Cocoa Beach
A gold Plymouth sat in a parking space. The sign on the motel roof was a rocket ship. A broken ice machine stood next to the dumpster.
Serge dragged a chair across the mauve carpet of room number 7.
A belch from the bathroom. Coleman emerged guzzling a bottle of Boone’s Farm, then bites of jerky. “What are you doing?”
Serge was sitting with his face a few inches from the TV tube. “Ruining my eyes.”
Coleman glanced at the screen. “Another protest march?”
“The new women’s movement,” said Serge. “I’m forcing it on myself.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m embarrassed by my gender.” Serge’s eyes followed the sign-waving parade. “I’m in total solidarity with everything the protesters stand for. But something has become increasing clear to me: Because I’m a man, I’m not reminded fifty times a day of the shit women are expected to put up with. And I thought I was worldly-wise.”
“You’re not?”
“Until now, my experience has been limited to witnessing the cliché construction workers catcalling to the fairer sex. But I figured Darwin already had that one covered. I mean, when in the course of human history has that ever worked? Some woman in a business suit is hurrying down the sidewalk, and suddenly a guy in a hard hat starts whistling and making slurping sounds and yelling, ‘Give me some of that pussy!’ . . . And the woman stops in her tracks: ‘Hold on a minute. I’ve got my priorities all screwed up. Forget that big board meeting I’m heading to. Why yes, I will give him pussy.’”
“That’s pretty bad,” said Coleman. “And you’re saying it’s even worse?”
“Way worse.” Serge inched closer to the TV. “My mistake is that all these years, I’ve been projecting. In other words, if some notion can’t remotely enter my head, I figured other guys were the same. And if it wasn’t for newspapers, I never would have imagined that all across the country, men are just pulling out their dicks in unwelcome settings.”
“Really?”
“And I’m not talking about Sterno bums or bowery flashers. I’m referring to wealthy, famous, powerful men who are supposedly educated. It’s happening in hallways, elevators, during innocuous conversations in hospitality suites.”
“It’s just not right,” said Coleman.
“You’d think this would go without saying, but as a general rule of thumb, if you’re chatting with some woman you’ve just met, your best foot forward isn’t to start spanking the monkey.”
“That’s obvious even to me,” said Coleman. “I get embarrassed if there’s a cat in the room.”
“Speaking of cats in the room . . .”
Serge turned toward yet another motel room chair with a bound and gagged guest, wedged away in the far corner.
“He’s been so quiet that I completely forgot about him,” said Coleman. He covered his own face with a hand. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Why?”
“When you left me here and went to the store,” said Coleman. “I think he saw me.”
“Saw you? Doing what? . . . Wait, don’t answer that. I think I’m getting the picture.”
“I made some noises, too.”
“For the love of God, please stop! It’s going to be hard enough getting the image out of my head without audio as well.” Serge walked over to the hostage. “I think you traumatized him. They may be naming a new syndrome after you.”
He ripped duct tape off the mouth. “Sorry about my friend,” said Serge. “That should be more than enough punishment for you, but I don’t make the rules.”
“Please let me go! I did everything you asked!” Whimpering. “I went to the bank with you and got a certified check for those people . . .”
Serge held up a driver’s license. “What’s wrong with Malcolm Reynolds Greely? Much better than Tyler or Nicholas.”
“How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?”
“Yeah, but you don’t mean it.” Serge tossed the license in the trash and taped the captive’s mouth shut again. He grabbed a shopping bag off the dresser.
Coleman came over. “Is that what you bought at the store while I was—”
“Shut up! The image was almost gone.” Serge walked over and dumped the bag on the bed.
“What’s that stuff?” asked Coleman.
“Everything I need for my next science project.”
Coleman picked up each item in turn. “A barber’s electric razor, cheese grater, box of small trash bags and . . . I don’t recognize this thing.”
“It’s a time lock.” Serge picked up the razor. “A lot like a regular padlock, but you can set the timer to open it at a preordained point in the future.”
“This isn’t much stuff,” said Coleman. “Usually your projects are a lot more complicated.”
“It’ll be more than enough.”
“So what’s the timer for anyway?”
“I’ve fallen into a rut,” said Serge. “Different day, same shit. Into the trunk, out of the trunk, into the chair, duct tape, blah, blah, blah . . . But even though this started out predictable, I’m throwing in a twist at the end so nobody can say I was snoozing at the wheel.”
“You’re just being responsible.”
Serge walked over to Malcolm and held up the razor. “A little off the top? . . . Ha! Ha! Ha! . . . Just kidding. Actually a lot off the top.”
“Mmmmmmm! Mmmmmmm!”
Serge flicked on the razor and placed it at the back of Malcolm’s head just above the neck. He pushed the device upward and deep. Huge clumps of hair fell off the front of the razor as it continued over the top of the captive’s scalp, right down the middle, until it reached the edge of his forehead.
Serge turned off the razor. “There you go. I hear reverse mohawks are coming into style.” Next he grabbed the cheese grater. “I’d be lying if I said this won’t hurt . . . Coleman, grab a towel and come here!” He placed the grater where he’d just shaved and began rubbing.
“Mmmmmm! Mmmmmm!”
“Pipe down,” said Serge. “I’m only using the extra-fine side.”
Coleman arrived with the towel. “Here you go . . . Jesus, he’s bleeding.”
“Just a few scrapes.” He tossed the grater on one of the beds and applied the towel. “Coleman, hold this in place while I go out to the car.”
Serge ran out the door.
Coleman bent down to the captive’s face and whispered. “Malcolm, is it? Listen, what you saw earlier? I’d really appreciate it if we could keep that between you and me. If it ever got back to my mom—”
Serge returned. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothin’.”
Serge placed a clear rectangle on the bed.
“Hey, I remember that,” said Coleman. “It’s the storage bin you were putting bacon strips in down on Big Pine Key.”
“And it worked. You can let go of the towel.”