“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.