Tim Dorsey - When elves attack

“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?”

“Because you guys are cool. You’re not afraid of anything.” Nicole looked out across the passing water. “And my dad is, you know, a little on the wimpy side.”

Serge hit the brakes with both feet. A long, tire-screeching stop at the top of the bridge. He turned to Nicole with a mask of rage she had never seen before. “Jim is not wimpy!”

Nicole retreated as far as she could and sank against the passenger door.

“Your dad is one of the most courageous people I know! You think guns and liquor and dope and an excellent car is cool? Well, it is. But your dad has chosen to take on responsibilities I could never dream of…”

Car horns blared behind them. Coleman stuck his arm out the window with a beer in his hand, waving in a “go around” motion.

“… There’s a war against women going on!” yelled Serge. “Not political. Just men. And your dad has dedicated his life to protect you and your mother from all of them. Next to that, I’m the wimp!

… Do… you… understand… little… girl!”

“Okay, okay, yes. Jesus, I didn’t realize you two were so close.”

“He’s my hero. I want to be just like him.”

“Really?”

Serge nodded. “Sorry about freaking you out there for a minute, but I’m sensitive about this.”

Nicole’s breathing was coming back down. “No biggie.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” said Serge. “Jim needs your help and love in his struggle. Do me a favor and show him respect.”

“Why not?”

“That’s better.”

“But you said a deal,” countered Nicole. “What do I get?”

“Back at the house, I heard something about you wanting a tattoo?”

“Oh man, my mom will really hate you.”

“No, she won’t. I know how to handle women like her.” Serge hit the gas again. “You leave that to me.”

“I don’t think you really know my mom. She’ll go ape.”

“It’s all about the art of conflict. Most people go in headfirst.” Serge made a skirting gesture with his right hand. “Whereas I outflank.”

“You’re going to sneak up on my mom?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Serge took another swig from his coffee thermos. “Give you an example: the Positive Protest.”

“Positive?”

“Say you’ve got some kind of protest group that wants concessions from the powers that be. But the conflict is going nowhere. So the only option is to take to the streets, creating a massive public disturbance of anarchy that brings the city to its knees. Except for some reason, the city is the only one with a riot squad. Don’t ask why, it’s just the way they set it up at the beginning. And they come storming in with shields and helmets and batons, sweeping you off the pavement like autumn leaves.”

“I’ve seen it on TV.”

“That’s where they all go wrong. If I was in charge of the mob, I’d stage a Positive Protest. And when the shock troops start goose-stepping in with the tear gas, you begin waving signs and yelling slogans demanding higher police salaries. Then their bullhorns blare for you to disperse, and you say you totally agree with what they’re asking, and it’s a shame that the people who have to make you disperse don’t receive better benefits and pensions-and that your group will vote en masse for any politician who jacks up their compensation. The riot team can do nothing but stand mute. I’m dying to try it out! Except I don’t have a cause yet… I could always phone in my grievances later…”

“What’s that got to do with my tattoo?”

“You’ll see when we get there.” Serge passed the dog track and pulled into a strip mall. “Because of your age, you’ll need parental consent. That’s me; they never check. Plus I know this guy.”

“Wow, you’re really going to help me get a tattoo. That’s so cool.”

The front door opened.

Martha came racing out of the kitchen. “Where on earth have you been?”

“Out.” Nicole walked by with a sullen expression.

“I want more of an answer than that,” said Martha. “Did they hurt you?”

“Don’t be lame.”

As Nicole left the living room, Martha happened to glance down below the small of her daughter’s back. A tiny bit of ink peeked out above the waistband of her shorts. An audible gasp. “A tattoo!.. Jim, come quick; it’s Nicole! It’s an emergency!”

Jim ran out of the den. “What’s the matter? Is she okay?”

“She got a tattoo.”