“No time,” said Serge. “My clock is ticking.”
“What about a mail-order bride?”
“They’re always running up long-distance bills to Estonia.”
Coleman idly gazed around the inside of the simple cabin. “I didn’t know you were staying here. I didn’t even know it existed.”
“The Old Wooden Bridge? Absolutely! Couldn’t stay anywhere else! Just look at her!”
Coleman looked. “So?”
“So your paradigm’s all screwed up. The ideal motel isn’t someplace in walking distance of the strip-joint district and sports bars and flashing signs for Jell-O shots.”
“It’s not?”
“Check that beautiful water and sky. You need to get in harmony with life. Turn the TV off.”
“But without TV we’ll die.”
“Just try it.”
Coleman clicked the set off. He clicked it back on. “I see what you mean.”
“It’s like we just went to Mass.” Serge stood up. “Let’s rock….”
The ’71 Buick Riviera chugged slowly south on Big Pine Key. Serge was driving with binoculars to make sure they didn’t run over any deer.
“Can you drive better like that?” asked Coleman.
“I’m not sure. It’s too dark to see anything.”
Bang.
“What was that?” asked Serge.
“Used to be a mailbox.”
Serge tossed the binoculars in the backseat and turned in behind Eckerd drugs. The Buick parked at a small, lime green building. MONROE COUNTY BRANCH LIBRARY.
A dark van screeched around the corner and skidded up two slots down from the Buick. The side panel flew open.
“Uh-oh.”
“What is it?” asked Coleman.
Serge got out of the car. “Thought I told you guys to leave me alone!”
The cult people didn’t answer. They were all wearing identical custom T-shirts with a big picture of Serge’s face above a quotation: “I follow nobody.”
“You’ve got to stop tailing me,” said Serge. “I’m jumpy enough as it is.”
They sat on the ground and listened.
“Okay, okay. I give up. How about this: We set regular weekly meeting times at the community center when I’ll come by and give a talk. But the rest of the time you leave me alone. Deal?”
They nodded.
Serge and Coleman headed toward the library.
“You’re really going to go talk to them?” asked Coleman.
“Actually, there are some things I’ve been meaning to get off my chest,” said Serge. “An audience is an audience.”
They walked inside the library. Someone waved from the front desk.
“Hi, Serge!”
“Hi, Brenda!”
“
“Just a friend.” Serge started walking toward the desk.
“Holy cow!” said Brenda. “What happened to your shirt! It’s all torn and covered with blood.”
“Tough race.”
“You were in the big race today?” said Brenda.
“Was even leading for a while.”
“How’d you finish?”
“Pretty good, but those stupid race officials disqualified me.”
“Why?”
“I crossed the finish line in a Buick.”
Brenda laughed. She reached across the desk and put her hand on Serge’s. “You have a great sense of humor.”
“He’s getting married,” said Coleman.
Brenda lost her smile and stood upright, then hid her disappointment. “Congratulations. I’m happy for you. Who’s the lucky girl?”
Coleman explained.
Brenda laughed again. “You crack me up.”
“I’m ticking.”
She reached and squeezed his hand. “You’re not the marrying type. We’re two of a kind that way. I get off in a half hour. What do you say we grab a bite at Mama’s? It’s really romantic at night in the back garden.”
“Too busy,” said Serge. “You wouldn’t believe my workload. Injustice, disease, answering fan mail from Stephen Hawking…”
“If you change your mind, here’s my number.” She wrote on the back of an index card.
“Thanks.” Serge turned. “Coleman, where’d you get that six-pack? You can’t drink in the library!”
“He can if he’s with you,” said Brenda.
Serge wandered off for special collections.
Coleman came up from behind with his beer. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Looking something up.”
“No, I mean back there with Brenda. She wants you.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“Are you blind? Didn’t you see how she was leaning? Touching your hand like that?”
Serge scanned bound volumes on a shelf.
“She even asked you out for a date. What more proof do you need?”
“That was only platonic.” Serge pulled down a volume and flipped through nineteenth-century deed filings. “I’m not going to punish a woman for being nice like the other men do.”
“What are you talking about?”
He replaced the volume and pulled down another. “A woman can’t just be courteous in today’s culture. She always has to worry about striking a perfect balance. If she’s too distant, she’s a bitch on wheels. If not, some guy starts driving by her house two hundred times a day.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Coleman. “You’re conducting this big search, and Brenda’s right under your nose.”
