Gator A-Go-Go (11 page)

PANAMA CITY BEACH

B
ehind one of the beach motels, another massive event at a swimming pool. Hundreds of plastic beer cups. Students rimmed the patio ten deep.

A loudspeaker: “
. . . our next contestant. Please give it up for Coleman!
”

Thunderous applause.

Coleman wobbled to the end of the diving board with a pilot’s scarf around his neck. He licked an index finger and raised it to gauge crosswind. Then he bounced twice and sprang into the air.

Enormous belly flop.

A row of judges marked scorecards for style, splash height and stomach redness.

Four blocks away, on the other side of the road from the beach, a pastor walked out of a church activity hall. He reached the edge of the street and rubbed his chin. “Where’d they go?”

He returned to the building. Leaning against the outside wall: four free-pancake signs.

“Holy . . .”

Serge stopped behind the Holiday Inn SunSpree to empty sand from his sneakers.

Church kids took seats around him on the ground. “What else do you have?”

“Well,” said Serge, putting his left shoe back on. “There’s Casey Kasem’s
American Top Forty.
You know where the oldest lyrics ever to be heard on his show came from?”

Heads shook.

“Book of Ecclesiastes.” He stood. “Adapted for the Byrds’ mega-hit ‘Turn! Turn! Turn!’”

“Cool.”

Serge moved west up the beach, and his flock followed.

Heading the other direction, farther toward the waterline, a growing procession followed Coleman. “. . . This is the Boardwalk Beach Resort, headquarters of MTV . . . And that’s La Vela, largest nightclub in the entire United States. Afternoon special: all the beer you can drink, twenty bucks, but the catch is, unless you pay extra for a jumbo plastic mug and rights to the VIP filling station”—he held a thumb and finger slightly apart—“you get these tiny cups and have to wait forever . . .”

They approached the club’s entrance. Beefy guards checking drivers’ licenses from twenty states. One of the kids quickly produced a wallet to pay Coleman’s cover.

Pounding music greeted them on the massive party patio. The students got in a seemingly endless beer line. Another wallet came out, buying Coleman a giant mug and VIP-line status. All around: hooting and hollering. In the middle of the pool stood a concrete dance-contest island connected to the patio by a small bridge. A driving beat boomed from a 360-degree sound system as a parade of young women strutted onto the island and jiggled their rears.

Coleman found an empty table in back where the previous occupants had left empty cigarette packs and a pile of giveaway sample condoms. Students quickly cleared the surface to make space for Coleman’s beer mug. It was promptly empty. He began getting up.

A student’s hand on his shoulder. “Sir, we got it . . .”

“I’m never leaving this town.”

For the next three hours, proxy students made perpetual trips to keep Coleman’s mug full.

At the four-hour mark, Coleman and his new friends were all in the pool, lining the edge of the dance island, surrounded by hundreds of other tightly packed students holding identical orange plastic cups. As many more kids hung over balconies wrapped around the patio.

“
Woooo!. . .
”

“
Shake it, mama!. . .
”

A new contest on the island. One girl lay on her back with a balloon in her mouth. Another climbed on top, trying to pop it with her tits.

“
How do they possibly think of this clever shit?
”

Music started again for the next competition. An emcee whipped the crowd into a sexual froth with double entendre. Then he looked at a list in his hand and introduced the first contestant, a drop-dead biology major from the Tar Heel State, who began a grind that would shame most pole dancers.

“Coleman!” said one of the students. “What an excellent place! Thanks, dude!”

Another stunning series of the hottest coeds pranced around the island with skimpy swimsuits and contortionist moves. Illinois, Ball State, Duke. The audience roared.

“Coleman! You rock! . . . Coleman?” The youth turned to a friend. “Where’d Coleman go?”

The second student looked around. “I don’t know. He was just here.”

A junior from Nebraska finished her butt wiggle, and the emcee came back out. “Let’s give a huge hand for Missy! . . . And now our final contestant . . .” He checked his list, and his voice became a question. “
. . . Coleman?
”

His followers erupted as Coleman strutted out. He interlaced his fingers behind his head and began thrusting his sunburnt belly.

Students banged cups on the edge of the island. “
Shake it, Coleman! . . .
”

Coleman hit the concrete stage and rocked back and forth on his stomach like John Belushi.

Everyone came unglued.

“
The dude parties without a net!. . .
”

SIX BLOCKS AWAY

An FBI team from Tallahassee swarmed a room at the Holiday Isles Resort.

An agent came through the door and handed front-desk phone records to his supervisor.

The guest sat on a bed. “I’m telling you, I don’t have any idea what’s going on.”

“Your real name’s Kyle Jones?” asked the agent in charge.

He nodded.

“And you say you only got one phone call? From room service?”

Another nod.

“Just stay seated.”

Other agents pulled luggage apart, opened every drawer. His cell phone was checked for recent activity.

An hour later, the lead agent pulled out his own phone, dialing a number that rang in Logan Airport.

“Agent Ramirez? This is Baxter from Tallahassee. The guy you asked us to check out is clean.” He flipped a notepad. “Kyle Jones, real estate broker from Oshkosh. Not even here for spring break. Said he has no idea who McKenna is or how they got his name.”

“Something’s not right,” said Ramirez.

“I agree,” said Baxter. “He’s forty-three and never went to Boston College. And that business about charging champagne to his room? The hotel has no record, refunded or otherwise.”

“What about the call from room service?”

“Never happened. The hotel has record of just one incoming to his room. We traced it to a prepaid disposable.”

“Hold him till I get there.”

“When will that be?”

“Don’t know. With the drive from Atlanta, probably tomorrow morning.”

“But I said he came up clean.”

“Just hold him,” said Ramirez. “He might be lying and working with the people on the other end of that phone, which means he was waiting in that room to ambush our guy. If not, someone’s using him as a red herring. Either way I want to know the connection.”

“Anything else?”

“Do a full background workup, the whole nine yards, like he’s applying for Secret Service.”

“You got it.” Baxter closed the phone.

“Excuse me,” said Kyle. “Can I go get dinner now?”

“No.”

SUNSET

Serge had his favorite light for documentary filming.

Three church youths stood in the background as their mentor interviewed a Michigan State Spartan. The student smiled big. “I’m really going to be on CNN?”

“Haven’t gotten all the bids yet,” said Serge. “Please stick to the questions. You’re from a prestigious university, so what on earth can you be thinking?”

The youth contemplated his answer when a fellow Spartan whispered in his ear.

“He’s doing
what?
”

“Hurry up,” said the second student. “It’s about to start.”

“Sorry,” the interviewee told Serge. “I gotta run.”

“What’s happening?” asked Serge.

The student hopped up. “Man, if you’re doing a documentary on spring break, you definitely don’t want to miss this . . .”

Serge and his disciples followed the Michigan students, who were soon joined by rivers of other spring breakers streaming in from all directions.

They funneled through the back deck of a jumbo-capacity beach bar that was quickly packed beyond fire-marshal code. The chant had already begun.

“
. . . Cole-man!. . . Cole-man!. . . Cole-man!. . .
”

Serge pushed his way forward.

On the stage for the nightly band, Coleman lay on his back with a clear tube in his mouth. Three assistants continued pouring a staggering amount of Budweiser into the beer bong.

“
. . . Cole-man! . . . Cole-man! . . . Cole-man! . . .
”

“Incredible,” said Serge.

“You know him?” asked one of the church youth. “Unfortunately.” He turned for the door. “Where are you going?”

“Back to my motel room.”

“Can we come with you?”

“Knock yourself out.”

THAT EVENING

S
top-and-go traffic on the strip. A high-mileage pickup with a Florida Gators bumper sticker rolled into town.

“Look at all the babes!” said Cody.

“We need to find a hotel room,” said Melvin Davenport.

“Which one do you like?”

“We just need to find something. All the signs I’m seeing say ‘No Vacancy.’”

“I ignore those.”

“This one,” said Melvin.

He pulled into the parking lot. Then pulled out.

“How about that one?” said Cody.

In and out again.

“Knew we should have gotten reservations,” said Melvin.

“That’s just the first two,” said Cody. “Here’s another . . .”

Ten motels later: “This isn’t good.”

“You worry too much,” said Cody. “Something will probably open up later tonight.”

“Who checks out at night?”

“Whoa!” said Cody. “Check that ass!”

“I’d rather check into a hotel.” They passed the Alligator Arms.

ALLIGATOR ARMS

Room 534.

Three kids sat on the floor around Serge.

“Never heard of that.”

“It’s true,” said Serge. “Major first-century schism between Paul and Peter. The apostles were divided. Should the new Messiah be just for the Jews, or should the gospel also be preached to Gentiles? Arguably the most critical turning point affecting life as we know it today.”

“How do you know all this stuff?”

“It’s history. How can you not be fascinated?”

“Serge?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s the matter?”

“What do you mean?”

“That look on your face.”

“Sorry. My mind drifted into negative country. Got cheated out of a trophy today.”

“When?”

“At the army obstacle course. Remember? You were there.”

“Oh, you mean when they threw you in the ocean instead?”

“I guess that’s second place. And I wanted it so bad. I’ve never won a trophy for anything my whole life. Been eating at me ever since Little League, and this morning it was so close I could taste it—”

They heard a violent slam against the outside of the motel room door. Then loud talking. Something shattered on the ground. Another crash against the door.

The students jumped. “What the heck’s that?”

Serge stood. “It’s how Coleman always enters a room.”

“You mean the guy from the stage?”

The door flew open and banged against the wall.

Coleman stumbled in, followed by a dozen students from across the eastern United States.

Serge stared bug-eyed at Coleman’s arms, overflowing with trophies. “Where’d you get all those?”

“What a great day!” Coleman walked past Serge and began lining gold statues atop the TV cabinet. “This one’s for the belly flop, this is for dirty dancing, here’s the chugging contest, goldfish eating—but they were only those little crackers because of animal rights people—and this is for the fat-guy sunburn, and . . . I don’t remember this one. I was pretty fucked up. They just handed it to me. And I got this big mother with these three chicks . . .”

Serge walked away and plopped down next to the church youth.

One of them raised a hand. “So what happened to the schism?”

“Paul prevailed and sent a bunch of junk mail to the Galatians.”

“Wow.”

Other side of the room: Coleman and a dozen helpers spread rolling papers across the coffee table. They picked apart buds from a half O-Z.

Coleman sprinkled liberally along Job 1.5s. “It’s called the Seventh Son of the Seventh Son.”

“Why’s that?”

He licked a gummed seal. “You smoke forty-nine joints, then tear open the roaches and use the contents to roll seven more joints. Then you smoke those and use the last seven roaches to twist up one kick-ass doobie with such concentrated resin it’ll blow your eyeballs out.”

“Wow.”

Someone tugged Serge’s sleeve on the other side of the room. “Are you okay?”

“I can’t believe he has a bigger congregation.”

Coleman: “. . . Works every time. We should try it tonight.”

“Sounds like an urban myth,” said one of the students. “Where’d you hear about it?”

“On a Keys radio station,” said Coleman. “I would have doubted, too. But you have to know the Keys—anything’s possible. Then me and my friends tried it ourselves and pay dirt!”

“How’d you do it?”

“Know how police stake out certain bars at closing time for DUIs?”

They nodded.

“Coleman,” Serge yelled from across the room, “that stupid story’s on the Internet.”

“If it wasn’t true before, it is now. Me and my friends did it, remember?”

“Sadly.”

“Never mind him.” Coleman turned back to his ring of acolytes. “My gang was tying one on at this funky Key West dive on Simonton. Almost closing time, and Johnny Law is parked across the street as usual. So my wingman, Bonzo, staggers into the parking lot, falling down, dropping his keys, getting up, tripping over the curb, crashing into garbage cans—while the rest of us leave the bar and drive away until the parking lot’s empty except for one last car.”

“Bonzo’s?”

“Correcto-mundo. And as soon as Bonzo starts the engine and moves an inch, blue lights everywhere. Cop gives him the Breathalyzer and he blows a zero. Then a field sobriety test. Walks a straight line, touches his nose, says the alphabet backward and forward.”

“Doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s what the cop thought. He says, ‘You were falling-down drunk a minute ago and now you’re sober as a judge. What’s going on?’”

“Bonzo says, ‘All my friends drove away without getting DUIs. Tonight I was the designated decoy.’”

INTERSTATE 95

A station wagon with New Hampshire plates blew through early-evening traffic.

Continuous snowbanks began showing small breaks until the breaks became larger than the frozen stretches. Another state line went under the headlights. Beers popped.

A crumpled speeding ticket hit the floor. “Let Virginia try to find me.”

The car stopped.

Slamming doors awoke Andy McKenna in the backseat. He looked around the nightscape. Cars pulling in, tractor-trailers idling, picnic tables, square building in the middle.

He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Where are we?”

“Welcome center.”

“Florida?”

“North Carolina.”

Other student vehicles arrived. Vermont. Rhode Island. Football stickers. Greek letters.

The rest of the station wagon’s occupants returned from rest-rooms and vending machines. Doritos, coffee. They switched drivers and pulled back onto the highway. Radio low.

“
. . . Good, good, good! Good vibrations!. . .
”

The signs began. Every few minutes. S
OUTH OF THE
B
ORDER
, 112 M
ILES
. . . 105 M
ILES
. . . 98 . . .

“Aren’t we going to find a motel?” asked Andy.

“Absolutely not,” said Joey.

“It’s spring break,” said Doogie.

“And?”

“You have to drive straight through all the way or it doesn’t count.”

S
OUTH OF THE
B
ORDER
, 53 M
ILES
. . . K
EEP
Y
ELLING
, K
IDS
. T
HEY’LL
S
TOP
.

“When do you think we’ll get there?”

“Three
A.M.
, maybe four,” said Spooge, the just-relieved driver snuggling against a backseat door with a bunched-up beach towel.

Andy opened a borrowed phone. “I’m going to try my dad again.”

“You’ve called a dozen times now.”

“I’ll eventually catch him.” He dialed.
Ring, ring ...
Andy noticed the numeric display. “Shoot, I must be tired. Accidentally dialed my own cell number.”
Ring . . .

“Gimme that.” Spooge snatched the phone away.

“
Agent Oswalt here . . .
”

The phone folded shut.

“What’d you do that for?” asked Andy.

“We’re on spring break. Chill out.”

A thousand miles north, Agent Oswalt looked at the unfamiliar number of the disconnected call. He hit call.

“New rule,” said Spooge, reaching for a switch on the commandeered cell. “All phones off.”

Click.

South Carolina line.

S
OUTH OF THE
B
ORDER
,
I
M
ILE
.

Andy stared out the window at a giant, lighted sombrero marking the historic kitschy rest stop. “I got Mexican jumping beans there when I was a kid.”

“What did you say?”

“Just talking to myself.”

He lay back and closed his eyes. Snoring . . .

A wild cheer went up in the station wagon.

Andy shook his groggy head. “What is it?”

The driver pointed at a passing sign:

W
ELCOME TO
F
LORIDA
.

“How long was I asleep?”

“Two states.” A traffic citation ripped in half. “I just need to stay out of Georgia for seven years.”

They still had a good ways down to the gulf coast. But finally, twenty-nine hours after leaving their New England tundra, the students arrived in the hot, sticky Panama City night.

“There’s our hotel.”

The pasty foursome stared up at a flickering neon sign of a smiling alligator standing on its hind legs. It was one of those older, animated jobs from the sixties. Every other second, the gator pumped its reptilian claws up and down like a go-go dancer.

The station wagon pulled into the parking lot. Students rolled baggage toward the office, past a newspaper box with a photo of Andy’s father on the front page.

Next to the box, two students in orange-and-blue T-shirts sat sullenly on the curb, chins in hands.

Andy stopped rolling luggage. “You guys okay?”

“We didn’t make reservations,” said Melvin Davenport.

“That’s crazy,” said Spooge. “The whole city’s sold out. You do realize you’re not going to find anything.”

Melvin gave Cody a look.

“I got an idea,” said Spooge. “It’s a budget motel, but it’s still beach priced.”

“We
could
use the extra scratch,“ said Doogie.”You guys have money?”

“And sleeping bags,” said Cody.

“But then we’re up to six,” said Andy. “It’s over the room limit.”

“That’s practically empty compared to our other trips,” said Doogie.

“Room limits are just suggestions,” said Spooge.

“I’ll go check in,” said Joey. “You two wait here so they don’t see you.”

The others walked the rest of the way across the lot and pushed open the lobby door of the Alligator Arms.

ALLIGATOR ARMS, ROOM 534

Loud knocking on the door.

Serge opened up. “Welcome to hell.”

Two women entered with duffel bag straps over shoulders. Country began coughing. “What’s all that smoke?”

City fanned the air in front of her face, staring at the dozen students toking up around Coleman. “Who are all these people?”

“Coleman likes to bring home strays.” Serge reached for Country’s bag. “Let me help you. Any trouble with the landlord?”

“Doesn’t know yet.”

“Smart thinking.” Serge threw the duffel in a corner. “Skipping out on rent always prevents those sentimental farewells.”

“It sucks.”

From across the room: “City! Country!” yelled Coleman. “Welcome to Party Central!”

The students were agog at the sight—“They’re gorgeous!” “I’m in heaven!”—and even more stunned when the women took seats on the couch next to them and grabbed joints.

“Coleman,” asked one of the students, “you actually know them?”

“We go way back. Very close friends.” He turned to the sofa. “Aren’t we?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Serge waved for Country to come over. She handed the number to City and met him by the kitchenette. “What is it?”

“Let me give you the grand tour.” He led her inside the suite’s bedroom and locked the door.

Soon, the rest of the unit was silent, everyone listening to ecstatic female shrieking through the wall.

“
. . . Fuck me harder! . . .
”

Students gulped.

The bedroom door opened and a bare-chested Serge stuck his head out, wearing a Gatorland baseball cap. “Coleman, my souvenirs . . .”

“Got you covered.” Coleman grabbed an antique cigar box from a dresser drawer, walked over and handed it to Serge.

“Thanks.”

The door closed. Listening resumed.

“
. . . Oh God, oh God . . . I’m almost there . . . Fuck me faster!. . . Don’t stop!. . .
”

“
. . . And this swizzle stick is from Alabama Jack’s. That’s Card Sound Road in Key Largo for those playing along at home . . .
”

Twenty minutes later, Serge emerged with a towel around his neck and a cigar box. Behind him, Country stumbled out of the room and bounced off a wall, looking like she’d just finished a triathlon.

The couple went out on the balcony. City joined them and closed the sliding glass door. They gazed out across the calm, moonlit Gulf of Mexico.

“What a great view,” said Country.

“Incredible,” said City, turning to Serge. “But don’t
ever
leave us stranded like that again.”

“I told you it was just a big misunderstanding.”

The sliding door opened. “Excuse me,” said Coleman. He stuck the end of a Heineken bottle in the door frame. The cap popped, followed by foam. A student behind him made a check mark on a sheet of hotel stationery. Coleman closed the door.

City looked through the glass. “What kind of stupidity now?”

“Who knows?” said Serge. “We’re in uncharted damage-deposit territory.”

The trio went back inside. Coleman wedged the end of another Heineken under the TV and gave the green barrel a quick smack with his fist. A cap flew. A student made a check mark.

Serge turned to someone in a Rutgers T-shirt. “What’s going on?”

“Nobody had a bottle opener, so Coleman’s showing us one hundred and one ways to open bottles with
his
bottle opener.”

“What’s
his?
”

“The room’s the bottle opener.” He read the checklist. “So far he’s shown us the flange method, pneumatic, heat exchange, friction damper . . . and he also got into a wine bottle with only a safety pin.”