Tim Dorsey - Gator A-GO-GO

It wasn’t five minutes since he’d parked his Ferrari when the wolf whistles began.

“Hey, handsome.”

Johnny turned around on the sidewalk. Indiana State blondes. Good Lord, two, and he’d just gotten into town. No need for some dishonest ruse; Johnny would take the high road.

“I work for Girls Gone Haywire. ”

“Let’s party.”

The roommates made the choice for him. “I think I’ll get some more sun on the beach. Behave yourself, Carrie.” Wink.

She took him by the arm.

“My name’s Johnny,” he said as they continued up the sidewalk.

“Johnny, where’s your hotel?”

PANAMA CITY BEACH

Serge and Coleman wove up the sidewalk against the college tide. Standard mix of rolling luggage and coolers. Serge held his running camcorder at chest level. People handed out coupons for nightclub drink specials; the Coors girls waved; an airplane dragged a banner for faster Internet service; church youth flapped posters at traffic, offering free pancakes and a road map to salvation.

The pair stepped into a beachwear shack to adopt the proper spirit and came out in new T-shirts reflecting their respective outlooks.

COLEMAN’S: ALCOHOL, TOBACCO AND FIREARMS SHOULD BE A CONVENIENCE STORE, NOT A GOVERNMENT AGENCY.

Serge’s: THERE ARE IO TYPES OF PEOPLE IN THE WORLD: THOSE WHO UNDERSTAND BINARY, AND THOSE WHO DON’T.

The documentary continued.

Coleman drew a steady stream of insults. Frat boys noticed something on Serge’s ear, snickered and made sideways wisecracks to their buddies. Until Serge returned the look. They noticed something unfamiliar in his eyes and wanted to keep it that way.

“Serge,” said Coleman, “what’s that funny thing on your ear?”

“A Bluetooth.”

“I never figured you for the Bluetooth type.”

“That’s why it’s not a real Bluetooth. I hate Bluetooth types, walking around all self-important like they have to be plugged in every second of the day. Can’t tell you how many times I’m in a public place having a pleasant conversation like a normal human being, and one of these fuck-heads walks right between us talking at the top of his lungs.”

“If it’s not a real Bluetooth, then what is it?”

“A piece of plastic garbage I found on the street that I rigged with paper clips. Got the idea from the smash-hit HBO series Flight of the Conchords. Except that guy had a real Bluetooth, just no receiver. I decided to take it the rest of the way and go completely anti-Bluetooth.”

“Don’t those paper clips hurt?”

“Yes. A lot.”

“Why wear it?”

“Because, like Bluetooth people, I’m also constantly walking around talking to myself, but just because I don’t have that stupid crap on my ear, people give me a wide berth and jump to the mistaken conclusion that I’m simply another jabbering street loon. Yet ever since I attached this thing to my head, completely new attitude, no matter what I’m saying: ‘I’ll destroy that motherfucker for ten generations!’”

“People dig that?”

“No, they still recoil-but in admiration. Now they think I’m a killer in the boardroom.” He nodded and smiled to himself. “Yes, sir, total respect.”

Beach babes passed the other way, pointing and laughing.

Coleman tugged Serge’s shirt as they reached a makeshift liquor stand. “Hold up-”

“No! Told you we can’t stop. The documentary is practically filming itself.” He stepped in front of a sloshed brunette from Rutgers. “Excuse me, miss…”-raising the viewfinder to his right eye- “… mind if I ask you a few questions?”

She began pulling up her shirt.

“No, not your tits.” Serge reached and yanked it back down. “I want your soul.”

“Fuck off, weirdo.”

“Is that like your generation’s catchphrase?” asked Serge. “Because I’ve been getting it a lot lately.”

She brushed past him. “Blow me.”

“That’s a close second.” Serge turned off the camera.

Another tug on his shirt.

“Coleman, we don’t have time to stop for liquor.”

“Not booze. Look!”

Serge followed his pal’s gaze up toward the sky. Two massive steel towers rose like a giant V. Between them, even higher, distant screams from a tiny flying ball. The sphere had open-air seating for two students, who were held in place by a triple-reinforced roller-coaster harness. A pair of super bungee cords ran from the tops of the towers to the sides of the ball.

Moments earlier, the ball had been sitting at street level. Underneath, a large metal latch held it to the base platform. The ride’s operator worked controls that turned gears on the tips of the towers, stretching the elastic cords to the max. Then he hit the button, releasing the latch and firing the catapult.

The kids went vertical, zero to 120 miles per hour in under three seconds. They pulled six Gs before the ball reached its apex high above the city and the cords stretched the other way, jerking them back down. The bungees stretched almost to the ground, launching them again, this time slightly less high. Then down again. Up again, tumbling randomly, students shrieking all the way. Down, up, down, each time dissipating energy, now slowly arcing over at the peaks.

In less than two minutes, it was over. The ball sagged motionless thirty feet from the ground, and the operator reversed his controls. The towers let out line, lowering the kids the rest of the way. They climbed from the ball, dizzy and sick. “That ruled!”

The students left through a safety gate and past a sign-THE R OCKET L AUNCH-where Serge waited impatiently, waving cash. “Ooooooh! Me, me, me! I’m next!”

The operator led Serge and Coleman onto the platform and pointed at a pair of plastic bowls. “Empty your pockets and take off anything loose. Sunglasses, hats, that thing on your ear.”

Serge’s wallet, cell phone and keys went in one bowl. Coleman filled the other with a bottle cap, M &Ms and twigs.

The operator looked at Serge’s left hand. “You can’t take the camcorder.”

“It’s all right,” said Serge. “I’m filming the most shocking documentary ever made.”

“No, I mean there’s no way you’ll be able to hang on to it. You’re going to snap pretty hard the first way up.”

“But I’m recapturing state pride.”

The operator pointed at the restraint bar. “We got a tiny camera mounted toward the seats. You can buy a souvenir DVD afterward if you want.”

“What a deal!”

The pair climbed into the ball, and the operator strapped them in. Then he left the platform, positioning himself behind the control panel. Gears stretched cords again.

Serge grabbed handles on the front of the massive, padded harness pressed against his chest. “Coleman, what an excellent idea! I’ve seen these all over Florida-here, Kissimmee, Daytona Beach-but I was always in too much of a rush.”

“Knew you couldn’t resist.” Coleman wiggled against the restraint to reach a hip pocket. “Always talking about going into space.”

“This is like the Gemini missions. They were the best! Capsules held two astronauts, just like us.” Serge bobbed enthusiastically in his seat and stared at the heavens. “Also, Gemini was the fastest manned flights off the pad, using converted Titan intercontinental ballistic missiles. Until the ride’s over, call me Wally Schirra.” He turned his head sideways toward the unseen operator. “Can you give us a countdown?”

“You want a countdown?”

“And call me Wally.”

“Wally?”

“Thanks. Means the world.”

“Whatever…”

Elastic cords finished stretching.