Serge was in his fishing cottage. His finest tropical shirt lay ironed and flat on the bed. He sprayed cologne and gargled and applied contingency layers of Speed Stick. The borrowed Buick sat outside. The plan was to arrive at Coleman’s trailer with an hour cushion in case Coleman needed to be revived, then swing over to pick up Brenda by 6:50 and knock on Molly’s door at seven sharp, to lay the reputation groundwork as a dependable husband.
Serge sang as he trimmed ear hair.
Molly stood rigid at her bathroom mirror, hair pulled back tight and pinned in a bun. She had a dark-blue blazer over a light-blue shirt buttoned practically to her chin. She auditioned pairs of granny glasses.
Another apartment, another mirror. Brenda threw her head forward, that gorgeous blond mane hanging down in front of her face. She flung her head back, the locks making the return flight and falling over her shoulders for that sexy tossed look. She clipped a belly-button ring in her bare midriff. That was for Serge’s benefit, definitely not Coleman’s…. Coleman! Jesus! There was no way she could face this sober. Time for date-priming. She grabbed her giant plastic Sloppy Joe’s cup of rum and Coke.
Serge drove up to Coleman’s trailer, pressed the doorbell. No answer.
He knocked.
Still nothing.
Serge stepped back from the trailer to appraise the situation. He noticed the soles of two shoes at the edge of the roof. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Coleman!”
Coleman slowly sat up with disheveled hair.
“What the heck are you doing up there?”
Coleman looked around. “I don’t know.”
“Hold on. I’ll get a ladder.”
They ended up in the living room. A bong bubbled.
“What are you doing?” said Serge. “We have to get ready for the date!”
“I
“You’re going to make her Torpedo Juice?”
“Yeah,” said Coleman. “But now I’m thinking of leaving out the energy drink. Don’t want her too alert.”
“And look at how you’re dressed!”
“What?” Coleman examined himself. Cut-offs and an old T-shirt from a shop on Duval:
Serge paced and talked to himself.
“Man, are you nervous!” said Coleman. “Have a seat and relax.”
Serge dropped onto the couch next to him. “I can’t relax. Too much is at stake. Look, my hands are all clammy.”
Coleman leaned over the bong. Smoke filled the cylinder.
“Will you stop smoking dope! You’ll fall asleep in your food and fuck up the date.”
“Have to smoke to get ready for the show.”
“What show?”
Coleman clicked the TV with the remote. “Bob’s coming on.”
Serge perked up. “Bob?”
“Take your mind off your worries.”
Serge and Coleman settled into the couch and folded their hands in their laps. A catchy theme song began; they swayed with the music.
“I wonder if Gary the Pet Snail’s in this episode,” said Serge.
“My favorite is Patrick the Starfish.”
Serge heard clomping on the trailer’s rotten flooring. A miniature deer walked between the couch and the television and disappeared into the kitchen.
Coleman exhaled a hit. “His name’s JoJo.”
SpongeBob jumped up swimming from the ocean bottom, blasting right out of his pants.
Serge pointed at the screen. “Notice how his pants are tumbling slow motion back to the sea floor. That’s a deliberate reference to archival NASA footage of the Saturn V adapter ring between the first and second stages. Don’t tell me something deeper isn’t going on here.”
Coleman repacked the bong. “When I’m high, I pick up stuff about Jesus.”
They became engrossed. It was a double-header. And Gary was in the second show.
A commercial came on. Serge checked his watch. “We’re late!”
Brenda was sitting buzzed on her front steps. She drained the dregs of her Sloppy Joe’s cup and checked her watch again.
A Buick screeched up like a jailbreak.
Brenda stood, slightly unsteady. “Where have you been?”
“Get the fuck in the car!”
They raced across the island.
“When was the last double date you were on?” asked Coleman.
“I don’t know. Seven, eight years ago? I think it was the Davenports back when we lived on Triggerfish Lane.”
“I remember that one,” said Coleman. “What a disaster! Enough to make you never want to go on another.”
“There’s no way two in a row can turn out that bad.” Serge skidded up to an apartment building. He jumped out and ran around to the trunk. Inside was Serge’s dating kit: a dozen roses in a four-dollar vase, set of pipe wrenches, an out-of-order sign.
A polite knock on the door of unit 213. Molly silently came out and locked up.
Serge produced the flowers from behind his back. Molly accepted them with embarrassment. She noticed a price tag.
