Naked Came the Florida Man Page 13

  “This is excellent when you’re high.”

  Serge looked across the table. “Not bad. You’re painting a pumpkin.”

  “It’s a bong,” said Coleman. “What are you painting?”

  “An egret.” Serge chugged a mug of coffee, then stood up and grabbed the page. He taped it to a wall.

  “Why are you doing that?”

  “Because this motel room has no artwork. We got screwed.” He straightened his egret and sat back down. “All motel rooms are supposed to have artwork. But sadly, most guests never notice. You ask ten people what the painting was in the room they stayed in last night, and dollars to doughnuts none will have a clue. Not me! It’s the first thing I look for when I open the door!”

  “Why?”

  “Reminds me of baseball cards, because you never know what you’ll get.” Serge grabbed a fresh page and resumed work. “I’d buy a pack of cards at the five-and-dime and then sit on the curb out front, gently and affectionately removing each card to reveal surprise after surprise: ‘Cool, Carl Yastrzemski. Cookie Rojas, not bad. Do I already have Rollie Fingers? It says on the back of Félix Millán’s card that he led the National League in triples. Who the fuck is Buzz Capra?’ . . . Same thing with motel paintings, especially budget motels. You go to a fancy hotel and get high-quality art that makes sense, following the room’s color scheme and local milieu. But the economy joints are the best, especially the kind with old wood paneling. They don’t give a shit anymore and buy stuff from art-clearance warehouses that sell paintings by the pound. You’re always in for a treat, so when I first arrive at a room, I stop outside and let the anticipation build, like holding that shiny new pack of sports cards. Then I quickly open the door and pump a fist in the air. ‘Yes! Sailboats!’ I can still see them to this day.”

  “You remember the sailboats?”

  “I remember all the paintings!” said Serge. “The sailboats, a beach scene of three children playing with pails on the sand and each pail was a different primary color, a vase with sunflowers, a cherry pie on a windowsill overlooking corn, magpies on a power line, a train station when they still had baggage porters, a bowl of fruit, a cowboy leaning against a post, a lighthouse in Maine, a terrier, President Coolidge . . .”

  “How do you recall all that?”

  “Because I care.” Serge dipped a finger in the green bottle while swigging coffee with the other hand. “If people don’t watch out, there can be a lot of needless tedium in motel rooms by squandering spare time. But I rarely encounter that problem because I want to squeeze every second out of life. Even if I don’t have spare time in a room, I’ll make time, sitting in a chair staring relentlessly at the wall and metaphysically contemplating all aspects of the painting. What were the headlines of the day when it was created? How many people have straightened it on the wall? Who painted it and why? What about the backstories of the people on the sailboats? I imagine the painting hanging steadily and all-knowing in here since the mid-twentieth century, during poker games, extramarital affairs, kids jumping on beds, someone repeatedly peeking out the window, salesmen with straw hats from a plumbing supply convention, a coroner wheeling out the victim of a heart attack that everyone saw coming. Then I envision a woman at an easel in 1953 who decided to broaden her background of dependable typing skills by taking a mail-order art class, only to have her husband leave her for a Pan Am stewardess, and now she paints just to forget but has never been to the beach. And the little people on one of the sailboats are a family of six from Knoxville who take the same vacation every year to Myrtle Beach, where they always line up the children for an annual photo to document their growth, which after three decades will become the subject of a feel-good magazine article. But what are their political beliefs? How would they view the woman who painted them? Do they even know they’re in a painting? These are questions for the ages.” He raised his mug. “I’m out of coffee.”

  Malcolm heard buzzing in the bag taped to his head.

  “Mmmmmm! Mmmmmm!”

  Serge walked over to the captive. The trash bag had all but deflated on his head, and Serge held it upright and shook, giving the flies renewed space to work. He pointed at a page on the wall. “If you’re bored, you can look at my egret and ask metaphysical questions.”

  He returned to his table and paint.

  Coleman leaned toward his friend’s new page. “What’s this one?”

  “Great blue heron.” Serge got up and placed it on the wall.

  Coleman noticed there was now a long row of overlapping finger paintings along the side of the room. “Serge, what are you doing?”

  “Making a mural to compensate for this motel room’s lost time without art.” Serge aimed a yellow finger at Malcolm. “This science project requires an extended duration of babysitting, so a mural is the only way to go. The room’s next guests will seriously get their money’s worth.”

  “Why so long?” asked Coleman. “Can’t we just leave him like the others?”

  Serge shook his head and drew cattails with a finger. “I’ll need to remove the bag and dispose of the remaining flies or I could be responsible for some kind of outbreak from breaching the Keys quarantine. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “What kind of mural?”

  “In full disclosure, it’s not original.” He sat down with another page. “I’m inspired by one of Florida’s finest and most enduring works of art. While the state has a wealth of fine galleries, my favorite native painting of all time adorns the lounge of a historic erstwhile grande dame of accommodations in a small town on the southern shore of Lake Okeechobee.”

  “Mmmmmm! Mmmmmm!”

  Coleman packed his alligator honey bottle. Puff, puff. “Even our hostage is into this now. Please tell us more.”

  “Unlike other swank hotels of bygone eras such as the Breakers or Biltmore, this place is now a bargain. But not because it’s hit the skids. Far from it. In another freak of Freakonomics, the glory days faded and revenue dropped. But then an interesting thing happened. The place remained just popular enough to create a Goldilocks effect, not overheating or cooling off. Instead, it remains strangely suspended in time as a freeze-frame snapshot of the past. It’s so quiet and peaceful that you’re often the only person in the opulent period lobby, like staying in a museum.”

  “But, Serge, what is this fabulous place?”

  “The Clewiston Inn, built 1938 by U.S. Sugar in Classic Revival architecture with stately white columns out front, now in the National Register of Historic Sites. It’s unexpected to find one of Florida’s most impressive hotels in such a modest community, almost nothing but miles of agricultural fields in all directions. The Everglades Bar and Lounge itself remains essentially closed because of lack of traffic, but the management is hospitable enough to open it up upon request for guests to bring their own beverages and food and sit just to enjoy the mural. That gets my five-star rating for dedication to heritage.”

  “But what about this mural?”

  “Commissioned in the early 1940s and painted by J. Clinton Shepherd, director of the Norton Gallery and School of Art over on the coast. I can’t tell you how many field trips my classes took to the Norton when I was a kid. And there are countless exquisite features that make the mural stand out from all the pretenders. First, it’s not a traditional mural that stretches out straight, but instead wraps three hundred and sixty degrees around the whole lounge. Also, the mural itself is a panorama of the Everglades, depicting a full menu of its wild inhabitants, from alligators, raccoons, deer and turtles to ibis, ducks and storks. Shepherd prepared for the task by making frequent excursions to the Glades to sketch his wildlife subjects. Then he began painting—and this is the funky part—not on the walls of the bar, but back in his gallery in West Palm Beach. He set up a series of separate, massive canvas panels and, along with his students, went to work with his brushes. When it was complete, they transported it all through empty acres of sugarcane fields until reaching the inn, where they perman
ently assembled it. But wait! There’s more! In the hallway leading to the lounge hangs a row of gold-framed black-and-white photos showing the mural in progress back on the coast. That bonus material alone is so overwhelming that it’s easy for visitors to get dizzy and knock over chairs. Actually, that was just me.”

  “Plus it’s a bar,” said Coleman.

  “Normally I’d smack you, but in this case you’re right,” said Serge. “No snooty gallery patrons standing back and rubbing their chins in a passive-aggressive jab that you’re a Philistine. Just a bunch of regular folk who know what they love.”

  Coleman crumpled a beer can. “I dig art.” A fat finger made a red line on paper.

  “Then your big chance is at hand, because the inn’s upcoming on our tour.” Serge walked over and taped another page to the wall. “Meantime, I’m going to keep working until my paintings encircle this entire room in homage to Shepherd and the hotel.”

  “But do we have enough time?”

  Serge strolled over behind Malcolm. “The time lock says definitely.” He raised the drooping bag again over his contestant’s head. Buzzing increased.

  He rejoined Coleman again at the table. “But I do need to pick up the pace.” His index finger mixed red and white paint for a roseate spoonbill. His other hand clicked the television’s remote. “Excellent! I love it when you turn on a motel TV and Law & Order is automatically rolling through a marathon! It’s like a sign from God.”

  “Why are you so into that show?”

  “Because it’s a comedy. Or at least the chase scenes are.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The writers apparently spend so much time on the genius of the legal twists that they just backhand the action sequences into the script.”

  “For instance?”

  “If I’ve seen it once, I’ve seen it a hundred times: Lenny goes to question a suspect at an automotive garage and flashes his badge at the boss. ‘Is Frenchy here?’ And the boss turns to some guy repairing a car up on a lift: ‘Hey, Frenchy, the cops want to talk to you.’ So the guy now has this data: The cops know his name, where he works, and most likely his home address. And what’s the logical thing he does every time? Throws a wrench at them and runs out the back. Okay, first, that’s a serious uphill explanation to your boss later. Although I don’t know the auto repair culture. Maybe everyone’s constantly throwing tools and running away, and after lunch they all have a big laugh. Anyway, they always catch Frenchy trying to climb a fence or cornering himself on a rooftop. To mix it up, sometimes it’s a loading dock at a shipping company. ‘Hey, Three-Fingers Louie, the police are here again.’ And they catch Louie every time because he runs into a huge stack of empty cardboard boxes that are placed right where everyone walks.”

  “How do you know they’re empty?”

  “The way they fly like they’re filled with helium,” said Serge. “Let’s watch.”

  They turned toward the TV.

  “Hey, Bugsy, the police want to talk . . .”

  “There goes the wrench,” said Coleman. “He’s running . . . damn, cardboard boxes and a fence.”

  “I called it.”

  Coleman pointed with a purple finger. “Where’s the science project at?”

  Serge swirled his own finger on a page. “The screws have definitely begun anchoring, just a matter of reaching their depth.”

  “Mmmmmm! Mmmmmm!”

  Serge sat back and sighed. “Am I the only one he’s annoying?”

  “No. He’s getting under my skin, too.”

  They leaned over the table again and continued painting in silence . . .

  The next morning, Serge shook Coleman’s shoulder. Bloodshot eyes cracked open as he sat up and bonked his head. “Ow! Where am I?”

  “Between the toilet and sink again.” Serge checked his watch. “Look alive, we have miles ahead.”

  They went back into the main room.

  “Damn, you really did finish your mural,” said Coleman. “There’s even a wild turkey. I recognize it from the bottles.”

  “You had any doubts?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but sometimes you get super excited and throw yourself into a really long project, and five minutes later you say fuck that and trash everything and take off in the car with your camera.”

  “You’re thinking of the time I wanted to build an exquisitely detailed cardboard model from my own design of the old Orange Bowl during Super Bowl Three in Miami, complete with the Jets and Colts players and each person in the stands. I misjudged the seating capacity.”

  “What was the seating?”

  “Eighty thousand.”

  “How many seats did you make before you quit?”

  “Five. But let’s not dwell on setbacks beyond our control.” Serge stood behind Malcolm, carefully peeling the tape off his forehead and gathering up the edges of the plastic garbage bag. At the first glimpse of the captive’s head, Serge sprang backward. “Jesus!”

  “Mmmmmm! Mmmmmm!”

  “Can I see?” asked Coleman.

  “It’ll give you bad dreams.”

  Coleman looked anyway. “God-daaaaaamn! . . . Man, this is you at your sickest.”

  “Not my intention. I underestimated the gross-out factor.” Serge tied off the plastic trash bag and threw it in a motel garbage can. “Oh, well. I’ll just think about that retired couple he tried to swindle and it’ll balance the scales . . . Get your luggage.”

  Coleman grabbed a handle. “He doesn’t look like he feels so hot.”

  Serge opened the motel room door and turned to the hostage one last time. “Remember: Bacon, it’s not just for breakfast anymore.”

  Chapter 17

  Four Years Earlier

  Friday. Game day.

  After school, Coach Calhoun was at his desk finishing up notes on the opponent’s defensive line.

  A light knock at the door. “You wanted to see me, Coach?”

  “Yes, yes, come in.”

  Chris respectfully took a seat, and Calhoun walked around his desk, leaning casually against its front edge, just as he had during so many other player discussions. Like most of the coaches in The Muck, he knew that football was often the only anchor in these kids’ lives. A whistle hanging from your neck meant serving double duty as a priest.

  “Chris, other than your report cards, I realize I really don’t know anything about you. What’s your family like?”

  “You mean my grandmother?”

  “I mean your whole family.”

  “It’s my grandmother.”

  “What about your dad?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Mom?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Brothers and sisters?”

  She shook her head.

  “How old is your grandmother?”

  “Old.”

  “Friends?”

  “A few. Mainly boys. All the girls where I live are much older.”

  “Where do you live?”

  She told him. He knew the place. One of those long two-story apartment buildings that looked like a converted motel, because it was. Not a blade of landscaping, just hot dirt and litter. People coming and going at odd hours for wrong reasons.

  Calhoun took stock. “You said you had a few friends?”

  “Mainly at school. Actually all.”

  “So what do you do for fun when you’re at home?”

  “I like to read.”

  “Like what?”

  That got her bubbly. “Oh, wow, I found this great book at the library.” She unzipped the backpack in her lap and handed a volume to the coach.

  He examined the front cover. “What’s this?”

  “Astrophysics.”

  “You’re reading about the big bang?”

  “It’s the foundation for everything. You have to learn that if you’re going to study anything else.” Chris grew animated with excitement. “Most people don’t realize that the bang wasn’t an explosion but ac
tually an expansion of space and time, like a balloon inflating, which allowed early matter to exceed the speed of light without violating Einstein’s theory.”

  The coach blinked hard and flipped the book over to the back cover. “You actually understand this stuff?”

  “Sure, the author breaks it all down and makes it real easy.”

  Calhoun handed the book back. “Chris, I know this might be sensitive, but . . . are you okay?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I mean, for example, have you ever been bullied?”

  Excitement stopped. Chris folded in . . .

  If you’ve ever had a full handful of sand thrown directly in your eyes at point-blank range, it’s something you’ll never forget. It’s not like you’ve got something in your eyes that you have to get out; you’re totally shut down. Disabled in every way. Nose running. The insane pain from the first time you try to raise your eyelids. The only option is to stagger and grope blindly for a place with a water source to flush it out.

  It helps if there’s someone to guide you. It doesn’t help if there’s only cruel laughter as you stumble for safety that isn’t available. Especially if the nearest water source is a canal full of alligators.

  It was one of her earliest recollections. Followed by the sound of a rusty old pickup truck speeding away on a dirt road from another rabbit hunt. Then quiet. Chris felt along with her feet to locate the edge of the road, then down the embankment into the reeds. Fortunately there were no gators today. Chris splashed her face until she could manage to open two red slits and find her way back to town.

  The public health clinic gave her prescription ointment for scratched corneas.

  “Who did this to you?” asked the nurse.

  “I did it to myself.”

  There were the other times. All the other times. It never involved sand again, but you get the picture. Some of the boys actually felt sorry for her and knew it would be the right thing to step in, but they lacked that certain gravitas in the pecking order, and so life went on as it does in the jungle of childhood.