Tim Dorsey: Gator A-GO-GO

“Look at all these jackasses not pulling over for an emergency vehicle,” said Serge. “When the fuck did this deterioration start?”

Coleman twisted around in his seat. “We’re the only car stopped.”

“Another sign our civilization will soon be covered with dust.”

Coleman popped another beer. “What’s wrong with people?”

More cars sailed by as the siren grew louder.

“These are the first responders,” said Serge. “Our state’s finest, putting their lives on the line for the rest of us every single day, and what thanks do they get? A highway of dickheads who don’t want to miss the next traffic light.”

“It just isn’t correct.”

“Not stopping for these heroes represents an inexcusable affront to the entire community. You might as well walk down the street throwing handfuls of shit at everyone you see.”

“That really happened,” said Coleman. “I saw this TV thing about a guy in Miami -”

“Get a grip,” Serge told himself. “A heart attack will solve nothing.”

“Wait,” said Coleman, looking out the back window. “Another car’s stopping. He’s pulling up behind us.”

“Thank God I’m not alone,” said Serge. “Maybe all isn’t lost.”

Honk-honk!… Honnnnnnkkkkkkkk!

“Serge, why is he honking at you?”

“Because he didn’t stop for the fire engine. He just got boxed in behind me from all the other rule-breakers flying by in the next lane.”

Honnnnnkkkkkk! Honnnnnkkkkk!

Serge reached under the seat for his.45 automatic. “No, it’ll only increase work for first responders.” He slid it back under.

Honnnnnnnnnkkkkkk!

Coleman stuck both arms out the passenger window, shooting double birds. “Eat my asshole!”

He came back inside and smiled.

Serge looked across the front seat. “That was Gandhi, right?”

The honking was now nonstop, just leaning on the horn, thanks to Coleman.

Serge closed his eyes and took slow, deep breaths. “… two… three… four…”

“Here comes the fire engine,” said Coleman. The siren whizzed by, dropping in Doppler pitch. “And there it goes.”

Serge opened his eyes and took his foot off the brake. “Finally. Our lives can diverge, and he’s free to go his own separate way toward an anti-future.”

“He’s not going his separate way,” said Coleman, kneeling backward in his seat. “Still right behind us.”

“Because he hasn’t found a gap yet in the next lane to pull around.”

“Then why is he still honking?”

“Involuntary genetic reflex, like getting a mullet.”

“He’s still there.”

“I’ll speed up and open a gap.”

“Still there.”

“Then I’ll slow down and force him to pass.”

“Still there. Still honking.”

Serge took another deep breath. “Okay, I’ll turn down this next side street.”

“I’m amazed,” said Coleman.

“I know,” said Serge. “As the saying goes, the difference between genius and stupidity is genius has its limits.”

“Not him,” said Coleman. “You.”

“What about me?”

“I’ve never seen you go this far to avoid an idiot.”

Serge hit his turn signal. “I’ve completely rededicated myself to a life of nonviolence.”

“But you still have that gun.”

“No need to obsess. ”

The Challenger swung around a corner.

“He’s turning, too,” said Coleman. “Still following.”

Serge’s head sagged in exasperation. “And I’ve got a full to-do list.”

“He just threw something out the window.”

“Litter,” said Serge. “A beer can, no less.”

The Challenger pulled to the side of the road behind an aluminum scrap yard. A low-riding Toyota parked behind. The driver got out. Barrel gut, stained tank top. He walked to the Challenger and banged hard on the driver’s window.

Serge stared straight ahead. “Haven’t we been here before?”

Coleman grinned and waved across Serge at the other driver. “I can’t count that high.”

Bam! Bam! Bam !-Right up to the Underwriters Laboratories shatter point. “Get the hell out of the car! I am so going to fuck you up!”

Serge rolled his window down a crack. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Did you tell me to eat your asshole?”

“Not me.” Serge turned. “What about you, Coleman?”

“Might have mentioned it in passing. But I don’t want him to actually do it, if that’s what he’s asking.”

Serge returned to the window slit. “Apparently it was figurative. He’d rather you not eat his asshole. Are we done now?”

The Challenger was a beaut, Serge’s dream car ever since Vanishing Point and Death Proof. Recently restored, new rings and valves. Snow-white paint job, tangerine racing detail. And now shivers up Serge’s neck, as a car key scraped the length of the driver’s side.

Serge grabbed the door handle with his left hand and reached under the seat with his right. “Coleman, I won’t be long.”

SOUTH OF MIAMI

Ringing on a triangle bell.

“Dinnertime!”

Four men, twenty-nine to thirty-five years old, filed in from the back porch where they’d been smoking. Chairs filled around the long cedar dinner table of Cuban-American cuisine in steaming bowls and casserole dishes. Beans, rice, mashed potatoes, yams, plantains. In the middle was a large paella, a slab of roast beef and a ceramic pitcher of milk.

The woman said grace. They made the sign of the cross. Serving bowls passed clockwise.

It was a three-bedroom Spanish stucco ranch house with an orange tile roof and black burglar bars. One of those homes that seemed smaller inside because its owner was from the culture that respected too much contents. Sofas, quilts, pillows, family pictures, magazine racks, display cabinets of china. It used to be an upper-middle-class neighborhood, just off Old Dixie Highway between Palmetto Bay and Cutler. Now it was lower. The home stood out with its regularly maintained yard, because of the men at the table.

The woman stood in a red-and-white checkered apron, slicing meat with an electric carving knife. She offered a generous piece balanced on the tip. “Raul?”

He raised his plate. “Thanks, Madre.”

She was slightly plump at sixty, hair always up in a tall, dark bun with streaks of gray. Her name was Juanita, but they all called her Madre. They weren’t related.

The men ate with manners and strong appetites. Cuban loaves at one end, Wonderbread in its original sack at the other. Bottle of sangria. Idle conversation, weather, sports, relatives’ diseases. Against the wall, eighty bank-wrapped packs of hundred-dollar bills on a dessert cart.

The woman rested back in her chair, sipping wine. She looked to her left. “Guillermo, will you be able to take care of our situation today?”

He washed down a bite with milk. “Yes, Madre. No problem.”

“Good.” She paused and nodded. “Very good.”

Behind her on the kitchen counter, stacks of tightly bound kilo bricks and a yellow raincoat.

“What about civilians?” asked Miguel.

Juanita shrugged. “If that’s what it takes to be certain.” She stood and dug two large wooden spoons into the paella. “Pedro, you’re getting too thin.”

He placed a hand on his stomach. “Stuffed.”

She turned with the spoons. “Miguel?”

He pushed his plate back. “Can’t eat another bite.”

The rest set napkins on the table.

Juanita reached into her apron and handed Guillermo a folded sheet of stationery. “Here’s the list of names he gave me.”

“Glad he’s not working for us.” Guillermo stuck the list in his pocket. “Didn’t hold out very long.”