“Lightbulbs. I can’t get enough of the bulbs.”
“Bulbs?”
“Blue. All along this bridge as well as the neighboring John T. Alsop built in 1941. Rare remaining treasure of a center-steel sensibility.”
“Why blue lightbulbs?”
“Monday Night Football.” Serge chugged his travel mug. “Jacksonville now has the Jaguars, and network people are always broadcasting nightscapes of whatever city they’re in before cutting to commercials. But downtown Jacksonville was about as hopping as the Andromeda Strain when everyone’s dead from an extraterrestrial virus. TV cameras might as well have been panning the dark side of the moon. A PR windfall from professional football was about to turn into national disgrace.”
“Dear Jesus,” said Coleman. “What happened next?”
“Genius struck!” Serge took another long pull of coffee. “Someone who will forever go unrecognized said, ‘Let’s put blue lightbulbs all over the bridges.’ It’s dark; they won’t see the rest of the shit. Shazam! For pennies on the dollar, they created the illusion of a modern civilization.”
“Wow,” said Coleman. “And all because of Monday Night Football?”
“Just a guess, but fuck it: I’m going with that anyway!”
“You’re at the party!”
“Damn straight!” Serge stared down at his wristwatch, counting along with the sweep-second hand. He looked back up at the bridge. “Aren’t those lights absolutely beautiful? I feel drunk just looking at them. My soul wants to devour it all so badly that it makes me want to weep. Those lights scream Jacksonville to me. More Skynyrd for everyone!” He clicked the iPod and looked back at his watch. “Ten, nine, eight…”
“… Seven years of hard luck …”
“What are you counting down?”
“… from the Florida border …”
“They turn off the lights this time each night to save money … three, two, one …” Serge looked up. The bridge went dark. The shadow behind the car grew closer. “Damn. Now I’m depressed. All life eventually dies. How could God have allowed Hitler to be born?”
“Remember your psychiatrist?” said Coleman. “Accept what you can’t change.”
“Good thinking.” Serge closed his eyes and smiled. “The bulbs are still on in my mind.”
A sharp knock on the driver’s window. Serge and Coleman jumped.
A bearded man stood outside making a vigorous twirling signal with his hand.
Serge rolled down the window. “My name’s Serge. I’m wearing a diaper for the space race.”
“Have any money?”
“Yes, but you’re only going to buy beer.”
Coleman leaned across and handed him a Schlitz. “Thanks.”
“Coleman!”
The man pointed at the wax ball on the dashboard. “Food?”
“Tuna salad,” said Serge.
“Soggy,” said Coleman.
“Soggy’s better,” said the man.
“Right-o.” Serge tossed the ball out the window.
The man peeled paper and took a bite. “Is that Skynyrd?”
“We’re in Jacksonville,” said Serge. “I just drank a lot of coffee.”
“I love Skynyrd.”
“The lightbulbs are still on in my mind.”
The man pointed beneath the underpass. “I need to get back to my cardboard box.”
“Have a pamphlet.”
“The zoo?”
“Who’s to say?”
“Later.”
Serge rolled up the window.
Coleman pulled a joint from over his ear. “What now?”
“Next bridge.” He reached for the ignition. Something caught the corner of his eye. “What was that?” He turned quickly. Two more dark forms appeared and moved fleetly toward the underpass.
“Who are they?” asked Coleman.
“Skinheads with baseball bats and a camcorder,” said Serge. “In certain societies, that’s a sign of bad luck.”
“What are they doing?” asked Coleman.
“Oh my God!” said Serge. “They’re beating the shit out of that cardboard box!”
“They’re attacking a Skynyrd fan!” said Coleman.
Serge was out of the car in a flash, followed by Coleman at a lesser marijuana rate.
The bearded man spilled from his box and curled defensively on the ground. “Don’t hurt me!”
A Louisville slugger came down hard in his ribs. “Fuckin’ bum!”
A second bat found a kneecap with a nauseating clack. “You make us want to puke!”
The man screamed like a child.
The first skinhead turned on the camcorder and held the glowing viewfinder to his face. “Hit him again!” The camera kept filming, but there was no swing.
“What are you waiting for?”
The answer came in the sound of a baseball bat bouncing impotently on the pavement.
The first skinhead lowered the camcorder to see his partner with a knife at his throat. “Who the hell are you?”
“The Lone Road Ranger,” said Serge. “We’ve had complaints of aggravated stupidity. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come with us.”
“Fuck you!” said the one at knifepoint. “We’re not going anywhere!”
“You’re a traitor to your race!” shouted the other. He began pumping a fist in the air. “White pride! White pride!…”
“White pride?” asked Coleman. “What’s that?”
“You’ve heard the joke,” said Serge. “White pride is rotating the tires on your house.”
100 MILES AWAY
A young woman took a sip of Diet Coke on the rocks. Slender, freckles, sandy-blond. Severely sexy, but dressed down in a way that was deliberately trying to hide it, which only made her more so. A purse sat next to a small backpack with the name of a community college. She turned the page in a history textbook and asked for a refill.
The woman escaped notice of not a single businessman in the hotel lounge, staring shamelessly at her tight bottom on a stool at the bar.
The gang had already nominated their designated hitter. Someone elbowed Steve again. “Go for it.”
“I am.”
“You’ve been saying that for the last hour.”
“Leave him alone,” said another voice. “He knows what he’s doing. Don’t you, Sh-teve?”
“These things need to be handled very delicately.”
“Someone buy him another drink …”
New guys came through the lounge entrance, rolling a pair of styrene expo-booth organizers. “Jerry, Tom, National Association of Trade Shows …”
No hellos.
Jerry looked at Tom, then back at the tables. “Something wrong?”
A data implementer nodded toward the bar.
“Holy mother,” said Jerry. “Where’d she come from?”
“Sh-teve’s about to make his move.”
Steve, already sloshed, fortified himself with a final drink and stood up. The rest of the gang scooted chairs around in stadium configuration as he staggered toward the bar and grabbed a stool on the woman’s left. “You live around here often?… Ha! I got a million of ‘em!”
No answer.
“My name’s Sh-teve. What’s yours?” Still staring down at the textbook. “Story.”
“Story? What kind of name is that?”
“Like Musgrave, the astronaut.”
“You have a man’s name?”
She highlighted something with a yellow marker.
“That’s okay,” said Steve. “Lots of two-way names now. Alex, Mickey …” He extended a hand to shake.
She gave it a look like it was covered with raw sewage.
Steve changed tactics and opened his wallet. “Let me buy you a drink.” He set a twenty on the counter and raised a finger. “Bartender!”
She grabbed the bill and stuck it in her pocket.
The barkeep came over. “What can I get you?”
“Uh, nothing.” Steve turned. “What brings you to town?”
“Meeting my brother.”
“What are you reading?”
She sighed deeply and closed her eyes.
“Something bothering you?”
“An asshole sat down next to me.”
“Look,” said Steve. “If you don’t want company, just say so.”
“I don’t want company.”
“That means you’re lonely.” He grinned. “And there’s only one cure for what ails you: Sh-teve!”