“The common good,” said Serge. “It’s not hip.”
Joe nodded politely and returned to his paperwork. He liked Serge, despite everything. Besides, Joe was a fellow history buff. He had purchased Captain Tony’s Saloon in Key West, then the No Name, more out of preservation than business.
“Can you take me upstairs?” asked Serge.
Joe added a column of figures. “I’m busy.”
“I want to see the brothel.”
“It’s not a brothel anymore.”
“I’ll use my imagination.”
“Later.”
Serge pointed up at the ceiling. “Is it true you have the fifty-caliber deck gun from Captain Tony’s boat up there? Back when he made midnight runs to Cuba for the CIA?”
Joe nodded.
“Can I see it? I won’t touch. Okay, maybe I will. Sometimes I can’t help myself, so no guarantees.”
Joe exhaled in exasperation and started adding the numbers again from the beginning.
“If you won’t take me upstairs, can you go get Captain Tony?” said Serge. “Everyone’s met him but me. You promised.”
“He’s probably doing something.”
“But Tony’s the last living link to the Old Days. I have to meet him before it’s too late!”
“Serge, he has a life. He’s not some antique car I can just roll out of the garage whenever I feel like it.”
Serge stared at Joe a moment. “Then can we go upstairs?”
Joe took his work into the back room. Serge resumed his circuit around the pub. More dollar bills, then a bulletin board. Church raffle, baby shower on Guava Lane, missing person last seen walking down a deserted road on No Name Key at three A.M. Serge came to a Xerox of a meeting notice. Paradise Obsessive-Compulsive Association. There were a bunch of little tabs with phone numbers at the bottom of the sheet. He tore one off. The tear did not make a straight line. So he tore off another.
Jerry the bartender walked up. “Serge…”
“Hey, Jerry.”
“Can I ask a question?”
“Sure. What is it?”
Jerry looked around, then lowered his voice. “Do people like me?”
THE FLORIDA KEYS are home to the largest per-capita concentration of twelve-step programs in the nation. Some of the support groups meet at the municipal building on Sugarloaf Key, next to the fire station. The building has a long hallway of low-bid, peel-and-stick tiles.
The third room on the left was full of teens in defiant slouches. A court-ordered early-intervention program for at-risk youth arrested on petty charges. Two older men in sheriff’s uniforms stood at the front of the room. Both were out of shape, but one more so. He held up a hand-rolled cigarette.
“This is marijuana….”
The kids: “Oooooooooooooo.”
Gus set the joint on a table up front. “It is what is known as a gateway drug….”
A teen raised his hand. “Where’d you get that?”
“Evidence. After a trial.”
“Weren’t you supposed to destroy it?”
“We did. But sometimes we save a little for training purposes.”
“That’s against the law.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Do you have a court order?” asked the youth.
“What?”
“I’m going to be a lawyer. There are very strict condemnation procedures for scheduled substances. Outside of that, only a few high-security federal research facilities are allowed to keep pot. Right now you’re guilty of possession.”
“And showing it to minors,” said a girl chewing gum.
“This is just a class,” said Gus. “If you’d all be quiet, we can wrap this up and go home—”
“You told us that possession of even a small amount of pot is a serious offense.”
Another boy in baggy jeans pointed at a phone number on the blackboard. “Maybe we should call the anonymous tip line.”
Gus turned to his colleague. “Walter, help me here.”
Walter shrugged. “I’ve never seen the guidelines. Maybe he’s right.”
“Thanks, Walter.”
A banging came through the wall from the next room. All the kids were talking now.
“Everyone, please be quiet!” said Gus. “We’re here because we care what happens to you. Drugs aren’t healthy….”
A hand went up. “I saw on TV where obesity is a leading killer. You might consider a diet.”
Another hand. “How are you supposed to catch anybody? I’ll bet you can’t get over a fence.”
Gus was red-faced and speechless.
The gum-chewing girl raised her hand. “I heard your nickname is Serpico.”
“What?” said Gus.
“Serpico. Is it true?”
“I don’t know,” said Gus. “I guess some of the guys call me that sometimes.”
The girl raised her hand again. “Is that, like, some kind of joke?”
Gus’s eyes narrowed. Why, you little shits.
More banging came through the wall.
The next room: Serge sat in the back row with folded arms. A gavel continued banging on the front table. Serge was beginning to wonder if he’d made a mistake. He’d never seen so much unconnected movement in his life, all these nervous rituals and spastic noises. Then the moderator had to bang his gavel again every few minutes to restore order before the next introduction. “Hi, I’m Sam.” “Hi, Sam.” And more ridiculous stories. Have to keep dusting the house. Have to keep making sure the doors are locked. One person couldn’t stop washing his hands, one dreaded contact with faucets, and another had both problems and just stood at sinks a long time. Serge wasn’t one to judge, but what a pack of loons!
The gavel banged again. It was Serge’s turn. Everyone was staring at him. Serge didn’t want to go.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” said the moderator.
“I’m not sure I’m in the right place,” said Serge.
“You’re among friends.”
Serge looked around at all the tense, panicky faces staring back at him. Sheesh.
“What’s your name?”
“It’s Serge, look—”
“Hi, Serge!”
Serge checked his watch. “I’m missing Space Ghost.” He reluctantly walked to the front of the room.
“What seems to be your problem, Serge?”
“Nothing.”
“Take your time. And remember, anything you say here is privileged.”
Someone kept scooting his chair back and forth. The gavel banged three times.
“Will you stop with the gavel?” said Serge.
Someone turned the lights off, then on, then off. The gavel banged three more times. The lights came back on. Serge was at the breaking point. What a crazy meeting! Actually, it was two meetings. They were in one of those double rooms with a sliding accordion divider in case a large group needed the extra space. Another meeting was under way on the other side. Someone kept opening and closing the divider. Serge caught glimpses of glazed adults in a variety of robes and talismans. The Lower Keys Chapter of People Susceptible to Joining Cults. The members attended religiously. The moderator was trying to get them to stop coming. The divider closed.
The first moderator politely touched Serge’s arm. “Everyone here is on your side.” Then he touched his arm two more times. Serge jerked away. “You’re creeping me out!”
The divider opened. A man stood at the front of the other meeting wearing a bishop’s mitre with the insignia of every ship in the star fleet. The divider closed. The gavel banged three times. Serge grabbed his head with both hands. “What the hell is wrong with you people!”
“Serge, please…”
“I will not ‘please’! All I’ve heard since I’ve been here is a bunch of whining. ‘I’m so messed up.’ ‘I need help.’ Guess what? The world’s messed up! Deal with it!”
“Could you lower your voice?”
“Dammit!” said Serge. “I thought this was going to be some kind of cool club. Like Mensa. Special crafts and hobbies, take field trips, maybe pool our awesome powers for a shot at the Guinness book. Instead, all I hear is complaints!…” Chair scooted; people made crackling sounds with fingers, necks and jaws.