Martha’s eyes darted between Serge and her daughter disappearing into the house. Twin crises. She made the call and ran inside “Nicole! Come back here!..”
“Whoa!” said Coleman.
“Holy fuck,” Serge told Jim. “I didn’t know what you were up against. Each month when their periods get in sync, you must be juggling chain saws.”
“You talking about my wife and daughter…?”
“Just sayin’.”
“Please don’t.”
Serge bowed his head once in respect. “Fair enough. I haven’t been there myself, so the period thing could be touchy-”
“Serge!” Jim stepped close and whispered: “What on earth did you do to that mall cop?”
Serge took a step back, mouth agape, and placed a hand over his heart. “Jim, I’m shocked. I show up with a welcome basket, and we’re chatting all friendly about periods and shit, and then suddenly accusations.”
Jim idly rubbed his left shoe on the welcome mat. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Serge threw an arm around Jim’s shoulders. “Meanwhile, it looks like Martha’s having some trouble with your daughter. Let’s see if I can help. I’m great with kids.”
“I think it’s a bad idea.”
“Don’t be silly.” He led Jim inside and called down the hall. “Martha! Nicole! It’s Serge to the rescue…”
Serge and Coleman dashed down the porch steps at 888 Triggerfish Lane. A frying pan flew after them and took a divot out of the lawn. “Don’t ever come back!”
They jumped into the Chevelle. “Hurry up and start the car,” said Coleman. “She’s looking for something else to throw.”
Feet ran down the front steps.
“Hurry!” yelled Coleman.
“That’s not Martha.”
Nicole sprinted down to the car.
“What are you doing?” yelled Serge.
“Coming with you. I’m getting the fuck out of this hell house!”
“Your mouth!” said Serge.
She grabbed the passenger-door handle before Serge could hit the lock button, and dove in the backseat.
“Get out of the car,” said Serge.
She pointed up the street. “Just hit the gas.”
“Out of the car-”
Martha came running down the steps.
A cast-iron pressure cooker crashed and creased the Chevelle’s hood. “My car! It’s vintage!”
“Told you to hit the gas.”
Serge peeled out.
Martha ended up in the middle of the street behind the car, throwing her shoes.
Nicole was twisted around in her seat, looking out the rear window and giggling. She turned back around. “That was cool.”
“That was not… What do you think you’re doing?”
Nicole lit a Marlboro Light. “What?”
Serge snatched it away and threw it out the window.
“Hey!”
“Jesus, you’re just a kid!” said Serge. “What, sixteen?”
“Fifteen.”
Coleman fired a new doobie and passed it back over the front seat. “Wanna hit?”
“Sure.” Nicole reached.
Serge slapped his hand. “Coleman! That’s illegal!”
“Sorry. How ’bout a beer?”
“No!” yelled Serge. “She’s just a kid!”
Nicole pointed. “Is that a real gun?”
“What?” said Serge. “Oh, this? Didn’t realize I’d gotten it out again. Something to keep my hands busy.”
“Can I hold it?”
“No!” He stowed it under the seat.
Nicole slumped in disappointment. “You guys looked like you were going to be fun.”
“We are fun,” said Serge. “Ask anyone. Well, not anyone. You know how some people automatically don’t like you for no reason?”
The Chevelle made a right for the Gandy Bridge.
“So where are we going, anyway?” asked Nicole.
“We drive around,” said Serge. “Waiting for duty to call.”
“I get it.” Nicole nodded. “You like to go cruisin’. Me, too. Driving around getting messed up. Then maybe street-racing on the Courtney Campbell or Twenty-second causeway. Some of those dudes have guns, too.”
“What dudes?”
“Like my boyfriend.”
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about him,” said Serge.
Nicole got out her cell phone. “You mean Snake?”
“Is that a name?”
“No, it’s just what the guys at work call him.”
“Work?” said Serge. “Like an after-school job.”
“No, he dropped out his senior year. Has a job at the Gas-N-Grub.”
“Senior?” said Serge. “How old is this Snake?”
“Eighteen.”
Serge slapped his forehead. “Now we really have to talk. How many piercings does he have, anyway?”
“Don’t be old-fashioned.”
“Oh, I don’t have a problem with it. They’re meant to attract attention, and they attracted mine…”
The Chevelle ramped up the bridge over Tampa Bay.
Serge glanced as the young girl tapped her cell phone. “Nicole, what are you doing?”
“Texting.” Tap, tap, tap.
“But I’m talking to you.”
Not looking up: “I hear you.” Tap, tap, tap.
Serge yanked the phone away.
“Hey!”
“It’s rude,” said Serge.
“Everybody does it.”
“And that’s the whole problem with this country today. No manners.” Serge unscrewed a thermos of coffee. “People used to hang out and actually communicate. But today they head to the mall and sit together at the Yogurt A Go-Go in their own separate spheres of mobile devices.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s destroying the art of conversation!” said Serge. “I love conversations!”
“Why?”
“Because we’re all crazy!” said Serge. “And that’s how society makes progress: imaginations getting together and glancing off each other in accidental tangents of invention.”
“That sounds crazy,” said Nicole.
“Think about it.” Serge chugged from his coffee thermos. “We all know how schizophrenics talk from our time on the streets interacting with the underpass community, and we’re thinking, ‘Jesus, I’m glad I’m not like this loopy guy jabbering about time travel, drone aircrafts, and guilt-free dog treats.’… But that’s only because we’re not aware of how our own conversations sound because we’re inside them. It’s like you don’t know your own voice unless you have a tape recorder. And if you did have a tape recorder, and recorded a hundred different conversations in a restaurant, where people at leisure have no agenda other than to enjoy each other’s company, the chitchat is all over the road, jumping from topic to topic until it’s miles from where it began, which nobody can remember. In movies, the talk is a logical straight line, moving plot from A to B. But in real life, it starts with the weather, then office gossip, vacation plans, childhood mishaps, a funny story about a trombone, the benefits of testing batteries with your tongue, why Esperanto never took off, what about Morey Amsterdam? — the heartbreak of psoriasis, the trouble with Tribbles, the thrill is gone, fashion disasters throughout history, turtle migration, my bologna has a first name, you’re soaking in Palmolive, then suddenly Einstein blurts out something about the decay of matter and, boom, Nagasaki… So how ’bout it?” Serge looked over at Nicole. “Want to try a real human conversation where people actually listen? I’ll go first: the Ice Age. Your thoughts?”
“I want my cell phone back.”
Serge’s head fell back with a sigh. “Okay, then I want to talk about Snake.”
“What about him?”
“You two were making out at the curb in front of your house.”
“So what?”
“He was being very disrespectful to your parents.” Serge wagged a finger. “The kind of man you deserve would walk you to the door and greet your mother and father.”
“How do you know my parents, anyway?”
“Me and Jim go way back, through thick and thin.”
“I heard some of the stories when I wasn’t supposed to. My mom really hates you.”
“Because she doesn’t understand me. But she’s a good woman, and you need to show her gratitude.”
“I’m just surprised you and my dad are friends.”
“Why do you say that?”