“That’s right.”
“How did you even end up like that in the first place?”
“Beats me,” said Coleman. “I just went out one night for a beer, and then there I was. Stuff like that keeps happening to me.”
“This topic is going nowhere fast,” said Serge. “I’m picking the next one.”
“Which is?”
“Race relations in America.”
Coleman’s head snapped sideways. “Jesus, Serge! You’re really going to talk about race?” He nervously glanced around the road. “I think that’s a bad idea. Everyone’s really angry right now.”
“Screw it, I’m going there!”
“Hold on.” Coleman quickly fastened his seat belt. Then he pulled something out of a duffel bag and put it on his head.
Serge looked over. “Where’d you get the football helmet?”
“I went out for a beer one night and the next thing I know I’m staring out through a face mask—”
“Never mind.”
Coleman snapped the chin strap and stiffened his arms against the dashboard. “I’m ready now. Talk about race.”
“Remember the movie The Color Purple?”
“Oprah.”
“That color represents a whole subtext that defines relations in our country.” Serge hit his blinker. “You know I hate trendy buzz phrases, but there’s one that sums it all up: Own it.”
“Own what?”
“Your life. We can discuss huge racial differences as long as it comes from a position of love, like telling your aunt at a funeral that she’s got toilet paper stuck to her shoe. Awkward, but you work through it as a family. The problem is the people who refuse to sit with us and break bread at the Great American Dinner Table. Why? Deep down they realize their lives suck, but they won’t own it. ‘Gee, maybe I should have done some planning and put in a little effort and not spent all my money on porn and fog lights. Could that possibly be it? Naw, someone else did this to me.’”
“That’s just not being responsible,” said Coleman.
“Their entire life drive is to make others as miserable as they are,” said Serge. “There’s no excuse for that. Everyone should be ecstatically happy every second! We’re alive on earth, after all! When did that get taken for granted? I don’t exactly know how the program works. Maybe there are a bunch of people floating around somewhere looking down on the planet and going, ‘Damn, I missed the cut.’ If those guys have shitty people skills, I could understand it. But the ones among us constantly taking dumps in the fun pool are just missing the point.”
“How do we know who they are?”
“We don’t even have to look; they readily identify themselves,” said Serge. “Making comments like, ‘They call each other the N-word all the time, then get all upset if . . .’ Or: ‘Did you know the original slave traders were other black people in Africa? . . . Oh, but I’m not a racist.’”
“So you’re saying that we actually can criticize black people?”
“Of course,” said Serge. “But only from a position of love, which brings up the title of the Oprah movie. I’ll be watching some sports awards show on TV, and one of my favorite pro athletes will go up to get a trophy wearing a purple suit. And I’m sitting on the couch saying: ‘Dude, I love you, man, but Christ! Purple?’”
“So purple suits are a black thing?”
“Most certainly,” said Serge.
“What’s an example of a white thing?”
“Laughably playing the victim card,” said Serge. “‘Hey, where’s my affirmative action?’ Dude, I love you, man, but in case it’s not shockingly obvious, it came with your birth certificate.”
“Are we done?”
“For now,” said Serge. “I’ll bet I’d look pretty snazzy in a purple suit.”
“But I thought you just said—”
“I’ve evolved on that,” said Serge. “Purple is the new white.”
The Corvette continued on. Serge reached under his seat and passed something to his pal. “We’re getting close to our destination. We need to focus on our next Route 66 jobs.”
Coleman held it up and read the yellow block lettering on the back. “Another Windbreaker?”
“Rule number one in life: Windbreakers with stuff written on the back are the key to making nosy people step back so you can have room to work. Along with clipboards and orange cones, the Windbreaker is rarely questioned.”
“Like the other time when you got jackets that said ‘Bail Recovery Agent’?”
“That’s right.” Serge placed a portable emergency scanner in his lap that squawked intermittently. “There’s no rule against putting whatever you want on the back of your own jacket—just no ‘Police’ or ‘SWAT’ or ‘ATF’—or you can be charged with impersonating a law enforcement officer.”
“Then we’ve got a problem with these jackets,” said Coleman. “They’re bound to arrest us for impersonating.”
“Not if you stop and really break it down.” Serge slipped his own jacket on while driving and swerving. “Wear one of these, and most people just automatically assume you’re law enforcement, but the law is all about the fine print, or in this case the large print.”
“I’m confused.”
“The Windbreakers or life generally?”
“Both.”
“People say this is a free country so often that it’s lost meaning. I’m only tapping into the possibilities that everyone else just assumes are off-limits simply because they lack the imagination to think of it themselves.” Serge leaned over and tapped the back of the jacket in Coleman’s hands. “Right now, only law enforcement is doing that, but what’s to prevent a private citizen from taking it up as a hobby?”
Coleman looked down at his jacket again: Hostage Negotiation Team.
“But how will we find a place to use these?”
“At any particular moment in Florida, an average of fifteen standoffs are under way,” said Serge. “It’s only a matter of paying attention.”
The other side of Serge’s brain had been monitoring all the verbal traffic on the emergency radio in his lap. He set his course for an address below Sarasota. The Corvette turned a corner in a neighborhood of ranch houses where they used to cut the grass.
“Serge!” Coleman shouted. “Look at all the police cars and flashing lights!”
“It might be wise to pull around back.”
He stopped in an alley as two patrol officers guarding the perimeter came running up. “You can’t park there! We have a situation!”
Serge turned around to show them the back of his jacket. “Who’s in charge?”
“Right this way.”
They were briskly led across the front yard of the house. “Sergeant,” said the first officer. “These two men—”
Serge urgently shook his hand. “Hey, boss, I’m Serge and this is Coleman. Sorry if I must be curt, but the clock is ticking. What’s our status here?”
“Who are you?”
Serge quickly turned around to display his jacket. “Tick-tock. How many in there?”
“Just two.” The sergeant pointed. “We were serving warrants when shots came through the door. He’s holding his live-in girlfriend.”
“Have you alerted the phone company to block all calls and redirect them to your command post?”
“Already done.”
“What about electricity?”
“Cut that off, too,” said the sergeant. “No air-conditioning. Figured we’d sweat him out.”
“Turn it back on,” said Serge. “There’s a new way of thinking on that.”