The Big Bamboo (7 page)

The oldest grabbed an electric scooter and rode alongside his two friends, who walked with canes up the aisle toward men’s socks. They picked out sheer, dark ones that would rise to their shins. The man on the scooter tossed a pair in his handlebar basket and hit the chair’s accelerator. It took off at a high rate of speed. In reverse. The man’s head disappeared under a row of sport coats hanging along the wall. “Son of a bitch!”

Salespeople came running. All they could see were two white legs below a rack of thrashing blazers. They pulled the scooter out.

“Sir, are you all right?”

“No, he’s not all right,” said one of his companions. “He’s an idiot!”

“It wasn’t me!” said the man on the scooter. “The damn thing malfunctioned!”

“Every scooter you get on malfunctions!”

“They need a recall.”

“Guys,” said the third member of the trio. “Let’s not get into this again. We have the day to enjoy.”

They headed up another aisle. “I need to look at shoes.” The scooter veered off.

“We’ll be over at the watches.”

Two hunched men in guayaberas approached a display case. They leaned their canes against the glass. The woman behind the counter was tall, with cropped brunette hair and sophistication. Her smile had a touch of pity, but in a good way. Memories of her late grandfather. “What can I show you today?”

The taller one wore a Scottish golf cap. “I’ve had cheap watches my whole life. I’ve decided to treat myself.”

“How much were you thinking of spending?”

“The hell does it matter?” said the shorter one, adjusting his flat-brimmed straw hat and chewing a toothpick. “I’ll be dead soon.”

The woman maintained poise. “I have some nice ones I think you’ll like.”

She laid a pair of five-hundred-dollar jobs side by side on the counter. Pearl inlays, sterling bands.

“Is this a joke?” said the one in the straw hat.

“What do you mean?”

“There aren’t any numbers. Not even little markers. How am I supposed to tell time?”

“Sir, the plain face is very stylish.”

“Right. I’ll be walking around very stylish—and late.” He nudged his buddy. “Did you get that? This is the new style. They give you less and charge more.”

The saleswoman began removing the watches.

“No,” said the one in the golf cap. “Leave those out. I kind of like ’em.”

“I want numbers,” said the straw hat.

The woman reached back inside the case again with an unflappable smile. “I think you might prefer these. Sleek, very thin. Hardly know you have it on.” She laid two more watches next to the first pair. Gold with black cowhide bands.

“Roman numerals? Do I look Roman?” He turned to his friend. “You know any buses that arrive at
X
?”

“Leave those out,” said the golf cap. “They’re growing on me.”

“I have some with American numbers,” said the saleswoman. Two more watches on the counter.

“I don’t know.” He turned to his friend. “What do you think?”

“I think I like that one down there.” He pointed toward the far end of the case.

“Sir, that’s an excellent choice. But I have to warn you it’s a little up there.”

“Let me see it.”

She retrieved the watch and set it beside the others—except she placed this one on a velvet pad. “One of our finest. Swiss, self-winding. Twenty-four carat.”

“Are those real diamonds marking the hours?”

She nodded.

“Doesn’t have a price tag.”

“Thirty-eight hundred,” said the woman.

The man in the golf cap whistled at the figure. “That’s a lot!”

The saleswoman reached for the timepiece. “If it’s too much—”

“I didn’t say that. Leave it. What about that other one there that was next to it in the case?”

“Same manufacturer, slightly different style. The first is for day. The other’s night.”

“People do that?”

“They do that.”

“Can I see them side by side?”

She fetched the other watch.

The golf cap picked it up and turned to his friend. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know. Now I’m confused.”

An electric scooter zipped by in the background.

“I’ll take this one,” said the golf cap. “Do you have gift wrap?”

“I thought it was for you,” said the woman.

“I might forget by the time I get home. It’ll be a nice surprise.”

A tremendous crash.

Everyone in the vicinity jumped and spun around. An electric scooter was imbedded sideways in what used to be a tower of glass shelves displaying last-second Father’s Day gifts. It was one of those long crashes where loosened shelving continued to fall and shatter. An old man lay on the ground, covered with broken glass. Panicked employees ran over. One got the first-aid kit. They carefully picked the biggest, sharpest pieces off the man’s chest and helped him up into a sitting position.

“Sir! Are you okay? Does anything hurt?”

“That goddam thing tried to kill me!”

“But you’re okay, right? Do you want an ambulance?”

“Don’t touch me!” He stood and brushed glass dust from his pink trousers. “I’m hungry.”

The staff held its breath as the man hobbled off. Their eyes followed him all the way across the store until he was safely out the door to the parking lot, providing a modicum of liability defense.

The floor manager’s heart was pounding. He looked at the other salespeople and wiped his forehead. “I think we just dodged a lawsuit.” The employees headed back to their respective departments. A tall brunette returned to her sales counter.

The watches and men were gone.

A ’71 Buick sat outside an antique mall in Palma Ceia. A sign announced an autographing event: TODAY ONLY!

Serge and Coleman stood in the back of a long line. It was moving, but not fast enough.

“What’s taking so long?” said Serge, standing on tiptoes and stretching his neck. “I’ll bet someone’s gabbing up there.”

“Serge, I think I need to sit down.”

“You’re hammered, aren’t you?”

Coleman giggled. “You are correct, trivia breath!”

“I hate it when you get like this. Just don’t touch anything.”

Coleman picked up a rare figurine of a sad clown with a crumpled hat.

“Gimme that!” Serge set it back on a shelf. “We have to pay for anything we break. This isn’t like one of those big stores where we can run away again.”

Coleman swayed and latched on to a china cabinet. Plates rattled.

“Watch it!” Serge grabbed Coleman by the shoulders and carefully balanced him on the vertical axis. He slowly removed his hands. “There. Don’t move.”

“Was this always an antique place?” asked Coleman. “From the outside it looked like it used to be a restaurant or something.”

“It was,” said Serge. “Old neighborhood bar and grill called Dino’s. The kind of place with live honky-tonk musicians in the corner. True story: Forty years ago, some customer was in here drinking and it begins getting late and suddenly the guy gets up and starts playing a guitar left on the stage by one of the musicians on break. I mean like a crazy man, attacking the instrument, distressed noise. They thought he was having a seizure.”

“Was he?”

“Naw, it was just Jimi Hendrix. Knocking back a few after playing Curtis Hixon or some other torn-down arena.” Serge began jamming on an air guitar behind his head:
“…Wah-wahwah-wah-wowoooowah-wah-wah!…Purple Haze inside my veins!…”

The man in line in front of them turned around. Serge was playing with his teeth now.
“…Waahhhoooo-wah-wahzowoozoo-wahhhhhh!…”

“Sir!” said the man. “Do you mind?”

Serge stopped and looked up. “Oh, excuse me…”

The man turned back around.

“…While I kiss the sky!”

The man turned back again with disdain.

Serge grinned.

“Serge,” said Coleman. “This line is taking a lot longer than you said. Let’s get out of here.”

“Hang on,” said Serge. “I hate lines, too. But sometimes it’s worth it. This may be our last chance to meet the great Karl Slover.”

“Karl?”

“You’re joking, right? I told you about him in the car.”

“Must have been doing something. Who is he?”

“Just one of the last living Munchkins is who. And Tampa has him! Lives just up the street. But I decided to wait until a public appearance instead of knocking on his door because I’m not familiar with Munchkin lifestyle and didn’t want to barge in on anything freaky.”

“Is this part of your current Florida movie kick?” Coleman picked up a ceramic German boy playing the accordion.

Serge grabbed the figurine and replaced it on the shelf. “Nothing
current
about it. This is different from every previous obsession. Movies are my life now.”

“If you say so.”

“No, really. I’ve dedicated my existence to absorbing the entire film history of Florida so I can find out what the problem is.”

“I didn’t know there was a problem.”

“Oh, there’s a problem all right.” Serge snatched a sleeping cherub from Coleman’s hands. “Why should California get all the glory? Every movie filmed out there has that same shot, aimed up at tall rows of palm trees running down both sides of the street like we should all genuflect. Shit, the
bad
parts of Fort Myers have that.”

“Doesn’t seem fair.”

“Here’s the thing that really makes me want to kill. A movie is supposed to depict Florida, and they don’t even pay us the common courtesy of shooting it here. Remember
Some Like It Hot
? Filmed at the Hotel del Coronado in San Diego. And don’t even get me started on the Miami Beach scenes in
Get Shorty
.”

“That wasn’t Miami Beach?”

“Santa Monica,” said Serge. “I want answers.”

“But, Serge, what can one person do?”

“That’s what they said back in the 2000 election. Then Katherine Harris ends up in Congress. But not this time. Did you know there used to be studios all over this state competing with Hollywood? During the silent era, one was almost as big. Jacksonville.”

“What happened?”

“Shortsighted civic leaders and residents complaining about disruptions. The last straw was when they used a bunch of extras to film a riot, and it became a real riot.” Serge tilted his head to see around the line. “Then, to add insult, the latest blow from California. They’re making a move on our cash crop.”

“What’s that?”

“You say Florida, and people think oranges and tourism. But our biggest export is weirdness. Remember a few years ago with those fugitives and chads and Elian and that guy who slept with his pet alligator under suspicious circumstances and had all those bite marks? Everyone you talked to: ‘Man, you people in Florida are crazy!’ Then California elects a robot and puts a bunch of losers on trial. They stole our weirdness crown. I mean to take it back.”

The line grew shorter until Coleman could see someone sitting behind a desk signing movie stills. “He’s short.”

“Tall for a Munchkin,” said Serge. “Did you know he played six different parts?”

“Which?”

“One of the trumpeters, a female Munchkin in a bonnet, and who can forget those eggs where the cute little baby Munchkins popped out?”

Coleman pointed. “Looks like we’re up.”

An assistant at the desk asked which movie photos they’d like to purchase.

“Just a second,” said Serge. “I need to do something first.” He turned to the people in line behind him. “Could you please step back…That’s right, a little more…”

Serge faced the desk again. “Karl, this is going to bring back memories…” He placed his hands on his hips and began thrusting his pelvis: “We represent the lollipop
guild
!…the lollipop
guild
!…the lollipop
guild
!…We represent…”

The assistant stood up. “Sir, please…”

“Wait, there’s another verse.”

“We have a long line.”

“All right,” said Serge. “Hey, Karl, bet you haven’t heard that in a long time. But don’t get all misty on me…”

“Sir, which photograph?”

“Right, which picture? Let’s see…the one with the good witch? No…Here’s one with Dorothy and Toto…Karl, you knew Garland. What was she like? Did she keep in touch or just climb over the Munchkins on her way up? Any red flags of the drug abuse yet to come?…”

“Sir!”

“Of course. That would be out of school. And you’re a class act…Did you get to see the flying monkeys? They scared the shit out of me when I was a kid! What about you? I mean, you were an adult and knew they were fake. Still, the concept—minding your own business walking along the yellow brick road. Did you realize they have these giant condors in the Pacific Northwest that can pick up a full-grown Munchkin? Then you’re sitting two hundred feet up a tree in a big nest with the hatchlings. What kind of life is that? My advice: Stay clear of Portland…”

“Sir, I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Leave?…Oh, I see what this is about. Moving product, making him sign his little hand off. Well, your days of exploiting him are over!…Karl, I got your back…”

“We’re calling the police.”

“Good. Call the press, too. Let’s see what
they
think about this Munchkin sweat farm.”

Crash.

A rack of figurines went over.

“Coleman! Run!…”

Aman in a paper hat swept the floor behind the counter. “I hate pretzels!”

“Shhhh!” said Ford. “The customers.”

“What customers?” said Mark, a choo-choo over his right breast.

“Some might come in,” said Ford.

Mark set his broom against the wall. “Didn’t you tell them we didn’t want to be closers?”

“It’s all they had.” Ford looked down at a stack of typewritten pages that he kept behind the register.

“I hate closing,” said Mark. He glanced up at the clock, fifteen till ten. “You get everything put away, all ready to split, and some idiots come in with a minute to go and can’t make up their minds. Then they finally order something complex.”

Ford crossed out a verb with his pen, making it active. “Looks like we’re in luck tonight.”