Two sedans went by, then a metallic green Trans Am. The coast was clear. The Jeep took off with a wallet on the roof and shaving cream on the back window: “Key West or Bust!”
COLEMAN CHECKED HIS rearview. No witnesses from the Great Escape. He continued through some modest new construction in the wake of Hurricane Andrew until the city of Homestead eventually dwindled out in a quilt of vacant lots.
The Buick rolled to a stop at the intersection with U.S. 1. Coleman’s windows were down, letting in morning sounds that emphasized how quiet it was. A bird chirping, a far-off diesel getting a punch of fuel. Coleman opened a bag of peanuts and waited for some last cars to pass. A metallic green Trans Am and college students in a Jeep Grand Cherokee. He turned right.
Nothing oncoming for the first three miles. The sky went from dark to light blue, the world waking up. Coleman smelled salt. The sun finally broke, orange blotches of light flickering through breaks in the mangroves. Coleman popped nuts in his mouth. Formations of wading birds flew over the causeway. Then more birds on foot, vultures standing around overnight roadkill with the posture of guys loitering outside an adult video store. Every other mile: dead raccoon, dead snake, dead opossum, dead armadillo. Traffic began filling Coleman’s rearview, and he was soon being passed nonstop by convertibles and SUVs and rental cars. Coleman was always being passed because the Buick couldn’t go faster than fifty without vibrating like a paint shaker. Some of the other drivers leaned on their horns. Coleman didn’t pay no mind. He was one of the most carefree creatures you’d ever meet, which meant he was an enemy of the state. He finished his peanuts and tossed the empty bag on the dashboard, which had become one of those trash gardens you frequently see on the highway: crumpled burrito wrappers, smashed soda cups, napkins, matchbooks, lottery tickets, coffee stirrers, dead AA batteries, Gulf Oil road map of Arkansas, intact vending-machine Condom of Ultimate Optimism, still-folded litter bag. As new layers of garbage were added, the older ones compacted into the seam between the front of the dash and the tapering windshield, where you could trace Coleman’s downfall like a museum cross-section of an Indian shell mound. On the floor of the passenger side was a chewed pencil, an umbrella handle and a broken answering machine he’d found in a field. The AC didn’t work.
Mile Marker 108 went by. The Buick slowed as it struggled up the incline toward the bridge over Jewfish Creek, the official border between mainland Florida and the Keys. Coleman was passed in the left lane by a Greyhound bus with some kind of commotion in the backseat.
“Wake up! Wake up!” yelled Serge, shaking the bum. “You don’t want to miss this!”
The bum was having one of those fantastic drunk dreams, like if Georgia O’Keeffe did claymation of organic decomposition. “Wha—? What is it?”
Serge pulled him upright and pointed out the window. “There’s the bridge! We’re about to enter the Keys! It’s one of those relaxing little life pleasures you should get into. So get the fuck into it!”
The bus rattled across the metal grating of the drawbridge. Serge threw his arms in the air like he was on a roller coaster but remembered not to yell.
Then it was over. He smiled at the bum. “Like no other place on earth. Raw natural beauty, relentless freedom, unorthodox natives. A friend told me something else about the Keys I never forgot: Down here, nobody is who they seem to be. When people in other parts of the country want to reinvent themselves, they come to Florida. But when people in Florida want to reinvent themselves, they come to the Keys. That’s what I’m doing….”
They passed Overseas Insurance, Paradise Tattoo and a house trailer with a hand-painted sign on the side of the road. WANTED: GRAND PIANO OR LEGAL ADVICE.
Serge began strumming his guitar again. He stopped and silenced the strings with his hand. “Got a ground-floor opportunity for you.” He looked around to make sure nobody else was listening, then leaned closer. “I’m going to be the next Jimmy Buffett.” He winked. “Only better…” He resumed playing. “…Oh, I’m an irresponsible pirate mixin’ drinks and bein’ lazy…” He stopped playing. “That’s an original. It’s unfinished. The working title is ‘Make Me Rich.’ I really don’t know how to play yet, or write songs, but that doesn’t matter. It’s about marketing. Jimmy’s cousin is Warren Buffett…” — Serge reached in his back pocket for a computer printout and unfolded it across the guitar — “…It’s all in the numbers. I have an MBA.” The printout was blank. Serge put it away. “I don’t really have an MBA. I can admit that because you look like someone who doesn’t care. I mean that in a good way. And we’ll have to be straight with each other if we’re going to be partners….”
The bus pulled over at a roadside shelter. The bum started getting up. “This is my stop.”
Serge pulled him back down. “You need to stop and think about my offer. The world is becoming too stressful. Both parents working, losing shirts in mutual funds, running to after-school functions, filling weekends with unfinishable home improvements that looked so easy on the Renovation Channel. They never expected adulthood would be like this. ‘Holy shit! It’s just more and more responsibility! Maybe if I work a little harder it’ll start to get easier…. Nope, it’s even worse now and… oh my God! I’m having a heart attack!’” Serge grabbed his chest and fell into the aisle. He lay motionless. The bum bent over. “You okay?”
Serge popped back up. “And then you’re fuckin’ dead! What kind of life is that?” Serge faced forward and nodded. “This is where I come in. I’ll give people the momentary illusion of escaping adulthood, for a fee. The market’s ripe: Everyone’s become obsessed with maturity….”
A gold ’71 Buick Riviera drove past the parked Greyhound, Coleman hitting the nub of a joint and humming in falsetto: “Hmm, hmm-hmm, hmm-hmm, fruit juicy. How’d you like a nice Hawaiian punch?…”
Coleman reached under his seat, locating a loose beer and an empty convenience-store collector’s cup promoting the Harry Potter industrial complex. He poured the beer in the cup so he could sip while driving, nobody the wiser, instead of having to hunch over and sneak with a can, because that would be dangerous.
The Buick passed a row of fiery poincianas down the median on Key Largo, then countless red and white dive flags, coral-reef murals, concrete angelfish, big plaster shark jaws for tourists to pose inside, a fish-basket restaurant with stone patio tables out front from a pool store, the famous Caribbean Club, the famous African Queen movie boat, a dozen famous tiki huts, a seashell gift outlet mall, Tradewinds Liquors, Paradise Insurance, Kokomo Dental, and the parking lot of a boarded-up shopping center where a third-rate carnival was working its way down the Keys. Rusty Ferris wheel, Ping-Pong ball goldfish games, mechanical crane rigged so you couldn’t grab the mini-spy camera or switchblade comb. Disinterested clowns shuffled floppy shoes through the grimy midway. The clowns had gotten into substance abuse, flunked out of the prestigious Ringling Brothers Clown College in Sarasota and were now relegated to the hard-luck circuit of broken clown dreams. An audience of three preschoolers sat cross-legged on a mat. Mr. Blinky juggled a pair of balls. The children got up and left. Mr. Blinky put the balls in his pocket. Another clown walked up. They watched forlornly as the children entered the computer arcade tent.
“Let’s go get high,” said Mr. Blinky.
“Fuckin’ A,” said Uncle Inappropriate.
The clowns went behind some propane tanks as a Greyhound bus drove by in the background, the last window open, a man strumming his guitar.
SERGE STOPPED PLAYING his guitar and faced the bum. “It first hit me when I was eating dinner in Margaritaville. I had ordered the Cheeseburger in Paradise. Figured it had to be the best cheeseburger in the world if Buffett was involved. You know what? The fucking thing was inedible, a gray Keds sole. And as far as accuracy, get this: no pickle. There’s a pickle in every refrain in that song. I’ve heard it a thousand times. But was there one with my cheeseburger? They’re betting on us not noticing. Well, they bet wrong!…”