roman à clef.
Part Three
16
PSSST!
Yeah, you. Over here. Remember me?… Maybe if I take my shades off. See? It’s me, the narrator. Ex-narrator actually. I’m thinking of suing. I’m at the Slushie Hut. Not the one in Key West. The one in Marathon. They’ve got franchises all down the Keys now. Coleman turned me on to the place, told me to try the Torpedo Juice. Knew I shouldn’t have listened. So I need to hurry — I wanted to talk to you before the replacement narrator shows up. He’s not a bad kid, just a little on the green side. It’s totally unfair. Listen, I’m not the only one upset about how this is going. Think I’ve been screwed over? You should hear the guy sitting next to me. What’s your name again?
“Jack Buckley.”
Tell them what happened.
“I won this charity auction in Tampa. You know, to have my name used as a character in the book. Paid a bundle, but it was for the art museum. So I show up today like they told me, all ready to go. Then at the last second they say my part’s been cut.”
Classy outfit, ain’t it?
“I want my money back!”
Good luck.
“Who do I talk to?”
It won’t do any good. My advice is to let it go and move on.
“No, really. They can’t treat Jack Buckley like this! You hear me? I’m Jack Buckley!…”
Okay, fine, now stop talking. Have another Torpedo Juice…. See what I mean out there? This is the kind of organization we’re dealing with. But that’s not your problem; you just came here to have fun reading about the Keys. Which is what I wanted to talk to you about. Rampant development isn’t the only thing ruining this place. We’re also being overrun by world-class jerks. But you probably already got that picture. There are some more real quality people you’re about to meet. Actually you’ve already sort of met them. Remember some of the news reports? The used-car dealers who filled the airbags with sand? That really happened. Then there was the roofing company that tells every customer they need a whole new roof whether they do or not. That one’s not even a surprise. The new breed of Florida predators. Old folks, handicapped — doesn’t matter. There’s no out-of-bounds with these people. They come down to the Keys to celebrate their trail of misery…. What’s that you have there, bartender? Another Torpedo Juice? No, I didn’t order one. I was just waving my arm for emphasis. But since you already poured it… and you might as well get another one for my new friend here, Mr. Billingsly.
“Buckley!”
Whatever. Shut up. Those roofers I was telling you about? They’re here, right in this bar. This is where they enter the story. They’re the four guys down at the end in the seven-hundred-dollar yachting jackets. That’s right, those dolts who’ve been loud and obnoxious all night…. Hey, fellas! Yeah, that’s right, you over there! Nice way to treat people! Really nice code of living, you pieces of crap!
“You talking to us?”
You see any other assholes?
“Ignore him. He’s drunk.”
“No, I want to know what he said…. What did you say to us?”
I said you bite! What do you think about that? Huh? What are you going to do about it, Mr. Big Shitty-Roof-Job Fuck?
“That’s it!”
Good! Come on over here! I’m not one of your defenseless victims! I’ll kick your — Ow! Ah! Oooo! Ow! No, not the ribs! Ow! Shit! Ow!…”
“Are you his friend?”
“I’m Jack Buckley! I’m Ja—”
Punch.
A few days ago
AN UNMARKED NEWS truck rolled slowly through a fresh housing development west of Fort Lauderdale, built right up against a bermed canal that was the final encroachment barrier on the edge of the Everglades. Developers were looking for ways to jump it.
Spanking-new houses marched in tight formation down the right side of the road, all identical three-story hurricane fodder with circular drives, screened pools, minimum setbacks. The stately arches over the front doors were quick plywood forms with thin stucco. Politicians signed off on stormwater systems that couldn’t handle the runoff. The houses sold like crazy because the development had great shrubbery at the entrance.
This is today’s South Florida — inland sprawl, shiny, crime-free, exclusive.
Not exclusive enough.
The TV reporter huddled with his cameraman for last-second ambush choreography. The van’s side panel suddenly flew open and they jumped out commando-style, running for the house with the camera rolling, capturing that dramatic jiggling footage. Eyewitness 5 specialized in reporters asking bold questions of doors opened a crack. Then more questions of slammed doors. Sometimes they started asking questions of doors before people had time to answer, so the station would have stock footage in the can.
The man inside the house this morning didn’t have a care. He was on the couch reading the paper, digging his toes into thick white carpet. A high-definition TV was on a reality show where people trick each other. His wife sat in a loveseat on the distant side of the living room with a Parade magazine, “What People Earn.”
The man picked up the sports section. “The Marlins won again.”
“There’s a bus driver in Cleveland who makes fifty thousand dollars.”
“…This is Eyewitness Five correspondent Blaine Crease with another segment of ‘Consumer Bloodhound.’ We’re at the home of Troy Bradenton, owner of Troy’s Roofing Plus, asking the tough questions! Getting results! Just be glad we’re on — Your Side!…”
“Did you say something, dear?”
“No,” said the man. “I thought you said something.”
“Where’s that voice coming from? Sounds like someone’s on our front porch.”
“I didn’t hear the doorbell.”
“Neither did I.”
The doorbell finally rang. “What are you hiding from in there?…”
His wife put down her magazine. “I’ll get it.”
She opened the door on the chain.
The reporter was facing his cameraman. “Make my head bigger.”
“Yes?” said the woman. “Can I help you?”
The reporter turned around. “Oh, didn’t see you. Good morning.… Why won’t you answer our questions!…”
“Hold on a second.” She called back into the house. “Honey, it’s for you.”