“What happened?” asked Coleman.
“The same glare every time, like I’m the one who’s crazy,” said Serge. “But I’m hip to their mind-control scheme. The whole process is no accident. The receptionist herself owns a personal phone with a thousand times the computing power of the entire Apollo program, and yet the clipboard she just handed me has a crappy pen hanging from twisted-up rubber bands, not to mention that all the forms are primitive, tenth-generation Xeroxes so grainy that people haven’t seen resolution this poor since Three Dog Night was big.”
“Jeremiah was a bullfrog! . . .”
“Man! Keep it together! . . . So I finally acquiesce, taking a seat in the waiting room to fill out this same shit for the millionth time, and they’ve set me up for failure again! I know they’re all hiding behind the counter giggling: ‘Look! Look! He’s trying to write his e-mail address on that line that’s only a half-inch long! This is too much! Now he’s trying to write his Social Security number on the line that’s only a quarter-inch! I’m laughing so hard my sides hurt!’ . . .”
“Serge?”
“Wait! Wait! Wait! . . . Then the receptionist tells the others: ‘Shhh! Pipe down! He’s coming back up here. You guys keep hiding and I’ll stand up and take care of this . . . Ahem, yes, Mr. Storms, thank you for filling out— . . . Wait, you missed this one part, the address of your primary physician . . . Yes, I know he’s next door . . . Yes, I understand it’s the same address as ours . . . No, sir, I’m sure that line on the form is longer than a half-inch . . .’ Then they send me into the bathroom: ‘Look! Look! We asked him to pee again in a cup that’s way too small! And we told him not to eat anything after midnight when it doesn’t matter! This is priceless!’”
“Serge?”
“Huh?” He looked around with a glazed stare. “Why are we here? What are you doing in that costume?”
“The new sign-spinning job.”
“Oh, right. It’s coming back now.”
“Serge, when was the last time you filled out a form?”
“I don’t know, two years? Three? But that’s the thing about trauma.”
A panda arm extended from under the bus shelter’s overhang. “I think the rain is letting up like you said.”
“But the streets will stay flooded for hours.” Serge deftly navigated a small touch screen.
“You sure love your new cell phone.”
“These new babies are now called smartphones. I don’t know how I’ve managed to get along without one!” Tap, tap, tap. “I’ve never possessed a cooler gadget in my life, and I’ve only begun to scratch the surface of its potential. But from what I’ve seen so far, these phones are the pinnacle of human achievement. Forget nuclear fission and stem-cell research. Every culture on every continent now has instant, around-the-clock, multiple media platforms to share with the rest of the globe that cats like to sit in boxes.”
“There’s an app for everything.”
“And here’s the crucial reason I needed it for our mission. While we’re crisscrossing the state tilting at lighthouses, we can watch all the old episodes of Route 66 that were filmed in Florida . . . Hold on, I’m trying to pull one up now.”
“I’m still having trouble believing the two main characters could land a new job every week.”
“It was a golden age,” said Serge. “The baby-boom economy became so robust that people had no trouble getting any job in any city at any time if they were the stars of a hit TV series.”
“Wow.”
Vehicles on U.S. 1 continued speeding by with a rhythmic whoosh of tires on the slick roadway. Clouds began to part. Pedestrians folded umbrellas.
“Okay, check it out,” said Serge. “I just finished a show from season four where Martin Milner—who would later star in Adam-12—gets hired as a safety diver for the mermaids at Weeki Wachee. And here’s one from season three, when they’re over in Punta Gorda doing yard work, and the town rises up after Linc is falsely accused of injuring a family dog with pruning shears. Back then the viewing public required less stimulus.”
Coleman peeked over Serge’s shoulder at the phone. “I don’t see anything.”
“That’s because it’s not finished loading,” said Serge. “Just keep watching the screen! This is going to seriously rock! I’m getting the tingles! It just finished loading! It’s starting! . . .”
A taxicab went by, followed by a red Porsche just off the factory line. The Porsche’s driver spotted the bus shelter and cut the wheel at the last second, swinging over for the lane closest to the curb. The motorist timed his skid perfectly, hitting a deep roadside puddle like a slaloming water-skier.
The wave of spray drenched a pair of people at the bus bench.
Serge stared silently at the road as bulbous droplets fell off his eyelashes and streamed down his cheeks. The departing Porsche had a vanity plate: Scrw U.
Coleman tapped his shoulder. “Hey, Serge, you were just about to show me something really cool on your new phone. Why’d you turn it off?”
Florida Cable News
The assignment editor saw Reevis heading across the newsroom and waved him into the office.
“I just caught it on TV,” said Reevis. “I can’t believe they’re dead. What happened?”
“Accidentally shot each other while disposing of a body in the Apalachicola Forest,” said an Australian accent.
Reevis turned to find two people he hadn’t noticed sitting against the wall. “Who are you?”—then, turning to the editor’s desk, “Who are they?”
“Reevis,” said Shug. “I’d like you to meet your new film crew. This is the acclaimed producer Cricket Brisbane and the equally renowned videographer Dundee.”
Reevis covered his face. “It doesn’t end.”
“I know you’re still in shock,” said the editor. “But I think you’ll have a much better working relationship. After all, they broke the story about Nigel and Günter’s violent demise. That’s the kind of hard news you’ve been begging for.”
Brisbane tipped his bushman’s hat. “We also went back and reviewed their work. Tonight we’re airing a segment that discredits them professionally. They manufactured a hoax story.”
“I’m getting dizzy,” said Reevis. “They hoaxed about a hoax?”
“Who knows? But we ran it by the focus groups.”
“The important thing,” said the editor, “is that all of you get to know each other and find a chemistry.”
Brisbane stood. “No time like the present. Saddle up, buckaroo!”
Reevis meekly turned to his editor. “Help . . .”
. . . When the SUV arrived on the scene, U.S. 1 was backed up all the way to downtown Miami. It wasn’t congestion. It was rubbernecking.
Drivers slowed and stuck their heads out windows and stared up. No fewer than five news trucks were already there. Reevis climbed out of the sixth. “Dear God!”
Cameraman Dundee got down on one knee so he could film Reevis at an upward angle, framing the source of all the curiosity.