Clownfish Blues

Chapter 26

The Next Day

A knock on a door in the Miami Women’s Legal Aid Clinic.

“Come on in.”

The office assistant named Danny took a seat. “I just wanted to thank you for all your help again on the lottery-ticket thing.” She opened her purse and pulled out a large plastic bag full of paper stubs.

“Jesus!” said Brook.

Danny placed the bag on the desk. “There’s so much goodwill toward you in the community that if you ever moved there, you’d never pay for another meal the rest of your life.”

Brook stuck the bag of tickets in a briefcase. “I’ll get moving on this right away.”

“Thanks. There’s plenty more where that came from.”

Danny left and the phone rang.

“This is Brook Campanella . . . Wait, what kind of case? . . . He’s being held where? . . .” She got out a yellow pad and pen. “Okay, back up to the beginning, and don’t leave anything out . . .”

. . . The Florida Keys are unto themselves. No point in trying to make sense. They’re just the Keys being the Keys.

The only road to the string of islands is U.S. 1 out of Florida City. In 1982, the U.S. Border Patrol established a checkpoint on this route outside the Last Chance Saloon, looking for illegal immigrants and drugs. If you know anything about local geography, the bottleneck at Mile Marker 126 is bad enough as it is, the worst possible site for a federal choke point. Traveling by car to the Keys became unworkable. The tourism-dollar lifeblood was cut off. Objections from area officials went ignored.

So they declared independence from the United States.

No kidding. But this time Keys logic actually was logical: If there was a border-crossing station for anyone attempting to either enter or leave the islands, then they were essentially being treated as a separate sovereign state. So they called themselves the Conch Republic. It was all tongue-in-cheek, very silly and quite savvy. The mock celebrations were tailored for TV, and the story made news across the country and overseas. There were T-shirts and hats and beer koozies and even fake passports. The official blue flag with a conch shell began flapping from flagpoles. The U.S. government bowed under the pressure of embarrassment, and the border station was closed.

But the movement became such a hit that sales of Conch Republic keepsakes remain brisk to this day. A huge sign on the runway at the Key West airport welcomes visitors to the fictitious nation. And locals began a contest of sorts. The souvenir passports didn’t just look kind of official; they were dead on. The goal was to see how many times you could use it to enter a foreign country without detection and get it officially stamped. It was great fun and games, especially when showing them off in bars.

There was no official tally, but a man named Ennis Keefe was arguably in the lead with twenty-two official stamps.

Then came 9/11. Homeland Security. The Patriot Act.

Ennis was still sailing smoothly, until he decided to go for the most coveted customs stamp of all. The United States of America.

A twin-prop commuter flight from the Bahamas landed at Miami International on a quiet Tuesday afternoon. Ennis arrived at the international air side and presented a small leatherlike booklet from the Conch Republic. He was still smiling when they slapped on the cuffs.

“It’s just a joke,” said Ennis. “I’m really a U.S. citizen and my regular passport is in that bag, so you can release me now.”

Customs people were on phones and walkie-talkies. More agents arrived. Then a transport van.

“Seriously, guys, I do this all the time,” said Ennis. “It’s harmless.”

“I’m listening,” said a senior agent. “What exactly do you do all the time?”

Ennis exhaled with relief. “Thank you! Finally someone reasonable! Just call anyone in Key West. It’s this game we play in the bars to see how many stamps we can collect.”

The agent flipped the pages of the ersatz passport. “How many foreign stamps have you collected in this game?”

“Twenty-two! I was in the lead but someone just tied me,” said Ennis. “So if you’d be kind enough to just hit that thing with your own stamp, it would really make my day.”

“Let me see if I have this straight,” said the agent. “For a couple of decades now, you’ve been traveling all over the world and entering these countries illegally with a forged document?”

“No, not forged,” said Ennis. “They sell them in the T-shirt shops all over Duval Street.”

His luggage was quarantined and taken out to a remote field. They had determined that the suitcases posed no threat, but blew them up anyway because it was fun. Frightened eyes stared out the metal screen in the back of an INS van as it drove through the barbed-wire entrance gates of a sprawling, fortified facility surrounded by the equally sprawling migrant farmlands near Homestead. Ennis became the only U.S. citizen detained in the infamous Krome Detention Center . . .

. . . Brook finished scribbling. “Thanks . . . Yeah, I have a pretty good idea where to get started. Just tell your brother not to say another word.”

She hung up and dialed again. “Reevis, it’s me, Brook . . . Yeah, I’ve been busy. How about dinner tomorrow night? . . . Listen, you know how you’re always asking me if I’ve got a good story and press coverage will help my client? . . . Oh, it’s a real beauty . . .”

A Few Miles South

A plump man sat on a bus bench along U.S. Highway 1 in North Miami, angrily folding furry black-and-white arms.

“Coleman, I thought we talked about this,” said Serge. “Pandas are out.”

“I don’t want to be set on fire again.”

“It was a controlled burn,” said Serge. “You saw all the business we brought in.”

“My lips still hurt,” said Coleman. “And my hair is singed!”

“It’ll grow back. Here’s some ChapStick.”

Coleman looked away in a rare stand of defiance to his lifelong friend.

“Don’t you see what is happening across the street?” said Serge.

“Yeah, the gorilla.”

“He’s twirling flaming batons,” said Serge. “He stole that from us. I’m telling you, fire is the future! The first caveman who said that also got blowback.”

“Pandas are as far as I go.” Coleman rubbed his fluffy white chest. “If you like fire so much, why don’t you do it?”

“You think I’m afraid of a little fire?” Serge jumped up. “I’ll show you!”

He went over to the trunk of his car, pulled out a bag and began slipping his legs into a suit.

Coleman wandered over in curiosity. “Where’d you get that outfit?”

“At the Party Store. You were busy checking out the beer funnels.”

Coleman scratched an armpit as Serge finished climbing into the costume.

“A cheetah?”

“Not just any cheetah.” Serge put on the head. “Chester Cheetah.”

“Who’s that?”

Serge pulled more equipment from the trunk. “The Cheetos mascot.” He began connecting a series of curved metal tubes.

Coleman removed his head as he watched his pal insert the assembly into a large metal base. “You like cheetahs?”

“I like Cheetos.” Serge grabbed a bottle that said Flammable. “Besides, the cheetah is the perfect animal to match my wiry, spring-loaded persona.”

“But you said you didn’t have time to do the costume thing—that I was the talent and you were the manager.”

“It’s this economy,” said Serge. “Business is booming. I just got a lead on a pair of high-paying gigs at a nearby strip mall, so I’m forced to step off the sidelines.” He poured the contents of the bottle into a hole at the top of the contraption.

“Where’d you get that thing?”

“Also from the Party Store. They have everything!”

Coleman glanced around furtively, then lit a short joint and put the panda head back on.

People on the sidewalk stopped to watch as Serge dragged his assembly to the middle of the lot. He went back to his trunk, retrieving a pair of gymnastic tumbling mats that he placed in strategic positions. Other onlookers began peering out store windows.

“Coleman, do something useful and hand me your lighter.”

Marijuana smoke streamed out the panda’s eyes and ears. He tossed Serge his Bic.

Serge flicked it, and the ring of fire came to life. He leaned a cardboard sign against the support post: Kwik Lube, No Waiting. Large cheetah feet carefully paced off steps. Then he got down in a sprinter’s crouch. Customers stepped out of stores and became silent during the tense anticipation.

“Now!” Serge took off running and dove through the ring of flames, landing with a somersault on a padded mat. He hopped up to a smattering of polite applause.

“See?” He spread big white hands. “Nothing to it.”

Coleman spit out the joint. “Serge . . .”

“Wait, the audience wants more.” He paced backward on the opposite side before running and diving again. Cars honked. The crowd grew.

“Serge . . .”

“Not now! I owe it to my fans!” He took off running.

The panda shrugged. He uncapped a longneck Budweiser and stuck it through the mouth hole.

Serge landed again to more applause. Another dive, and another.

“Serge . . .”

“Dammit, Coleman! What is so important?”

“You’re on fire.”

“I know! The public loves me!” Serge suddenly stopped and sniffed inside his costume head. “What’s that smell? Why is my ass hot?”

Coleman pointed with the beer bottle. “Your tail.”

“Shit, I’m on fire!” He began running in frantic circles, trying to reach behind and swat his backside with furry paws. “Coleman, do something!”

More people gathered as Serge ran screaming in a circle, chased by a panda splashing beer on his butt.

Fifteen minutes later, all was quiet again. A panda and a cheetah sat on a bus bench. Serge held the end of his charred tail. “Crap, I was really starting to like this outfit.”

A black stretch limo pulled up across the street. A gorilla threw his sign in the backseat and got in.

Coleman watched as the vehicle pulled away. “What’s that about?”

“The scenarios are endless.” Serge stopped to reflect. He looked at the smoldering metal ring in the parking lot and the gymnastics mats, and then down again at his blackened tail. “The economy can’t be this complicated. Am I overthinking this? Coleman, tell the truth: Am I acting appropriate?”

Another panda shrug. “Look at all the people getting their oil changed.”

A cheetah head began to nod. “I thought so. I just like to regularly perform self-awareness checks to make sure my behavior is still coloring inside the lines. Once again, the all-clear signal.”

“You mentioned some higher-paying gigs.”

“We start tomorrow,” said Serge. “And if you insist on being a panda, you’re going to need a gimmick.”

The limo returned and pulled to a stop in front of the bus bench. The tinted back window rolled down. A gorilla head stuck out. “Aren’t you going to the Furries’ Ball?”

“What?” asked Coleman.

“I mean, you’re not just sign-spinners,” asked the ape, “right?”

“I would agree with that statement,” said Serge.

“Knew it,” said the gorilla. “There aren’t many spinners out here in full costume. So you’re actually into the whole lifestyle?”

“Panda for life,” said Coleman.

“Got a Cheetos monkey on my back,” said Serge.

“I’ll give you a ride.” The back door opened. “There’s plenty of room.”

Coleman looked at Serge. “What do you think?”

“A gorilla unexpectedly offering a ride in a limo. In some cultures, that’s a sign of good luck.”

They climbed inside. The limo drove off.

“It’s got a full wet bar!” yelled Coleman. His head whipped toward the gorilla. “Please tell me it’s free.”

“Of course.”

“Hot damn! This is definitely good luck.”

“Hold on.” Serge looked at the gorilla again. “Your voice. It was muffled when you were talking to us at the curb. Are you a . . . ?”

“Girl?” said the ape. “Yeah, I get that a lot because of the masculine animal choice. Most of the other gals go for softer stuff like puppies or bunnies . . . Whew, it’s getting a little hot.” She removed the primate head.

“Dear God!” yelled Coleman. “She’s, she’s . . .”

Yes, she was. A drop-dead beauty with sandy-blond hair and dark brown eyes.

Coleman rushed back with a drink and wedged himself between Serge and the girl.

Panda and cheetah heads came off. A black-and-white paw extended. “My name’s Coleman.”

She shook. “Liv.” Then she leaned closer. “You like to yiff?”

“Yippie!”

“No, silly.” She laughed. “You know, yiffing. I pegged you two as yiffers. I’m a pretty good judge of these things. I just love men who yiff. So am I right?”

“Yiffie ki yay!” yelled Coleman.

“Life’s short,” said Liv. She took Coleman by the paw. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“If you’re new to it, just follow my lead.”

“Anything you say.”

She looked back at Serge. “Want to join us?”

“I’m still processing.”

Liv grinned. “Feel free to jump in anytime.” She led his pudgy pal to the middle of the limo and got down on the floor.

“What do I do?” asked Coleman.

“First, put your head back on,” Liv said as she donned her own. “It doesn’t work without the head.”

“I totally agree.”

“Okay, now . . .” She felt around his costume.

“Whoa!” said Coleman.

“Wait, where is it?” She continued probing between Coleman’s legs. “Something’s wrong.”

“Everything’s A-OK here.”

“If you yiff, you’ve got to have a flap.” Liv indicated a spot in the middle of the gorilla suit. “Here’s mine.”

Coleman became woozy. “I—I—I . . .”

“No problem,” said Liv. “There’s a small paring knife at the wet bar . . . and I’ll just cut a little slit here, where you can add Velcro later for when you go back to work the street.” She put the knife away. “There. Now you have your yiffing flap.”

“I—I—I . . .”

“I really like the top,” said Liv. “Do you mind?”

“I—I—I . . .”

It was a clumsy start getting everything aligned, but soon the limo’s chassis began to rock.

Serge’s eye bugged out and he braced himself with both arms against the edge of his seat, watching a silverback gorilla furiously hump a panda on the floor. “Christ on a surfboard! What kind of strangeness am I looking at?”