Two men in green outfits stood on the corner.
Cars automatically hit the brakes as they approached the intersection.
“You’re right,” said Coleman. “They’re actually slowing down.”
“Told you,” said Serge. “Every year there’s newspaper stories of cops who dress up as holiday characters to catch speeders. So I figured since we already have the costumes, and these assholes drive way too fast in a neighborhood full of kids…”
“That doesn’t look like a radar gun.”
“It’s not,” said Serge, aiming at another car that slammed the brakes. “It’s just a black caulking gun from Home Depot.”
“Wouldn’t a hair dryer work better?” asked Coleman. “Why not use that instead of a caulking gun?”
“Because I don’t want to look foolish.”
Coleman watched another driver slam on the brakes. “You sure we won’t get in trouble doing this?”
“There’s no law against standing on a street corner dressed like an elf and pointing caulking guns at traffic. That’s the whole problem with the general population: They’re blind to the obvious possibilities.”
“But isn’t it against the law to impersonate police officers?”
“I’d say the elf suits are a good defense that we’re making a strong effort not to look like cops.”
“But you said they dress up like holiday characters to catch speeders.”
“That’s right.” Serge aimed the caulking gun at an approaching car. “It’s the police who are impersonating elves. We’re the ones who should have the beef.”
Crash!
“Serge.” Coleman pointed at steam shooting out from under a hood. “That guy hit the brakes when he saw your caulking gun, and the other guy rear-ended him.”
The drivers were out of their cars, cursing each other in the street. Just about to come to blows.
“Everybody just calm down!” yelled Serge, running into the road. “You were speeding, and you were following too close. But since it’s so close to Christmas, I’m going to let you off with a warning.” He began walking away.
One of the motorists: “Thank you, officer.”
“Oh, I’m not a police officer,” said Serge. “Just a concerned elf with a caulking gun. Please drive safely.”
They went back to the house.
An hour later, electrical cords crisscrossed the lawn.
Serge stood at the top of a ladder, one step above where the warning label said not to step above. “Coleman, hand me another string of lights.”
“I’m tired.”
“Just hand ’em!”
Coleman grudgingly complied, reaching into an enormous box at his feet. “You bought twenty cases of lights. It filled the whole car and trunk, and I had to sit with the last box in my lap.”
“This is going to be the best display in the whole city!.. Give me another string.”
Coleman handed it up. “But why do we have to go through all this work if we’re just going to take it all down in a couple weeks?”
“Because that’s the true meaning of Christmas. Running up the December electric bill.” Serge draped another strand over a palm frond.
“How much more do we have to do?”
“Almost finished.” Serge jumped down from the ladder. “We covered all the shrubs, and the roof, and palm trees, and garbage cans, and the pile of yard waste, and the broken washing machine we rolled down to the curb. And just in time because it’s starting to get dark. I can’t wait to turn it all on and win total respect from the street.”
“What about that giant display on the next block with the inflatable snowman and life-size reindeer?”
“That guy’s obsessive. The street will just think he’s weird like the people who fill their yards with birdbaths and Roman statuary.”
“Serge, the sun’s almost down and you have four cases left. I don’t think we’re going to make it.”
“I will if you don’t slow me down.” Serge tore open a cardboard flap. “Here, take some lights from this case and make your own decoration.”
“Where?”
“The blank spot on the wall next to the front windows. Use this special tape.”
Serge resumed with accelerated motion, frantically festooning case after case. Coleman slowly taped up a few strings of his own lights.
A half hour later, they finished at the same time. Serge beamed with pride. “There! Now, to set the whole neighborhood ablaze with good cheer!”
He grabbed the main power supply cable from the house, ready to plug it into the primary string of lights. “Countdown! Five, four, three, two, one-”
A screech of tires. A GTX with gold rims skidded up to the curb in front of the Davenport residence.
Serge squinted and growled.
Inside the car, heavy necking.
“Wow,” said Coleman. “They’re really going at it.”
“Mr. Snake is getting on my last nerve. Nicole is just a kid.”
“They’re going at it even more.”
Serge stepped forward for a better view. “That’s too much activity for making out. Something’s not right.”
“Maybe they’re doing it.”
“Shut up, Coleman.”
From the car: “Stop! Let go of me! I said stop!..”
“Look,” said Coleman. “He’s grabbing her wrists. Now she’s screaming bloody murder.”
“Motherfucker!” Serge was ready to blast into a sprint.
Coleman became puzzled. “Why are you stopping?”
“Over there.” Serge pointed. “The front door opened. Jim’s running down to the street. It will be better in Nicole’s eyes if her father rescues her.”
The screaming brought other neighbors out onto their porches, just in time to see Jim reach the car. He opened the passenger door and pulled Nicole free. They both tumbled backward onto the lawn.
The driver’s door flew open. Snake raced around the car, tackling Jim. He jumped on top and began smashing away with pile-driver fists. Jim covered up the best he could, but still took an ugly beating to the face. Nicole jumped on Snake’s back. “Get off my father!”
Snake turned and gave her a wicked backhand slap across the face, knocking the girl to the ground. Then returned his attention to Jim, pummeling away again.
Suddenly Jim felt Snake’s deadweight collapse on him. He slowly uncovered his eyes to see Serge standing over them with brass knuckles on his right hand.
“Daddy!” Nicole crawled over, crying, and pushed Snake off him. “You’re bleeding!”
“I’m okay, honey.” Jim got up and hugged his daughter. Then he looked over at Serge. “Thank you.”
Serge’s mouth was solemn. “You two just go in the house.”
Jim looked down. “But what about-”
“Don’t worry about him,” said Serge. “Forget all this happened. Right now you need to get inside and take care of each other.”
Jim nodded, and he and Nicole walked toward the porch steps with arms around each other.
A shuttle bus pulled up the driveway at Bayshore Manors.
The staff gingerly helped four elderly women out of the vehicle.
The facility’s director came out in alarm. “Where’d you find them?”
“A club in Ybor City,” said the driver. “With shirtless male bartenders.”
“How’d they get the shuttle bus?”
A shrug.
“Okay, take them inside. It’s getting late…”
The quartet of women shuffled into the dayroom to watch Seinfeld in syndication.
“They caught us,” said Edna.
“So what?” said Edith. “They just brought us back. I told you we wouldn’t get in trouble.”
“They’re going to do something,” said Eunice.
“No they’re not.”
One of the caregivers walked over with a look of concern. “You really had us scared. Please don’t do that again.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
The woman walked away.
Edith smiled at the others. “See?”
“Well, at least it was fun while it lasted,” said Ethel.
“What are you talking about?” said Edith. “That just whetted my appetite.”
“But they locked up the keys to the shuttle bus,” said Eunice. “We won’t be able to get away now.”
“So we’ll call a cab.”
“And do what?” said Ethel.
“We need to hook up with someone we already know, for safe harbor.” Edith got up and shuffled across the room. “So they won’t be able to track us down next time.”
“Where are you going?” asked Edna.
“To the computers.”
“I don’t think they’ll let us on after what we pulled today,” said Ethel.
“Of course they will,” said Edith. “They’re always encouraging us to get online and keep our minds sharp.”
A few minutes later, the rest of the G-Unit huddled around Edith, tapping away on the keyboard.
“Facebook?” said Edna.
Tap, tap, tap. “You can find anybody on Facebook.” A few more keystrokes. Edith sat back, gesturing at the screen. “And I just found him.”
“ That guy?” said Ethel.
Edith leaned forward again and typed. “I’ll just send him a message, and then we wait and keep checking the computer until he responds.”
“How do you know he’ll respond?”
“I hit him with a snowball.”
Two hours after sunset. Four lawn chairs sat in a row on the front yard, facing the house.
A patio table at the end, with bottles of booze and an ashtray full of roaches.
“Hurry up already!” said City.
Country took a hit and stubbed out another joint. “Stupid Christmas lights. This better be good.”
“It’s going to be great!” said Serge. He held a pair of electric cords a few inches apart. “Countdown: three, two, one!” He plugged them in.
Their faces lit up with awe at the bright, reflected light of over a thousand colorful little bulbs.
“Ooooooooooo.”
Even City and Country were impressed.
“I especially like what you did with the palm trees,” said City.
“Looks like a Corona beer ad,” said Country. She turned back to the house. “But what’s that dark spot. The lights didn’t go on.”
“That’s Coleman’s project.”
“Serge,” asked Coleman. “Can I do mine now?”
“Just one second,” said Serge. “I want to set the mood. Did you know that the first Christmas ever celebrated in North America took place in the Sunshine State? It’s true: In 1539, the discoverer Hernando de Soto held festivities in Tallahassee, and since it’s Florida, the spot is now marked by a kiosk.” Serge looked up at the stars. “What must it have been like in such a pioneering time to experience Christmas in the yet-unexploited peninsula. Better still, what if de Soto had Christmas lights? These are the questions that need to be asked. What kind of decoration would such a courageous explorer create to commemorate the first Christmas in the New World? Let us pretend.” Serge turned to his pal. “Go for it!”
Coleman held his own electrical cords. “Three, two, one!” He plugged them in. “Cool!”
The others stared curiously at the strands of Christmas lights forming an outline on the wall of a giant dick and balls.
“De Soto had unusual tastes,” said Serge.
Across the street, Martha Davenport watched through the window with binoculars. The last set of lights caught her attention. “What the-?”
Serge stood up. “But we’re not finished! My finest hour awaits!” He walked to the porch and returned with bigger wires and a control box like he was going to run a toy train set.
“What’s that stuff?” asked Coleman.
“I got the idea from when I used to have a toy train set.” Serge patted the control box. “I customized this from parts I bought at Radio Hut. The two big dials are variable voltage controls. I twist them back and forth to brighten and dim the lights.”
“What for?”
“The crowning jewel of my kick-out-the-jams Christmas display! It’s like building models as a kid. And what was the best part of building models?”
“That’s easy,” said Coleman. “Blowing them up with M-80s.”
“Except I’m not going to blow something up. Actually sort of, but not really, but, well, you’ll see.”
Coleman reached in his pocket. “I definitely need to blow some gage for this.”
“Mellow,” said Serge. “We’re on a neighborhood street. It’s bad enough Country finished that last roach out here. We don’t need to do anything strange to attract attention.”
“I got the answer.” Coleman snapped his fingers. “I’ll use a one-hitter that looks like a cigarette.”
“Regular brain trust out here.”
Coleman packed the end of a thin metal tube painted white. “But those wires don’t look like the others.”
“Because they’re not.” Serge held one up for illustration. “My crown jewel needed more amperage, so I ran these special high-capacity extension cords from one of those weird outlets behind the oven in our kitchen. Then I spliced the control box to manipulate the effect. You know those crazy Christmas displays on YouTube where the lights dance to music?”
Coleman passed the hitter to Country. “There’s going to be music?”
“No, but some serious audio. I was going to do this project anyway, but then a special feature fell into my lap…”
From the darkness: “You’re a dead man! I am so going to kill you!”
Coleman turned to Serge. “I don’t think Mr. Snake is enjoying this as much as we are.”
“Because he doesn’t have a personal involvement in the project like us. But that’s about to change in a big way.”
Serge reached for the left dial and ever so slowly turned it clockwise. Lights grew brighter.
The foursome raised their eyes. Snake sat in a chair at the very top of the roof, wrapped countless times with rope and Christmas lights… Getting brighter…
Coleman leaned over. “What’s the second dial?”
“Volume control.”
Coleman strained for a look at the roof. “I don’t see any speakers.”
“Snake is our speaker.”
“But how…?”
“You know all those piercings he has?”
“Like a pincushion.”
“The other dial controls a second set of lights, except I removed the lights and wired their sockets to his piercings.”
Coleman took a hit. “Righteous.”
“Observe.” Serge looked up and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Are you going to stay away from Nicole?”
“Fuck you! I’ll do whatever I want!”
A quick twist of the dial.
“Ahhhhhh!.. Dammit!”
“And I also want you to stay away from Jim and his whole family.”
“Eat shit!.. Ahhhhh!.. Stop doing that!”
Serge winked at Coleman. “I think you get the picture.”
“But, Serge,” said Coleman, glancing up the street at people on porches. “Aren’t you worried about the neighbors calling the police?”
“I have a strong feeling they’re with me on this one. Everyone loves Christmas displays.”
“So you’re going to keep asking him questions like that until he agrees?”
Serge shook his head. “I’m not really interested in anything he has to say. Certain personality types tend to pull you into negativity. It’s best not to dwell on them… Especially when we’re out here to enjoy a special holiday moment.”
“Rock on, dude!”
“The key is to twist the dials simultaneously, so the lights are in sync with the audio. I’ll start with an easy one. Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.”
Dials twisted four times.
“Ahh! Ahh! Ahh!.. Ahhhhhhhh!”
“Sounds just like it,” said Coleman.
And so Serge ran through a full program of songs.
“What was that last one?” asked Coleman.
“ ‘Flight of the Bumblebee.’ ” Serge pulled the control box close. “And now the grand finale. I’m just going to use the left dial, ever so slowly increasing the current to the lights. And because those lights aren’t designed to stand the kind of power for an oven, they’ll begin to explode individually, like popcorn in a microwave. The bulbs’ filaments will burn out pretty quick, but also pretty hot.”
“Will it electrocute him?”
“No, but he won’t like it.”
The dial began turning.
At first a few isolated pops spaced out seconds apart. Then, in rapid succession: pop, pop, pop, pop, pop…
It continued in a sadistic drumroll until the last light finally exploded.
From the roof: “Okay, okay, you win! I’ll never go near Nicole or her family again!”
Neighbors on porches up and down Triggerfish Lane uniformly broke into applause.
Serge glanced at Coleman. “Like I said, total respect.”