Naked Came the Florida Man Read online

  “Where’d you get that stuff?”

  “The Party Store has everything!”

  Soon they were dressed again.

  “Won’t this attract extra attention?” asked Coleman.

  “Just the opposite,” said Serge. “This is like the concept of orange vests, clipboards and safety cones. If you’re wearing these, the general public simply assumes that you’re authorized.”

  Coleman looked in the mirror as he adjusted his red Afro wig and rubber-ball nose. “Are you sure about this?”

  “When have you ever seen anyone question someone dressed like this?” Serge jauntily snapped his polka-dot suspenders. “People see clowns and they automatically think you know what you’re doing.”

  Serge freed Clyde from the chair and walked him to the door. He peeked outside to make sure the coast was clear, then hustled Clyde into their car’s trunk again and slammed the lid.

  They began driving south, pulling up to a red light. Some teenagers in the next car began laughing and pointing. “Look! Clowns!”

  Serge flashed a clown badge. “We’re authorized.”

  The light turned green and they sped off.

  Coleman sucked on a robot. “Where are we going?”

  “To the far end of the beach, just before the port. It’s a longer walk from the hotels and usually empty, especially with this kind of overcast weather.”

  They parked on a secluded corner of a public-access lot. “Coleman, grab that duffel bag at your feet.”

  A couple came off a walkway over the sea oats from the beach. Serge nodded seriously and respectfully.

  “Who are those guys?” the wife asked her husband.

  “Couple of clowns.”

  They drove away, leaving Serge and company alone with unfinished business. He popped the trunk. “Time to rock and roll!”

  Serge led Clyde across the sand in the grim weather, poking a pistol in his ribs.

  Coleman struggled to keep up alongside, continuously rehitching the duffel’s strap over his shoulder. “Serge, I still think the guy looks too weird with all the stuff glued on him. We’re bound to get caught.”

  “And that’s where you’re wrong.” Serge poked the barrel harder for motivation. “We’re out in the open with a clear view of any approaching cops. If we do see any, I’ll just slice off his wrist bindings and remove the mouth tape. What’s he going to say? ‘Help! Help! I’ve been held hostage by two guys who played kindergarten games all day while wearing pillowcases!’ He’ll come off like designer-drug fiend. Then if the cops question us we say that we just met him in the parking lot, and he must have relapsed after getting off the bus from rehab.”

  “But what about our clown suits?” asked Coleman. “Won’t that make the police suspicious?”

  “Again, just the opposite,” said Serge. “I’ll tell them: ‘Look at us. We’re professionals. Do we seem like pillowcase guys to you?’ Of course the answer’s obvious.”

  “Mmmmmm! Mmmmmm!”

  “Where are we taking him?” asked Coleman, trudging through the sand in big, floppy shoes.

  “Over there, behind that clutch of palm trees for a little privacy.” Serge’s own large shoes slapped the beach.

  Moments later: “That’s far enough.” Serge poked a gun in a stomach. “Now sit down and don’t give me any trouble or . . . or . . . well, there’s really nothing left to hold over your head. Just do it out of politeness.”

  Clyde sat in the sand, and Serge began going through the bag Coleman had carried. First the rope, tent stakes and hammer. Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham! The captive’s ankles were secured to the ground. Serge pulled out a bottle of drinking water, the tape and a baggie of pills.

  Coleman puffed a robot. “What are those?”

  Serge held the baggie to his face. “This was a real bitch to prepare, so I hope it works. Remember the Fizzing Circles I showed you before? And I mentioned a tedious process that caused a mood swing and change of heart? I’ve since come around on that kind of constipated thinking. I’ve decided to go for a two-pronged project.”

  “Dear God,” said Coleman.

  “That’s right,” said Serge. “All the most critical pieces of scientific apparatus have redundancy circuits, so why not me?” He tossed the baggie in the sand next to the captive and held up a video camera. “Those babies in that bag might not do the entire trick, but the added visuals will put it over the top. When you commit to a project, you can’t just phone it in.”

  Chug, chug, chug. “I still don’t know what those are.”

  Serge knelt next to Clyde. “It took three whole boxes of Contac. Except not Contac, but the generic called Colored Capsules, because the folks at Contac are good people, too. And since they come in capsules, I twisted them all apart and dumped out the original contents. Then I wiped a bowl down and hit it with a hair dryer to ensure a moisture-free receptacle. I mashed up a whole bunch of the Fizzing Circles until there was just powder in the bowl. Next I carefully spooned it into the empty halves of the previously disassembled capsules and twisted them back together. It took forever, but one of the strongest motivational forces in the universe is irony.”

  Serge reached into Coleman’s bag again and pulled out thick plastic goggles. “Clyde, you’re going to need these. Safety comes first.” He fitted them over the hostage’s head with a thick rubber strap.

  “Mmmmmm! Mmmmmm!”

  “Man, hold your horses,” said Serge. “The tape is just about to come off.”

  Rip.

  “Ahhhhh!”

  “Keep it down or . . . or . . . just keep it down.” Serge uncapped the bottled water and wedged it in the sand. Then he opened the baggie and scooped out a handful. The other hand stuck the pistol in Clyde’s cheek. “Are you going to play nice with others? A nod will do.”

  He nodded.

  “Good. Now, as you heard me explain to Coleman, this isn’t poison or any addictive prescription, because I just say no to drugs. The ingredients in these capsules are just for upset tummies, and yours must be doing backflips right about now. And in your self-crafted rationale that I observed on that other beach, it’s totally moral for me to force you to take them. So open wide and don’t chew; the water will be coming right up to wash it down.”

  The capsules were crammed in his mouth, then the water bottle. It was a struggle at first, but soon Clyde managed to get them swallowed.

  “Good student,” said Serge, reaching back in the bag. “Just a few more times and I won’t bother you in this way again.” He repeated the process as needed until the baggie was empty.

  “Excellent!” Serge reached in the duffel for more tent stakes and rope. Wham! Wham! Wham! The hostage’s arms were now stretched out over his head with wrists held fast to the ground.

  Serge ripped off yet another strip of duct tape. As he pressed it in place: “You know, I did some Internet research on the subject of cruelty, and the stuff I read brought tears to my eyes. Someone actually crucified a pelican on a wooden light pole. I’ll spare you the rest of the ghastly details, but the horrible deaths animals experience in the name of idle entertainment are nothing short of heartbreaking. Not to mention that the tormentors proudly post the videos. What’s wrong with people like that?” Serge gestured skyward with the hand holding his own video camera. “I guess I just can’t understand the concept of torture.”

  “Mmmmmm! Mmmmmm!”

  Serge grabbed a pocketknife. The blade flipped open and stuck between the captive’s lips. “Hold still,” said Serge. “I’m going to cut a small slit to give you a little extra air, but I don’t know why. I must be going soft or something.” Slice. He inserted a drinking straw. “There! You still can’t scream, but feel free to go ‘toot, toot, toot’ like a toy train . . . And now that I’ve thought about it, I require it. Go ahead.”

  The captive just stared up with horrified eyes.

  “Come on!” said Serge. “Don’t make me regret giving you that slit. ‘Toot, toot, toot.’”

  Clyd
e was tentative, and it came out more like a question. “Toot, toot, toot?”

  The clowns doubled over with laughter. “I don’t know why that’s so funny,” said Serge. “Maybe it’s the goggles.”

  “Or maybe all the corn chips you glued on his chest and legs,” said Coleman.

  “You might have something there,” said Serge. “I’ll call him the Bandito.”

  Puff, puff, chug, chug. “What now?”

  “We have to time this perfectly.” Serge reached into the shopping bag a final time. “The capsules in his stomach are just about dissolved.”

  “He’s getting that look on his face like when I have gas,” said Coleman.

  “Here we go!” Serge reached into a bag of corn chips, and tossed a handful high into the air.

  Coleman ducked. “Where’d they come from?”

  “FBI surveillance team.” Serge tossed another handful toward the sky. Seagulls swarmed and cawed and fought each other for crumbs.

  Coleman held out his left arm. “Poop.”

  “We better back up.” Serge looked skyward. “Today’s forecast calls for a shitstorm.”

  “Damn!” Coleman felt the top of his head. “Another one got me. They’re following us.”

  “Because they think we have all the chips.” Serge stepped forward and dumped the rest of the bag liberally on the ground. And across Clyde.

  “Look at ’em go!” said Coleman. “They’re all over him. I think they’re accidentally pecking him going for the chips, and he doesn’t like it.”

  “What gives you that idea?”

  “Just listen.”

  “Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot! . . .”

  Serge doubled over again. “I don’t know why that’s so funny because it shouldn’t be.”

  “I can barely see him anymore because of all the feathers,” said Coleman.

  Serge raised a video camera. “And for the record, I used non-toxic kindergarten glue. No animals were harmed during the production of this film.”

  “The tooting stopped,” said Coleman.

  “There’s a good reason for that,” said Serge. “Watch.”

  It began slowly at first, then a growing fountain of white fizz shot up from the tube in the mouth tape.

  “You sure gave him a lot to think about,” said Coleman.

  “It’s kind of pretty, like those dancing-water fountains.”

  “But, Serge, there’s one thing I don’t get.” Coleman tightened the red ball on his nose. “How are birds eating chips off him supposed to teach any lessons?”

  “Seagulls are widely misunderstood creatures.” He zoomed in with the camera. “We think they’re cute little guys nibbling popcorn and tacos. But that’s just because they’re creatures of opportunity. Did you know that gulls often grab clams, mussels, crabs and even small turtles, then fly to great heights and drop them in parking lots to crack them open for food? Amazingly, that’s something they have to learn from scratch each generation because back thousands of years ago when genetic memory was forming their survival instincts, I don’t think they had much pavement.”

  “That’s trippy,” said Coleman.

  “But there’s more. We really don’t comprehend a seagull’s primal nature because all we observe is their behavior around us: ‘Let’s see. I can bust my ass flying around with this tortoise or, fuck it, I’ll just eat these onion rings.’ But in the absence of human handouts, they’re highly aggressive carnivores, often feasting on rodents, reptiles, amphibians, carrion. Even working in teams on severely injured larger prey that can’t escape.”

  “By the way, what were the safety goggles for?”

  “Gulls find the eyes tasty,” said Serge. “I have a weak stomach. Another favor I did him, but do I get any thanks?”

  “So which do you think will get him first?” asked Coleman. “The circles or the birds?”

  “It’s neck and neck,” said Serge.

  “The fizz is shooting higher.”

  “The circles have the edge.”

  “Hey, why is that one bird all pink?” asked Coleman.

  “I think it nicked his femoral artery,” said Serge. “The gulls have retaken the lead.”

  They stopped talking and watched the spectacle unfold a few more minutes.

  Coleman stowed his flask and raised his smoking device. “I have to admit, this is one of your cooler projects.”

  “Society has become too fast-paced and jaded.” Serge looked down at his clown suit, then the robot bong, then a corn-chip-covered hostage spewing fizz and blood through a blizzard of feathers. “But see all the fun you can have if you just leave your cell phone back in the room?”

  Chapter 8

  Four Years Earlier

  The office walls were concrete blocks painted with high-gloss institutional enamel. Framed photos, some decades old, hung sparsely. A couple of felt sports-team pennants. A bookshelf with trophies. The people in the photos wore football helmets.

  The desk was standard fare for high school coaches. In other words, junk. Anything nicer, and they’d lose credibility. Behind it, almost overwhelming the desk, sat someone whom the whole town had known and talked about for years. This was the result of both the man’s accomplishments and how small the town was.

  Back in the day, Lamar Calhoun had been a star running back for the Pahokee Blue Devils, helping claim their first state championship in 1989. He had that rare combination at his age of college-level speed and size. Lamar could cut back in the open field at such mystifying angles that he made the fastest safeties and cornerbacks look foolish. But his specialty was leaping over the defensive line in short-yardage situations. And if one of the linebackers did meet Lamar at the peak of his jump, well, he was just along for the ride, falling backward with Calhoun into the end zone.

  College scouts were all over him; cars practically lined up at the curb outside his house as a parade of famous coaches sat in the living room making offers, some quite generous, others NCAA violations. He left for an education in the Midwest. Everyone was certain they’d one day see him on television in an NFL uniform.

  Then nothing. It was like he had just vanished. People talked for a while, and there were the typical rumors. But then more high school seasons came and went, more state titles, and even more stars, many of them reaching the pros.

  Almost three decades later, when Lamar was all but forgotten, he was suddenly just back.

  It was minutes before the final bell of the day when he simply strolled in the front entrance of Pahokee High School. Word swept the hallways. People peeked in the widows of the principal’s office as faculty and the coaching staff surrounded the towering Lamar, showering praise and recounting glory on the nearby field.

  “Appreciate you stopping by.”

  “Glad you haven’t forgotten about us.”

  “So what brings you through town?”

  They all just figured he was a big deal somewhere else and had taken a detour on a business trip to see the school where it all began.

  “Actually, I’m not passing through,” said Lamar. “I’d like a job.”

  It got quiet in a hurry. Then stammering from the principal. “Well, uh, sure, I, I mean yeah; it’s just so out of the blue.”

  But it was Lamar after all. The principal said there was an assistant coach opening, running backs, no less, but . . . uh, they were a small-budget school. Would he mind also driving a school bus?

  “That’s great,” said Lamar. “Thanks.”

  The former gridiron legend smiled and shook hands all around and walked out of the office.

  Everyone stretched their necks to watch him leave, thinking: Who comes back to Pahokee?

  Lamar Calhoun sat in his coach’s office going over report cards. Player eligibility. Tutoring.

  There were some towel-snapping hijinks up the hall in the locker room. Calhoun shouted out the door to knock it off. It was quiet again. He looked back down at grades.

  A timid knock at the door and an equally timid vo
ice: “Coach C? Do you have a minute?”

  “You again?” He was annoyed but also amused. He made himself smile.

  A student walked in. “Have you thought any more about what we discussed?”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s just impossible,” said Lamar.

  “Why?” Chris took a seat on the other side of the desk. For the tenth time. Like a bad penny.

  “Don’t take this wrong, but you’re a girl,” said the coach. “Why don’t you try soccer?”

  “Because I want to play football,” said Chris. “I’ve seen stuff in the news. A few girls have actually made boys’ teams.”

  “And all of those were kickers,” said the coach. “You want to be a running back.”

  Chris nodded. “I’m pretty fast.”

  “Why are you pestering me instead of the head coach?”

  “Duh, because you’re the running-back coach.”

  Lamar sighed. “What grade are you in anyway?”

  “Junior high. Eighth.”

  “There you have it,” said Lamar, relieved at the conversational escape route. “You’ve got another year before you should be bothering me again. End of conversation.”

  He resumed going through report cards.

  Chris cleared her throat.

  The coach looked up and raised his hands in frustration. “What do you want from me?”

  “Make me a manager.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll carry water bottles, equipment, help with paperwork, anything. I just want to be around the team.”

  Lamar was actually smiling inside, but he’d learned that sometimes not being firm wasn’t doing anyone favors. “Check back in a year. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do . . .”

  Violent grunting and shouts. Shoulder pads crashed. A running back slammed into the defensive line and purely willed himself for a two-yard gain before the punishment of a gang tackle.

  A coach blew a whistle.

  Water break.

  The teenagers pulled off helmets and gathered round the coolers. Panting, dizzy, sweating, jerseys caked with dirt. They guzzled from paper cups, spitting most out and swallowing the rest. High school football practice was tough enough in the rest of the country, but rarely like out here in what they called The Muck, under the Florida sun in a withering soup of humidity from Lake Okeechobee and surrounding Everglades crop fields.