“What do they do with it?”
“Save it for the breakup,” said Serge. “And it’s never pretty: ‘You know how you said I could trust you and ask the most embarrassing thing that you’d like me to do in bed? Well, I have a request . . .’ And the next thing you know, a bunch of coworkers are in their cubicles glued to a text video involving handcuffs and a zucchini.”
“Ouch.”
Serge shrugged. “If those people are going to judge me on that . . . I mean, it was someone else.”
The Plymouth began curling around the northwest shore of the lake. A roar came up from behind and whipped past in the opposite lane.
Coleman’s head spun as he grabbed the dash. “There must be twenty motorcycles!”
“It’s a popular touring route for them,” said Serge. “Which means we’re on the right track. Bikers are a noble breed, stripping away pretense to live in the now. You can always count on them to bird-dog the finest scenic byways.”
More wetlands and vines and scrub brush went by. Drivers in other vehicles wearing camo baseball caps and pulling airboats.
“Now we’re talking!” said Serge. “Florida’s bayou country, the whole area like a Credence Clearwater album!”
He fumbled to start a boom box.
“. . . Comin’ up around the bend . . .”
The scraggly vegetation gave way to wild palms surrounding the first wisps of the mobile-home parks.
Serge nodded to himself in contentment. “Lake Okeechobee is Florida’s heart, and its beat ripples a pulse far and wide.”
“I thought the lake was the moon,” said Coleman.
“Since when are you listening to me?”
The road wound past more evidence of population hugging the edge of the lake. RV dealerships and RV parks. Bass boats, a country store, a honky-tonk bar, a swamp buggy on tank treads. Signs for gravel and cremation. Then the trailer parks. Trailers on wheels, trailers on blocks, trailers on slabs. Trailers with screened porches, hot tubs and gazebos. There were flowerpots with no flowers, decorative stone turtles next to real ones, and a mailbox shaped like a lighthouse. Someone was casting a fishing line on his front lawn, and someone else walked by on the side of the road in shorts, sandals and a Santa Claus hat, indicating the breadth of the human condition.
Then the local economy. Big Lake Eye Care, Big Lake Bail Bonds, the Big “O” Flea Market.
American flags everywhere.
Another roar came up behind the Plymouth. Coleman turned around. “A bunch more bikers.” They began streaming by the Plymouth. “Except these are all the three-wheel kind. Why are they riding separate from the others?”
“Probably unresolved tension between the groups that goes way back to an incident nobody can remember now,” said Serge. “Most likely a few too many longnecks on a Sunday afternoon, and then one guy started some shit about the number of tires, threats were made, women disrespected. Best to let them sort it out among themselves.”
The Plymouth reached the outskirts of the civilization. Signs for bait, fishing licenses and fried catfish.
“Where are we?” asked Coleman.
“The city of Okeechobee, also known as Cow Town.” The Plymouth pulled into a parking lot. “We need to resupply before our excellent visit.”
Twenty minutes later, they came out of the store. Coleman was pushing a shopping cart, and Serge was dragging a sales receipt across the pavement. He suddenly stopped and violently balled it up. Then into a garbage can—“Motherfucker!”—slamming the lid five times.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Soon, they were checking into another economy motel. This one had a warning sign at the reception desk.
Coleman moved his lips as he read. “Serge, what are blind mosquitoes?”
“Tiny suckers that don’t bite but sometimes swarm in biblical numbers off the lake after dark, and you have to keep your mouth closed unless you want extra protein. But they can still get in your eyes, ears and nose.”
“Jesus.”
“They’re attracted to light, so that’s why that sign asks guests to turn off all the lamps before leaving the room in the evening and close the door quickly. It’s a whole different set of rules out here, and they’re not in the humans’ favor.”
A young wrangler-Jane type stood behind the counter with a genuine smile. “I wouldn’t worry too much. The mosquitoes are bad on the few nights they’re out, but it’s mostly quiet. What freaks newcomers most are the frogs.”
“Frogs?” said Serge.
She nodded and held her hands apart a good half foot. “We have these giant ones that come out after a big rain, and people open their doors at night and see them all over the sidewalk and parking lot. They’re harmless, but sometimes one or two will hop in a room. That’s a lot of my night service calls.”
“Service calls?”
Another nod. “I have to go in rooms and capture them because people say they can’t sleep with those things under their bed making noise and just being creepy, and they’re too squeamish to catch them on their own . . . So what are you fellas doing in town?”
“Historical research,” said Serge. “Following connective tissue.”
“History? Really?” She brightened further. “I love history!” She got out a paper and pen and began jotting feverishly. “Here are the area’s high points . . .” She got to the bottom of the page. “. . . Finally, don’t forget the Brighton Seminole reservation. There’s a visitors’ center with exhibits and souvenirs, plus they have a twenty-four-hour casino where you don’t have to dress up. I usually go in my pajamas.”
They retired to the room as the sun began to set.
Coleman stood in amazement. “This is like the best budget place we’ve ever stayed in. It’s got a giant full kitchen and everything!”
“Scoped it out years ago, and now it’s the only place I’ll stay around here.” Serge hung his toiletry bag on a mirror. “Where else can you rent a former condo unit at a bargain price? And there’s always vacancy. That’s why I’m keeping it a secret.”
Rinnnnng! Rinnnnng!
Serge jumped. “What the fuck was that?”
“The phone,” said Coleman.
“Of course it’s the phone! But who could possibly know we’re here?”
Rinnnnng! Rinnnnng!
Serge gingerly picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Hi! It’s me, Cheyenne, from the front desk. I just thought of a couple more places that I forgot when I was making your list. Have a pen handy?”
Serge urgently lunged toward writing materials like he was taking a call for ransom demands. “Hit me!”
The call eventually ended, and the receiver went back in its cradle.
“Who was that?” asked Coleman.
“Our little history helper from the front desk. My love for country folk just keeps growing.”
The pair commenced their respective chores. Coleman spread dope on the counter and swilled malt liquor. Serge unpacked notebooks, guidebooks, pamphlets, and recording devices. Coleman made a bong from a souvenir plastic cowboy-hat penny bank that he’d bought at the store.