Tim Dorsey - Gator A-GO-GO

THE L OOP.

“I’ve wanted to do the Loop my entire life! And now the moment’s here!”

He peeled out and sped north.

An oven timer dinged inside room 24 of the Dunes. Coleman removed the tin with oven mitts and set it on the counter. A student reached.

Coleman grabbed the wrist. “Have to let it cool. Got anything you need to do?”

“Hit a pawnshop. We’re almost out of money.”

“Let’s rock.” Coleman threw mitts on the counter. “It’ll be ready when we get back…”

… Serge sped north on A1A, camcorder running on the dash, up along Ormond Beach’s inspired seaside, west through Mound Grove, taking Walter Boardman Road to Old Dixie Highway and south again, down into unblemished old-growth Florida. Nothing but oak-canopy two-lane and marshland overlooks. Serge held the camera next to his face for narration: “The Loop isn’t particularly known, even among Florida residents, but the pristine twenty-two-mile route is nationally famous among the motorcycle community…”

A column of two dozen Harleys thundered past, Serge videotaping, honking and waving.

His camera captured the bikers as they swerved back in front of him and reconstituted standard safety formation, staggered left-right on the sides of the lane to avoid potential traction loss from car-fluid drip down the center. “… But now subdivisions and golf courses threaten the works, and back-road enthusiasts from all over rush to catch her while she lasts…”

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

Luxury cars filled the driveway of a modest Spanish stucco house south of Miami.

No food on the long cedar table in the dining room. There had been a cake, for Guillermo’s twentieth birthday, but its empty platter of crumbs now leaned in the kitchen sink.

Festivities over. Down to business.

In place of the cake was paperwork running the length of the table in evenly spaced piles.

Another family meeting.

Juanita was there, along with her two older brothers, who were running things. Guillermo and a few other young men knew to keep their mouths shut and learn.

“What about these prospects?” asked Hector, the eldest.

“All solid, very experienced,” said Luis, next in line, who oversaw the clan’s data collection.

Hector bent over and placed palms flat on the table, scanning reports. “Any openings?”

“Maybe,” said Luis. “A couple have typical issues, though not severe enough to gain a foothold. But this one”-he tapped a page in the middle-“very promising.”

“Gambling?”

“Into our Hialeah friends for thirty large after doubling down on Monday Night Football. ”

Hector handed the pages to Guillermo. “You know what to do.”

Guillermo nodded respectfully, picked up a briefcase by the door and left with the other silent young men.

THE PRESENT

Four Harleys roared south into Daytona Beach.

They throttled down and parked at the curb. Each rider had a petite female passenger dressed entirely in leather hanging on from behind.

The women hopped off and removed black, Prussian-style helmets, revealing four heads of snow-white hair. All in their nineties. A club of sorts. Edith, Eunice, Edna and Ethel. The media had dubbed them the E-Team a while back when their investment klatch outperformed most mutual funds and made national headlines as a feel-good story patronizing old people. The women never took to the name and definitely not the cutesy “granny” references of TV hosts. So they turned those last remarks on their head for their own self-imposed nickname.

The G-Unit.

Edith tucked a helmet under her arm and stepped onto the sidewalk. “Thanks for the ride, Killer.”

“Yeah,” said Edna. “The Loop was even more beautiful than you described.”

Killer politely tipped his helmet visor. “Anytime, ladies.”

Eunice waved. “Keep the wind at your back!”

Harleys rumbled away.

The women walked up the sidewalk. “Bike Week’s over,” said Ethel. “Shit.”

“What do we do now?” asked Edna.

“How about spring break? We’re in Daytona Beach. And it’s spring.”

“I heard kids don’t come to Daytona anymore. They go to Panama City.”

“Some still do.”

“I haven’t seen any.”

“What’s it matter? We’ll do shots without ’em.”

“But I want to look at ripped chests.”

“There’s some kids now.”

“Where?”

“Coming toward us.”

The women veered for the right side of the sidewalk to make room for Coleman and his followers.

Andy jumped.

“What’s the matter?”

He turned around. “Someone goosed me.”

The guys crossed the street and pushed open the door to Lucky’s Pawn.

Ting-a-ling.

The manager smiled. “Buyin’ or sellin’?”

“Selling.”

Class rings came off fingers.

The manager laughed. “Should be a betting man.” He thoughtfully examined each, announcing price as he set one down and picked up another.

“Can’t you go any higher? The Dunes are gouging us because we didn’t have reservations.”

“Market’s glutted in every spring break town. Even the old ones.” He pulled three velvet display trays from under the counter. “I keep the best in these. Beat-up ones go there…”-he pointed back at two brimming metal pails near the waste basket-“… for melting.”

More haggling that didn’t work.

The students reluctantly accepted crisp twenties that the manager counted out in their hands. “And I’ll need your drivers’ licenses.”

“What for?”

“Have to file all sales with the police department within twenty-four hours.”

“Who steals class rings?”

“Nobody. But they’ll pull my permit if I don’t.”

Students reached for wallets. “That’s a lot of paperwork.”

“Used to be, but now it’s all computers. I file instantly so there’s no misunderstanding.”

Back at the Dunes, Serge unlocked room 24. “Coleman! I finally did it! I finally rode the Loop!… Coleman?…“ He walked to the balcony and back.”Where’d everyone go?“ He sniffed the air.”What smells so good?”

Serge traced the scent to the kitchenette. “Oooooh! Brownies! My favorite!”

PANAMA CITY BEACH

The shore was packed again by noon. Bikinis, boom boxes. Frisbees and footballs flew along the waterline behind the army obstacle course. Guys dug holes to keep beer cool.

A ten-man camera team zigzagged through the giant quilt of beach blankets, all wearing identical red T-shirts: GIRLS G ONE H AYWIRE.

Everywhere they went, young women reached for their chests.

Rood Lear led the way. “This is even better than last year.” He turned to his newly promoted chief assistant. “Sisco, we getting all this?”

“Need more cameras.”

“And I thought five would be plenty.”

On the other side of the hotels, a series of SUVs and minivans pulled off the road. Middle-aged women jumped out with posters and rushed the beach.

The film crew continued south, bikini tops coming off everywhere.

Then jackpot. An entire sorority stood up in a row.

“Perfect,” said Rood. “Have them take ’em off in sequence like the Rockettes…”

Sisco gave the instructions. “Roll film. On three… One, two…”

Angry shouting in the background.

“Where’s that coming from?” said Rood. “It’s wrecking our take.” Yelling grew louder as cameras panned a row of bare chests. The chief assistant pointed toward a break between hotels.

“Oh, no,” said Rood. “Not them again.”

The older women ran down to the blankets and stood behind the sorority, waving signs over their heads: