Coleman climbed down into the pool with a six-pack and street clothes. Serge joined him and waded over with his cooler. He placed it at the side of the pool, removed three bologna sandwiches and began ramming them in his mouth as fast as he could, accelerating the process with swigs of bottled water. His cheeks bulged like a squirrel stowing nuts.
“That’s disgusting,” said Story.
“I normally have excellent table manners.” Serge crammed another bite. “But I’m field-testing a travel tip. This is about science.”
“Science?”
“I’m going to swim without waiting an hour after eating.” He pushed the rest of a sandwich in and finished the water bottle. “Nobody’s ever considered challenging the prevailing wisdom-nobody’s ever dared!”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You think it’s just one hour, but the loss in job efficiency becomes astronomical over an entire career.” Serge donned swim goggles. “Time management is critical for Fortune 500 travelers on the go. If my hunch is correct, the labor-saving windfall could rock the international exchange rate … Coleman, what’s that on your head?”
“My new hat. I found it with those little bottles in the bathroom.”
“Coleman, that’s a disposable shower cap.”
“How do I look?”
“Like Coleman, except… what’s that look on your face?”
“What look?”
Serge felt the water around his legs grow warm. “Damn it, Coleman! Not in the pool! And not right before my big swim!”
“At least you’re wearing goggles.”
“You always do this.”
“I do not.”
“Coleman, one time you even did a number two.” “That was in the ocean.”
“We’re not finished discussing this.” Serge took a deep breath and dove into the water. His lack of properly coached, hydrodrag mechanics was compensated for by manic, wild-man splashing. He reached the end of the short pool in seconds, executing an Olympic flip-kick against the wall. He splashed a few more seconds and flipped at the other wall. Then another lap, and another. Coleman covered his beer each time Serge thrashed by. Story shook her head.
He continued for a solid, twenty-minute calorie burn, then popped up in the shallow end and whipped off his goggles. “Just as I thought! Come on, Coleman, we have to get back to the room and alert Wall Street. Story?”
“I have more studying.”
The guys took off. She exhaled a breath of relief and uncapped a yellow highlighter. “Finally …”
The hot Florida sun tacked across a clear azure sky until afternoon clouds rolled in from the peninsula. Story looked up and checked her watch. “Wow, four already?”
She gathered belongings, strolled back to the room and opened the door to horrible screams.
“What the hell’s going on in here?”
Serge was doubled up on the bed as Coleman applied a wet washcloth to his forehead.
“… Cramps! Bad! Ooooooo! …”
“You idiot.”
Serge writhed and moaned in agony. He finally managed to lift his chin. “Coleman …”
Coleman cradled his head. “What is it, buddy?”
“Can you leave Story and me alone for a half hour. We’re going to have sex.”
“What!” said Story. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
“But last night… Don’t you like me anymore?”
“You have cramps!”
Serge shook his head. “The key to life is pushing on through cramps. I do it all the time when field-testing how long you can keep convenience store sandwiches on the road without refrigeration. General rule of thumb, two days, except tuna fish, which is one with absolutely no wiggle room. Oooooooooo! God it hurts! Ahhhhh!… You may be right. Just give me a blow job.”
“That’s it. I’m going for a walk.” She changed out of her wet suit in record time. The door slammed.
“What a bitch,” said Coleman.
“She’s not a bitch,” said Serge. “Women can’t help their mood swings. Try to be more sensitive like me.”
TUESDAY
Sun baked.
Tall swamp grass. Dragonflies.
The Javelin sat at a rest stop off Interstate 95 along a wetland slough.
Serge distractedly unwrapped a Cuban sandwich while staring at Coleman. “You’re mixing tequila with Yoo-hoo?” “I’ll try anything once.”
Serge took a bite. “I absolutely love rest stops! Could stay here for days!”
“What’s so special about rest stops?”
“People! The entire spectrum of lives in motion. Vacation, business, ill intentions. Rest stops are the great equalizer, bringing together a population cross-section that would never otherwise allow themselves to be found in the same place.”
“Yuck.” Coleman poured his cup out the window. “How long is Story going to take?”
“Who knows what goes on in their bathrooms?”
“I heard they have meetings.”
“That would explain why us men think we’re in charge, but from time to time have a paranormal sensation that our free will is fatefully controlled by invisible puppet strings. Predestination is just another word for sex.”
“Wish she’d hurry.”
“No harm. The whole key to life is utilizing downtime, like envisioning a Utopia without downtime.”
Coleman pointed at the building. “The door’s opening. The meeting’s getting out.”
“Puppet time.”
Story walked toward the car. Serge pushed a last bite in his mouth and crumpled the sandwich wrapper.
She climbed in the backseat. “Okay, let’s go.”
“Not yet. My field study needs more data.”
“What kind of dumbness now?”
“Rest stops! I love them!” He opened his notebook. “Just a few more observations, like that amber warning sign by the picnic tables: VENOMOUS SNAKES IN AREA. Plus I haven’t found the felon yet.”
“Felon?”
“As I was telling Coleman: Rest stops are the great equalizer. All kinds of wanted felons and escaped cons traveling up and down the state-they have to go to the bathroom, too.” Serge scribbled on a page. “Most of these law-abiding travelers will never know it, but there’s always at least one dangerous criminal parked at each rest stop at the same time.”
“Start the car!”
Serge leaning toward the windshield. “I found him.”
“Who?”
“The felon. Over at the line of Winnebagos. Keep an eye on that last job with Minnesota plates where the retired couple is off-loading trash.”
“You’re insane,” said Story. “Those old people aren’t criminals.”
“Not them. That dude walking over from his pickup. He’s saying something and pointing under the RV. One of the oldest Florida scams in the book.”
Coleman popped a beer. “We know about the meetings.”
“It’s started,” said Serge. “He’s telling them they have a transmission leak. That’s what the pointing was about. Now he’s shaking his head: ‘Bad one. Probably won’t make it another fifty miles.’ They’re beginning to panic, asking if he’s sure. Says he could be wrong, so now he’s crawling under the Winnebago.” Serge opened the driver’s door and got down on the pavement for ground-level view. “He’s crawling back out, showing them a greasy, discolored hand. Leak’s worse than he thought. If the couple can get the RV back in gear, they must head straight to the nearest transmission shop. Luckily, he knows one back at the last exit that does excellent discount work. Most likely a seal that can be fixed for under a hundred bucks, which will turn into a complete rebuilding job for two thousand.”
“Dang,” said Coleman. “You can tell what’s wrong with the RV from way over here ?”
“There’s nothing wrong with the RV.”
“But what about the transmission fluid on the guy’s hands?”
“Bronze tanning lotion or some other gunk. Didn’t have a good line of sight, but he probably applied it from a tube while under the chassis. Now he’s wishing them good luck and says he has to get going the other way for Atlanta so they don’t suspect he’s connected to the shop.” He reached for the door handle. “Serge’s travel service to the rescue!”