“Whoops,” said Serge, snatching the vase back and peeling the sticker. “The price-gun guy must have gotten it confused with a really cheap one. Shall we?…”
THE BUICK BLAZED down U.S. 1, hopping bridges in quick succession. Summerland, Cudjoe, Sugarloaf. It was dead in the front seat. Serge kept glancing over every few seconds. Molly’s eyes stayed fixed ahead, hands stiff-arming the dashboard.
The backseat was New Year’s Eve, Mardi Gras and Lollapalooza. Coleman had the contents of his camouflaged cooler in play. Brenda sloshed some of her drink on both of them and laughed. Coleman winked. “You cool?”
“Am I what?”
Coleman put his thumb and forefinger to his lips.
“You mean do I get high?” Brenda downed her drink. “Fuckin’A!”
Smoke curled its way into the front seat. Molly maintained her grip on the dashboard. They crossed the Saddlebunch Keys and pulled into the hottest new restaurant west of Marathon. Lobster Town. The line spilled out the door. Serge had a reservation. They gave him a coaster that would blink when their table was ready.
Coleman staggered up and tugged Serge’s shirt. “I think I’m getting a little too messed up to dine ’n’ dash.”
“We’re not going to skip out on the bill.”
“But we don’t have money for this kind of fancy place.”
The coaster began blinking. “This way,” said a waiter.
Their table overlooked the Gulf. Serge held Molly’s chair. Brenda looked at Coleman, already seated and tearing open a packet of saltines.
Another waiter came by. “Would anyone care for a cocktail?”
Coleman’s and Brenda’s arms flew up. Serge turned to Molly. Her first words in a tiny voice: “Zinfandel.” Serge to the waiter: “Zinfandel. Coffee for me, and a glass of ice on the side.”
“Ice water?”
“No, a glass of ice.”
“You want ice coffee?”
“No. Coffee. And a glass of ice. I have to control the temperature myself.”
Drinks arrived, their orders taken. Coleman and Brenda held giant pineapples in their laps with extra-long straws. Serge spooned ice into his coffee and chugged it dry.
“Uh-oh,” said Coleman.
“What?” asked Brenda.
“Serge drank coffee.”
“Coffee’s good for me,” said Serge. “Remember when the chicks from the band Heart did those coffee ads? Before the dark-haired one got into the doughnuts? Said it picked them up and calmed them down at the same time. That’s what it does for me! I love Heart!
“Here we go,” said Coleman.
Serge turned to Molly. “I see you’re admiring my shirt. It’s my favorite, the one the state’s toll collectors wear. All these great old Florida scenes and postcards…” He touched various parts of his chest. “…Orange groves, beach balls, sailfish, names of famous roads and stuff. The turnpike, Sunshine Skyway, Dolphin Expressway, Yeehaw Junction. You know Yeehaw Junction, don’t you? The crossroads in the middle of nowhere with the historic Desert Inn. The women’s rest room has a statue of an Indian brave in a real loincloth that’s rigged with this trip wire, so if you lift it, a loud alarm goes off in the bar, and everyone’s laughing when you come out, and then you have to explain what you’re doing as a man in the ladies’ room. Only used to be able to get these shirts if you worked in a tollbooth. I wanted one so bad that I applied for a job. On the first day they gave me the shirt and stuck me in one of the booths, and when they weren’t looking, I ran off into the woods.”
Four lobsters arrived. The evening averaged out: Molly didn’t say a word, Serge didn’t stop. He pulled a notebook from his back pocket. “Okay, just a few routine questions. Nothing to worry about. Belong to a religion? Doesn’t bother me if you do, as long as it’s not one that says to stop thinking and be loud about it. How do you want the kids raised? Policy on in-laws? Are you a neat freak? Ever called Miss Cleo? What about Ted Williams being frozen upside down without his head?”
No answers.
More pineapples arrived.
Serge made marks in the notebook. “I’ll just pencil my best guesses and we can go back later and change them if you need to. Any childhood diseases? Ever seen a psychiatrist? No big deal if you have. I’ve gone, but it wasn’t my idea….”
And so it went. The waiter finally came and laid the bill facedown on the table.
“…One last question,” said Serge. “Will you marry me?”
Molly’s eyes bulged. But they had on some of the other questions, too, and Serge took it as an encouraging sign. He closed the notebook. “Get back to me on that last one when you’re ready.”
Coleman turned the bill over. “Two hundred dollars!”
“Plus tip.”
Coleman yanked the napkin from his collar. “I have to take a leak.”
Serge pushed his own chair back. “I’ll go with you.”
They stood at the sinks. Serge splashed water in his face. Coleman uncapped his graffiti pen. There was a sign: EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS. Coleman wrote,
