Coconut Cowboy (2 page)

“Take a gander.” Serge pointed at the pickup truck in the next lane. “Another hip-­hop redneck with a tricked-­out audio system. How many have I had to deal with now? Five, six? And I was hanging my hopes on self-­extinction.”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven't you heard the joke: ‘What were the redneck's last words?' ”

“No.”

“Hold my beer and watch this.”

“Serge, I think he made some kind of mistake,” said Coleman. “His stereo speakers are pointing the wrong way.”

“I'm afraid that's no mistake. I think I've spotted the biggest voluntary dunce cap in my life,” said Serge. “He flush-­mounted gigantic speakers on the
exterior
of the pickup's cab, so they're pointed out at other motorists. I never would have believed it if I wasn't staring at it right now.”

“But that doesn't make any sense.”

“To him it does,” said Serge. “First we had jerks who played music too loud. But that wasn't sufficiently broadcasting their superior taste in tunes, so they started keeping their windows down. And now we have this visionary who thought: Wait, I've got a way to let the maximum amount of ­people know my IQ.”

“My eyeballs are starting to hurt.”

“Roll your window down,” said Serge.
“Hey! Buddy!”

“He can't hear you,” said Coleman. “The music's too loud.”

Serge leaned on his horn.

“Still can't hear you,” said Coleman. “His windows are up.”

“Probably doesn't like to be bothered by loud music in traffic . . . Throw some of your M&M's.”

“But I'm eating them.”

“Take one for the team.”

Coleman began pinging them off the pickup's glass. The driver finally looked around and noticed Serge leaning across Coleman, giving him the signal to roll down his window.

“Yeah?” snapped the driver.

“What do you think you're doing?” asked Serge.

“What do you mean?”

“Your speakers are facing the wrong way.”

“That's how I want them.”

“I hate to be presumptuous,” said Serge, “but I believe I'm on solid ground when I say that's how everyone else in the community
doesn't
want them.”

“Go fuck yourself.” The driver rolled up his window and increased the volume.

The light turned green. The vehicles rolled side by side a few more blocks and stopped at another light. Serge stared down in his lap.

“What are you going to do?” asked Coleman.

“Nothing.”

“I'm stunned.” Another beer cracked. “You've never let somebody like that slide. Remember what you did to the last guy with a pounding car stereo? It ruled!”

“And ate up an entire day of my preciously short life,” said Serge. “I must accept that jerks will always be around unless we can get them to live together in special colonies in the salt caverns.”

Coleman shrugged and drank beer. The light turned green. Up ahead, an SUV pulled out of a shopping center with plenty of time and eased to a stop at the next red light.

The pickup was right on its bumper, horn blaring.

Bump, ba-­bump, bump, ba-­bump . . .

“Just ignore him,” Serge said under his breath.

“He jumped out of the truck,” said Coleman. “He's running up to that other car.”

“And it's got a mother with her small children in the backseat.”

The man stuck his face in the SUV's open window.
“Get out of the car, bitch!”

 

Chapter
TWO

CENTRAL FLORIDA

T
wo cartoon felines were carrying a grand piano. The scene was painted on the side of a truck. The van for M
OV
ING
C
ATS
drove away.

Peter and Mary Pugliese unpacked china and picture frames.

“I'm so glad we found this place.” Peter set a family portrait on the mantel.

Mary scattered packing peanuts removing a Tiffany lamp. “She was right about the breezes.”

Knock, knock, knock.

“What's that?”

Peter began walking. “Someone's at the door.”

“But who?”

“I know a way to find out.”

Peter opened the door to find an old man in bib overalls. “Can I help you?”

The man removed a baseball cap with a faded slogan: Y
OU
S
AY
P
OTATO,
I
S
AY
T
ATER
T
OT
. He wiped his brow and distractedly glanced at his watch. “I'm here about the water bill.”

“But we just moved in,” said Peter.

“You did?” The visitor looked left and right. “Then payment's due up front.”

“It is?”

“Afraid so.”

Peter always liked to please when he was the new guy somewhere. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

They stared at each other.

“Well?” said Peter.

“What?”

“Where's the water bill?”

“We don't use those,” said the visitor. “It's a small town.”

Peter took a deep breath. “How much?”

“Two hundred.”

His eyed widened. “Water's that much around here?”

“How does a hundred sound?”

Peter stared again. “Who
are
you?”

“The mayor.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” said Peter. “And don't take this the wrong way, but could I see some identification?”

“I'm Vernon.”

“Okay.”

“Everyone knows me.”

“We just moved in.”

Vernon shrugged and opened a billfold.

“That's a badge.”

“I'm also the police chief.”

“Let me get my checkbook.”

“We kind of like cash around here.”

“Can I get a receipt?”

“No.”

“But I have a home office, and my tax returns—­”

“How about this: I can go fifty for a campaign contribution, and get you for water at the end of the month?”

Peter was off balance. “Is this for real?”

“You're not from around here, are you?”

“We just moved in.”

“We got a nice little town,” said Vernon. “We don't like trouble.”

“No, I didn't mean . . .” Peter got out his own wallet. “Here's fifty.”

Vernon pocketed it and started walking away. “Probably be seeing you around Lead Belly's.”

“What's that?”

“Everyone knows Lead Belly's.”

“We just moved—­”

Mary tapped him on the shoulder. “Who was that?”

“The mayor.”

“What did he want?”

“I'm still trying to process it.”

“There's only a ­couple of sparkling waters in the fridge,” said Mary. “Let's see where they eat in this town, and you can tell me over dinner.”

THE PANHANDLE

Motorists watched in shock at the unfolding road rage.

“Get out of the car, bitch
?
”
Serge repeated to himself. “Are you kidding me? It's a mother grocery-­shopping with her kids.”

“He's reaching through the window,” said Coleman. “She's trying to pull away from him and get the window rolled up at the same time.”

“He's running alongside the car still trying to grab her,” said Serge. “Now his arm's stuck in the window.”

“She's dragging him through the intersection,” said Coleman. “I've heard of ­people doing this at street brawls.”

“Except she's not trying on purpose,” said Serge. “That maniac has her terrified out of her mind for her children's safety.”

“The window busted out of the car. He's tumbling in the street.” Coleman winced. “He's going to need some Bactine.”

“Another sixties favorite,” said Serge, “but no time to cherish that nugget.”

“Why not?”

“He's running back to his truck and tearing off through the intersection after her.”

“Doesn't he have somewhere better to be?” asked Coleman.

“Of course,” said Serge. “But the latest wave of road-­ragers has an impressive work ethic. They just follow and follow.”

“I think there's going to be a chase,” said Coleman.

Serge smiled and threw his car in gear. “I
know
there's going to be a chase.”

It was indeed a chase, technically, so to speak. Not quite as slow as the O.J. thing in the Bronco. The mom was splitting the difference between eluding the tormentor and not endangering her children. Plus there was a lot of traffic and red lights. The pickup's driver used those opportunities to pull alongside and scream profanities, but the woman couldn't hear them because his stereo was too loud.

Serge followed the pair of vehicles as they turned into a neighborhood. “That mom's making the classic mistake. She should look for a police station or remain in some other public place with a lot of ­people. But in her panic for the offspring, she's reflexively seeking the safety of her home. Even if she has time to unlock the door and get everyone inside—­which she won't—­she's leading this cretin right to their address.”

“She just passed that fire station,” said Coleman.

“Which reminds me of Vietnam.”

“Go for it.”

“Remember my hometown fire station with the civil defense siren? I vividly recall them blasting the thing at the official end of the Vietnam War. Where can youth get that today? And now, whenever I hear a siren of any kind, I think about cartoons.”

“Because of Vietnam?”

“No, the firehouse siren would wail on Saturdays right after I finished watching the Warner Brothers classics. Kids today need more Foghorn Leghorn.”

“I'm a chicken hawk.” Coleman giggled.

“I say that boy needs a talkin' to,” said Serge.

“Remember Pepe Le Pew?” asked Coleman.

“A sexual harassment lawsuit in every episode,” said Serge. “And Daffy Duck.”

“ ‘It's fiddler crab season,' ” said Coleman. “Bang!”

“But my favorite was the Road Runner,” said Serge. “I was enthralled by the coyote's irrepressible interest in experiments, which inspired me to conceive my own projects. It also taught me to separate reality from fiction because, no matter how great an idea it may seem at the time, nothing good ever came from igniting model rocket engines on my roller skates.”

“I liked how the coyote could get whatever he wanted from the Acme company,” said Coleman.

“That was the best part,” said Serge. “Anvils, foot springs, hot-­air balloons, giant magnets . . .”

The Mercury Comet turned onto a sleepy street where an SUV had just raced up a driveway, followed closely by a pickup truck.

“ . . . Please don't hurt my children! . . .”

The duo parked at the bottom of the driveway and began walking toward the source of the shouting on the front doorstep.

“ . . . Bat wings, TNT detonator plungers, iron birdseed, tornado pills, earthquake pills. And all his shit would arrive right away,” said Serge. “Nobody besides me has made the connection, but that's where Amazon got their business model: wide selection, prompt delivery.”

The woman's trembling hands fumbled with her keys as she rushed to get the door open. The pickup driver snatched them away and seized her by the arm. Three little tykes hid behind her legs.

“ . . . You miserable cunt . . .”

“Now, now,” said Serge. “Let us all come together at the banquet table of humanity.”

The pickup driver spun around. “Who the hell—­ . . . Oh,
you
again!”

“That's right. I'm the producer of a famous regional reality show,” said Serge. “I'm sure you've heard of it.”

“What's it called?”

“Florida's Got Dicks, Season Twelve.”

“What's that got to do with me?”

“You've heard the saying ‘Too bad stupidity isn't painful'?” Serge grinned. “I bring tidings of great joy.”

Zzzzzzap!

The man fell hard to the ground, twitching and moaning from a Taser.

“Ma'am, everything's okay now.” Serge retrieved the woman's house keys from the assailant and handed them back. “Please be safe and lock your doors.”

“Are you a police officer?”

“No, but I am with the state.”

“I can't thank you enough.” She stuck a key in the knob.

“Come on, Coleman . . .”

They dragged their quarry to the rear of the car.

The woman turned around before closing the door. “You're putting him in your trunk?”

Serge grabbed a pair of ankles. “We don't have one of those police cars with the cage separating the backseat, but I've been doing this for years. Have a nice evening.” The trunk lid slammed shut. “Everything's back to normal.”

 

Chapter
THREE

DINNER

P
eter and Mary Pugliese walked arm in arm along Main Street. It was a shaded street. A single traffic light blinked. A striped barber pole rotated. Potter's Drugs still had Old Man Potter counting pills. There were portable drills in the window of the hardware store, along with a sign saying the local post office counter was in back by the penny nails, but everyone already knew that. A crimson caboose stood in the courtyard of the Railroad Hotel.

Mary stopped to stare in a window. “They have antique shops. There's a gumball machine.” She squeezed her husband's arm. “I already love this town.”

Across the street, sandwiched between a paint store and a locksmith, was an old red wooden building with a steep roof. V
OLUNTEER
F
IRE
D
EPAR
TMENT,
E
ST. 1901
.

“Check out the vintage engine,” said Peter. “All that's missing is a spotted dog.”

“They still use something that old?” asked Mary.

“No, it must be a museum now, to go with the antique stores for the tourists,” said her husband. “Doubt that thing even runs.”

Suddenly there was a siren and flashing red lights. A locksmith and a paint salesman flew out their doors. Someone else with shaving cream on his face ran from the barbershop. The men piled in the quaint engine. The siren seemed to be laboring for volume, because it was the original model that worked on a hand crank. A dalmatian jumped aboard. They took off into the countryside.

“That answers that,” said Mary.

They continued to the corner and Shorty's Garage. A “Closed” sign in the window, next to a display of fan belts and wiper blades for all occasions. The building sat amid a sea of non-­running vehicles that Shorty had promised he would “get to.”

“Look.” Peter gestured up the block.

“Where?”

“That dirty old neon sign sticking out from the building.”

“The black one with flickering orange tubes?” said Mary. “
Lead Belly's
?”

“So it's a barbecue joint.”

“You've heard of it?”

“I'll tell you over dinner.” Peter picked up the pace. “I haven't had good barbecue in like forever!”

The front of the ramshackle restaurant featured weathered wooden shingles, with narrow horizontal slits for windows. The ­couple entered to the loud gong of a brass bell over the door. “Did we do that?”

“I can't see anything.” Peter stopped to prevent tripping as his eyes adjusted. “It's so dark.”

“The only light is more orange neon,” said Mary. “There's a fiddle player somewhere.”

“Peter!”

“Is someone calling you?”

“We just moved here.”

His name was shouted again.

“I think someone is,” said Mary.

Her husband squinted through kitchen smoke at a table in back by the restrooms. Actually it was three tables pushed together, each a sturdy maple square with a half inch of slick lacquer to fight the wear and tear for which the barbecue community is known. There were two pitchers of sweetened iced tea, a basket of biscuits, hand wipes, and racks of giant ribs surrounded by eight men of uncannily similar appearance.

Peter noticed a familiar person in overalls at the head of the table, waving. “Peter!”

“I know him,” he told his wife.

“Where from?” asked Mary.

“He was the man at our door.”

Vernon Log stood and shook Peter's hand. “Guys, this is our new neighbor, Peter Pugliese.”

“Hi, Peter.” “Pleasure.” “Nice to meet,”
etc.

Peter smiled back, thinking about his now rib-­sauce-­sticky hand he was holding away from his chinos.

“Who's that behind you?”

“Oh.” Peter stepped aside, and all the men at the table quickly stood. “This is Mary, my wife.”

“Pleasure.” “You're a lucky man.”
So on.

“Told you we'd meet again at Lead Belly's,” said Vernon. “Join us.”

“I wouldn't want to intrude—­”

“Nonsense.” Vernon swung a hand to dispel the concept. “Guys, pull up that other table.”

Peter paused. “But a family is about to sit down at it.”

“They'll find another.”

Soon they were all gathered together. A young woman in an apron arrived with a notepad and pen. She blew a bubble with her gum. “What'll ya have?”

“Get the ribs,” said Vernon, gnawing a bone.

All the men at the table wore plastic bibs. Each bib had a large lobster.

“They serve seafood?” asked Peter.

Vernon looked down at the crustacean on his chest. “No, these were just cheaper.”

Peter handed the waitress their menus. “Two orders of ribs.”

“Comes with three sides. Coleslaw, hush puppies, mac and cheese, black beans, black-­eyed peas, okra, corn on the cob, off the cob, sweet potatoes, regular potatoes, crinkle-­cut potatoes—­”

“Dixie,” said Vernon. “These are our new neighbors. Bring 'em a little of everything.”

Gum smacked, and she left.

A loud wail from a hand-­cranked siren went by outside the restaurant.

“Another fire?” asked Peter.

“No,” said Vernon. “They went the wrong way again . . . You want a beer?”

“Sure.” Peter turned to look for the waitress.

Vernon shook his head. “They don't sell any. No license.” He reached down into a cooler next to his chair and pulled out a dripping-­cold longneck Budweiser. “Here ya go.”

“Thanks,” said Peter. “Customers are allowed to do this?”

“
We
are,” said Vernon, and a wave of laughter ran round the table.

Peter laughed, too, nudging his wife, who forced a chuckle.

“Let me introduce the gang,” said Vernon. “This my cousin Bo, the fire chief, and my brother Floyd, the tax collector, and my other brother Jabow, who we call Bo unless the other Bo is around. It's caused problems. He's a city councilman, along with everyone else, and so is my nephew Clem, and my son-­in-­law Otis, and the twins, Harlan and Haywood . . .” Each of the men nodded in turn at the ­couple.

Peter smiled back. “Sounds like you got most of the government here.”

“The
whole
government,” corrected Vernon. “We're actually having a commission meeting right now.”

Peter looked over his shoulder. “What about the city hall up the street in the town square?”

“No good,” said Jabow.

“Tried that before,” said Clem.

­“People showed up,” said Harlan.

“Asked questions,” said Haywood.

“We got us a nice little town here,” said Otis.

“Take care of our own,” said Vernon. “And at that table next to us are the three young bucks, Elroy, Slow and Slower, the town's next generation. Still wet behind the ears, but we'll bring 'em around. They're not allowed to sit at the main table yet.”

“What kind of names are Slow and Slower?” asked Peter.

“Nicknames, because they're slow in the head, one a bit more so,” said Vernon. “We're straight talkers around these parts.” He used a desiccated rib to point across the rest of the diner at children and grandparents and more overalls. “Couldn't ask for a better bunch of neighbors . . .” Then he cupped hands around his mouth, calling out to a man in a crisp plaid shirt sitting alone in back. “Steve! Will you stop with the utensils already?”

The man smiled back and waved a piece of cutlery.

Vernon shook his head benevolently. “Still eats ribs with a knife and fork. But we'll learn him.”

“Another newcomer like you,” said Jabow. “Bought Old Man Maynard's farm last year.”

“He's a farmer?” asked Peter.

“No, just a city boy who don't like the city no more. Has some kind of wholesale brokerage job he can do at home with a computer, so he moved here.” Vernon refilled his iced tea and squeezed lemon, hitting Harlan in the eye. “More and more city folk are discovering what we got here, but we don't want it
too
discovered, if you know what I mean.”

The front door opened, and a disheveled man stumbled over to the table and whispered in Vernon's ear. The mayor nodded and handed him a Budweiser from the cooler.

“You know I'm good for it,” said the man.

“Forget about it, Grady.”

He staggered out the door.

Vernon saw the question in Peter's eyes. “The town drunk. Every small place needs one. Practically an official position . . .”

The door opened again. Peter expected Grady's return, but this time he saw the opposite. A trim man in his fifties, hundred-­dollar haircut, khakis and a button-­down oxford shirt. He stood beside the table with extra-­white teeth. “Gentlemen.”

“Ryan, grab a chair,” said Vernon.

“No time. I just wanted to check on that thing—­” He stopped when he noticed they weren't alone.

“Ryan,” said Vernon, “these are our guests, Peter and Mary Pugliese . . . Peter and Mary, meet our state senator, Ryan Pratchett.”

He shook their hands with another large smile. “Visiting this fine community we've got here?”

“No,” Vernon interjected. “Just bought a place out in the pines, our newest neighbors.”

“Even better,” said Ryan. “Two more votes!”

More chuckles around the table.

“Vern, I'll talk to you later about that other thing,” said the senator. “Guys . . .”

“Take care, Ryan.”

The front door of the restaurant closed again. The Puglieses were getting dizzy.

“So what do you think?” asked Vernon.

“About what?” said Peter.

Vernon spread his arms. “Everything.”

“It certainly is a lot different from the big city.”

“And we mean to keep it that way.” Vernon yanked off his bib and stood. “I have to take a squirt. Welcome to Wobbly, Florida.”