Torpedo Juice полностью

“Yeeeeeeeeeeeee-hawwwwwwwwwwwwwww!”

Serge turned to the bum. “Now that was a good one! I just realized how lucky I am. I could have been born a cystoblast! It’s not important what that is. All you need to know is it’s one of the many, many things you definitely don’t want to be. It’s not even an organism, just a bunch of cells, which means they don’t have eyes and can’t appreciate the radiant colors of God’s creation. From nature: sky blue, forest green, the creamy pink of the spring blossom, the honey in the clouds at sunset. From food: eggshell, guacamole, tangerine, cranberry. From science: carbon, chrome, cobalt, copper. From women’s magazines: mauve, ecru, fuchsia, taupe. Colors I dig just because I like saying the word: gamboge, gamboge, gamboge. Other words that should be colors but aren’t, like Cameroon and DiMaggio. You’re a cystoblast, you can forget about all that….”

Serge hadn’t noticed that the bus was pulled over. The driver stood over him. “If you keep yelling, I’ll have to ask you to get off.”

“Sorry,” said Serge. “Can I play my guitar?”

“Do you yell when you play?”

“Not usually.”

The driver was already walking back up front. “No more yelling!”

Serge cradled his acoustic and began strumming. “…Mama don’t take my Kodachrome awaaaaaaayyyy-eeeee-yay….”

A GIANT EYEBALL rotated in the peephole of room 133 of the Royal Glades Motel. Coleman took a hit from the corner of his mouth. Still dark out there. Nothing but the sandwich shop across the street, where local teens had come along in the night and rearranged letters on the roadside marquee: 99¢ HAND JOBS.

Inside room 133, two days of Lifestyle Coleman. Fast-food sacks, roaches, matches, spilled trash cans, wet socks on lampshades, smashed potato chips in the carpet, fried chicken bones between the sheets, slice of pepperoni stuck to the mirror, bloody footprint on the dresser, pocket change in the bottom of the toilet, sink clogged with vomit, cartoons on TV.

Coleman’s eye stayed pressed to the door. Paranoid. Every time he thought he’d watched long enough for a clean escape… second thoughts. What if someone comes out of the office in the next minute? Then he’d watch another minute, and so forth. Coleman wanted to make sure his getaway was absolutely perfect; nothing as much as a hair out of place. The eyeball scanned the street again. Drugs finally made the decision. The roach had burned out; no reason to stay any longer. Coleman stepped back from the peephole and grabbed the strap of a duffel bag at his feet. He took a deep breath.

Now!

Coleman threw open the door and it banged against the wall. He took off running. Into a metal garbage can. They both went over with a crash. The can tumbled loudly across the parking lot. Coleman pulled himself up by a car door handle, activating the auto-burglar alarm. Whoop-whoop-whoop. “Shit!” Lights started coming on all over the motel. Bleary people walked onto balconies without shoes. The manager emerged from the office. Coleman dove in the Buick. He dropped the keys. He hit the horn. The car finally started. Tires squealed. Coleman patched out, running over the garbage can, which wedged under the bumper and sprayed sparks. The people on the balconies winced when the Buick’s undercarriage bottomed out at the base of the driveway, and they cringed again when Coleman made a hard left turn, sending the garbage can flying free and shattering the lighted roadside marquee in front of the sandwich shop.

Then he was gone. Quiet resumed. Motel guests trudged back to rooms. Some decided sleep was futile. Might as well get a leg up on driving. They began loading luggage. Two blue American Touristers went into the trunk of a brown Plymouth Duster with Ohio plates.

3

APB #2: the metallic green Trans Am

DARK AND DESERTED on the Florida Turnpike, the part of day you can’t quite put your finger on. No longer the night before, not quite the next morning. Even more off-balance if you’ve been driving some hours.

A metallic green Trans Am skirted the backside of Miami International, down through Sweetwater. The blackness alternated with pockets of light at the interchanges. The lights were the harsh orange shade found at businesses with barbed wire and surveillance cameras. They said: Don’t exit here.

Almost five A.M., but the driver didn’t know where her watch was. The strap had broken. She kept looking in the rearview. The Trans Am had a smoked T-top. Her legs had bruises.

The woman was petite, practically swallowed by the Pontiac. Twenty-eight years old, but her new skin, dimples and tiny features always got her carded.