Tim Dorsey - Gator A-GO-GO

“Everything was under control.”

Their unmarked sedan sped south to Dorchester and pulled up in front of an older, two-story brick house surrounded by field agents, TV crews and satellite trucks. A sniper stood on the roof behind a chimney.

Ramirez took a deep breath and massaged his forehead. “Is this what goes for ‘under control’ up here?”

Sedan doors opened. An armored van screeched up. G-men sprinted across a brown lawn as TV lights came on. A correspondent broadcast live to lead the six o’clock.

“… Tom, we have yet to learn exactly what’s happening, but something major has developed at the home of hero Patrick McKenna, now swarming with FBI…”

Moments later, the front door flew open. A ring of agents circled a man in a Kevlar vest and rushed him toward the curb.

“… Tom, I think it’s our hero now, but I can’t be sure because of the coat over his head… Let me see if we can get a closer look…”

The feds ran for a dozen government vehicles lining the street, assembling a protective convoy. They shoved Patrick in the van, and a shielding agent jumped on top of him.

“Mr. McKenna, how does it feel to be a hero?…”

The motorcade took off.

PANAMA CITY BEACH

Coleman trudged through sand, toting a plastic convenience store bag. “We missed the midget riot.”

“There’ll be others.” Serge’s eyes stayed on the viewfinder as he filmed continuously, the only person on the beach with a cup of coffee.

They reached the advertising. Twenty-foot inflatable suntan lotion bottles and promotional booths for energy drinks. Army recruiters had set up an obstacle course, where drunk students fell from rope ladders. Closer to shore, navigation became tricky with the growing concentration of bodies on blankets.

“ Hey, watch it, asshole! ”

A Frisbee glanced off Coleman’s head. “Ow.”

“One of nature’s awesome mating spectacles.” Serge stopped and panned. “This shames any salmon run.”

“I hear a loudspeaker.” Coleman turned in a circle. “Where’s it coming from?”

“Over there.” He gazed several hundred yards up the beach at a massive stage with scaffolds and amps. “A free concert from MTV.”

“You mean the channel that doesn’t play music?”

“That’s the one,” said Serge. “MTV has become the pork and beans of television.”

“What do you mean?”

“You buy a can of pork and beans, getting all excited about upcoming pork, and then you open the can and go, ‘What the fuck?’ So you poke around and the only thing you find is a single, nasty-ass slime cube from a liposuction clinic. I wouldn’t even mind that if they’d just be straight and call it what it is on the label.”

“Who would buy ‘nasty-ass slime cube and beans’?”

“Me,” said Serge. “Just to taste truth.”

Coleman peeked back and forth, then furtively popped a can of Schlitz inside his convenience store bag. Another suspicious glance. He raised the bag to his mouth and chugged.

“What are you doing?” asked Serge.

“Not getting arrested.”

“Coleman, look around.”

He did. “Serge, everyone’s drinking openly. How can that be possible?”

“It’s not only possible, it’s encouraged.”

“Don’t tease me.”

“That’s the core history of spring break I was telling you about.” Serge filmed a beer-bong contest. “When I mentioned that communities alternately welcome and reject students, their chief tool is the alcohol-on-the-beach policy: either look the other way or crack down like Tiananmen Square. And right now, Panama City Beach is the most party-friendly town in Florida, maybe the whole United States.”

Coleman stopped and placed a reverent hand over his heart. “I’m never, ever leaving this place.”

“We’ve barely scratched the surface.”

“There’s more?”

“You have no idea.”

Coleman discarded the plastic bag and carried the six-pack by his side. “Wait up.”

Serge approached a group of students tanning beneath a giant Georgia Bulldogs flag.

“Howdy!” Serge drained the foam coffee cup and aimed his camcorder.

Coleman: “Check out the chicks’ butts!… Ooooh, don’t feel good…”

An engineering major stood. “You guys from Girls Gone Haywire? ”

“No,” said Serge. “I’m from the Florida Betterment Coalition of One, and my friend”-he gestured at Coleman, on all fours, burying his puke in the sand-“is working on his thesis.”

“What’s his freakin’ problem?”

“A special case I’ve been studying for years,” said Serge. “Coleman’s the only human afraid of vacuum cleaners.”

The student gave him a condescending up-and-down appraisal. “What the hell do you want?”

“Just a few questions for my documentary on the zeitgeist of today’s top scholars. Number one: pork and beans. Your thoughts?”

“Get lost!”

“I’m already lost. In my love of history! Did you know Colgate University started spring break in 1935?”

“Want to move along or be hurt?”

“That’s an easy one. Come on, Coleman… Coleman? ”

Serge wandered the beach. “Coleman!… Where are you?…”

He came across a group of Yale premeds standing in a circle, looking down. Conversation in the back row:

“Amazing…”

“Some kind of genius…”

“Probably has a chair at MIT…”

Serge tapped a shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“This guy’s teaching us thermodynamics of maintaining proper beer temperature.”

Serge cupped his hands around his mouth. “Coleman!”

“Is that you, Serge?”

“Excuse me,” said Serge. “Mind if I slip through?”

He reached the inner circle. Coleman was on his hands and knees again, sand flying out between his legs as he rapidly dug a hole like a Labrador retriever. “… It’s best to start below the mean high-tide mark, then excavate until you reach the water table…”

“But what about our coolers?”

“Sun’s too hot out here,” said Coleman. “Wet sand is a better insulator. Someone hand me a sixer…”

A student complied. Coleman crammed it in the hole. “If you plan on power-partying into the late afternoon, insulation technique is absolutely critical.”

“Thanks, mister. Any other advice?”

Coleman scratched his crotch in thought. “Well, you got any events back up north where they allow coolers but not alcohol?”

“Yeah,” said a sophomore. “We try to hide the booze in plastic soft drink bottles, except they always catch us.”

“That never works.” Coleman stood. “What you want to do is get a clear liquor-vodka, gin-pour it into a strong Ziplock bag, then freeze the sack inside a block of ice.”

Serge filmed as Coleman was rewarded with a hearty round of back slaps and all the beer he could carry.

“I’m never leaving this town.”

DINNERTIME

A triangle bell rang.

Men came inside the stucco house south of Palmetto Bay.

A full-course meal awaited on the cedar table. Place settings precise as usual, except this time each also had a one-way plane ticket to Boston under the fork.

After saying grace and passing bowls, Juanita poured sangria for Guillermo. “You’re a good boy.”

“Thank you, Madre.”

“So Randall Sheets now calls himself Patrick McKenna?”

Guillermo mixed beans and rice on his plate. “Yes, Madre.”

Juanita smiled. “It only took fifteen years.” She reached into her apron and handed him a single-page computer printout. “From our private investigator. Those are the addresses of his home and business, plus vehicle information.”