammed the pieces in a garbage can and dusted his hands. “Enough of that sad chapter.”
They went inside through a screen door. The day wore on. The last helicopter took off from the bridge. Traffic got back to normal on U.S. 1. Time slid into early afternoon, the hot hours when everything stops in back reaches of the islands. It was quiet outside the No Name.
The silence was broken by gravel crunching under car tires that rolled past the pub.
A white Mercedes with tinted windows.
Part Two
5
THE GANG HUNKERED atop tall stools. A stuffed bear in a Harley T-shirt hung from the ceiling. The bartender leaned across the counter toward Serge. She was flirting. “Ready for another?”
Sop Choppy drained a draft. “What was the deal with that guitar?”
“I’m reinventing myself.” Serge twisted the cap off a bottle of water. “Music was just a blind alley.”
A Jeep Grand Cherokee pulled up. College students came through the screen door. “We found it!” They grabbed a table in the middle of the room and began scribbling on dollar bills. “Bartender! Stapler!”
“Why reinvent yourself?” asked Sop Choppy.
“The trick to respect in this life is a robust turnover in acquaintances,” said Serge. “The Keys are the perfect place to hole up and create a new mystique.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because nobody down here is who they seem to be.”
“Nobody?”
A limo pulled up. Gaskin Fussels burst through the screen door. “Let the party begin!”
Sop Choppy’s head sagged. “Not that asshole again.”
“Did you say something?” asked Serge. He was rotating on his stool like radar, absorbing the contents of the pub, which originally opened as a pioneer trading post, complete with upstairs brothel. A living treasure chest of footnotes and contradictions. The No Name Pub is actually
Serge continued revolving and smiling. The interior was intimate and dark, the decor busy. Old life preserver, mounted deer head, street signs, license plates, framed photos, newspaper clippings, Midwest police patches. And dollar bills. Thousands. Inscribed by tourists. “Made it from Colt’s Neck, N.J.! Suzie.” The walls had long since been covered, and now hundreds of newer bills hung stapled to the ceiling by their ends, fluttering down in the breeze from the screen door and giving the already cave-like room the additional impression of bats. The bartop also met Serge’s approval, etched and worn from decades of rough living and ribald stories. If it was a person, it would be Keith Richards. Serge absolutely loved the No Name! He fidgeted and hopped off his stool. “I have to get the hell out of here.”
“See ya, Serge.”
The screen door slammed. Serge hoisted his knapsack and began walking up the street toward the water. It was an isolated stretch of road surrounded by unforgiving nature. Scorching, bright and still except for the electric buzz of crickets. Serge’s senses were keen, outlook superpositive. This was his favorite place on earth. He told himself to slow down to appreciate the moment, and he started walking faster to appreciate it sooner…. Photos. I need photos!
Serge set his knapsack on the ground and retrieved camera gear. He began walking briskly again, one eye closed, viewing the world through a zoom lens. Click, click, click…
A photo of each living thing he saw. “All life is sacred, even algae…. Oooh, nice flowers, pine hyacinth, turk’s cap…” Click, click, moving on to the insect family. “…Wood tick, spiny orb weaver…” Click, click. He noticed movement below on the street. “I’m in luck! A ghost crab!”
The crab skittered sideways across the pavement. Serge got down in a baseball catcher’s crouch with his camera, sidestepping with it. A pickup truck flew by. “Get out of the fuckin’ road, you imbecile!”
Serge kept his eye to the viewfinder. “Another soul out of tune with the life force.”
The crab stopped. Serge lowered himself with stealth until he was belly-flat on the road, aiming the camera like a sniper.
