Coleman turned. “Someone’s getting married?”
“We were just talking about weddings, and one’s about to get started,” said Serge. “This gives me a chance.”
“For what?”
“To restore tradition,” said Serge. “Whole generations know not of the rice joy.”
“What about Grandma Petunia?”
“My solution is elegantly designed not to break any hips.”
Serge drove on until he found what he was looking for. The Plymouth skidded into a parking lot.
An hour later, the pair waited alone in front of the church.
“So we’re going to be wedding crashers?” asked Coleman.
“No, that would involve dishonesty,” said Serge. “But there’s nothing unethical about standing outside a church and rooting for strangers not to get divorced.”
“The doors are opening,” said Coleman.
“Here they come,” said Serge. “Get ready.”
Guests poured down the steps and formed crowds on each side of the walkway leading from the church. Finally, the happy newlyweds emerged. They headed down the walkway, showered with cheers and birdseed. They were halfway to their car at the curb when suddenly:
Plop . . . plop, plop, plop . . .
“What on earth?” said the bride.
Plop, plop, plop . . .
The groom looked up in rage. “Who’s throwing rice? Cooked rice?”
“Me!” Serge raised his hand. “Because I care! There’s no way those old geezers over there will crack their noggins.”
The groom looked down at his chest. “It’s brown! And greasy!”
Serge grinned sheepishly. “It’s pork fried rice. Sorry, I got a little hungry and that’s my favorite.” Plop, plop . . .
“My dress!” screamed the bride. “It’s ruined!”
“You bastards!”
Serge held out an innocent hand. “What? I’m so happy for you! This is your special day! Don’t get divorced!”
“Special day?”
“Yeah,” said Serge, “but keep up this kind of gloomy fixation on laundry and tonight you’ll be wanking off into a honeymoon suite bathrobe.”
“Fuckers!”
“Get ’em!”
“Coleman, time to run again.”
Serge easily slipped out of grasp as usual, and just as usual, Coleman was captured. They had him squirming by the arms, and Serge was about to disperse them with a display of the Colt .45 pistol in his waistband. But Coleman was even more effective at the task by jackknifing over and rainbow-vomiting a bouillabaisse of Southern Comfort and Cool Ranch Doritos across the hems of black tuxedo pants.
“Son of a bitch!”
The Plymouth patched out and raced north on Dixie Highway. They heard a banging sound from the trunk.
“Jesus, can’t I get any peace?” Serge slapped the steering wheel while fishing bullets from his pocket. “I’m being mellow, but everyone else is rowing against my harmony stream.”
On an overcast afternoon, a gold Satellite sat in the parking lot of a sub-budget motel on Highway A1A. Across the street, a nearly deserted beach in Fort Lauderdale. Purple clouds rolled in over the unstaffed vintage lifeguard stands. The sign above the motel office featured a smiling mermaid, in an attempt to make up for everything else.
Serge and Coleman crashed through the door of room 6.
“This is going to be the best party ever!” said Coleman, dumping a shopping bag on one of the beds and chugging from a bottle of Jack.
“Damn straight,” said Serge, emptying his own bag. “We’re going old school. And if you’re going old school, then go all the way!”
“You don’t mean—?”
“That’s right!” said Serge. “Kindergarten!”
“Man,” said Coleman. “That’s off the hook.”
“Those were the last of the truly great days,” said Serge, pawing through his new stuff on the mattress. “All fun all the time, running around screaming on the playground, crayons and construction paper, those little milk cartons and nap time. No grade-point average yet, no pressure whatsoever except tying your shoes and trying not to spit up.”
“But then the janitor could always come with the sawdust,” said Coleman.
“It was like watching a miracle,” said Serge. “The first time I saw it, I didn’t give the sawdust a snowball’s chance, but then damn! For a while, life was perfect. If there’s ever a problem, just throw sawdust on it and everything will be lollipops and unicorns again. And one evening my mom was sitting at the kitchen table, crying over a pile of unpaid bills. She suddenly sits up straight and starts brushing all this stuff out of her hair: ‘Serge, what the hell?’ I say, ‘Sawdust, Mom. Everything’s okay now.’ But instead I got a time-out in the corner. That was the death of innocence.”
“Look at all this cool stuff on the bed!” said Coleman.
“And not a speck of digital.” Serge stood. “That’s how we lost our way.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get the rest of our haul out of the car. I’ll need your help.”
It had been a whirlwind shopping spree, with stops at quite varied retail outlets until brimming bags filled the car. After several unloading trips, Serge and Coleman were safely ensconced back in the room, enthusiastically sorting their recent purchases on the bed. Paste, safety scissors, pipe cleaners, finger paints, glitter, tinfoil, clothespins, buttons, Play-Doh.
Coleman picked up a couple of the buttons. They were clear, with something round inside that rolled around. “What are these?”
“Eyes you glue on a drawing of a bear or something to make him look wacky.”
Coleman held the buttons over his own eyes. “Serge, what do you think?”
“Overkill.”
Coleman cast them aside and picked up the scissors. “Remember in kindergarten when you could make a costume out of just a pillowcase?”
“That was the best!” Serge grabbed a sixty-four-count box of Crayolas. “You cut holes for your head and arms and could color whatever your imagination dreamed up. You could be anyone you wanted.”
“I was an Indian for Thanksgiving,” said Coleman. “What about you?”
“Chief Justice Warren.”
“Hey, let’s make costumes!”
“Great idea!”
They dashed toward the head of a bed and stripped cases off pillows.
Coleman plopped down at a table and grabbed crayons. “Do you think the motel will mind?”
“We’ll just slip them back on the pillows when we’re done. They’ve seen worse.”
Coleman leaned over the table, ready to go. “What do you think our costumes should be?”
Serge grabbed a blue crayon. “Superheroes. The pillowcases will imbue us with special powers.”
“What hero are you going to be?”
“It’s a secret.” Serge began coloring furiously. “And don’t tell me yours either until you’re done.”
“I love surprises.” Coleman joined in the vigorous scribbling. “So where’d you get this idea for a kindergarten party, anyway?”