Atomic Lobster (12 page)

“Excuse me?” said the moderator.

“What?” asked Serge, standing alone with the only outstretched arm.

“Please.”

He lowered his arm. “Okay, we’ll do the circle thing later. Plus I have a few of my own field-trip ideas. Nothing builds confidence like live ammo.”

The moderator led the jelly-kneed group through the park and lined them along the rail in a viewing area. “Now don’t look away…”

One hour later:

The van arrived back at the church. Members jumped out and ran for their cars.

“Serge,” said the moderator. “Could I have a word?”

“What’s up?”

“I don’t want to sound critical….”

“You mean getting kicked out of the zoo? Go ahead and be critical. They completely overreacted.”

“Serge, I said to just stare.”

“No, you didn’t say ‘
just
stare.’ You said ‘stare.’ I added the other stuff for extra credit.”

“All those end-zone dances?”

“Don’t forget loud roaring and pawing the air like I had sharp claws.”

“What were you thinking?”

“Needed to establish myself as the alpha male.”

“You got in a shoving match with the zoo’s staff.”

Serge grinned and slapped the moderator’s shoulder. “Alpha male.”

The moderator looked at his shoes. “We’ve never been thrown out of anything.”

“Congratulations. Huge progress.”

“Progress?”

“‘Thank you’ would be sufficient.”

“Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.”

“Hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you sure you have the right support group?”

Serge nodded and fished a scrap of paper from his pocket. “See? That’s the note from my psychiatrist.”

INSOMNIA

Serge couldn’t sleep again. Same as every night. He grabbed his leather journal and pen:

Captain Florida’s Log, Star Date 4830.395. My legacy grows. Another excellent day of dirt collecting! Started at the University of Tampa because it’s housed in the landmark nineteenth-century
Tampa Bay Hotel. Before hitting it big with The Doors, Jim Morrison lived around here with his grandparents and filled notebooks with lyrical observations. The song “Soul Kitchen” refers to the hotel’s Moorish architecture,
“Your fingers weave quick minarets.”
But here’s the thing I learned about dirt collecting: You can’t just stand in front of a historic building and go six feet down with a posthole digger. Guards make you run with your dirt sack. Then I’m driving over the bay on the Courtney Campbell Bridge, and you know how crazy they drive in Florida? Some idiot almost made me have a giant wreck! Coleman said maybe I should spend more time steering than writing in my notebook, but I said, It’s okay, Jim did this all the time. Then we cruised to 314 North Osceola Avenue in Clearwater, where the Lizard King’s old house had been torn down for a condo. Practically in tears as I dug my hole and ran away again. The Pinellas Park Library was around the corner, so I dropped in to go through old phone books for the address where Jack Kerouac spent his final years, and one of the directories spelled his name
KEROWAC
. What a footnote find! Now I’m happy again, standing in Kerouac’s front yard, minding my own business, working on my tenth hole, when this nosy neighbor yells, What are you doing with that shovel? I say, Taking a core sample. Then I hit some kind of water line and he became completely unreasonable. Next stop: the venerable Beaux Arts Coffee House, where both Jack and Jim used to read poetry. We pull up to 7711 Sixtieth Street. You guessed it: Torn down. It got pretty emotional as I read a verse I’d composed for the moment. Simply called “Jim”:

Coleman asked why it was so short. I said it was haiku. He said, What’s that? I said, Japanese poetry, seventeen syllables. Small country, so space is at a premium. Then I bent down and scooped soil into a Baggie by hand because a shovel might attract attention from the next-door police canine academy, but an officer came over anyway and asked what the hell I was doing. I said, Reading poetry,
collecting dirt. And you? Then Rachael and Coleman started wailing on each other in the car again, and I had to excuse myself. Almost forgot, Rachael was with us the whole time, constantly fouling the mood. She’s fast becoming the most obnoxious and morally reprehensible person I’ve ever met. Don’t know how much longer we can continue having sex. But who am I to argue with God’s plan? He wanted alpha males to populate the planet by impregnating multiple partners, so he gave females the gift of irrationality, able to morph the least little thing that happens anywhere in the world into being your fault, especially if it’s your fault. Watch any nature show. The top lion is perfectly happy with a lioness, but then he inexplicably moves on. Why? She was trying to change him…. Getting sleepy now, but excitement over tomorrow is keeping me up. It’s going to be the crowning moment of my Jim Morrison scavenger hunt. That’s right, the Clearwater Library. Bet they’ll be thrilled to see me again!

MOVING DAY

T
he big truck all but blocked traffic in front of the Davenports’ soon-to-be-former home. Ramps out the side and back. Large mats to protect furniture. Hand trucks for all occasions.

Since it was only a crosstown move, the Davenports hired three men by the hour. To save additional cost, Jim and Martha had spent the previous week carefully packing and sealing everything, then piling the boxes in efficient stacks in the middle of each room. They segregated the most fragile belongings, which would be transported in their SUV.

The movers possessed immense physiques in both respects, the contradictory breed that simultaneously looks incredibly strong and terribly out of shape. Spine-snapping forearms and medicine-ball beer guts. Two of them carried an antique dresser toward the front door.

“Nice day,” said Jim.

“If we didn’t have to fuckin’ work.” The dresser cracked into the doorframe.

Not a lot of buddy talk after that. Jim picked up splinters and walked out to the driveway. Martha loaded a box of china in the back of the Escalade. “Jim, come here.”

“What is it?”

“That guy over there by the truck. What’s he doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s not doing anything.”

“I’m sure he’s doing something,” said Jim. “He’s holding a clipboard.”

Martha set the carton of dishes behind the backseat. “He’s not doing shit. I’ve been watching for a half hour.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Go make him work.”

“What?”

“We’re paying for three guys to lift. We’re getting two.”

“Honey—”

“If you won’t go, I will.”

“No, stay here. I’ll be right back.”

The man standing next to the truck made a checkmark. He felt a presence. He looked up. “Can I help you?”

Jim smiled cordially. “Mind if I ask what you’re doing?”

The man looked back at his clipboard. “Working.”

“What’s the clipboard for?”

“Have to inventory box contents in case you make a claim.”

Jim leaned and read the clipboard upside down. “All the contents spaces on the form are blank. You’re just writing ‘box, box, box.’”

“You sealed all the boxes before we got here.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I can’t take inventory.” He made another checkmark.

“Will we still be able to file a claim if the contents spaces are blank?”

“No.”

“Can you help the other guys carry stuff?”

“No.”

Jim walked back to the SUV. Martha loaded a bubble-wrapped vase. She looked back at the moving truck. “He’s still not working.”

“He’s taking inventory.”

“But the boxes are sealed.”

“That’s why he can’t take inventory.”

“Jim, what’s wrong with you? Why are you letting them screw us?”

“Because they’re really, really big.”

“Jim! Make him work!” She stacked another box in the back of the SUV. “I’ll be damned if
I’m
going to carry stuff all day and pay him to stand around doing nothing.”

“Martha, those are prison tattoos.”

“So?”

“They’re handling everything we own. If I make them mad, they could do something to get back at us.”

“They’re not allowed to!”

“I don’t think permission is part of it.”

“Jim!”

Two movers wheeled a dolly to the curb. The third wrote on a clipboard. He looked up.

Jim smiled. “Me again. Listen, I was just talking with my wife, and there’s really nothing of value, so we’ll take our chances with the claim thing.” Another smile.

The mover looked down and wrote “box.”

“Please don’t think I’m trying to tell you your moving job,” said Jim. “But we’d prefer you did some moving.”

The man angrily flipped a page on his clipboard. “You’ll have to sign this waiver.”

“That’s all? You didn’t say that last time.”

The mover answered by lifting a box off the dolly and heaving it deep into the belly of the truck with an echoing crash.

CLEARWATER

The public library filled with street people taking shelter from another routine afternoon rain shower.

A pair of men approached the reference desk.

The head researcher was on the phone. She held up a finger. “Just a sec.” All the nearby history had gotten Serge aroused. He mentally took off her glasses and let down the silky black hair that was up in a professional bun. Then he put her in a skimpy streetwalker skirt and high heels. No, not right. Cheerleader? Naughty nurse? Nope, nope. One-piece beauty-contestant bathing suit with
silk sash: 1966
ORANGE BLOSSOM QUEEN
? Nope. Rodeo clown? Maybe. She got off the phone. Serge put her library clothes back on.

“How can I help you?”

Serge smiled his widest. “We’re here to see The Door!”

“I’m sorry. Door?”

“Yes! And I’ll bet you’re glad we’re here!” He looked around curiously. “Where is it?”

“What?”

“The Door! I read when they demolished Jim’s house, one of the doors was donated to the library for permanent exhibition.” He rubbed his palms together with high friction. “Can’t wait to touch it.”

“Oh, you’re a
Doors
fan. Yeah, we’ve gotten a few calls about that. Don’t have the exhibit up yet. It’s still in storage.”

“Where?”

“Not sure.”

Serge winked. “Of course you’re not sure. Good thinking. Lots of kooks just drooling to steal it. Not me, obviously, because heritage belongs to everyone. So you can tell me. Where’s The Door?”

“Really, I…” She stopped and caught herself in the gaze of Serge’s penetrating ice-blue eyes. And that smile of his. Not your typical hunk, which is why she hadn’t noticed it earlier, but there was something intangible about this guy. She never went for men at first meet, and couldn’t understand the melting feeling inside.

He put out his hand. “Serge.”

She shook it. “Liz. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine. I’m Serge.”

“You just said that.”

“Thinking about The Door.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Coleman fidgeted through a scene that had unfolded so many times before: Serge leaning against the corner of a reference desk, making time with another library science grad.

Liz finally stood and called over to the circulation desk. “Rob, looks like it’s slowing down.” She picked up her purse. “Thought I’d take an early lunch.”

DAVIS ISLANDS

T
he moving van choked traffic on another narrow residential street. Lobster Lane. The truck was almost empty. Two men came through the front door with a mattress and went upstairs. The piles of boxes in every room made it like a maze. A third mover entered the house, lifted a box high in his arms and dropped it.

“That’s the last. Sign here.”

Jim took the pen. “What am I signing?”

“That you got everything.”

“But I don’t know yet. We haven’t unpacked.”

“You didn’t want an inventory.”

“Then does it make any difference whether I sign or not?”

“No.”

“What if I don’t sign?”

“You have to.”

Jim signed. They handed him a yellow copy.

“Do I need to keep this?”

“Not really.”

They left.

It was quiet. Jim took the moment to finally relax and enjoy new home ownership.

Loud footsteps. Martha ran down the stairs. “My gold necklace is missing.”

“I’m sure it’s somewhere. We haven’t unpacked yet.”

“That’s the first box I opened! I set my little jewelry cabinet on the dresser. Then I left to get another box from the car.”

“You think they stole it?”

“I
know
they stole it! I’d put the necklace in the top left drawer, and when I went to get it out and hang it on the knob like I always do, it was gone.”

“I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

“They were alone in the bedroom with the mattress just a minute ago.”

Jim hurried up the stairs. “Maybe you just got confused with all the packing. It’s probably in my jewelry box.” Jim opened it. “Where’s my watch?”

“Which one?”

“My favorite.”

Another charge down the stairs. The front door flew open, and Martha ran into the street. “Come back!”

But the van was already at the end of the block.

Jim walked out and joined her.

“I’m going to report them!”

“Baby, we’re starting a new chapter in our lives with this beautiful house. Let’s just move on.”

“No! We shouldn’t have to take it!” She grabbed the yellow receipt from Jim’s hand. “Here’s the phone number.”

“Honey, this is how it always starts on those Court TV shows when they find the couple axed to death in the basement.”

“You have an overactive imagination.”

“They’re out of our lives. Let’s not drag ’em back in.”

“Okay, but I’m only not going to complain because I have so much work to do with the new place. And because you’re going to your meeting tomorrow.”

“I thought I’d skip this meeting because of the move.”

“No, you’re definitely not going to miss the meeting after what you let those guys get away with.”

“But honey—”

“These meetings are important. I’m holding up my end with the anger-management sessions, even though I hardly need them.”

“You don’t understand. There’s someone else at the meetings I have to tell you about.”

“Stop!” said Martha. “Don’t say a word! That was part of our deal: We have to completely commit to the programs. And one of the first rules is confidentiality.”

“This is different,” said Jim. “I have to tell you. He’s—”

Heavy footsteps came toward them on the sidewalk. “Martha! Jim!”

“Gladys!” Martha looked at her husband. “It’s Gladys.”

Gladys stopped and bobbed in place. “How’d the move go?”

“They stole from us!”

“Who’d you use?”

Martha held up the yellow sheet. A logo of a cartoon truck with a toothy grin. “Moving Dudes.”

“Geez, you
never
use Moving Dudes. Should have checked with me first.”

“We didn’t know.”

“I’m still surprised they stole from you,” said Gladys. “If you absolutely have to use them, everyone knows to just pay the protection and it’ll be fine.”

“Protection?” said Martha.

“The extra guy who stands around doing nothing. What did they get from you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Jim turned toward the house. “Martha and I were just saying how great it is to be out here.”

“Jim,” said Martha. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

“No, really. You were pretty sharp picking out this place. Have to admit I was against it at first because we’re extended on the mortgage. But now I’m so glad you convinced me. As long as we don’t have any major unforeseen expenses. What are the odds?”

A cell phone rang. Martha reached in her pocket. “Hello?…Oh, hi Debbie…” She lowered the phone. “It’s our daughter.”

“I remember.”

The cell went back to her head. “Where are you?…Great, you’ll have to come over…. What?…No, I can’t guess…. Yeah, I’m ready….”

Martha screamed.

Jim grabbed her arm. “What’s happened to Debbie?”

Martha waved him off. “That’s fantastic! I’m so happy for you!…I’ll tell him right now…. Love you too!” She hung up.

“What is it?”

“Our baby’s getting married! Isn’t that great news?”

CLEARWATER

“You sure you’re watching?” said Liz. “I could lose my job.”

“Don’t worry.” Serge glanced up and down the hall. “I do this all the time.”

She wiggled an old key into a brass knob. “You can’t tell anyone. You gave me your word.”

Serge put up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

Liz opened the storage closet. “I should have my head examined.”

“Coleman, wait out here. If you see anyone coming, knock three times. You got it?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t fuck up.”

“I told you, I got it.”

Serge went inside the closet and closed the door.

“I can’t see,” said Liz.

“Here’s a switch.” A light came on. Serge froze. “Oh my God! It’s…The Door!”

Three knocks.

“Shit!” Serge killed the light. He crept to the door and opened it a crack. Coleman’s face was inches away.

“Pssst, Serge. What if someone comes?”

“Knock! Three times!”

“
Ohhhh.
That’s what that was about.”

“Yes!” The door slammed. The light came back on. The unhinged Morrison door leaned against the far wall. Serge could almost see a glowing aura.

“You know,” said Liz. “I used to be a huge Doors fan. I mean, to look at me now—”

“I never judge a book’s cover,” said Serge.

“The other girls were crazy about Jim because he was a
Tiger Beat
heartthrob.”

“But you got into him because of literary allusions.
The Doors of Perception.
”

“I
love
Aldous,” said Liz.

“Me too.
Naked Lunch
?”

“Without saying.”

“Kesey?”

“Oh my God, yes!…Wait. You can see all that in me? Most of my friends are so conservative. I feel like I have to hide—”

“That you did psychedelics?”

“I wasn’t going to say that. But, yeah.” She blushed. “How’d you guess?”

“I sense your inner freak flag.”

“But that was a long time ago. And you have to understand, back then it was about love and higher consciousness. These new drugs today turn people into armed robbers and strippers.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Liz looked around. “What’s that music?”

“The portable speaker for my iPod.”

“…Come on baby light my fire…”

“One of my favorites!”

“Mine too.”

“What are you doing?”

“Stroking your hair…”

“Please. Stop…”

Serge slowly slipped his other hand around her back. “That means ‘don’t stop.’”

Liz felt their mouths growing closer. “No…”

“That means ‘yes.’” He suddenly grabbed her by the back of the head for a deep, hard kiss. Their lips finally parted an inch. Liz’s eyes stayed closed.
“Ohhhh, Serge!…”

Serge jumped back. “Okay. Help me lift the door.”

Her eyes sprang open. “What?”

“I can’t raise it by myself.”

“You’re stealing it?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Big surprise. But we don’t have much time. Come on, grab the other side.”

Everything in the last two decades screamed for Liz to get the hell out of that closet. But something about this guy made her feel like junior year at the university. Had she really become so stuffy? Next thing she knew, her hands had a grip on the left side of the door. “What do you want me to do?”

“Turn it horizontal and carry it to the middle of the room.”

They shuffled sideways in the tight space and lowered it to the floor.

“I’ll kill the light,” said Serge.

“What for?…”

The hallway outside was quiet. Too quiet. And no pot. Coleman picked his nails. He looked at the ceiling. He looked at his shoes. This sucked. He looked at the doorknob.

It was jet black inside the closet. Just heavy breathing, clipped conversation and creaking wood.

The knob turned. A sliver of light from the hallway entered the room. The sliver grew wider as Coleman opened it farther. The edge of the light finally reached Serge’s bobbing derriere.

“Oh, yes!” said Liz. “Fuck me on The Door!”

“That’s what I’m doing,” said Serge.

A sudden jump in volume as Liz neared her peak.
“…The Door!”

“Wait…Where’s that light coming from?” Serge looked over his shoulder. “Coleman! What the hell are you doing?”

“Are you going to be much longer?”

“Fuck me on The Door!”

“I don’t know, Coleman. These things take time.”

Liz abruptly pushed Serge off, and flipped onto her stomach. “Quick. The
other
way.”

“What?”

“Hurry or I’ll lose it!”

“You’re the boss,” said Serge. “Man, when you let your hair down…”

Creak-creak, creak-creak, creak-creak…Liz’s right fist pounded on the wood in rhythm with Serge’s efforts…. Bang…
“Yes!”
…Bang…
“Yes!”
…Bang…
“Yes!”
…Bang…
“The Door!”
…Bang…
“Don’t stop!”
…Bang…
“I’m almost there!…”

“Serge, can I wait out by the car?”

“No! Watch the door!”

Creak-creak, creak-creak…Bang…
“Yes!”
…Bang…“
God!”
…Bang…
“This is it!….”

“Coleman, why are you still standing there?”

“I’m doing what you said.”

“Not
this
door, you idiot!”

“Oh.” He went back in the hall.

Ten minutes later, the closet opened. Serge stepped outside buttoning his shirt.

“
Now
can we go?” asked Coleman.

“Can you try to be more annoying?”

“But I’m standing around while you’re having all the fun.”

Serge pointed back at the closet. “What? In there? That wasn’t fun. That was research.” Serge slipped a hand into his hip pocket and produced a clear plastic tube containing small flakes. “Had to distract her while I took a paint sample.”

Liz stumbled into the hall. Serge spun around and whipped the tube behind his back. “There you are!”

She collapsed against the doorframe. “Wow! That was the best I ever…I mean, I never…How was I? Did you enjoy yourself? I thought you were because I heard your fingernails scraping the wood.”

Serge secretly slid the plastic tube into a back pocket. “You’re the greatest.” He looked at his watch. “Yikes, is it this late?” He pointed up the hall. “Listen, thanks for the tour, but we gotta be—”

“Oh my God!” She was staring down. “You were so good I peed myself!”

“I always feel if a job’s worth doing…”

Liz checked her own watch. “I have to rush home and change. I can’t go back to the reference desk like this!”

“Actually, you can,” said Serge. “But your idea’s better…. Well, see ya!” He and Coleman took off.

Liz yelled after them: “You’ll call like you promised?”

“Definitely.”

“Remember my number?”

“Of course.”

“What is it?”

“The one you gave me.” They disappeared into a stairwell.

TWENTY MILES EAST OF TAMPA

Flames licked high into the night sky.

It was one of those empty parts of inland Florida that would soon become a sprawling planned community sold to Michigan retirees before they became bitter at how incredibly far they were from the beaches pictured in the sales brochure.

But right now, it remained a remote piece of scrubland only accessed by dirt logging roads. The flames rose from a bonfire in the middle of a clearing. A chorus line of animated silhouettes danced with abandon in front of the fire, throwing arms in the air and howling at the moon, evoking some ancient ritual from Stonehenge or Easter Island. Except in ancient times, they wouldn’t have all been wearing matching T-shirts: 21st
ANNUAL MCGRAW FAMILY JAMBOREE
.

The bonfire was surrounded by a circle of pickup trucks and honky-tonk domestic sports cars with racing detail. One had its trunk open to increase stereo volume on Molly Hatchet. Later and deeper into the George Dickel,
Flirtin’ with Disaster
would acquire a backbeat of lever-action rifles fired into the air.

This year’s family gathering was even bigger than usual, thanks to the recent prison release of the clan’s biggest member. They gathered around Tex, shaking hands, slapping his back, then got down to vittles. The reunions always featured a fish fry, and the McGraws did it right. A charred, fifty-five-gallon barrel sat atop a welded metal frame and its own robust fire. Inside the drum: boiling vegetable oil and succulent freshwater catfish fillets. The drum was presided over by a stubby, four-hundred-pound man in bib overalls and no T-shirt. “Ham-Bone” McGraw. His nose more closely resembled a hog snout. Because he had a novelty plastic hog snout strapped around his head with a rubber band. He was the wit of the family.

An extended chow line of kissin’ cousins stretched before him. Their paper plates already held beans and fried okra as Ham-Bone tonged sizzling seafood.

The roar of a bored-out engine came down one of the dark logging roads. A double-cab pickup bounded into the clearing. Tex’s three most trusted kin hopped out, Lyle, Cooter and Spanky McGraw. They had difficulty dragging the fourth person from the truck because his arms were wrapped around one of the headrests.