Serge eyed him skeptically, then began making the rounds.
The man at the reception desk filled out forms for the next job fair at the Jensen Beach Econo-Inn. Someone cleared his throat. The man looked up.
Serge leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I think there’s some kind of problem you need to be aware of.”
“What’s that?”
“These so-called job people? They each want me to give them several thousand dollars.”
“And?”
“All the jobs I’ve ever had, the money comes the other direction.”
The man chuckled and shook his head. “That’s the beauty of the Internet. In this new economy, you control your own destiny. So when you give them start-up money, you’re actually believing in yourself.” The man stood and placed a hand on Serge’s shoulder. “You do believe in yourself, don’t you?”
“But I’m not-“
The man squeezed Serge’s shoulder. “Believe!”
“I believe!”
“You’re believing!”
“Can I get a witness!”
“That’s the spirit! Now get over there and-What are you looking at?”
“The little stand in the corner. Is it what I think?”
“What?”
“Free coffee?”
“Uh, sure. Listen-“
“Don’t move!” Serge ran off.
The man looked questioningly at Coleman, who grinned and took a swig from a brown paper bag. “Know where there’s any weed?”
“What?”
Serge ran back with a tall, white Styrofoam cup. “It’s cold.”
“Been meaning to make a new pot.”
“No, I mean that’s good. I can drink it faster.” Serge chugged half in one long gulp. “And you got the giant twenty-four-ounce cups! Usually when it’s free coffee, they’re these little thimbles.” He took another big chug. “Bullshit on thimbles! I can’t resist free coffee, like when I was at that funeral chapel. I wasn’t really at the chapel, just walking by. The door was open, and so was the casket. People crying. Bunch of folding chairs. Guess it was a viewing. Then I see the big silver coffee urn in back. Next thing I know: ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I say: ‘Drinking free coffee.’ ‘Did you know the deceased?’ ‘Not remotely.’ ‘I want you to leave.’ ‘Right after I get a refill.’ ‘No! Get the fuck out now!’ I said, ‘Have some respect: There’s an old dead guy up there.’ ‘That’s my mother!’ ‘Then you have a refund coming. They did a messed-up job. Of course I didn’t know what she looked like before, so maybe it’s a great job.’ ‘Why you-!’ Then all these guys attacked me. Well, tried to, but they didn’t anticipate my triple-threat martial-arts weapons training. I can handle a folding chair like nunchakus. Except I lost my grip and the thing went flying. I tried to explain that the old woman was already dead so it didn’t matter that the Samsonite hit her in the coffin. Things like that always seem to happen when I drink coffee. It’s weird.” Serge looked toward the corner. “I need more coffee. Wait here …”
The man stared with open mouth.
Serge jogged back and chugged. Then he placed his own hand on the man’s shoulder. “I believe in myself all right! In fact, I believe I have a great new business venture that isn’t represented at your fair!”
No answer.
“Don’t you want to hear it?”
Nothing.
“I track down Internet Job Fair scam artists, break into their bedrooms in the middle of the night and shatter their shins with a pipe wrench. I’ll only require a ten-thousand-dollar investment to join your traveling expo. Exceptional bargain if you believe in yourself. You do believe in yourself?”
The man’s mouth stayed open, but nothing came out.
“If you can’t give me the cash, no problem. I’ll just go to a rival job fair, but then of course I won’t be able to guarantee your safety … Jesus, Coleman, look: He’s white as a sheet. Get him some water!”
The man nervously rustling papers. “I-I-I think I can find something in here that pays from the start.”
“Really?” Serge pulled up a chair. “I’m all ears!”
“Internet map sites.” He handed a clipboard across the table. “Here’s one that’s hiring.”
“Map sites?” asked Serge.
“Yeah,” said Coleman, standing over him with his paper bag. “Like Google Earth. I zoomed in on nude beaches at the library, but the boobs were still fuzzy.”
“Coleman, that’s an aerial image site,” said Serge. “I think he means those mapping services that give wrong directions.”
The man behind the desk nodded. “They need street checkers.”
“What’s that?”
“You drive all day with a GPS-laptop and maps, working your way around the state, going up and down every street to check for accuracy and new highway construction.”
Serge looked up from the clipboard. “But I do that anyway.”
“Gas and two hundred bucks a week.”
“They actually pay?” said Serge. “I had no idea this was going on.”
“Most people don’t. But between the big three map sites, there’s at least a thousand people canvassing the country at any moment.”
Serge killed the rest of his coffee and slammed the cup on the desk. “Two hundred isn’t enough. I’ll take the Internet cheat job instead. Just got my concealed weapons permit. Looks pretty real if you don’t know what the real ones look like … ‘Mr. Saturday Night Special!’ … Sorry, been hung up on Skynyrd since I got to town. Brrrrowwwow-wow-wow-wow-wow! Good coffee! Monday Night Football, blue lightbulbs, brick and mortar, thimbles, pipe wrench. Please proceed …”
A bead of perspiration formed on the man’s left temple and trickled down his cheek. He conducted another rapid search under stacks of paper. “Here’s something else. Hotel evaluator for travel-discount website.”
“Perfect!” said Serge. “Already doing that, too. Got fired from a couple of the big outfits last month, so I had to start my own site for free. Have you seen it? Revolutionary features, like rows of cute little icons to grade hotels on a scale of zero to five. Anything over two-and-a-half cartoon hookers, syringes or Lyme-disease ticks, keep driving … See, Coleman? Told you I knew what I was doing. Now we get to cash in on all that hard work.” He turned back to the man. “How much to buy out my site? Bidding starts at a million.”
“Doesn’t work that way. You’ll need to use new lists of hotels chosen by the website and fill out a special checklist they supply. Pays twenty dollars a property and a free room.”
“Twenty bucks a day!” said Serge. “How are we supposed to live on that?”
“Oh no, you don’t just do the one hotel you’re staying at. Most of the guys hit five or six others during the day, maybe seven if you’re fast. Are you good with time management?”
“You kidding?” said Serge. “I fuck Time’s mother.”
“What?”
“I used to say Time’s wife, but it didn’t sound as good. What do you think?”
The man trembled with paperwork. “So you want the hotel job?”
“And the map thing.”
“Both? But that’s too much for anybody.”
“Not me. Probably even have time left over for the job-fair cheat thing.”
“Let me start filling out these forms for you.”
“I’ll be over at the coffee.”
INTERSTATE 75
An ad-hoc convoy of independent truckers rumbled south
through Georgia. Dixie mudflaps, CB antennas. The lead Kenworth had running lights arranged in a cross on the front grill. Black diesel smoke puffed in military rhythm as the setting sun flickered through distant pines and oak. The Florida state line went under the first tires.
They continued down the highway, passing pockets of chain and off-brand budget motels nestled around each exit. One motel had a tiny discolored swimming pool just over the pushed-down interstate fence, where a theme-park-or-bust Ohio family wrung low-expectation joy from the diving board. Children did cannonballs and splashed and shrieked in high-pitched counterpoint to the background drone of eighteen-wheelers. They used to tap trees for turpentine in these parts.