“I thought we were just lost.”
“I never, ever get lost in Florida. Except when I deliberately get lost to appreciate not being lost.”
“So we’re still going to that bar like you promised?”
“I gave my word.”
The top of a sailboat mast passed in front of the motionless traffic. Gears and cables shuddered to life; the center span began coming back down. Serge grabbed his digital camera and let loose a sequential burst. Cars moved again; the Javelin reached the north bank of the river, winding through downtown skyscrapers. Serge parked on Duval near the main Jacksonville Library. They entered the granite building, and Serge made a beeline for special collections.
Coleman followed him down a narrow aisle. “You promised we were going to that bar.”
“We are. This is the way.” Serge threaded between rows of shelves, running an index finger along large, musty volumes at eye level. The books had descending years on their spines: 1980, 1979, 1978 …
“How are we supposed to get to the bar from inside a library?”
“Time travel.”
“But time travel’s impossible.”
“Usually.” Serge pulled a book off the shelf. “Unless you’re at a library. I’m already in the time pod.”
Coleman looked around. “I don’t see anything.”
“Children have it all over adults, possessing magical powers of imagination. Then they grow into cynical tall people. That’s the whole problem with the human race: reverse metamorphosis. We turn from butterflies into caterpillars. The key to keeping your wings is regular exercise of your kindergarten muscles of make-believe.” Serge grabbed another book off the shelf and flipped pages. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” Serge stood perfectly still.
“But I thought I was coming with you,” said Coleman.
“It’s just a one-man pod.”
“If the time pod’s make-believe, can’t you add an extra seat?”
“Pretty dangerous,” said Serge. “Could put too much stress on the dilythium flux capacitor.”
“I’ll take the risk.”
“Okay.” Serge closed his eyes. He opened them. “Time pod, Mark II, with more leg room, extra seating and a killer sound system.”
“Shotgun!”
“Don’t forget your seatbelt.”
Coleman made a phantom motion across his chest. “Stop farting around in the time pod. The strap’s on the other side.”
“Sorry. Got it now. Click … Where are we headed?”
“Early seventies. Look here …” Serge tapped a page in the W section of a thirty-eight-year-old greater Jacksonville phone book. “For the Local Attractions section of my first hotel report, I need to locate the most excellent Skynyrd pilgrimage site. And here it is!”
Coleman squinted at the page. ” ‘West Tavern’?”
“Know the song ‘Gimme Three Steps’?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Guy’s dancing with Linda Lu,” said Serge. “Then her boyfriend threatens him with a gun, and he begs for a three-step head start out of the bar before the dude starts shooting.”
“Great tune. Crank it up in the time pod.”
Serge reached out and turned an invisible dial.
“Louder,” said Coleman.
“It’s all the way up to eleven.” Serge produced his digital camera. “Last month I read an interview with founding guitarist Gary Ross-ington, who said ‘Three Steps’ was a true story. They wrote the song while speeding away from this down-and-dirty roadhouse called the West Tavern, right after Ronnie Van Zant had a pistol waved in his face.” Serge snapped macro photos of an address on the page: 5301 LENOX AVENUE. “Hoping against hope, I tried looking it up in a current phone book, but no luck. Like most historic places I seek, it’s obviously been demolished. That’s why we had to come to the library and find a period phone book. And now I have the address.”
“But I wanted to party. What are we going to do at a demolished bar?”
“What children do.” Serge replaced the book on a shelf. “Stand in an empty lot and make-believe.”
THE SAND FLEA MOTEL
Out of the pool!”
“Fifteen more minutes. Please!”
“I just gave you another fifteen-twenty minutes ago.”
“Let ‘em stay,” said the mom. “They only know above-ground pools in Ohio.”
“Okay,” said Dad, turning to the pool and raising his voice. “But only fifteen!”
The couple headed up the stairs to their motel room overlooking Interstate 75 and the lighted yellow-block letters that alerted traffic to upcoming Waffle House fulfillment. They reached the balcony and stopped in front of room 231, registered to the Montpeliers of Sandusky.
The Montpeliers had chosen their motel based on value. Three hours earlier at the state line, they pulled into the official welcome center, featuring vending machines for all needs, cheerful tourism pamphlets announcing they were now in paradise, and flyer-covered bulletin boards of people who’d gone missing near the rest stop. Mr. Montpelier grabbed a coupon book from a fake-wood display and, an hour after that, presented a jaggedly torn square of paper at the front desk of the Sand Flea Motel.
“Sorry,” said the whiskered manager. “Sold out of those rooms.”
“You have no more double-bed regulars?”
“Yes. Would you like one?”
“You just said they were sold out.”
“At that price.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We set aside a block of rooms for those coupons. They’re taken.”
“It doesn’t say that on the coupon.”
“They’re taken.”
“Let me see if I have this straight,” said Mr. Montpelier. “The coupon is good for a double-bed regular.”
“That’s right.”
“And you have some available?”
“Dozens. It’s a slow night.”
“Can I use the coupon?”
“We’re sold out.”
Mr. Montpelier’s face reddened. “Essentially there’s nothing stopping you from telling everyone you’re sold out. How do I know you had any discount rooms to begin with?”
“You’re holding the coupon.”
“And?”
“It says so. Pretty good deal, too.”
“Will I be able to experience it?”
“Not really.”
“Honey,” said Mrs. Montpelier. “We’re all tired. Let’s just get a room.”
And now it was after dark as their kids screamed below in the pool. A chlorine drip trail led along the second-floor balcony and up to the towel-wrapped couple standing outside the door of room 231. Mr. Montpelier stopped a second to eye the four dubious men standing quietly at the railing in front of the next room. Then he produced a magnetic card, and they went inside. Wet clothes hit the bathroom floor. Mrs. Montpelier reorganized suitcase belongings that had been scattered like a mortar strike when the family first hit the room. Mr. Montpelier went on Safety-Dad sweep, checking the closet, under the bed, making sure the window latch wasn’t too broken.
The Montpeliers were in one of those rooms with a side door that led to the next unit, in case a large family wanted to book both. The Sand Flea called the arrangement a “suite.”
“Honey …” He gave the window latch a final test tug. “Is the pass-through door locked?”
She stopped folding socks and looked up: “The what?”
“Right behind you. That door connecting to the next room. There should be a second door on the other side for that person to lock.”
“Looks locked.”
“I’ll double-check.”
“No, I’ve got it, dear.”
They arrived in front of the door at the same time. Mrs. Montpelier turned the knob. Good thing they decided to check; it wasn’t locked. Neither was the other room’s door. Sometimes you just do things and don’t know why. That was Mrs. Montpelier, when she turned the second knob.