Nuclear Jellyfish

SHENANIGANS LOUNGE

Pushed-together tables ran the length of the room. A mechanical slot sucked in a dollar bill. Music began.

“… Night moves …”

A nutritional-supplement salesman walked back from the juke.

“You always play this stupid song,” said Steve.

“Thought you liked Seger.”

“Until you came along.”

“I know the real reason you’re sore.”

Actually, just about everyone at the tables was sore. The reason sat at the bar, a dashing man in a tailored silk suit and thick, sexy black hair to the collar. On each side, flight attendants based out of Denver, over-laughing at his every remark. Two more attendants stood behind his stool, trying to wedge in on the hunk, who reeked of nonstop intercourse because of his aftershave, Nonstop Intercourse.

The gang around the tables shook their heads.

“What’s he got that I don’t?” asked self-esteem-seminar Ken.

“You never seen Johnny?”

Ken shook his head.

“The guy’s practically a legend,” said Ted. “Seen him in action at least twenty times, always leaves with the hottest chick in the bar.”

“What’s he do?”

“Nothing but live off a trust fund, troll hotel bars and get laid like nobody’s business. More tail falls off his truck than we’ll ever see.”

Steve took out his wallet and threw a ten-spot next to the beer pitcher. “Who’s in?”

The pot grew as more bills landed in the middle of the table. “I say the blonde.” “Brunette for variety.” “Redhead.” “Asian fox …”

Finally, the betting window closed. They turned toward the bar and waited. Every last one of the salesmen would have killed to be in Johnny’s shoes. But only because they’d never walked in them. The actual truth was something none of the gang would have imagined.

Johnny attracted willing partners in such waves he had to fight them off. But sealing the deal was another matter entirely. Some calamity always interrupted the precise moment of penetration. Literally, his entire life. No possible way to overstate the phenomenon. It was such a numbing string of misfortune that General Custer, Al Gore and the captain of the Titanic would all have said the same thing. Man, have you got bad luck.

He was Johnny Vegas, the Accidental Virgin.

Back at the tables: “Looks like the blonde … no wait, he’s getting up. He’s turning to his right… Damn …”

Three guys raked bills from the middle of the table as Johnny strolled for the elevators with an effervescent redhead in an airline scarf.

A Winnebago with blue trim pulled into a transmission shop. The manager came out.

Serge jumped down from the driver’s seat and gave him a giant hug, weeping on his shoulder. “Thank Jesus you’re so conveniently close to the rest stop and that nice man just happened to be there. I cringe to imagine breaking down after midnight between exits and living out my days wearing a dog collar in a sex dungeon …”

“Easy now.” The manager gently grabbed Serge’s arms and calmly pushed him back. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Transmission leak! Geyser!”

The manager rubbed his chin. “That’s the problem with this model. Seen quite a few lately, but it shouldn’t cost much. Why don’t we go-“

“-write up a work order?” said Serge. The manager stopped. “Uh, exactly.”

They went inside, and the manager grabbed a triplicate sheet with sprocket holes. He scribbled quickly and turned the paperwork around to face Serge. “Sign at the bottom.”

Serge picked up a pen. “What am I signing?”

“Just says you want us to check out your transmission.”

“But that’s not what I want at all.”

“It isn’t?”

“Not even close.” Serge set the pen down.

“Then why’d you come here?”

Serge held out his palm. “Three thousand dollars please.”

“What?”

“That’s how much you got from the retired couple who was just in here.”

“Oh, them.”

“I’m a close personal friend.”

“I get it: You think we overcharged.” He nodded with practiced sympathy. “Most people have no idea what transmission work runs. Sticker shock. But three grand is the going rate to completely rebuild those giant gear boxes on the larger RVs.”

“And zero is the going rate for hiding it behind a closed garage door and doing nothing.”

“I don’t think I like what you’re implying.”

“I don’t like that my hand doesn’t have three thousand dollars in it.”

“Hey, asshole. They came to me.”

“Because you had an accomplice at the rest stop.”

“I don’t have no fucking accomplice! Get the hell off my property!”

The phone beside the cash register rang. A mechanic answered. He covered the receiver and called to the manager. “Elliot needs a tow from the rest stop.”

Serge placed the back of a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. “The spirits tell me that will be a highly profitable repair.”

The manager stepped up nose to nose with Serge, deliberately underscoring his size advantage. “Deaf or something? I said get the fuck out!”

Serge shook his head. “Can’t let you do this to yourself.”

“Do what?”

“Miss out on my ground-floor opportunity!” said Serge. “Three thousand is an absolute steal for us to go our separate ways.”

“Out!”

“It’s a win-win! You break even and live to enjoy a brighter tomorrow.”

“Fuck you!” The manager gave Serge a hard, two-handed shove in the chest.

Serge stumbled backward and caught his balance. “Investors are lining up fast! Price is now four thousand!”

The manager shoved him again.

Serge stumbled again. “You obviously don’t know what the price of regret is running these days. But because I like you, special new deal: five thousand!”

The manager saved his most vicious shove for last. Serge crashed backward into the glass door and crumpled on the ground. The manager pointed threateningly in his face. “You’ve fucked with the wrong guy! Those friends with the RV? They just bought them a world of shit. I have their address on the work order. I know people in Minnesota. And when my associates pay a visit, they’re going to tell them it’s all because of you!”

“Sorry,” said Serge. “Investment deadline just passed.” He stood and opened the door. Ting-a-ling.

SERGE’S SUITE

Frenetic tapping on a laptop keyboard.

A beer can popped. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Uploading the daily addendum to my renegade travel website. Today’s nuggets: avoiding transmission ripoffs and the best place to spot John Travolta.”

“Travolta?”

“Coleman, you were with me there yesterday.” Typing rate increased. “That old Holiday Inn across from Silver Springs.”

“Now I remember.”

“Travolta’s an aviation fiend. Got a giant spread out in the country north of here, two jets in the driveway, including a Boeing 707, and his own airstrip, but I’m not going to reveal the location on my site because I respect his privacy.”

“Is that why we kept circling his property?”

“Those were public roads-plus I wanted to make sure no unstable people were bothering him.”

“What’s Holiday Inn got to do with it?”

“Staff told me he’s a night owl…” Tap, tap, tap, tap. “… In wee hours, he likes to eat at the Denny’s attached to the motel because it’s about the only thing still open in the middle of nowhere …” Tap, tap. “… Imagine that: The Pulp Fiction assassin frequenting this funky little place in our own fine state. Apparently a real nice guy, too. Next to the motel’s reception desk are some cool photos of him on the wall posing with staff and a night watchman.”

“What are you doing now?”

“I took photos of the Travolta photos, which I’m just about finished posting …” Tap, tap, tap. Serge stood. “There, done.” He looked around. “Where’s Story?”

“Still down at the pool,” said Coleman, opening the suite’s refrigerator to store remaining beers dangling from their plastic six-pack ring.

Serge began pacing. And pacing, wearing a rut in the motel carpet.

“What’s the matter, buddy?”

Serge reached a wall and paced back the other way. “Nothing on the to-do list until my project later tonight.” He came to another wall and turned. “You know how I can’t stand not to have a fixation target.” Another wall…

Coleman idly looked around the room. “Is it my dope, or did we get a bigger place than usual?”

“It’s a suite.” He spun at the windows. “What to do? What to do?…”

Coleman investigated the kitchenette, opening and closing all the drawers. “It even has a dishwasher.”

Serge trudged toward the window. “I usually have the opposite problem of choice shock. Too many diversions …”

The microwave opened and closed. “This is the coolest place I’ve ever stayed.” Another drawer. “I remember loving to go to motels when I was a kid.”

Serge stopped in his sneaker tracks. “Coleman! That’s it! You’re brilliant!”

“I am?”

“How could I be so stupid? I’ve been thinking like a middle-aged person.”

“You are middle-aged.”

“Of all people I should know better.” Serge ran into the kitchenette, rapidly opening and closing drawers. “Life was invented for kids. But then we all grow up, and society imposes filters that block the joy of silliness and sponging up pointless little things that make childhood the magic time for which it is widely known.” He stuck his face in an overhead cabinet.

Coleman bent down and opened double doors. “Look at all this space under the sink.”

“Much work at hand!” He dashed over to a bed and yanked off the sheets. “Coleman, grab those chairs.”

“What are we doing?”

“It’s like riding a bicycle. You never forget how.”

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