Nuclear Jellyfish

PASTIME

Serge swiftly navigated the Internet jukebox’s on-screen menu. Soon, unmistakable guitar chords filled the tavern. Serge raced back to the far end of the bar, where an attractive young blonde in Daisy Duke cutoffs idly peeled the wet label off a cold tallboy.

“… I was cutting a rug …”

Serge tapped her shoulder. “Would you like to dance?”

Her female-barroom-defense-wall went up before she even turned around. But then she caught Serge’s smile and piercing ice-blue eyes. The wall crumbled. “Sure.”

He led her to the middle of the tiny dance floor and waved Coleman over. “Dance with him.”

The woman stopped. “I thought you were asking me to dance with you?”

“That part’s coming up. I’ll cut in.”

“When?”

“Don’t worry. You won’t miss it.”

She reluctantly began dancing, but had to avert her eyes to stomach it. Coleman held a beer to his chest and did the drunk-white-guy shuffle.

A minute into the song, “Hey!” Serge leveled a gun at Coleman. “What are you trying to prove?”

Coleman began shaking. “But you told me to dance with her.”

Serge leaned and whispered: “Work with me.”

Eyes grew large around the bar. Everyone eased off stools and began backing away. Someone dialed 911.

Serge waved the gun wildly. “This might be it for you!”

“You’re scaring me,” said Coleman. “Be careful with that thing.”

Serge cupped his mouth and whispered again. “Say the words.”

“What words?”

“Serge!” Billy Bob yelled from behind the bar. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Putting the cherry on the best day of my entire life!”

“Get rid of that gun! Now!”

“It’s not loaded, see?” Serge pointed the pistol out the open door and squeezed. Bang. “Serge!”

“Demonstrating firearm safety: No such thing as an unloaded gun.”

Someone ran in the door. “What just happened to my windshield ?” He saw Serge’s pistol and dashed back out.

“Coleman! Say the words!”

“What words?” Serge whispered in his ear.

Coleman looked at him oddly. “Gimme three steps?”

“Run!”

“I’m running!”

Coleman darted out the door with Serge on his heels. They raced across the gravel lot and jumped in the Javelin.

An unexpected voice from behind: “Hold up!”

The woman in the Daisy Dukes ran toward the car with a small duffel bag. “Can I get a lift?”

Without waiting for an answer, she opened Coleman’s door and pushed his bucket seat forward, throwing him into the dash. Then she dove in back with her bag. “Might want to start driving. Those are police sirens.”

Serge patched out in a dusty, white cloud and sped for the I-10 ramp. They snaked east on elevated lanes and merged with downtown rush hour. Sirens faded. Serge eased off the gas and looked in the rearview: “What’s your status?”

The woman calmly applied blush. “Heard in the bar you were headed south. I need a ride.”

Serge hit his blinker for the 95 bridge. “But back there … the gun and everything … I mean, you’re not afraid of us?”

“Please!” She snapped her compact closed. “After all the other men in my life, you two are pussycats.”

Coleman giggled. “She said ‘pussy’ … Ow! Serge, she just smacked me in the back of the head!”

Serge glanced in the mirror again. “I’m Serge, this is Beavis. What’s your name?”

“Candy.”

“Candy?” said Serge. “What are you, a stripper? … Ow!” He rubbed the back of his head.

“I am not a stripper! I’m a dancer.”

“Do you take your clothes off?”

“Of course.” She pulled a date book from her purse. “You stupid or something?”

“Then you’re a stripper … Ow!”

“Stop saying ‘stripper.’”

“Deal.”

She opened the date book in her lap. “Look, everyone thinks strippers are dumb slut pieces of trash who curse and smoke and drink and do drugs all the time.” She reached over Coleman’s shoulder and grabbed his beer.

“You’re drinking,” said Serge.

“I don’t smoke. Or do drugs. On weekdays.”

” A foolish consistency …’” Serge said sarcastically.

”’… is the hobgoblin,’ blah, blah, blah,” said Candy. “Don’t condescend to quote Emerson at me.”

Serge’s eyes snapped toward the rearview mirror. “You know Emerson?”

“Who the fuck doesn’t?”

Coleman cheerfully raised his hand.

“But how do you know Emerson?” said Serge.

“English lit. That’s why I need a lift. Just came home to Jacksonville during break to dance for next semester’s rent because money’s better up here.”

“You’re a lit major?”

She shook her head. “Florida history.”

Serge placed a hand over his heart. “What’s your real, nonprofessional name?”

“Story.”

“Story?” Serge flipped down his sun visor for a quick peek at the photo, then flipping it back up. “Like Musgrave? The astronaut?”

“Duh.”

“What’s your last name?”

“Long.”

“Story Long. Story Long. Where have I heard that name before?” said Serge. “Story Long … Wait, I remember now.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You were in the newspaper, weren’t you?”

She just reached into her bag for a textbook.

“It was you.” Serge slapped the steering wheel. “I knew it! You’re like my hero.”

“What’d she do?” asked Coleman.

“Oh, it was so cool!” said Serge. “The police raided this strip … I mean dance club north of St. Petersburg, trying to shut it down for obscenity. But Story was smarter than the cops. American obscenity laws are delightfully quirky. First, the offense has to be of a sexual nature. You can stand onstage with two handfuls of shit, and it’s not obscene, just gross. Second, even if it is sexual, it’s not obscene if the act contains material of a scientific, political or artistic nature. So the night after the raid, Story organized the other girls. Instead of dancing, they performed Shakespeare in the nude.”

“And they didn’t get busted?” said Coleman.

“No, they got busted all right,” said Serge. “That was even better. She showed up the cops, understanding the law better than the people whose careers are law enforcement. One of the top police officials went on TV to explain that even though it was a famous play, they were still arrested because none of the girls had formal acting training and their performances, stunk. The statutory ignorance was so monumentally obvious that Lenny Bruce was making jokes about it more than forty years ago. For something to pass the non-obscenity test, it’s just a question of whether it contains art, not whether the art’s any good.”

“How’s that cool?” asked Coleman.

“She got that police official to unwittingly admit they went to jail for bad acting.” He looked in the rearview again and detected traces of a faint smile. “Coleman, this is a special day. We’re sitting in the presence of the smartest stripper in Florida-” Serge ducked. Story’s hand swished empty air.

“Don’t get me wrong,” said Serge. “I love history, but what can you do with a degree besides teach?”

“I’m actually going to graduate school to be a vet.”

Serge reached up and snuck another quick glimpse of the visor photo. “Tell me …”-he crossed his fingers-“… did you ever want to be anything else besides a vet?”

“Well, when I was real young, before I got practical, I wanted to be an astronaut-“

“Yesssss!” Serge flipped down the sun visor, tore out the picture and crumpled it into a ball.

Coleman pointed at the empty visor. “Does that mean we can stop wearing diapers?”

“You guys are wearing diapers?” asked Story.

“For the space race,” said Serge.

“Changed my mind.” Story stuck her textbook back in the duffel bag. “I’d like to get out of the car now.”

“But we just started having fun.”

“This has gotten way too weird. You’re no travel writer.”

“Yes I am.”

“You’re a psycho in a diaper.”

“I’m … multi-tasking.” Serge opened his cell phone and punched numbers. “Just get to know me a little better.” Serge listened a moment, then began beating the phone on the dashboard.

“What are you doing?” asked Story.

Bam, bam, bam. “Making a hotel reservation.”

“Having problems?”

“Those goddamn endless phone menus. And they always finish with: ‘Rotary callers please stay on the line.’ That last part only takes a few seconds, but over a lifetime it adds up to days of lost existence. And all because one guy won’t get with the century. Who the hell out there is still using a rotary phone?”

Twenty miles away, a thick, callused index finger dialed a rotary phone. The heavy black receiver went to an ear.

“This is Agent Mahoney. You left a message for me at the motel? … Of course I’m still interested in Serge … No, not over the phone … The usual place …”

Mahoney headed north in a late-model Crown Vic with blackwall tires, but to Mahoney it looked like Broderick Crawford’s highway patrol car with vintage bubbletop police light. He pulled into a dim parking garage and stopped next to the elevators.

The agent entered the Jacksonville airport in a frayed tweed jacket and rumpled fedora. He strolled past the men’s room and climbed onto a small platform, taking a seat in a comfortable, padded chair. His feet went onto metal rests. A toothpick wiggled in his teeth.

“Sparky, give me the works.”

“The name’s Luke.”

“It should be Sparky.”

Below him knelt a short, thin man with white hair and drooping, blotched cheeks. A shoeshine box opened. Mahoney’s eyes swept the terminal for nosy eavesdroppers. The shine man was old school, working the buffing rag in a furious 1940s Times Square subway choreography.

Mahoney lowered his gaze. “Sparky, what’s Serge’s twenty?”

“Huh?”

“Location.”

The man’s eyes stayed on the agent’s wingtips. Mahoney pulled a fin from his wallet and handed it down. The man slipped the five-spot in his shirt pocket. “I don’t know where Serge is.”

“You mumbled on the blower about the bona fide.”

“That’s right.”

“Canary.”

Buffing resumed in silence. Mahoney passed down another fiver.

“Someone’s on Serge’s trail. And I don’t think he wants to catch up on old times.”

“Don’t shine me on. Everyone’s snooping for Serge.”

Luke shook his head. “This is different. He’s got a target on his back.”

“The big sleep?”

“That’s how it looks from here.”

Mahoney ruefully removed his toothpick. “Where’d you score the dope?”

“Talk’s on the street.”

“Sing.”

The shoes got more polish. Luke got another five.

“Couple of guys came poking around.”

“Solid they weren’t shields?”

“I’d know if they were cops. I just got this vibe. Not warm and fuzzy.”

“Chin?”

“Huh?”

“What’d they say?”

“Same thing you always do: just wanted to know if I’d seen Serge. Said they were old friends, but I wasn’t buying. Actually only one talked while I did his shoes; think the other was the lookout-hung back by the ticket counter.”

“Strapping iron?”

“The talker had a bulge in his shirt. Both gave me the creeps.” “Reruns?”

“Never seen them before in my life. That’s what doesn’t add up: I don’t even know Serge. Why’d they come to me?” Mahoney removed the toothpick. “History.” “Don’t follow.”

“Someone yodeled up a pair of zippers to close Serge’s eyes. Did their homework on the mark. Serge is all about tradition, and you’re the end of a dying breed, the best shine in the state. If they heard Serge was in J-ville, it’s just a matter of time before he lands in your chair.”

A narrow brush scraped leather above the sole. “But it’s a big state. Why do they think Serge came to Jax?”

“He’s fobbing the tourists a bent travel angle. After getting your Western Union, I found a blog with photos under the Fuller Warren Bridge from Monday Night, and nobody was playing football if you catch my drift.”

Luke stood and gave the agent’s shoes a last theatrical snap of his towel. “How’d you hear about this blog?”

“Dropped a dime to the hundredth power.”

“What?”

“I Googled him.”

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