Looe Key wasn’t like the other keys. You couldn’t get there by highway. And even if you could, you’d be in trouble. Looe Key was submerged.
It was named for the HMS Looe, which sank in 1744. There’s almost nothing left of the wreck, but the awash coral reef is famous for its spectacular pattern of finger channels supporting teeming quantities of angelfish, parrotfish, tarpon, snapper, eel and just about everything else. The reef sits five miles offshore to the south. Dive boats make continuous runs from Ramrod, Little Torch and Big Pine.
For twenty-one years, the locals have hosted the annual Looe Key Underwater Music Festival. Water conducts sound much better than air, and divers come from all over to feel the tunes pulse through their bones. The music is broadcast by WCNK — “Conch FM” — and pumped down to the reef with special underwater speakers from Lubell Laboratory. Some of the divers arrive in wacky costumes. They jump in the ocean with guitars and trombones and whatnot, forming string quartets and marching bands. Some dress like pop stars. Tina Tuna. Britney Spearfish.
The concert lasts six hours. The minister would arrive during the third. The vows would be exchanged under water. Serge had written them himself.
Gear bags flew into the Buick’s trunk and the lid slammed. Serge checked his watch. “Still on schedule. You got the ring?”
“Ring?”
“Coleman! You’re the best man!”
“What ring?”
“I gave it to you last night. I was extremely clear. I said, ‘Coleman, put down the bong and pay attention. This is the ring. It is of utmost importance. Screw up everything else, but don’t lose the ring. The ring is everything. The ring is life and death. Do you understand?’ And you said, ‘Sure,’ and I handed it to you.”
“Oh, that,” said Coleman. “I thought you were handing me a piece of trash.”
Serge and Coleman sorted through garbage dumped out on the kitchen floor.
A half hour later, the Buick pulled up to the tiki bar at the Looe Key Reef Resort. Serge took the ring from his pocket and wiped off coffee grounds. He handed it to Coleman. “This is the ring. It isn’t trash. Do not throw away.”
The gang from the No Name was already waiting under the thatched roof. Molly was there, too, sitting on a bar stool in her wedding gown. Wearing glasses. Serge gave her a peck on the cheek.
“We’re not supposed to see each other before the ceremony,” said Molly.
“I don’t believe in bad luck….” Serge pointed at the ground. “Coleman!”
“What?”
“In the dirt! The ring!”
“How’d that get there?” Coleman picked it up.
Serge snatched it. “You’re relieved of ring duty.”
“Thanks. That was way too much pressure.”
The gang toasted the happy couple. Nothing could go wrong now. They were already in place with a full two-hour pad. Just let the moment build enjoying the company of friends.
They weren’t all friends. Most of the customers in the tiki hut were divers attending the music festival. Lots of rum drinks, cans of beer, buckets of oysters and cocktail sauce and chisels. It was noisy. The loudest were the three used-car salesmen on the opposite side of the bar from Serge and Molly. They’d just gotten in from the morning dive, drinking up quickly so they could work in another afternoon dive. A definite no-no. But rules were for other people.
Serge had noticed the trio in passing, but now he happened to catch them pointing his way and laughing. Actually, they were pointing at Molly. Serge scowled at them. They looked away, made another unheard remark and laughed even harder.
Serge turned to Molly. Her head hung sadly. Laughter across the bar. They were pointing again. Serge got off his stool.
The three men were still giggling when Serge arrived in his white tux.
“Hey, look. It’s Bogart!”
“Were you pointing at my fiancée?”
“Who?” The leader stretched his neck theatrically and looked across the bar.
“I’m getting married today,” said Serge. “So you’ve caught me in a good mood.”
“Oh, the one in the wedding dress.” He looked back at his buddies. “Wonder how a nerd does it?”
Serge tapped him on the shoulder.
The leader got off his stool and stood up to Serge’s chest. He was a lot taller than he looked sitting. “Why don’t you go back to your seat before you get hurt?”
“I’m trying to be polite.” Serge snapped his fingers for the bartender. “Give these guys a round on me.” He turned to the salesman again. “A little common courtesy. It’s all I ask. I don’t want anything to ruin this special day.”
“Whatever, Bogey.”
“Thanks.” Serge returned to his stool. He and Molly faced each other, holding hands, lost in each other’s eyes. A loud remark came across the bar. This time it was clearly audible.
“My Big Fat Geek Wedding!”
Serge continued smiling at Molly. “Would you excuse me?” He got off the stool and tugged Coleman’s arm. “We need to go back to the trailer.”
On the way to the Buick, Serge stopped in the motel’s dive shop to pick up the reserved scuba tanks for him and Molly. “I’m going to need an extra.”
The pair made an express trip to the mobile home and was back at the tiki hut in under forty minutes.
Serge hoisted an orange tank from the trunk and carried it on his shoulder into the bar. He walked up to the head car salesman and set the tank down. “Sorry about the misunderstanding earlier. Free tank on me. No hard feelings.”
A sheriff’s cruiser drove up. Gus and Walter got out and walked through the parking lot. Gus stopped behind one of the cars and looked at the APB in his hand. “This is the one.”
The deputies entered the tiki hut and made a slow circuit around the bar, studying customers.
“Uh-oh,” said Serge. He held up a hand to shield his face.
Gus stopped behind a stool and checked the mug shot on the bulletin in his hand. “Are you Rebel Starke?”
“Yeah, why?”
Gus pulled handcuffs off his belt. “You’re under arrest for six hundred traffic tickets in Tennessee.”
Rebel jumped off his stool and ran up to Serge, grabbing him by the lapels of his white tux. “Serge! Hide me! Do something!”
The deputies dragged him off.
Serge stood and straightened his jacket. “Sorry there was a disturbance, folks, but everything’s all right now. Just relax and have a good time.” He offered Molly his arm. “Shall we?”
THE DIVE BOAT throttled down and moored to a special float over the reef. The minister was already waiting below. The wedding party and best man lay around the afterdeck. They would be staying topside because of safety technicalities like not having dive certificates and being drunk. Serge and Molly stood on the back dive platform with their tanks. They held hands and gazed at each other one last time, before clutching regulators to their mouths and splashing into the ocean.
The first song was “Octopus’s Garden,” then “Fins” and “Aqualung.” The radio station had let Serge pick them out himself. Serge also gave the station a marriage script that would be piped into the water as the minister and the couple pantomimed. The groom removed the ring from a Velcro pocket in his buoyancy compensator. The theme from Jaws started. A DJ began reading.
I, Serge, take you, Molly, to be my lawfully wedded wife, to love and hold, in sickness and in health, in good times and bad, choosing you exclusively as my wife, friend, partner, airtight alibi, getaway driver, nurturing each other’s growth, making fun of the same relatives behind their backs, developing a list of running gags that is the foundation of any solid relationship, doing all the cool things married people do, which is why I’m really looking forward to this: snuggling on the couch with photo albums, watching classic movies in bed with lots of snacks, making silly remarks when we fart, at least at first before it becomes contentious, always agreeing with my wife that her really hot-looking friends dress like sluts and promising never, ever to fight. And when we do, to fight fair and not take off our rings and throw them at each other or reach for hot-button secrets we confided like those kids from junior high and their cruel nicknames — damn them to eternal hell! Then having lots and lots of kids with normal names instead of Scout, Tyfani, Dakota, Breeze or Shaniquatella, reading them bedtime stories and nursery rhymes, singing Christmas carols, teaching them that the “special words” Mommy and Daddy use around the house can’t be repeated at school because it’s “our little secret.” Now a moment to thank the sponsor of today’s wedding. Let’s hear it for Conch FM, home of the hits! And remember to keep a lookout for the Southernmost Prize Wagon! Back to live action: I further solemnly swear to adore and respect, to honor and defend, against all foes foreign and domestic, my love, my light, my life, the wind beneath my wings, the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air, fourscore and seven years, in Birmingham they love the guv’nah — ooo-ooo-ooo! As long as we both shall live! Amen!