Nuclear Jellyfish

FORT PIERCE

The Javelin cruised down U.S. 1 and reached the city at first light.

“Here we are!” said Serge. “Birthplace of Florida’s Highwaymen. The air is electric! I must roll the window down!” “Sunrise!” said Coleman. “That calls for a beer!” “You already have one going.”

“It’s not the sunrise beer.” Coleman popped a second Schlitz for his other hand and plowed into the new day with his signature two-fisted zeal to beat back agenda.

“Coleman, I’m trying to teach you a little culture.”

“I’m listening. They were some kind of painters, right?”

“Not just any painters. Florida’s seminal landscape artists of the fifties and sixties, a loose collection of twenty-six African Americans who used their talent to escape the period’s low-pay citrus fields.”

Coleman finished the first can. “Why were they called the Highwaymen?”

“Not known as such in their day, but the spot-on name was bestowed in 1994 by art lover Jim Finch. They cranked out pieces at a prodigious rate, selling them door-to-door or roadside out of trunks, hence the name. Fame was elusive, and their efforts were originally dismissed as so-called motel art, referring to the typically cheesy stuff hanging in such rooms.”

“Like dogs playing poker?”

“Except the Highwaymen were ahead of the postcard curve in appreciating the state’s natural beauty. You’ve no doubt seen their work without even realizing it: seaside vistas with coconut palms, royal poinciana and glowing, turquoise waves rolling ashore, moonlit rivers, graceful herons, stalking egrets, stunning marshes, sunsets in a bold, reddish light that made the sky look like it was on fire.”

“I like clowns and superfat ladies on the beach.”

“The Highwaymen couldn’t afford canvas, so they painted on cheap epson board, which required extraaggressive brushstrokes that defined their genre. It’s what strikes you at the Backus Gallery that you can’t pick up from a book: distinctive wood grain under the paint. Without texture, what’s the point of life? From now on you are only to refer to me as ‘Epson Board’ Storms, like a southpaw from Pascagoula who pitched for the Dodgers in ‘38 but was killed midseason in a freak beekeeping mishap, or maybe third-base coach Mush-Head McGee, who delighted fans with uncontrollable facial tics, or the aptly named adult-film star Gooseneck Johnson …” Serge stopped and slapped himself on both cheeks. “Sorry, had to reboot. Go back to calling me Serge.”

“Serge, what’s an Epson board?”

“Who knows? I press a lot of people I meet for answers, but they all say the same thing: ‘Please, don’t hurt me.’”

“What’s that building by the water?”

“The Backus Gallery I just mentioned, dedicated to this white dude who nurtured a robust, artistic hang-out scene at his house, regardless of race: packs of jazz musicians, other painters and unpopular thinkers, always welcome because of Backus’s Left Bank leanings. Not the Seine, the Kissimmee.”

“We’re going to a gallery?”

“No, been there a hundred times.” Serge flipped through the coffee-table book in his lap. “Galleries are great, but they’re like churches: offsite worship. For the true spiritual experience, you must follow the brightest star to the manger.”

“Manger?”

“An old juke joint called Eddie’s Place.”

AT THAT VERY MOMENT …

Two tire wholesalers entered a motel lounge called Mulligans. The rest of the day, the bar served drinks. But just before sunrise, the staff laid out free continental breakfast.

Toasters popped. Coffee poured. Plastic cups went under orange juice spigots. The salesmen slid styrene trays along the bar, loading up on croissants. Nobody touched the giant, see-through bins dispensing Special K and Froot Loops.

A TV was on in the corner. “… Authorities have yet to identify the charred remains tied beneath a burning vehicle in the Ocala National Forest. However, officials have traced the source of the blaze to the dashboard and an ordinary disposable lighter…” The picture changed to a fire inspector interviewed on the scene. “… Most Floridians understand the danger of leaving children or pets in cars with the windows rolled up, where midday temperatures can reach a hundred and fifty degrees or more. But few give a second thought to cheap, throwaway lighters, which are butane under pressure and can easily explode at those temperatures, spraying flammable liquid all over the interior…” He looked back as firefighters continued hosing down the car’s smoldering shell. “… Whoever did this knew his physics. Simple but effective …”

The broadcast switched back to the anchorwoman. “In other news, police were called to the Convention Center earlier today when fighting broke out between rival unity conferences …”

Another tray slid down the bar.

“Steve!” said one of the tire guys. “How’d it go last night?”

“Regular tiger.” He placed a jelly doughnut on his tray. “Barely got a wink.”

“Details!”

“Well, first she …”

A looming shadow fell over Steve like a rolling thunderhead. He turned around. “Oh no.”

Five massive bodyguards. “Someone would like a word with you.”

“Sure, right after breakfast.”

A giant hand grabbed the doughnut and squished it into a tiny ball, jelly squirting between his fingers. “Now.”

“Uh, guys, be right back,” said Steve, dragged away by large hands under his armpits.

They shoved him into the men’s room and up against a wall. One braced the door against accidental interruption.

Someone was washing his hands at the sink. He dried them on a blower without rush, then calmly walked over to Steve.

“Good morning.”

“Eel, I was going to call you! I swear!”

“Now I’m here.”

“That thirteenth-floor business-could happen to anyone.”

“Of course it could.”

“Thanks for understanding.”

“Only one problem. Ted checked out of the hotel before we could get the stones. He already made the delivery.”

“You win some, you lose some is what I always say.” “I want your diamonds.”

“Now wait a minute,” said Steve. “That wasn’t part of the deal. My shipments go untouched, otherwise it’ll attract attention to the information I’m feeding you.”

“The diamonds.”

“Let me make it up some other way. Anything but that. It’ll look way too suspicious if I report a theft.”

The Eel placed a chummy arm around Steve’s shoulders. “You know, you’re right. We wouldn’t want to place our trusted associate in that kind of position.”

“Glad you agree.”

Wham. A jackhammer punch to the stomach. Steve doubled over.

The Eel bent down for eye contact. “You stupid motherfucker! How difficult is counting floors?” He twisted the hand-drying vent upward, then mashed the large chrome button with his fist and pressed Steve’s right cheek over the opening.

“Ahhhhh! It burns! It burns! …”

The Eel kept Steve’s face jammed against the machine and turned to his goons. “Our friend is worried about appearing suspicious.”

The gang closed in with a swarm of fists. Thirty seconds later, they stepped back revealing a bloody, crying coin dealer crumpled on the ceramic floor. One of the guards snatched Steve’s torn coat and felt along the silk lining. “Here they are, sewn inside.” He tossed a tiny sack to the Eel, who gave Steve a final kick in the ribs. “Now you look very convincing.”

Serge turned right onto Avenue D and cruised west through Fort Pierce.

“Coleman, look here …” He tapped a spot in his oversized pictorial book. “This magnificent painting was created by one of the Highwaymen’s two founders, Harold Newton, whose brother Sam now tends his own gallery in Cocoa’s thriving historic district…”

Coleman saw a pastel green juke joint surrounded by palm trees. A handful of people milled in the unpaved road. One leaned against a red coupe. Long shadows from telephone poles said it was late afternoon. The sky moody.

“Looks nice.”

“It’s Eddie’s Place, the yin-yang of the Highwaymen’s saga: subject of one of their most beautiful paintings, yet also site of the saddest day in their history. The movement’s other founder, Alfred Hair, was the only Highwayman to study formally under A.E. Backus.”

“That art gallery dude?”

“As the story goes, a stray bullet fatally felled Hair in Eddie’s Place on August 9, 1970. Until now, all I’ve had to go on was this painting, driving up and down Avenue D over the years looking for Eddie’s, but much has changed. The road’s paved, fresh paint, many upgrades. Plus there’s always the constant threat that the building had simply been demolished or burned down.”

“What changed?”

“The Internet.” Serge slowed and scanned the south side of the road. “Found some informative articles. Like the Pastime in Jacksonville, Eddie’s Place lives on under a new name, now the Reno Motel.”

Coleman completed his second sunrise beverage as they crossed Eleventh Street. A hard slap from the driver sent the can flying. “There she is! There she is!”

“Where?” asked Coleman.

“Up there.” Serge pulled over and parked on the opposite side of the street. He ran to the trunk. “Coleman, give me a hand.”

Coleman fell out of the car like a medicine ball and rolled to the curb. He got up, rubbing skinned palms. Serge handed him equipment.

“Aren’t you going to take a bunch of pictures like you usually do?”

“Something more relevant first.” Serge handed him a large rectangle.

“What’s this?”

“Canvas.” Serge grabbed a second one.

“You’re going to paint?”

“You, too.”

“But I’ve never painted before.”

“Neither have I. But what if I’m a natural who can paint like a photograph and don’t know it because I’ve never tried?”

Coleman grabbed a brush. “I thought you did try painting about ten years ago in Tampa. Remember? You set up an easel on the bay, saying the overwhelming beauty was suffocating, then went berserk with three brushes in each hand.”

“That was different. I was working in acrylics.”

“You ended up covered head to toe in paint with a shredded canvas hanging around your neck.”

“Acrylics are a much more difficult medium.”

Coleman uncapped a squeeze bottle. “How do I start?”

“First, get rid of the brush. Everyone uses them. The key to making a living as an artist is volume. I learned that from Hair. See how I’m slathering the entire painting at once-background to final detail-with nothing but my bare hands.”

“Just looks like a big mess.”

“It’s called a primitive. Or post-modern. Depending on the market.”

“I think it needs something more.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Serge scratched the canvas with a fingernail. “I’ll add a stick man for scale. Now you try.”

Coleman began swirling his hands on the other canvas. “What about Story?”

“Should stay asleep in the backseat for at least another half hour, long enough for us to whip off two or three masterpieces before she awakens and becomes an art critic.”

“Look.” Coleman pointed with a blue hand. “A bunch of people are staring at us.”

“I knew it! We’re already attracting the attention of the art crowd. They detect our homage to the Highwaymen.”

“An art crowd in front of a barbecue shack?”

“Another thing I love about Avenue D: all barbecue all the time!” Serge inhaled deeply. “I love the smell of oil paint and babybacks in the morning.”

“Some of them are coming over.”

“Perfect.” Serge lifted his canvas off the hood of the Javelin. “Just in time for our first sale.”

An older man with white hair approached on the sidewalk. “You guys painters?”

“Painting consumes my entire existence!” said Serge. “Ever since I discovered the Highwaymen.”

“Oh yeah,” said the old man. “I met Newton. Gibson, too. Both great guys. How do you know about them?”

“I studied under the Highwaymen.”

The old man’s brow furrowed. “You studied under the Highwaymen.”

“Yes, except it was years later and they didn’t know about it. I’m always making up stuff like that. It’s my life’s motto: If you’re not willing to invent cool-sounding bullshit about yourself, don’t expect others to. Are you with me? Do we have a communication?”

Others from the barbecue hut joined the old man, forming a semicircle around the Javelin. “What’s going on?”

“Not sure,” said the old man. “These guys say they’re some kind of painters.”

Serge winked at Coleman, then faced the onlookers. “See you all have a keen eye for art.” He turned his canvas toward them. “I call it Eddie’s Place, Redux. Who wants to make the first bid?”

“But it’s just a blob.”

Serge reached his arm around and tapped the middle of the canvas. “There’s a stick man.”

The old man pointed at Coleman’s canvas. “What’s that Y with a black triangle in the fork?”

“A twat.”

One mile away, Agent Mahoney was out of coffee. He looked at the front entrance. The museum’s ten o’clock opening had come and gone. How could his hunch about Serge have been wrong? He looked back down, turning pages of the book in his lap. Spanish moss, cypress swamp, hibiscus, rotted fishing pier, another hibiscus, a pastel green building. Mahoney slapped the book. Eddie’s Place! Of course!

Mahoney tossed a chewed toothpick out the window, and a Crown Vic with blackwall tires squealed out of the parking lot.

The agent raced a dozen blocks, past Miracle Ribs, Soul Fighters for Jesus, a youth outreach center with murals, the Fried Rice Hut, a combination bail bond-private eye office, and the Buffalo Soldier Caribbean Restaurant. It skidded to a stop in front of the Reno Motel. A stunned crowd stared at the street, which appeared to have been the site where two armies had waged a fierce paintball battle.

Agent Mahoney jumped out, flashing a badge and a photo. “Anyone seen this mug?”

“That crazy son of a gun?” said the old man. “He was just here. None of us will ever forget him.”

“How so?”

“We were laughing at his butt-ugly painting when he said it was just his warm-up exercise and that he was now going to paint the most fantastic piece of art anyone had ever seen. Then he got out a new canvas and went completely apeshit! We thought he was having a seizure.”

Mahoney pointed at the canvas in the old man’s hands. “Don’t tell me you actually bought a painting from him.”

“No, the other guy.” He turned his canvas around. “Excellent primitive erotica.”

“See which way they went?”

The old man pointed south. “Look for the guy driving with a canvas around his neck.”

www.sergeastorms.com

Serge’s Blog. Star date 937.473.

Today’s topic is traveling with Coleman. Just substitute that one friend we all have whose level of partying can create its own weather system. But Coleman and I have an understanding. I do my travel thing, and he does his. I’m on a fact-finding mission; he’s on the Booza-palooza Tour. But he never nags, no matter how many photos I take of historic markers. The perfect traveling companion. Not like Story, who’s put me on a two-picture limit, which I grudgingly accept because travel is the art of compromise. But then she demands that Coleman stop throwing up out the passenger window. Now she’s messing with a decade of tradition. Against that benchmark, Coleman’s a treat. Plus he’s value conscious. Once we had to fly somewhere and he checked half a pizza through in his luggage. The downside is motel room damage, which could quickly add up to thousands on the guy’s credit card we’re using.

Today’s Tip #1: Fixing Coleman’s damage. Last week I left him unsupervised, and when I returned, the mini bar was empty and he’d locked himself in the bathroom, screaming about pygmies. By the time I jimmied the door open, he was unconscious in the tub with the snapped-off towel rod across his chest. Solution: Wet squares of toilet paper and wrap them around the anchor-bolts of the ripped-out rod holder. Then, gently push the complete assembly back into the wall. And if you don’t breathe hard, it should stay put until after checkout, when the maid knocks it loose hanging new towels, and hopefully she’s undocumented and pushes it back in herself.

Tip #2: Refilling the mini bar. The next morning I tell Coleman he racked up a three-hundred-dollar minibar tab. He says there must be some mistake. I say, it’s simple economics. Mortgage companies build into their rates for potential inflation. Mini bars build in for a cataclysmic meteor strike. So we make a supply run. Liquor miniatures are a snap, but mixers are the real killer. Hotels know we’re refilling the mini bars, so they deliberately use short, fat eight-ounce soda bottles that you can’t get anywhere except other hotels. Solution: Fish empties out of the trash and refill with 99-cent generic two-liter soda bottles. Screw the caps on tight and hide in the back row, and the minibar guy won’t notice the seals are broken because the fridge’s handle just came off in his hand.

Tip #3: What ever happened to the Shell No-Pest Strip? Not a tip, just been thinking about it a lot lately. I’d kill to have sat in on the corporate meeting that gave birth to that feel-good product. “What would be an irresistible status symbol to hang over the dining room table?” “I know: a box full of dead flies on a sticky piece of cardboard.”

News from Serge World!

When my collected travel knowledge is finally published as a best-selling book, I’ve decided to simultaneously release a special children’s edition. It’s almost completely finished. I’ve only got the first page, but that’s the hardest part. It’s called Shrimp Boat Surprise. Coleman asked what the title means, and I said life is like traveling on one big, happy shrimp boat. He asked what the surprise was, and I said you grow up and learn that life bones you up the ass ten ways to Tuesday. He started reading what I’d written and asked if a children’s book should have the word motherfucker eight times on the first page. I said, absolutely. They’re little kids after all. If you want a lesson to stick, you have to hammer it home through repetition.

To the Mailbag!

Let’s see what’s here … “Mahoney, Mahoney, Mahoney, Cialis soft-tabs, Mahoney, Mahoney, Tiny size is killing your woman’s interest, Mahoney, Mahoney, Cialis, Irish Lottery, Mahoney … I know I shouldn’t open this, but the curiosity is killing me …

The Javelin continued south along the coast. Serge took A1A out of Fort Pierce, and roadsides quickly thinned. Gas stations, mom-and-pop diners, retro sign of a smiling alligator bowling. The Javelin swung inland and picked up U.S. 1 below Port Salerno.

Serge’s window was down, an ocean breeze mussing his hair. “What a magnificent day to be alive in this state! God has once again fulfilled my definition of happiness: Florida, a full tank of gas and no appointments.”

Coleman held up a beer and a joint. “My definition, too.”

“Crank the radio! Scan mode!”

“Aye-aye!”

.. Life is a highway! I’m going to ride it… Fifty-two, forty-one, seven, thirteen …”

“Oh my God!” Serge dove for the dash and hit a button, knocking the radio out of scan.

“What is it?” asked Coleman.

“A numbers station! I finally found one!”

“… Ninety-nine, eighty-six …”

“Serge, that babe really sounds hot!”

“Told you.” Serge wrote as fast as he could in a notebook.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to crack the code.”

The numbers broadcast soon ended and Serge stowed his notebook. They entered the Hobe Sound area. Blowing rocks and turtle egg-laying country. Sparse development ceased altogether, Serge copping a natural buzz on white sand dunes running down both sides of the highway.

An intersection approached in the distance.

Serge looked at Coleman. “Meet Mahoney or not?”

“You’re actually thinking of going through with that?”

Serge shrugged. “He’s pretty insistent with all those e-mails.”

“But you said you didn’t believe that someone was out to whack you.”

“I don’t. But Mahoney’s up to something. I’m dying to find out.” In the backseat, Story looked up from a French lit textbook. “Who’s Mahoney?” “My nemesis.”

She rolled her eyes again and looked back down. Madame Bovary, c’est moi.

“But Serge,” said Coleman. “What if it’s a trick?”

“That’s the thing about Mahoney. He’s one of the few people left like me who still lives by a code. If he says it isn’t a trick, you can bet the farm on it.” Serge handed something across the seat to Coleman.

“What do I need your gun for?”

“In case it’s a trick. You got my back.”

“But Serge, I’m royally baked. Remember last time you gave me the gun?”

“Yeah, it accidentally went off eight times.” “Then I dropped it and another bullet went through the end of my shoe. Lost a toenail.”

“Grew back, didn’t it?”

“I liked the first one better.”

“I’ll unload it, all right? Just the threat should be enough … Here comes the intersection. A1A or U.S. 1. Which direction?” “Sounds like an appointment.”

“Shit, you’re right.” Serge got over in the far lane and began hanging a left. Midintersection, he suddenly cut the wheel, weaving expertly through oncoming, honking traffic.

Coleman puffed his joint and looked back at the spun-out cars. “What changed your mind?”

“Mahoney picked the perfect place. Been forever since I visited Harry and the Natives.”

“Who?”

“Let the magic begin.”

Minutes later, the Javelin parked in front of a rustic greasy spoon splashed in lively Jamaican colors. A Crown Vic was already there.

Serge looked at the rearview. “Story, for your own good I suggest you stay in the car. Don’t want you up on charges of accessory before, during and after the fact.”

She closed the textbook and grabbed her purse. “No way I’m sitting in some hot parking lot while you play fort.”

“Story-“

“I’m hungry!”

“Okay, but don’t take this personally. Could you sit at another table and pretend like you don’t know us?”

“My pleasure.”

“Then here’s the plan. Coleman and I go in first. Story: Lie on the backseat and wait five minutes until I can distract Mahoney. You silently exit the car so he won’t have the slightest inkling we all came together.”

She got out and slammed the door hard.

“Or that,” said Serge.

He and Coleman approached the eatery’s front door.

Coleman stopped and looked through the windows. “Serge, I think I took too many pills.”

“And that’s different how?”

“Everything’s weird. Look at all that crazy stuff inside. Cans of Spam in the cigarette rack.”

“It’s not pills. It’s Harry and the Natives! A half-century of Florida I-don’t-give-a-shit and ticky-tack covering the walls. ‘Waterfront dining, when it rains.’ Everybody comes to Harry and the Natives!”

“It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

“Now it is. But back when they first opened in 1941-Pearl Harbor Day for those playing along at home-this was the perfect, high-traffic commercial spot. Those dunes we passed earlier formed an ideal ridge for the federal highway, and Harry’s was a convenient pull-over for the tin-can tourists. Then they built the Turnpike and 1-95, spelling doom for roadside funk. But not Harry’s! Loyal customers wouldn’t hear of it, and kept coming in droves to ensure its survival.” Serge opened the door and instantly spotted the rumpled fedora. Mahoney had his usual aces-and-eights seat, back corner facing the entrance. “Coleman, stand by the bar and look like you’re armed.” He took a deep breath. “Here goes nothing …”

Mahoney saw him coming. He sat back and wiggled a wooden matchstick in his teeth.

Serge grabbed the opposite chair and took a seat at the table with yellowed ephemera lacquered into the gnarled wooden surface. Both sat rigid and motionless, squaring off with squinty eyes.

Mahoney theatrically removed the matchstick like Clint Eastwood. “Originally the Cypress Cabins and restaurant.”

“Fashioned from tidewater pecky cypress,” said Serge. “Chopped at Kitchen Creek.”

Mahoney leaned in challengingly. “Rockin’ juke joint for the jungle warfare soldiers training at Jonathan Dickinson.”

Serge matched the lean. “Michigan MacArthurs bought the spread in 1952.”

Mahoney angled closer. “Native son Harry born here.”

Serge, nose to nose. “Reopened under present name, 1989.”

Mahoney settled back into his chair with a wry smile. “Wondering if you still had it.”

“It was you I was worried about.” Serge opened his menu. “What looks good today?”

“Smoked fish dip, venison burger.”

“Fried oyster po’ boy has my name on it.” Serge slid the menu toward the center of the table. “What’s with all the crazy e-mails? Have you finally gone ‘round the bend?”

“Mattress time. Uptown boys rolled a mystery joker. Snooping for a dime drop from the Georgia line to St. Lucie …”

“What’s it to you if someone takes me out? Isn’t that what you want?”

“What I want is to take you down myself. Can’t do that if some button man gets to the party first. But you already knew that or you’d never have darkened this door.”

“We live by the same code, you and me. If you said it wasn’t a trick, I take you at your word.”

Mahoney nodded toward Coleman.

“What’s with the second banana?”

“In case it was a trick,” said Serge. “So don’t try anything. Coleman’s a crack shot, and his ability to remain absolutely focused on the target…” Serge turned around and pointed. “… Crap …” Coleman was over at the gift counter, slipping his head through a Harry’s bar T-shirt: “Give me what the guy on the floor is having.”

Serge turned back to Mahoney. “You’re wasting your time. There is no assassin. You’ve been trying to get inside my head so long you’ve gone battier than me.”

“Gut’s never been stronger,” said Mahoney. “Remember the psychology article I wrote for that law enforcement magazine about profiling you?”

“My feelings are still hurt.”

“Ultra-intense mugs burn out twice as fast.”

“What are you saying?”

“Your mental state.”

“I know. Isn’t it great?”

“Short money on your mind slipping. Might even fragment soon, different personalities, blackouts, memory loss, losing your edge, not picking up approaching threats like you would have in earlier times because your noodle’s tuned between channels.”

“Not a chance.”

“Give me the lowdown: Anything out of the routine lately?” “Everything” said Serge. “That’s how I like my life, kicking Routine’s ass around the block.”

“I mean hook up with any new accomplices?” “No one comes to mind.”

“Think hard. Recently meet anyone by so-called chance? Somebody you might even be traveling with?”

“Nope.” Serge’s eye glanced involuntarily toward Story’s table.

Serge’s Blog. Star date 574.385.

Holy Cow! How could I have forgotten? A whole bunch of stuff happened before this. It all started three weeks ago. I knew I had a feeling something wasn’t kosher-because it wasn’t! Turns out Mahoney’s right about my memory. Here I am bopping along, seeing this chain of events a certain way. But then I just recalled all this other earlier jazz that explains everything! Sorry about that. My mind tends to jump around a bit. Usually it’s from subject to subject. But sometimes it hops around in time. And it can be especially challenging if the time dislocation is fractured, like when part of me ended up in the Bronze Age, and another part in a rerun of She’s the Sheriff. And I’m congratulating these bearded dudes on their spears and helmets, but they just point and say, “Who’s that?” And I say, “She’s the sheriff.” And time’s definitely tricky if you get pulled over by a cop who never studied Einstein. This was years ago, before they wanted to question me for all those, well, you know. Anyway, the officer is writing me a ticket, saying I ran a red light and was speeding. I said, Exactly! That’s why it’s only fair you let me off with a warning. I explained that matter and energy bend the universe, and the closer an object gets to the speed of light, the more time slows down. So by speeding, I was actually trying to obey the law, accelerating in order to stretch out the yellow light. Of course, for it to work, you need to be traveling 186,000 miles a second, and I was driving an old car. Wouldn’t listen. Cost me $200.1 digress again. See what I mean? But I think I’ve got this memory glitch ironed out: Everything that’s happened up to now on this trip-let’s call it Part One. And all the crazy stuff I just remembered that went on three weeks before, we’ll call Part Two, which is a superlong flashback that takes place entirely before Part One. Then, when we’re back up to speed, we’ll return to the present in Part Three. Got it? Comprende? … Good, because that cop wouldn’t be able to. I’m still pissed. But no sense dwelling on the past. Time’s a-wastin’. Tick-tock, tick-tock …

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