Serge heard a rattling sound. He turned forward and saw they were off course, running over the raised reflectors as they crossed the inside breakdown lane, then down into the narrow median. Serge looked over at the driver’s seat and saw Lenny’s head slumped to his chest. He reached over and grabbed the wheel, but it was too late. They had already entered the construction zone, and the temporary cement retaining walls funneled them into oncoming traffic.
“Lenny! Wake up!”
“Huh? What? What is it?… Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
“So that’s what happened,” said Lenny. “I hate it when I wake up driving.”
“How are your hiccups?”
Lenny thought a second. “They’re gone.”
“What do you think about hypnosis now?”
“Gimme a break,” said Lenny. “That didn’t do it.”
“What do you mean? It did it and then some. You were fuckin’ out.”
“That was the weed,” said Lenny. “It was already making me feel like nappy time.”
“Atheist.”
Lenny lit another joint, started up the car and pulled back on the road. Serge put down the hypnosis book and picked up the morning paper as they passed a thousand-acre brush fire.
“Anything good?” asked Lenny.
“Second-grader brings gun to school. Jesus, what ever happened to just sticking out your tongue?”
“I still do it.”
“Here’s an item on a drunk bridge tender who sent a car airborne,” said Serge, oblivious to the wall of flame down the side of the highway. “And someone stole the Picasso cat again from the Hemingway House. A funeral home is being sued for putting voodoo dolls in a chest cavity. Eleven more Floridians die from smoke inhalation trying to stay warm by barbecuing indoors. Man convicted of killing his dog because it was homosexual….”
“How did he know?”
“It says the Yorkshire made advances on another terrier named Bandit. That’s when the owner decided to put a stop to the godlessness.”
“What is it about this state?” asked Lenny. “All my friends up north keep asking me: Does the freak show ever take a break down there?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Serge looked back down at his newspaper.
Up ahead, Lenny saw a small stampede of flaming rabbits running from the brush fire and into the road, where they were snatched up by turkey buzzards circling overhead, whose claws were singed by the burning fur, and the rabbits began dropping by the dozen on passing vehicles, one splattering on the Cadillac’s windshield and bouncing over Lenny’s head.
Serge looked up from his newspaper at the sound of the thud. “What the hell was that?”
Lenny’s jaw fell open, the joint sticking to the spit on his lower lip.
Serge pointed at the bloody stain on the windshield. “What kind of bug did you hit?”
“It was a bunny.”
“How’d you hit a bunny with your windshield?”
Lenny pointed up at the sky.
Serge shook his head. “You’re higher than a motherfucker.” He went back to his newspaper.
Lenny took the joint out of his mouth, looked at it a second, then threw it out of the car.
“Serge.”
“What?”
“Do you think I’m dysfunctional?”
“No, Lenny. You know those nagging sensations you’re always having? Total alienation, utter lack of self-worth, chronic-masturbation guilt and perpetual dread of impending death?”
“Yeah?”
“That’s all normal. Feel better now?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Your problem is you lack focus. The key to life is hobbies, otherwise you’re asking for trouble. You know what they always say — if Hitler only had a train set…”
“Who says that?”
“Nobody ever says that. I have no idea where I get some of these thoughts, and you know what? I don’t care! Because I’m alive and the sun is shining!” Serge reached in his back pocket and pulled out a folded-up piece of paper.
“What’s that?”
“It’s my Life List.”
“What’s a Life List?”
“The list of things you want to accomplish before you die. The idea is to keep you planning for the future or else you end up seventy years old on your porch with a rusting chain-link fence around a front yard full of barking Dobermans and a dismantled Skylark, and you never know why.”
“Where’d you come up with this list idea?”
“First heard about it from Lou Holtz. ‘Become coach of Notre Dame’ was on his list, and you know what?”
“He became coach of Notre Dame?”
Serge nodded. “I said to myself, ‘I gotta get me one of them lists.’”
“So what’s on yours?” asked Lenny.
“Item number one: space flight.”
“You’re too old to join NASA.”
“That’s why I’ll have to deal with the Russians. After the Soviet collapse, everything’s for sale over there.”
“What else?” asked Lenny.
Serge held up his piece of paper: “Swim the Florida Straits, communicate with the monkeys on Key Lois, steal the DeLong Ruby, break a bull at the Okeechobee Rodeo, get into a Disney ride in less than an hour, locate the Fountain of Youth, win the Daytona 500, bring the panthers back to healthy numbers, travel in time…”
“But time travel’s impossible.”
“I know,” said Serge. “I wanted to keep the list realistic, so that’s why I only want to travel one week. And that way, if something goes wrong with the time ship and I can’t get back, I’m not stuck in some strange future land where the government makes everyone wear tunics and report unwelcome behavior.”
“I hate that,” said Lenny.
“Tell me about it.”
Serge stuck the list back in his pocket and got out the global tracker.
“How’s the signal?” asked Lenny.
“Real strong. Solid all the way.” Serge pointed at a traffic sign. “Take the causeway. It’s our best bet.”
They crossed US 1 and the Indian River, then went down the bridge onto Merritt Island.
“Are those real alligators in that canal?” asked Lenny.
“That’s what those are.”
The pair began seeing the tips of shiny metal tubes over the trees.
“Look,” said Lenny. “Kennedy Space Center.”
“And there’s the new shuttle mock-up they put on display at the visitor center.” Serge grabbed his camera from under the seat and snapped half a roll of film as they went by. He faced forward again. “Oh my God!”
“What is it?”
“The signal!” said Serge, holding up the tracker. “It changed direction. It’s pointing back at the visitor center. Turn around!”
Lenny swung across a break in the median and headed back. The Cadillac turned in the entrance of the space complex and parked next to a row of idling Gray Line buses. Serge jumped out and tucked a pistol in his waistband. He reached back in the car and grabbed the global tracker off the passenger seat. The signal pointed toward the admission gate.
“This is it! Payday!”
They took off running.
14
Another month, another book club meeting. Miami Beach this time. Books, Booze and Broads cruised down A1A in a rented Grand Marquis.
“We’re finally going to meet Ralph Krunkleton,” said Maria.
“Not at this rate,” said Sam, checking her wristwatch. “Just look at this traffic jam.”
“We’ve still got plenty of time,” said Teresa.
“How much farther?”
“Twenty miles.”
Twenty miles ahead, a strip malclass="underline"
“Get a move on!” the owner shouted in the back room of The Palm Reader. He leaned over and did a line. “We have to close up and clear out before that stupid author shows up for his stupid signing!”
The buzzer at the rear service door rang. The boss jumped. “What was that?”