The gavel banged three times. “Quiet!”
Serge snatched the gavel away and banged it at the moderator. “No, you be quiet!”
The moderator picked up the gavel. “You have to bang it three times” — bang, bang, bang — “then set it on its special presentation stand, perfectly straight, equidistant from the four edges.”
Serge picked up the gavel, snapped it in half and threw the pieces down. “There. You’re fuckin’ cured.”
The moderator made a sucking scream. He fell sobbing into his chair with the two pieces, desperately trying to fit them together.
Serge faced the room. “Don’t you understand? The answer is inside each of you! Don’t follow anyone else! Be your own leader! Lead yourselves!”
The divider was open. The moderator on the other side had lost his audience. They were listening to Serge.
The lights went off, on, off.
“That’s it! I’m history!” Serge stormed from the room.
The hallway was quiet except for Serge’s footsteps. “Unbelievable.” He glanced in the window of the next door. A deputy was at the front table. “Please! I’m begging you!…” Serge kept walking, other rooms, other agendas. People afraid of closed-in open spaces. People who love too much. People who try to get attention by staging hang-glider accidents. Serge looked in another window, a lone man tapping on a computer: People Afraid to Leave the House, telecommuting to the meeting. The next room, a sign outside: AA.
“At least it’s tradition.”
Serge passed the door and heard giggling. He took another step and stopped. “That laugh… no, it couldn’t be—” He took another step and heard it again.
The AA door creaked open. The laughter grew louder. Serge poked his head inside.
Another gavel was banging, the moderator asking the man in the back row to control himself.
“I’m sorry,” said Coleman, dabbing his eyes. “Just that last story — the image got to me. Guy wakes up naked on the bathroom floor with his glasses in the toilet and a bunch of shit mashed in his hair. I mean, how can you not laugh?”
Stern glares in response.
Coleman swallowed a final giggle. “I’m okay now….”
Serge couldn’t believe his eyes. “Coleman!”
Coleman turned around. “Serge!”
They ran together and hugged. Coleman held Serge out by the arms. “You’ve come back!”
The moderator shhhhh’d everybody: “One of our brothers has come back.”
Serge turned. “What? Oh, no, you’ve got the wrong—”
“What’s your name?”
“It’s Serge,” said Coleman.
“Hi, Serge!”
“Welcome home,” said the moderator.
“I was never a part of your group.”
“We understand. Some of us come for years before we’re ever really a part—”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“We don’t want to rush you. Why don’t you just sit with your friend until you’re ready. He can be your sponsor.”
Serge looked at Coleman a moment, then cracked up.
“He’s hysterical,” said Coleman. “Must be the shock of the return.”
They sat down and whispered.
“I thought you were dead!” said Serge. “I even saw your body. Your face was all shot up!”
“That’s right,” said Coleman. “The face was gone. That’s why police got the wrong ID. It was my perfect chance to go underground. Everyone just assumed because it was my motel room, except it was actually this other dude who was visiting.”
“But I recognized your T-shirt. Save the Bales… the one that was always getting you hassled by the cops.”
“I met this guy at The Slushie Hut on Duval Street, and we started pounding the house special, Torpedo Juice. One part grain alcohol, three parts Red Bull. After a couple of those you’re completely fucked up but on the move. The guy says we should go look for Thai stick. So we roam all over the island and finally meet a connection behind The Green Parrot and give him the money. Then back to my room to wait, which is where the drinks clobbered the guy, and he throws up all over himself, so I lend him my shirt, and then we realize the guy we paid for the dope is taking a really long time, and I head down to the lobby—”
“Stop right there,” said Serge. “This is beginning to sound like some lame soap opera device to bring back a character they regretted killing off.”
“Yeah, but that’s just bad TV writing,” said Coleman. “This is real life.” He patted himself on the chest. “See? I’m actually here.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
The old pals continued catching up in the back of the room, oblivious to the meeting. A guy at the front in a cervical collar explained how he crashed into the DUI checkpoint. Serge and Coleman finally realized that the gavel had been banging for a while. They looked up. Everyone was staring at them. The moderator pointed at Coleman. “Excuse me, but what is that in your hand?”
Coleman looked at the flask. “What? This?”
“Yes, that! Are you drinking in here?”
“Of course,” said Coleman.
“But your recovery?…”
“Recovery?” said Coleman. “I’m here for the stories. This is the funniest shit in town!”
That did it.
The pair stood and headed out of the room. Serge slapped Coleman on the shoulder. “I’m not sure, but I think this is some kind of record. Eighty-sixed from AA.”
Serge opened the door.
A bunch of faces in the hall stared back at him. People from the cult meeting, patiently awaiting orders from their new leader.
7
THE SUN ROSE on a viciously humid morning at the Marathon Airport. Birds walked along the fence. A lone runway worker in shorts and ear protectors was stained through his shirt. He waved the Lear in with batons.
Stairs flipped down from the side of the plane, and a short, bald man stood in the doorway with an umbrella drink. His bright orange shirt had vintage Corvettes.
“Let the games begin! Gaskin Fussels is here!”
The worker unlatched the luggage compartment on the side of the plane.
Fussels grabbed the wire handrail and marched down the stairs with thunderous steps. “Please! Please! Everyone! Hold down your applause!”
The worker glanced around the empty runway.
A limo raced up. The chauffeur ran to grab luggage. “Sorry, Mr. Fussels. Got held up in traffic.”
“No harm, no foul.”
Fussels climbed in the limo, and they soon made the routine pit stop at Overseas Liquors. The attorney poured a stiff double as they passed the 7-Mile Grill. The chauffeur looked over his shoulder. “Where to?”
“You know where.”
They started across the big bridge. Out the right windows, a little tram dressed up like a train took tourists down the old span to Pigeon Key. The chauffeur looked up in the mirror. “You sure are spending a lot of time at the No Name, Mr. Fussels.”
“Sal, can’t thank you enough for showing me that place. Best bar on earth.”
“It’s Sid.”
“What?”
“You said Sal.”
“Sal, Sid. You say tomato, I say bottom’s up!”
The limo drove through Bahia Honda State Park, past the ruins of an ancient train trestle.
“Sal, got a joke for you. Salesman’s in a small town, asks the bartender where he can get a hooker. The bartender says it’s a small town, the only action is Willie over there, the wino at the end of the bar. The salesman says, ‘Are you crazy?’ Hours pass and he gets drunker and asks the bartender again, and the bartender says just old Willie over there. Finally, it’s closing time. The salesman is wrecked and horny. He says, okay, okay, I’ll take Willie. How much? The bartender says fifty dollars. The salesman says, ‘That filthy bum gets fifty dollars! This must be a small town!’ And the bartender says, ‘Oh, no, the fifty is for me to hold him down.’ Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!… What’s the matter, Sal? You’re not laughing….”