Serge intently colored on his own case. “You know how sometimes I like to leave my cell phone in the car and take off on foot?”
“I’ve been wondering why you do that.”
“You take away someone’s phone today, and it’s like you’ve cut off their oxygen. They can’t survive,” said Serge. “But kids used to spend entire childhoods without phones and do just fine. That’s why it’s essential to leave my phone in the car every so often. My wallet, too. Because I have no money or credit cards, it recalibrates my senses back to grade school, forcing me to appreciate all the free stuff in life, like skipping or rolling around in the grass for no reason. It’s about rekindling the lost art of being silly.”
“I remember that one time you left your phone and wallet behind, and you were hanging upside down on the monkey bars, making farting sounds with your hands on your mouth.”
“And the park officials made us leave just for that? I even explained it was part of my phone-and-wallet-free therapy, like EST, insulin shock or primal scream.”
“I think you were freaking everyone out.”
“They said it was inappropriate behavior for an adult, which I explained was the exact kind of thinking that now has everyone at each other’s throats.” Serge grabbed a different color crayon and scribbled. “Anyway, I realized I was severely limiting myself with those brief childlike excursions. I needed to invoke the Total Kindergarten Protocol. But of course society isn’t ready, like the monkey-bar fiasco or how they laughed when the Beatles joined that ashram in India. So we need the privacy of a motel room.”
“What do you do for this proto —. . . proto —. . .”
“Protocol,” said Serge. “In order to cleanse ourselves of the toxicity from the growing-up process, we must revert and do nothing beyond the level of a five-year-old.”
“Cool.” Coleman grabbed a crayon in one hand and a bottle with the other. Chug, chug, chug.
“Ahem!”
Coleman looked up. “What?”
“I don’t think Jack Daniel’s is on the lunch menu next to the beanie weenies.”
“Oh, judge me for a little snort?” Coleman pointed with a yellow crayon. “I don’t remember that from childhood.”
Serge looked over at a man tied to a motel room chair and gagged with duct tape. He slapped himself in the forehead. “I’d completely forgotten about Clyde.”
Coleman scoffed sarcastically. “Did you tie people up in kindergarten?”
Serge walked over to the hostage. “Actually, there was this one incident. It’s pretty funny now, but at the time: ‘Where the hell did Little Serge get all that rope?’”
The hostage wiggled violently. “Mmmmm! Mmmmm!”
Coleman grabbed the bottle of whiskey and resumed coloring. “Sounds like he wants to tell you something.” Chug, chug, chug.
Serge rapped knuckles on Clyde’s forehead like it was a door. “Is that true?”
Vigorous nodding.
“Promise not to yell?”
More nodding.
Serge quickly ripped off the tape.
“Owwwwwwwww!”
“I thought you promised?”
“Please don’t hurt me!”
“Hurt you?” said Serge, innocently pointing to his own chest. “Oh, I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
Serge gestured toward the arts-and-crafts table. “First I need to continue my kindergarten reversion therapy, and then we’ll have an after-school party. How about it? . . .” His gleeful expression became a frown. “What? You don’t like parties? You’re not in a festive mood? . . . Then you leave me no choice . . .”
Serge turned his back to Clyde and bent over a bed.
“No! Please! Whatever you’re thinking . . .”
Serge spun back around. Two buttons were over his eyes. He shook his head back and forth, and the little objects in the buttons rattled around in circles. He removed the buttons. “Pretty wacky, eh?”
Clyde just whimpered.
“Jesus,” said Serge. “I give and I give.” He tore off another long strip of tape and forcefully wrapped it over Clyde’s mouth again. Terrified eyes looked up at him.
“Hold that thought,” said Serge. “I’ll be back after I’m a superhero . . . But you can’t tell anyone my true identity.”
There were a number of stray crayon marks on the table, but Coleman was able to get most on the pillowcase.
Serge sat back down. “Wow, you’re really going at it!”
“Yep, I dig kindergarten.” Scribble, scribble, chug, chug. “And I’m just about done . . . There!” Coleman beamed proudly as he held his case up to Serge.
“It’s wonderful! It’s . . . It’s . . .” Serge didn’t want to discourage his buddy. “Absolutely fantastic! . . . Uh, what is it?”
“Can’t you tell by the shield on the chest?”
“All I can make out are the letters B and M,” said Serge. “I hope that’s not supposed to be bowel—”
“Of course not.” Still smiling wide. “Don’t you get it? I’m Bong Man!”
“I think it’s safe to say that this particular superhero name isn’t taken yet.” Serge scratched his head. “But you don’t have a superpower.”
“Oh, I’ve got a superpower all right.” Coleman grabbed the safety scissors. “It’s a doozy!”
“What is it?”
“Just go back to your own pillowcase, and by the time you’re done, I’ll show you.”
“If you say so.” Serge resumed scribbling, skeptically watching Coleman out of the corner of his eye. What’s that idiot doing?
Coleman had become a rare blur of industriousness. Construction paper, glue, tape and most of their other supplies came into play.
It was a race to the finish, and it was a tie.
Serge slapped down a crayon. “I’m done.”
Coleman tossed an extra clothespin on the table. “Me too.” Like poker players: “Show me what you got.”
Serge held up a pillowcase with flamingos, rockets, sailfish, race cars, Cinderella’s castle, Bok Tower and the lighthouse on Key Biscayne. In the middle, Serge had his own chest shield.
“What does the CF stand for?” asked Coleman.
“Captain Florida.”
“What’s your superpower?”
“I can name the state’s sixty-seven counties in under a minute, sometimes.” Serge pulled off his T-shirt and tried on the pillowcase. “Your turn. What are you hiding under the table?”
“Close your eyes and promise not to peek.”
Serge did. He heard the unmistakable telltale sound of a Bic lighter coming to life. Then a familiar smell of smoke.
“Hey,” said Coleman. “I didn’t say you could open your eyes yet.”
Serge’s jaw came unhinged. “Your superpower is that you can make a bong out of ordinary kindergarten craft supplies?”
“Pretty super if you ask me.” Puff, puff, puff.
Serge sat back and studied the contraption, held together solely with glue and tape, plus pipe cleaners and clothespins for extremities. Colorful construction paper was bent and rolled and folded like the work of an origami expert. “Coleman, your bong, is that a robot?”