Tropic of Stupid Page 4

  “Uh, cars are beginning to stack up behind you.”

  “Then stamp away and we’ll be off!”

  Ink hit the page and tires squealed. “Wooo-hooo!”

  “That was weird.” Coleman looked around. “So where’s this place that’s better than chicks and booze?”

  “We’re in it,” said Serge, sticking his freshly stamped page an inch from Coleman’s face. “Bill Baggs State Park, hanging off the bottom of Key Biscayne at Cape Florida.”

  “Doesn’t sound better.”

  “Just wait and see . . .”

  Serge cupped hands around his mouth and yelled straight down a hundred feet. “Coleman, what are you doing down there?”

  “I’m tired.”

  “But you’re missing everything!” He clutched the antique railing below a huge ring of glass. “It’s the nineteenth-century Cape Florida Lighthouse, arguably the most prominent in all the state! Don Johnson was up here when he had amnesia and thought he was a drug dealer.”

  Coleman remained flat on his back. “I gave it my best.”

  “You only made it ten steps up the spiral staircase.”

  “Like I said.”

  “But—” Serge waved an arm over the southern tip of the island. “You can see Stiltsville—the authentic old Florida—sticking out of the water in a channel a mile offshore. Who knows how long before a hurricane wipes out the last half-dozen wooden pioneer homes? In the mid-1900s, it had mushroomed into a swinging scene the likes of which Florida may never see again, a virtually lawless rebel enclave with places like the Calvert Club, Crawfish Eddie’s, the Bikini Club and the Quarterdeck, which was featured in Life magazine and later raided over gambling rumors.”

  “Stilts.” Coleman sarcastically twirled a finger in the air. “Wooo.”

  Serge shook his head and climbed back down.

  Coleman followed him to their car. “I don’t know why you’re so sore.”

  “Because these moments are more fun if you can share them. Destiny, for better or worse, has stuck me with you as my soul mate. Who decides this shit?” He opened the driver’s door and pulled something out of the back seat.

  “A kite?” asked Coleman.

  “I’m having a personal kite rebirth. Kites are back! And they’re also perfect for the beach.” They began trekking across the sand, Coleman with his flask and Serge wearing a backpack. “People grow up and forget the childhood joy of kites. It was my first taste of the empowerment theme I’ve been annoyingly beating to death, able to send something aloft beyond the surly bounds of earth. But I never realized how much technology had evolved since those early days of flimsy paper and sticks . . .”

  A half hour later, a huge dragon-shaped kite swooped through the clear sky.

  Coleman chugged his furtive flask of Jim Beam. “Why did we walk way the hell over to this end?”

  “Because all the other people are back on the popular part of the beach,” said Serge. “Don’t get me wrong: I love people, but I’m a big believer in absence making the heart grow fonder.”

  Coleman looked around. “We’re totally alone over here.”

  “To enjoy our thoughts and camaraderie.”

  Another chug, followed by a nod. “Have to admit that’s a pretty righteous kite.”

  “One of the latest state-of-the-art models.” Serge deftly maneuvered it against the onshore wind. “I started with a small one and practiced like mad. Then I saw all these insane kites on the Internet and ordered this baby.”

  “I’ve never seen a kite like that,” said Coleman. “You’re controlling it with plastic handles in each fist.”

  Serge independently rotated his hands, maneuvering the kite in a soaring, twisting display like something from a Blue Angels air show.

  “Wow,” said Coleman. “You’re damn good at this.”

  “As they say, how do you get to Carnegie Hall?”

  “Subway?”

  “Confession time.” The kite tilted at the top of its arc. “This is my second new kite. I destroyed the first one while perfecting my signature dive-bombing run. Couldn’t pull up in time. Luckily no pilot was aboard.”

  Coleman shielded his eyes as he watched the kite plummet earthward. “Another dive bomber?”

  “Carnegie Hall. Practice. Freakin’ hours. But when I lock in on something . . .” The kite increased to ferocious velocity. “Three feet from the ground, max.”

  “Serge,” said Coleman. “You better pull up. It’s going to crash.”

  “Not yet . . . Ready, ready . . . Now!” He stepped back quickly, arching his back and jerking his arms in, spinning both handles the same direction. The kite swooped low over the beach at the last second, then peeled off in a horizontal curl with astounding centrifugal force. “Like I said, three feet max.”

  “More like two.” Coleman took another snort from the flask. “That was trippy . . . But why does that kite look like one I’ve never seen before?”

  “Because it’s from India.” Serge twirled the handles again, executing a series of loop-de-loops. “Over here, kites are whimsical wisps of joy, but in India it gets downright vicious.”

  “How so?”

  “They have kite-flying competitions that are every bit as intense and harrowing as NASCAR.” Serge worked his hands for another wicked swoop toward the ground, then a skyward zoom. “The contests are utterly savage, with many people using glass-coated string called ‘Chinese manja’ that is razor sharp and used to slice up the other guys’ kites in aerial dogfights. But the wind is the unpredictable variable, and it can get hairy on the ground.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Look it up. My smartphone’s in my left pocket. Google ‘kite manja decapitation.’”

  “Yeah, right . . .” Coleman pressed buttons. “Whoa, you’re not kidding. I got a whole bunch of hits . . . Ooh, gross.”

  Serge kept his eyes skyward. “Some people always ruin a good thing. And yet I hear they’re nice to cows.”

  Serenity settled over the pair as they stared upward at their majestic flying dragon. Coleman’s eyes returned to land. “Hey, something’s rustling in those bushes.”

  “Almost forgot,” said Serge, attention still upward. “The guy from our trunk. I let him rest there until the tranquilizer I injected him with wore off.”

  “It’s wearing off. He’s up.” Coleman took a strong pull on his flask. “What did he do again?”

  “Another asshole ripping off seniors in retirement parks with bogus appliance schemes.”

  “But I thought that ended when we left those old people back at Boca Shores.”

  Serge worked his controls. “In Florida, it never ends.”

  “What’s the bonus round?”

  “He’s allowed to run.”

  “He’s running.”

  Serge bit his lower lip in concentration. Wrists twisted left and right.

  “Your dragon kite’s swooping down again in another dive-bomb run,” said Coleman.

  Serge quickly arched his back again. “And here comes the pull-up for the hard horizontal curl.”

  Coleman pointed with the flask. “It’s going after the guy!”

  “I’ll bet he’s never even seen Carnegie Hall.”

  “It’s wrapping around his neck—” Coleman jolted backward. “Jesus! I didn’t see that coming! Blood’s spurting everywhere.”

  “That would be the jugular.”

  “But how? . . .”

  “I also sort of ordered a spool of Chinese manja.”

  “He’s grabbing his throat, trying to make it stop.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Now he’s trudging out into the water. He fell down.” Coleman whistled. “Man is that blood spreading.”

  “Definitely not applying enough pressure.”

  Coleman jolted again. “Where’d that shark come from?”

  “All statistics will tell you the majority of attacks occur in just a few feet of water.” Serge began reeling his dragon in. “Not one of h
is better days.”

  Coleman finished off his flask as Serge finally got hold of the kite and handed it to him. Then Serge took off his backpack and pulled something out.

  “When did you get that?” asked Coleman.

  “Coleman, you were with me. Another toy of empowerment.” They headed back to the car.

  “Sorry for doubting you . . .” Coleman pointed back over his shoulder. “When you said this would be better than Nixon Beach . . .”

  “Then you’re really going to love our next stop.”

  Coleman looked back a final time. “I still can’t believe kite string could do all that.”

  “It’s simply irresponsible,” said Serge, flying a drone in front of them. “Someone needs to ban that stuff.”

  Chapter 5

  Fifty Years Ago

  A concrete block propped up one end of a piece of plywood. The other end lay on the sidewalk.

  Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

  A screen door opened on the west side of a duplex. “Where is that child?”

  Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

  The sound continued rhythmically.

  A woman walked down the driveway of the home and looked in the direction of the noise.

  Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

  “Bobby!” she shouted. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

  A small boy pedaled his bicycle up the makeshift plywood ramp, catching some air and flying maybe three feet before hitting the sidewalk. Then another boy, and another. A half-dozen in all, jumping the ramp and circling back in the street to line up on the sidewalk for another go at it, over and over with unlimited energy. The priceless essence of childhood.

  The woman walked sternly and raised her voice. “Bobby! Did you hear me?”

  “I’m jumping a ramp!” He flew and landed. “I’m going to be the next Evel Knievel.”

  “In your good clothes! You’re going to be late for Sunday school!”

  The bike screeched to a stop. “Mom! We just went to church!”

  “And now you go to Sunday school! You know that!”

  “But, Mom! Football’s coming on TV. I want to watch the Dolphins—”

  “You give me this argument every week. Now get going!”

  Bobby hung his head, then peeled off from the formation of bikes with one of his friends and pedaled down the street.

  The other boy was named Ricky, and they rode side by side in the dusty street.

  “I hate Sunday school!” said Bobby.

  “Me too,” said Ricky. “The only way I can get through regular school all week is to look forward to these two days off, and one of them gets ruined.”

  “If church isn’t enough, we have to go to catechism.”

  “What does catechism mean, anyway?”

  “It means that since our folks can’t afford private Catholic school, we’re not getting enough religion, so we have to go to this. It’s like a church rule or something.”

  “I’ll tell you what it really means,” said Ricky. “We don’t get to watch the Dolphins.”

  “And they’re playing the Jets today. That means Joe Namath.”

  “Don’t remind me . . .”

  The boys didn’t know that the word Allapattah is Seminole for “alligator,” but that was the name of their neighborhood. They swerved their bikes around potholes on the south side. It wasn’t necessarily a bad neighborhood, but you definitely couldn’t say it was good. Their area was seriously working-class. And hard work. There was some heavy industry, textiles and dry docks down on the Miami River. Housing prices had hit the skids when they built Interstate 95 through the middle of it all like the march of General Sherman, and many of the homes only had weeds for lawns. Bobby and Ricky didn’t know they were poor, because it was all they knew.

  Another reason they didn’t think they were poor was they had these great bikes. Not expensive, but they had saved up allowance for creative modifications. They were originally the old banana bikes popular throughout the elementary schools, and the two boys had received theirs on the same Christmas morning. Soon, socket wrenches twisted nuts, removing the banana seats and raising extension bars. New seats were installed, along with thicker, more rugged tires. The boys didn’t know it, but they had beaten the market by almost fifteen years, creating motocross prototypes. Their tickets to freedom, roaming far and wide, discovering their world and getting exercise and sun in a lifestyle of youth forgotten since the dawn of the digital age.

  They continued pedaling their amped-up machines toward the church. Then childhood exuberance resumed as the boys began aimlessly slaloming back and forth across the street and popping wheelies.

  “We should get new grips for the handlebars,” said Bobby.

  “And bigger pedals . . .”

  A distant noise brought them back to earth.

  “Damn,” said Bobby. “Why did that have to remind us?”

  It was a faint roar. Miami International was nearby and the noise of the planes was so common that it didn’t even register with the residents. This roar was different. A large crowd.

  Ricky looked in the direction of an expressway. “They just kicked off at the Orange Bowl.”

  Crestfallen. “And we’re going to Sunday school.”

  “Hey, you know what we should do?” said Ricky. “We should go to the game.”

  “We don’t have tickets,” said Bobby. “We don’t have money.”

  “Doesn’t matter. And we’ve only ever seen them on TV. This is our chance.” Ricky told him what he had in mind.

  Their bikes stayed still in the middle of the road, all feet on the ground.

  “I don’t know,” said Bobby. “We’ll get in so much trouble.”

  “How will our parents ever find out?”

  They stared at each other, then broke into smiles. They put it in high gear, whipping the bikes around the corner . . .

  The Orange Bowl, opened in 1937, was as Florida as it got, and purists still mourn its demolition in 2008. But as the two childhood pals pedaled their bikes on the hot Sunday afternoon, the stadium was still going strong. As they grew near, they saw a particular feature of the bowl that made it instantly recognizable in any telecast. It featured a double-deck horseshoe design, leaving one end zone wide open. Behind it stood a grove of vibrant palm trees, the backdrop of many a touchdown.

  The boys dismounted their bikes and walked them toward the trees until they reached a fence. They clenched the barrier with their small fingers and peeked inside. Mesmerized.

  The New York Jets, in their bright white away uniforms, were driving the ball toward them. They had followed football on TV with a religious fervor that their parents only wished they had for the church. But now, in person, clutching the outside of the fence, they were stunned at how fast the players were, how violent—and loud—the collisions.

  “There’s Namath,” said Ricky, watching the quarterback drop back in the pocket.

  Shoulder pads crashed. Painful grunts of exertion. Then Namath released. It was a perfect fade route that hit Don Maynard in the deep corner of the end zone right in front of them.

  The boys exchanged openmouthed looks . . .

  They could talk of nothing else on their bike rides home.

  “I can’t believe we got that close!”

  “We could see their faces through the masks.”

  They reached Bobby’s house first. His mother was standing in the middle of the front yard with firmly folded arms.

  “Uh-oh,” said Ricky. “See you later . . .”

  Bobby hopped off his bike. “Uh, hi, Mom.”

  “Did you go to Sunday school?”

  “What? Sure, of course.”

  “No you didn’t!” said his mother. “I called.”

  “You called?”

  “I call every week.”

  “I didn’t know that.” Bobby recognized the shoe box at her feet. “What are you doing with my football cards?”

  “T
his is what!” She went to the garbage can at the curb and removed the lid.

  “Mom!”

  “Don’t you ‘Mom’ me! I didn’t raise a liar, and you’re not going to start now! Plus you missed catechism, which is another sin. Confession starts at four. Turn that bike around and get going!”

  “But I’ll miss the second football game on TV.”

  “As well you should!” She stomped back into the house and slammed the screen door.

  Bobby began pedaling again. How could such a great day turn so crappy?

  He arrived at the church and went inside the cavernous quietness. There was only one person waiting in line outside the confessional. Ricky turned around. “You too?”

  “She threw out my football cards.”

  “Damn. I’m getting off easy.”

  After Ricky emerged with a lengthy assignment of Hail Marys, it was Bobby’s turn. He knelt in the dark booth. Soon, a wooden panel slid, revealing a cloth curtain and an ominous silhouette. Why did it have to be so creepy?

  “Father, I have sinned . . .” Bobby laid out the whole day, and received his own penance.

  A few more straggling parishioners arrived to clear their slates. Then it was idleness for a good fifteen minutes. The priest opened his door and peeked outside. Nothing but the flickering of votive candles for the souls in purgatory. He closed up shop and headed out the front door of the church.