“Pick a song!” yelled Coleman.
“Okay, okay! There, that’s a good love song.” Serge hit B-12. Six times.
He rejoined them at the table and sat sideways, appreciating the layout of the room, tapping along with the music.
“Saturday night’s all right for fighting…”
Molly studied his content profile. But all she could think about was the horror from the side of the restaurant. And just because some idiot had insulted her, like they always did.
“Yes.”
Serge didn’t hear her at first.
“I said yes.”
Serge turned. “Yes what?”
“I’ll marry you.”
Everyone at the bar startled at the outcry.
“Yaaaaaahhhhooooooooooooooooo!!!!… ”
Serge jumped up and began doing the twist, singing along with the juke. “… Sat-ur-day! Sat-ur-day! Sat-ur-day!… Sat-ur-day! Sat-ur-day! Sat-ur-day!…”
The commotion drew the owner out of the back room. “Serge! Get the hell off the pool table! What are you thinking?”
Serge hopped down. He did the moonwalk, the hand jive, the chicken dance, the Iggy Shuffle. “…Sat-ur-day! Sat-ur-day!…” He threw imaginary dice, dunked an invisible basketball. He fell to his knees and threw his arms toward the ceiling.
“She said yesssssssss!!!!!!”
Sop Choppy walked over to Coleman. “What’s going on?”
“I just got laid.”
“No, I mean Serge.”
“Oh, I think he’s engaged.”
“No kidding?”
The already festive mood inside the pub became reckless as the news spread. People bought rounds of drinks, toasted, got loud, went by to shake Serge’s hand. They pulled the newly betrothed couple out of their chairs and got them to dance. At least Serge was dancing. Molly just sort of stood there while Serge pogo-sticked in a circle around her.
MOLLY GOT UP on her tiptoes to give Serge a quick peck goodnight.
The Buick raced south on U.S. 1, Serge’s head out the window in the night breeze. He came back inside. “This is the best day of my life!”
“I got laid.”
“That’s right, you did! Congratulations! When was the last time?”
“Last time what?”
“Sex. You have had sex before, right?”
“Oh, sure.”
“When?”
“All the time. Yesterday morning, twice again in the afternoon.”
“I mean with someone else.”
“That doesn’t count?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then that would be” — Coleman began counting on his fingers — “the first.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope.”
Serge slapped the steering wheel. “Hot damn! Now we really have to celebrate. But what can we do? It has to be extra special….”
Coleman made a suggestion.
“You read my mind.”
Moments later, Coleman stared through hot glass at rotating corn dogs. “What would we do without convenience stores?”
“You know who can’t go to convenience stores?”
“Who?”
“Barbra Streisand.”
“That’s right. She’s a prisoner.”
They carried their haul out to the car in five plastic bags and drove back to the trailer. Soon it was spread across the floor of Coleman’s mobile home. A Looney Tunes marathon came on. They toasted with Slurpee cups.
“What about Brenda?”
“That’s right. We should probably bring her inside before we forget.”
“Next commercial.”
They each grabbed an armpit and dragged Brenda up the steps. Coleman lovingly tucked her into one of the two single beds in the back of the trailer.
He stood and smiled.
Serge pointed. “What about JoJo?”
Coleman looked at the tiny deer in the corner. “How can he sleep standing up like that?”
“The people at the post office do it all the time.”
“I’m going to put him in the other bed. Someday I want to get him some little clothes.”
Coleman set the deer on its side and began tucking him in.
“What’s all that red stuff on the blankets?” said Serge.
“What?”
“What do you mean, ‘what?’ You got ketchup everywhere.”
Coleman looked at his hands. “I always forget napkins.” He wiped them on his pants, then smiled at Serge. Serge smiled back. Nothing could ruin this evening. They watched the beds like proud parents.
“They’re so peaceful,” said Coleman.
“Life is good.”
24
SUNLIGHT STREAMED INTO the trailer. Brenda’s eyelids fluttered.
She rolled over and stuck her head under the pillow. “Oh, no.”
One of her top ten hangovers. She remembered all of them. Her brain throbbed, her mouth felt like something had molted in it. Somehow she found the strength to raise her head. “Hey, this isn’t my room. Where am I?”
Her head fell back on the pillow and her eyes closed. It gradually came to her. Coleman’s trailer. Then another delayed response. Something she’d just seen.
She opened her eyes again. Over on the other bed. What the hell is that sticking out from under the blanket? Looks like a deer head.
It is a deer head. And the blanket has a bunch of red stains. Brenda thought it was real, a local copycat of The Godfather. Probably someone after Coleman for a drug debt.
“Jesus! That’s some seriously sick shit.” She laid her head back down and closed her eyes again.
After a moment, she realized her arm was resting against something. Her hand felt along a large form in the bed next to her.
Brenda’s eyes sprang open.
JUST AFTER DAYBREAK, a Buick Riviera sped west on U.S. 1. Serge had already been up for two hours, reading the paper, watching early news on TV, anxiously checking out the windows to see when night would end, standing over Coleman and Brenda in bed, waiting for them to wake up so he’d have someone to talk to, but they never did. He finally gave up and hopped in the Buick for a solo breakfast run.
Serge cleared the bridge on the return trip to Ramrod Key. He sipped orange juice and peeked inside the warm brown sack in his lap, taking a deep breath of McMuffin magic. The Buick made a left after the Chevron station.
Serge pulled up to the trailer in a super mood. He got out of the car with a sack of fast food and thoughts of Molly.
Brenda flew out the front door. “Ahhhhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhhh! I fucked Coleman! I fucked Coleman! I’m going to be sick!…”
Serge smiled and tipped an invisible hat as she ran by. “Good morning.”
“…I’ll never drink again! I swear to God!…” She grabbed the trunk of a sapwood tree and bent over retching.
Coleman was sitting up in bed with clumped hair when Serge entered the room. JoJo looked around from the other bed. Serge held out the bag and smiled. “McMuffins.”
Coleman grabbed an ashtray off the nightstand and excavated for roaches. “Where’s Brenda?”
“Out in the yard.” Serge sat on the foot of the bed and passed a sandwich.
“Thanks.” Coleman took a giant bite, chewing with open mouth. “Maybe I should get married, too. What do you think?”
“Absolutely,” said Serge. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “If you hurry, you can propose right now before she leaves. That way, last night’s memory is still fresh.”
“I think you’ve got something.” Coleman stuffed another bite in his mouth and threw the blanket off his legs.
Serge set his own sandwich on the bed and savored the unwrapping process. He heard the front door creak as Coleman went outside. He took a bite and closed his eyes. “Mmmmmm. Unbelievable! Never ate anything so good in all my life!” He opened his eyes and looked at JoJo. “That’s because I’m in love. Everything they say about it is absolutely true. Food tastes better. Colors are more vivid. The air is like candy gas….”