Serge grabbed the envelope. “‘Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence Grodnick.’ It’s got the address of your trailer. Did they used to live here?”
“I don’t know.”
Serge tore it open and unfolded the application. “Well, they live here now.” He pulled a pen from his pocket. “Let’s see, how much do the Grodnicks make a year?…” He looked up at the armadillo on top of the TV, then back down. “A hundred thousand dollars…”
“Don’t you need their social security number?”
“No, the pitch letter says it’s preapproved, lucky for them.”
Coleman popped a beer. “How long you been back in the Keys?”
“Just got into town. Can’t imagine my surprise when I heard your voice in that room…. What do the Grodnicks like to do in their spare time?…” He began checking boxes. “…Astronomy, aviation, coin collecting, horticulture, international travel, literature, mountain climbing, oil painting — Coleman, these people are well-rounded — photography, rap music, religious studies, water skiing and ‘other.’ We’ll fill that one in ‘alpaca stud farm’….”
“I’ve been going to the meetings a few months now,” said Coleman. “Those people are fucked up, but I can’t stop listening to the stories. It’s like talk shows where chicks pull each other’s hair. You know you shouldn’t be watching, but what are you gonna do? There’s this one guy at the meetings who keeps waking up in other people’s houses. He’s always getting loaded and going home with strangers. It’s not a sex thing. It’s just… I don’t know what it is. He’s woken up facedown in a pet-food bowl, another time his leg was in the oven, but it wasn’t on. Once he woke up in Mexico. There’s this other guy who comes each week with his face all scraped. You know the classic way drunks fall, landing gear up? Forgetting to put their arms out? That’s this guy….” Coleman clicked the TV remote. Local news.
“I’m going to need your help with something,” said Serge.
“Name it.” Coleman turned up the volume.
Serge began pacing in front of the couch. “The reason I came back to the Keys was to reinvent myself. At first I was going to be the next Jimmy Buffett.”
“Good choice.” Coleman fished a flat joint out of his wallet and lit it.
“Yeah, but you have to know music and all.” Serge stopped and faced Coleman. “I have a big announcement to make.”
“What is it?”
Serge smiled broadly. “I’m getting married.”
“Serge! Congratulations! That’s great!”
“I want you to be my best man.”
The TV switched to a downtown street scene.
Coleman reached under the couch and pulled out a clear plastic bag attached to a tube. He clenched the tube in the corner of his mouth and sucked.
“Morphine drip bag?” said Serge.
Coleman took the tube out of his mouth. “Security guard at the hospital owed me for some weed.”
“What’s right is right.”
“Who are you going to marry?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“Is this going to be one of those Dennis Rodman things where you wear a gown and marry yourself?”
“No, that’s weird. I’m going to find women in public places and study them from a distance with binoculars. That’s the only way to really get to know someone.”
“Why do you want to get married, anyway?”
“I’ve come to the conclusion men don’t do well as bachelors,” said Serge. “It’s like a state of arrested development.”
Coleman poured Cheetos in his lap and took the tube out of his mouth. “What do you mean?”
“All my married friends are so much more mature.”
“I don’t have any married friends,” said Coleman. “Whenever a guy gets married, his wife won’t let him see me anymore.”
8
