"Gator A-GO-GO" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dorsey Tim)Chapter TwentyTHAT EVENING Stop-and-go traffic on the strip. A high-mileage pickup with a Florida Gators bumper sticker rolled into town. “Look at all the babes!” said Cody. “We need to find a hotel room,” said Melvin Davenport. “Which one do you like?” “We just need to find something. All the signs I’m seeing say ‘No Vacancy.’” “I ignore those.” “This one,” said Melvin. He pulled into the parking lot. Then pulled out. “How about that one?” said Cody. In and out again. “Knew we should have gotten reservations,” said Melvin. “That’s just the first two,” said Cody. “Here’s another…” Ten motels later: “This isn’t good.” “You worry too much,” said Cody. “Something will probably open up later tonight.” “Who checks out at night?” “Whoa!” said Cody. “Check that ass!” “I’d rather check into a hotel.” They passed the Alligator Arms. ALLIGATOR ARMS Room 534. Three kids sat on the floor around Serge. “Never heard of that.” “It’s true,” said Serge. “Major first-century schism between Paul and Peter. The apostles were divided. Should the new Messiah be just for the Jews, or should the gospel also be preached to Gentiles? Arguably the most critical turning point affecting life as we know it today.” “How do you know all this stuff?” “It’s history. How can you not be fascinated?” “Serge?” “Yeah?” “What’s the matter?” “What do you mean?” “That look on your face.” “Sorry. My mind drifted into negative country. Got cheated out of a trophy today.” “When?” “At the army obstacle course. Remember? You were there.” “Oh, you mean when they threw you in the ocean instead?” “I guess that’s second place. And I wanted it so bad. I’ve never won a trophy for anything my whole life. Been eating at me ever since Little League, and this morning it was so close I could taste it-” They heard a violent slam against the outside of the motel room door. Then loud talking. Something shattered on the ground. Another crash against the door. The students jumped. “What the heck’s that?” Serge stood. “It’s how Coleman always enters a room.” “You mean the guy from the stage?” The door flew open and banged against the wall. Coleman stumbled in, followed by a dozen students from across the eastern United States. Serge stared bug-eyed at Coleman’s arms, overflowing with trophies. “Where’d you get all those?” “What a great day!” Coleman walked past Serge and began lining gold statues atop the TV cabinet. “This one’s for the belly flop, this is for dirty dancing, here’s the chugging contest, goldfish eating-but they were only those little crackers because of animal rights people-and this is for the fat-guy sunburn, and… I don’t remember this one. I was pretty fucked up. They just handed it to me. And I got this big mother with these three chicks…” Serge walked away and plopped down next to the church youth. One of them raised a hand. “So what happened to the schism?” “Paul prevailed and sent a bunch of junk mail to the Galatians.” “Wow.” Other side of the room: Coleman and a dozen helpers spread rolling papers across the coffee table. They picked apart buds from a half O-Z. Coleman sprinkled liberally along Job 1.5s. “It’s called the Seventh Son of the Seventh Son.” “Why’s that?” He licked a gummed seal. “You smoke forty-nine joints, then tear open the roaches and use the contents to roll seven more joints. Then you smoke those and use the last seven roaches to twist up one kick-ass doobie with such concentrated resin it’ll blow your eyeballs out.” “Wow.” Someone tugged Serge’s sleeve on the other side of the room. “Are you okay?” “I can’t believe he has a bigger congregation.” Coleman: “… Works every time. We should try it tonight.” “Sounds like an urban myth,” said one of the students. “Where’d you hear about it?” “On a Keys radio station,” said Coleman. “I would have doubted, too. But you have to know the Keys-anything’s possible. Then me and my friends tried it ourselves and pay dirt!” “How’d you do it?” “Know how police stake out certain bars at closing time for DUIs?” They nodded. “Coleman,” Serge yelled from across the room, “that stupid story’s on the Internet.” “If it wasn’t true before, it is now. Me and my friends did it, remember?” “Sadly.” “Never mind him.” Coleman turned back to his ring of acolytes. “My gang was tying one on at this funky Key West dive on Simonton. Almost closing time, and Johnny Law is parked across the street as usual. So my wingman, Bonzo, staggers into the parking lot, falling down, dropping his keys, getting up, tripping over the curb, crashing into garbage cans-while the rest of us leave the bar and drive away until the parking lot’s empty except for one last car.” “Bonzo’s?” “Correcto-mundo. And as soon as Bonzo starts the engine and moves an inch, blue lights everywhere. Cop gives him the Breathalyzer and he blows a zero. Then a field sobriety test. Walks a straight line, touches his nose, says the alphabet backward and forward.” “Doesn’t make sense.” “That’s what the cop thought. He says, ‘You were falling-down drunk a minute ago and now you’re sober as a judge. What’s going on?’” “Bonzo says, ‘All my friends drove away without getting DUIs. Tonight I was the designated decoy.’” INTERSTATE 95 A station wagon with New Hampshire plates blew through early-evening traffic. Continuous snowbanks began showing small breaks until the breaks became larger than the frozen stretches. Another state line went under the headlights. Beers popped. A crumpled speeding ticket hit the floor. “Let Virginia try to find me.” The car stopped. Slamming doors awoke Andy McKenna in the backseat. He looked around the nightscape. Cars pulling in, tractor-trailers idling, picnic tables, square building in the middle. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Where are we?” “Welcome center.” “Florida?” “North Carolina.” Other student vehicles arrived. Vermont. Rhode Island. Football stickers. Greek letters. The rest of the station wagon’s occupants returned from rest-rooms and vending machines. Doritos, coffee. They switched drivers and pulled back onto the highway. Radio low. “ The signs began. Every few minutes. SOUTH OF THE B ORDER, 112 M ILES… 105 M ILES… 98… “Aren’t we going to find a motel?” asked Andy. “Absolutely not,” said Joey. “It’s spring break,” said Doogie. “And?” “You have to drive straight through all the way or it doesn’t count.” SOUTH OF THE B ORDER, 53 M ILES… K EEP Y ELLING, K IDS. T HEY’LL S TOP. “When do you think we’ll get there?” “Three A.M., maybe four,” said Spooge, the just-relieved driver snuggling against a backseat door with a bunched-up beach towel. Andy opened a borrowed phone. “I’m going to try my dad again.” “You’ve called a dozen times now.” “I’ll eventually catch him.” He dialed. “Gimme that.” Spooge snatched the phone away. “ The phone folded shut. “What’d you do that for?” asked Andy. “We’re on spring break. Chill out.” A thousand miles north, Agent Oswalt looked at the unfamiliar number of the disconnected call. He hit call. “New rule,” said Spooge, reaching for a switch on the commandeered cell. “All phones off.” South Carolina line. SOUTH OF THE B ORDER, I M ILE. Andy stared out the window at a giant, lighted sombrero marking the historic kitschy rest stop. “I got Mexican jumping beans there when I was a kid.” “What did you say?” “Just talking to myself.” He lay back and closed his eyes. Snoring… A wild cheer went up in the station wagon. Andy shook his groggy head. “What is it?” The driver pointed at a passing sign: WELCOME TO F LORIDA. “How long was I asleep?” “Two states.” A traffic citation ripped in half. “I just need to stay out of Georgia for seven years.” They still had a good ways down to the gulf coast. But finally, twenty-nine hours after leaving their New England tundra, the students arrived in the hot, sticky Panama City night. “There’s our hotel.” The pasty foursome stared up at a flickering neon sign of a smiling alligator standing on its hind legs. It was one of those older, animated jobs from the sixties. Every other second, the gator pumped its reptilian claws up and down like a go-go dancer. The station wagon pulled into the parking lot. Students rolled baggage toward the office, past a newspaper box with a photo of Andy’s father on the front page. Next to the box, two students in orange-and-blue T-shirts sat sullenly on the curb, chins in hands. Andy stopped rolling luggage. “You guys okay?” “We didn’t make reservations,” said Melvin Davenport. “That’s crazy,” said Spooge. “The whole city’s sold out. You do realize you’re not going to find anything.” Melvin gave Cody a look. “I got an idea,” said Spooge. “It’s a budget motel, but it’s still beach priced.” “We “And sleeping bags,” said Cody. “But then we’re up to six,” said Andy. “It’s over the room limit.” “That’s practically empty compared to our other trips,” said Doogie. “Room limits are just suggestions,” said Spooge. “I’ll go check in,” said Joey. “You two wait here so they don’t see you.” The others walked the rest of the way across the lot and pushed open the lobby door of the Alligator Arms. ALLIGATOR ARMS, ROOM 534 Loud knocking on the door. Serge opened up. “Welcome to hell.” Two women entered with duffel bag straps over shoulders. Country began coughing. “What’s all that smoke?” City fanned the air in front of her face, staring at the dozen students toking up around Coleman. “Who are all these people?” “Coleman likes to bring home strays.” Serge reached for Country’s bag. “Let me help you. Any trouble with the landlord?” “Doesn’t know yet.” “Smart thinking.” Serge threw the duffel in a corner. “Skipping out on rent always prevents those sentimental farewells.” “It sucks.” From across the room: “City! Country!” yelled Coleman. “Welcome to Party Central!” The students were agog at the sight-“They’re gorgeous!” “I’m in heaven!”-and even more stunned when the women took seats on the couch next to them and grabbed joints. “Coleman,” asked one of the students, “you actually know them?” “We go way back. Very close friends.” He turned to the sofa. “Aren’t we?” “Shut the fuck up.” Serge waved for Country to come over. She handed the number to City and met him by the kitchenette. “What is it?” “Let me give you the grand tour.” He led her inside the suite’s bedroom and locked the door. Soon, the rest of the unit was silent, everyone listening to ecstatic female shrieking through the wall. “ Students gulped. The bedroom door opened and a bare-chested Serge stuck his head out, wearing a Gatorland baseball cap. “Coleman, my souvenirs…” “Got you covered.” Coleman grabbed an antique cigar box from a dresser drawer, walked over and handed it to Serge. “Thanks.” The door closed. Listening resumed. “ “ Twenty minutes later, Serge emerged with a towel around his neck and a cigar box. Behind him, Country stumbled out of the room and bounced off a wall, looking like she’d just finished a triathlon. The couple went out on the balcony. City joined them and closed the sliding glass door. They gazed out across the calm, moonlit Gulf of Mexico. “What a great view,” said Country. “Incredible,” said City, turning to Serge. “But don’t “I told you it was just a big misunderstanding.” The sliding door opened. “Excuse me,” said Coleman. He stuck the end of a Heineken bottle in the door frame. The cap popped, followed by foam. A student behind him made a check mark on a sheet of hotel stationery. Coleman closed the door. City looked through the glass. “What kind of stupidity now?” “Who knows?” said Serge. “We’re in uncharted damage-deposit territory.” The trio went back inside. Coleman wedged the end of another Heineken under the TV and gave the green barrel a quick smack with his fist. A cap flew. A student made a check mark. Serge turned to someone in a Rutgers T-shirt. “What’s going on?” “Nobody had a bottle opener, so Coleman’s showing us one hundred and one ways to open bottles with “What’s “The room’s the bottle opener.” He read the checklist. “So far he’s shown us the flange method, pneumatic, heat exchange, friction damper… and he also got into a wine bottle with only a safety pin.” “The guy’s amazing,” said another student. “How does he do it?” “Easy,” said Serge. “He’s been on spring break since 1977.” City rummaged through the mini fridge. “Country, screwdrivers?” “I’m in.” “Serge?” “Coffee.” The three huddled and watched the proceedings from the relative safety of the kitchenette. Coleman stood on a chair and raised a bottle toward the smoke detector. City opened cabinets fully stocked with spotless plates and cups. “Impressed.” She closed them. “When you offered your place, I pictured a dump.” “Got the one-bedroom suite. It has everything, which reminds me…” Serge opened a closet door and grabbed an electric cord. “I heard a comic say this is what separates us from animals, but I beg to differ.” “You’re going to do housework?” asked Country. “Observe.” Serge plugged in the vacuum cleaner. A beer bottle shattered on the floor, and Coleman ran and hid in the bathroom. |
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