A phone rang.
“I got it.” Jim Davenport set down tools to hang a painting and picked up the receiver. “Hello?… Yes, this is the Davenports’
… Uh-huh, right, we were there yesterday… What?… No, we don’t know anything about that… I see… That’s unusual… I don’t know; I’ll have to ask her…”
“Who is it?” Martha yelled from the kitchen.
“Excuse me a second.” Jim covered the phone. “It’s the mall.”
“What do they want?”
“About your complaint. They got your message and want to talk.”
“Good.” Martha walked out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. “I’m glad to see at least someone takes this sort of thing seriously.”
“I think they’re actually more interested in something else. That mall cop is in the hospital. They suspect some kind of fight in a restroom, although he’s claiming he was attacked. They’ve put him on suspension until they finish the investigation.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“You left your complaint about the same time. They just want to know what you might have seen.”
Martha held out her hand. “Let me talk to him… Hello? Yes, this is Martha Davenport… But it will be completely confidential, right?… Okay, I saw him behaving unprofessionally toward a group of small children. And he was extremely rude to me… No, nothing about any attack… Well, who does he say attacked him?… Elves?…”
Jim fell into a chair, knocking over a lamp.
“Jim, are you okay?”
“Just slipped… I’ll get the dustpan. Don’t step on the lightbulb pieces.”
Back into the phone: “No, I’m still here… As a matter of fact I do remember some elves… Yeah, and I was remarking to my husband that they seemed to be following him… A tall one and a chubby one
… What do you mean your mall doesn’t employ elves? I wasn’t seeing things… Could you repeat that last part?… The guard claims the elves mentioned our name? That’s weird…”
Jim returned with the dustpan. Martha covered the phone. “Jim, they say the elves mentioned our name.” Then into the phone: “I’ll have to call you back. There’s something wrong with my husband. But I demand that man be fired for his earlier behavior, regardless of your investigation.”
She hung up and set the phone down. “Jim, you look like you’re having a stroke. What’s going on?”
Jim let go of the wall. “Just some saliva went down my windpipe.”
Martha headed back to the kitchen, eyeing Jim as she went. “You’ve been acting awfully strange lately.”
Jim craned his neck and watched until she’d disappeared around the corner. Then he ran both hands through his hair. “Whew. That was close.” He picked up his tools to screw in the anchor bolt for the painting.
The doorbell rang.
“I got it.” He set down a screwdriver and answered the door.
“Jim!”
“Ahhhh!”
Jim jumped out onto the porch and slammed the door behind him. Frantic whispering: “Serge, what are you doing here? You can’t let Martha see you!”
“I brought a welcome basket!” Serge raised it by the wicker handle. “It’s got cellophane and fake grass and everything. There’s the cheese wheel-”
“Serge! I’ve got to get you off the porch before Martha comes out here!”
“Why?” asked Serge. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
The door opened. “Jim, who rang the-”
Serge smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Surprise! And, Martha, may I say you’re radiant?… You remember Coleman…”
A slight wave from Serge’s pal. Burp.
“Jim!” snapped Martha. “What are they doing here?”
Serge smiled and held up the basket again. “Cellophane and fake grass…”
“Jim! Get them the hell off our property this minute!”
“Look,” said Serge. “If Jim did something to get in the shithouse with you, I’m sure there’s a perfect explanation.”
“Jim!”
A deep, pounding sound came up the street. The bass line from “Bad Romance.”
A low-riding GTX with gold rims pulled up to the curb. Nicole necked briefly with the driver, then got out. The sports car screeched away.
Martha marched halfway down the porch steps. “Nicole! Is that the same boy I told you-”
The teen brushed past her. “I’m getting a tattoo.”
Martha’s eyes darted between Serge and her daughter disappearing into the house. Twin crises. She made the call and ran inside “Nicole! Come back here!..”
“Whoa!” said Coleman.
“Holy fuck,” Serge told Jim. “I didn’t know what you were up against. Each month when their periods get in sync, you must be juggling chain saws.”
“You talking about my wife and daughter…?”
“Just sayin’.”
“Please don’t.”
Serge bowed his head once in respect. “Fair enough. I haven’t been there myself, so the period thing could be touchy-”
“Serge!” Jim stepped close and whispered: “What on earth did you do to that mall cop?”
Serge took a step back, mouth agape, and placed a hand over his heart. “Jim, I’m shocked. I show up with a welcome basket, and we’re chatting all friendly about periods and shit, and then suddenly accusations.”
Jim idly rubbed his left shoe on the welcome mat. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Serge threw an arm around Jim’s shoulders. “Meanwhile, it looks like Martha’s having some trouble with your daughter. Let’s see if I can help. I’m great with kids.”
“I think it’s a bad idea.”
“Don’t be silly.” He led Jim inside and called down the hall. “Martha! Nicole! It’s Serge to the rescue…”
Serge and Coleman dashed down the porch steps at 888 Triggerfish Lane. A frying pan flew after them and took a divot out of the lawn. “Don’t ever come back!”
They jumped into the Chevelle. “Hurry up and start the car,” said Coleman. “She’s looking for something else to throw.”
Feet ran down the front steps.
“Hurry!” yelled Coleman.
“That’s not Martha.”
Nicole sprinted down to the car.
“What are you doing?” yelled Serge.
“Coming with you. I’m getting the fuck out of this hell house!”
“Your mouth!” said Serge.
She grabbed the passenger-door handle before Serge could hit the lock button, and dove in the backseat.
“Get out of the car,” said Serge.
She pointed up the street. “Just hit the gas.”
“Out of the car-”
Martha came running down the steps.
A cast-iron pressure cooker crashed and creased the Chevelle’s hood. “My car! It’s vintage!”
“Told you to hit the gas.”
Serge peeled out.
Martha ended up in the middle of the street behind the car, throwing her shoes.
Nicole was twisted around in her seat, looking out the rear window and giggling. She turned back around. “That was cool.”
“That was not… What do you think you’re doing?”
Nicole lit a Marlboro Light. “What?”
Serge snatched it away and threw it out the window.
“Hey!”
“Jesus, you’re just a kid!” said Serge. “What, sixteen?”
“Fifteen.”
Coleman fired a new doobie and passed it back over the front seat. “Wanna hit?”
“Sure.” Nicole reached.
Serge slapped his hand. “Coleman! That’s illegal!”
“Sorry. How ’bout a beer?”
“No!” yelled Serge. “She’s just a kid!”
Nicole pointed. “Is that a real gun?”
“What?” said Serge. “Oh, this? Didn’t realize I’d gotten it out again. Something to keep my hands busy.”
“Can I hold it?”
“No!” He stowed it under the seat.
Nicole slumped in disappointment. “You guys looked like you were going to be fun.”
“We are fun,” said Serge. “Ask anyone. Well, not anyone. You know how some people automatically don’t like you for no reason?”
The Chevelle made a right for the Gandy Bridge.
“So where are we going, anyway?” asked Nicole.
“We drive around,” said Serge. “Waiting for duty to call.”
“I get it.” Nicole nodded. “You like to go cruisin’. Me, too. Driving around getting messed up. Then maybe street-racing on the Courtney Campbell or Twenty-second causeway. Some of those dudes have guns, too.”
“What dudes?”
“Like my boyfriend.”
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about him,” said Serge.
Nicole got out her cell phone. “You mean Snake?”
“Is that a name?”
“No, it’s just what the guys at work call him.”
“Work?” said Serge. “Like an after-school job.”
“No, he dropped out his senior year. Has a job at the Gas-N-Grub.”
“Senior?” said Serge. “How old is this Snake?”
“Eighteen.”
Serge slapped his forehead. “Now we really have to talk. How many piercings does he have, anyway?”
“Don’t be old-fashioned.”
“Oh, I don’t have a problem with it. They’re meant to attract attention, and they attracted mine…”
The Chevelle ramped up the bridge over Tampa Bay.
Serge glanced as the young girl tapped her cell phone. “Nicole, what are you doing?”
“Texting.” Tap, tap, tap.
“But I’m talking to you.”
Not looking up: “I hear you.” Tap, tap, tap.
Serge yanked the phone away.
“Hey!”
“It’s rude,” said Serge.
“Everybody does it.”
“And that’s the whole problem with this country today. No manners.” Serge unscrewed a thermos of coffee. “People used to hang out and actually communicate. But today they head to the mall and sit together at the Yogurt A Go-Go in their own separate spheres of mobile devices.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s destroying the art of conversation!” said Serge. “I love conversations!”
“Why?”
“Because we’re all crazy!” said Serge. “And that’s how society makes progress: imaginations getting together and glancing off each other in accidental tangents of invention.”
“That sounds crazy,” said Nicole.
“Think about it.” Serge chugged from his coffee thermos. “We all know how schizophrenics talk from our time on the streets interacting with the underpass community, and we’re thinking, ‘Jesus, I’m glad I’m not like this loopy guy jabbering about time travel, drone aircrafts, and guilt-free dog treats.’… But that’s only because we’re not aware of how our own conversations sound because we’re inside them. It’s like you don’t know your own voice unless you have a tape recorder. And if you did have a tape recorder, and recorded a hundred different conversations in a restaurant, where people at leisure have no agenda other than to enjoy each other’s company, the chitchat is all over the road, jumping from topic to topic until it’s miles from where it began, which nobody can remember. In movies, the talk is a logical straight line, moving plot from A to B. But in real life, it starts with the weather, then office gossip, vacation plans, childhood mishaps, a funny story about a trombone, the benefits of testing batteries with your tongue, why Esperanto never took off, what about Morey Amsterdam? — the heartbreak of psoriasis, the trouble with Tribbles, the thrill is gone, fashion disasters throughout history, turtle migration, my bologna has a first name, you’re soaking in Palmolive, then suddenly Einstein blurts out something about the decay of matter and, boom, Nagasaki… So how ’bout it?” Serge looked over at Nicole. “Want to try a real human conversation where people actually listen? I’ll go first: the Ice Age. Your thoughts?”
“I want my cell phone back.”
Serge’s head fell back with a sigh. “Okay, then I want to talk about Snake.”
“What about him?”
“You two were making out at the curb in front of your house.”
“So what?”
“He was being very disrespectful to your parents.” Serge wagged a finger. “The kind of man you deserve would walk you to the door and greet your mother and father.”
“How do you know my parents, anyway?”
“Me and Jim go way back, through thick and thin.”
“I heard some of the stories when I wasn’t supposed to. My mom really hates you.”
“Because she doesn’t understand me. But she’s a good woman, and you need to show her gratitude.”
“I’m just surprised you and my dad are friends.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you guys are cool. You’re not afraid of anything.” Nicole looked out across the passing water. “And my dad is, you know, a little on the wimpy side.”
Serge hit the brakes with both feet. A long, tire-screeching stop at the top of the bridge. He turned to Nicole with a mask of rage she had never seen before. “Jim is not wimpy!”
Nicole retreated as far as she could and sank against the passenger door.
“Your dad is one of the most courageous people I know! You think guns and liquor and dope and an excellent car is cool? Well, it is. But your dad has chosen to take on responsibilities I could never dream of…”
Car horns blared behind them. Coleman stuck his arm out the window with a beer in his hand, waving in a “go around” motion.
“… There’s a war against women going on!” yelled Serge. “Not political. Just men. And your dad has dedicated his life to protect you and your mother from all of them. Next to that, I’m the wimp!
… Do… you… understand… little… girl!”
“Okay, okay, yes. Jesus, I didn’t realize you two were so close.”
“He’s my hero. I want to be just like him.”
“Really?”
Serge nodded. “Sorry about freaking you out there for a minute, but I’m sensitive about this.”
Nicole’s breathing was coming back down. “No biggie.”
“I’ll make you a deal,” said Serge. “Jim needs your help and love in his struggle. Do me a favor and show him respect.”
“Why not?”
“That’s better.”
“But you said a deal,” countered Nicole. “What do I get?”
“Back at the house, I heard something about you wanting a tattoo?”
“Oh man, my mom will really hate you.”
“No, she won’t. I know how to handle women like her.” Serge hit the gas again. “You leave that to me.”
“I don’t think you really know my mom. She’ll go ape.”
“It’s all about the art of conflict. Most people go in headfirst.” Serge made a skirting gesture with his right hand. “Whereas I outflank.”
“You’re going to sneak up on my mom?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Serge took another swig from his coffee thermos. “Give you an example: the Positive Protest.”
“Positive?”
“Say you’ve got some kind of protest group that wants concessions from the powers that be. But the conflict is going nowhere. So the only option is to take to the streets, creating a massive public disturbance of anarchy that brings the city to its knees. Except for some reason, the city is the only one with a riot squad. Don’t ask why, it’s just the way they set it up at the beginning. And they come storming in with shields and helmets and batons, sweeping you off the pavement like autumn leaves.”
“I’ve seen it on TV.”
“That’s where they all go wrong. If I was in charge of the mob, I’d stage a Positive Protest. And when the shock troops start goose-stepping in with the tear gas, you begin waving signs and yelling slogans demanding higher police salaries. Then their bullhorns blare for you to disperse, and you say you totally agree with what they’re asking, and it’s a shame that the people who have to make you disperse don’t receive better benefits and pensions-and that your group will vote en masse for any politician who jacks up their compensation. The riot team can do nothing but stand mute. I’m dying to try it out! Except I don’t have a cause yet… I could always phone in my grievances later…”
“What’s that got to do with my tattoo?”
“You’ll see when we get there.” Serge passed the dog track and pulled into a strip mall. “Because of your age, you’ll need parental consent. That’s me; they never check. Plus I know this guy.”
“Wow, you’re really going to help me get a tattoo. That’s so cool.”
The front door opened.
Martha came racing out of the kitchen. “Where on earth have you been?”
“Out.” Nicole walked by with a sullen expression.
“I want more of an answer than that,” said Martha. “Did they hurt you?”
“Don’t be lame.”
As Nicole left the living room, Martha happened to glance down below the small of her daughter’s back. A tiny bit of ink peeked out above the waistband of her shorts. An audible gasp. “A tattoo!.. Jim, come quick; it’s Nicole! It’s an emergency!”
Jim ran out of the den. “What’s the matter? Is she okay?”
“She got a tattoo.”
“I thought she needed parental permission to get one.”
“She’s got one.”
“What is it?”
“Does it matter?” Martha stomped down the hall to a closed bedroom door. She tried the knob. Locked. Pounded with fists. “Open the door this instant! You’re in so much trouble!”
The door didn’t open. Thumping rock music inside. Joan Jett.
“… Hello Daddy, hello Mom, I’m your ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb …”
Martha turned. “Jim?”
“What? Kick the door in?”
“No, get a key.” Martha kept pounding.
“Where’s the key?”
“I don’t know.” More pounding. “Try the junk drawer.”
“I’ll go look.”
Before he could leave, the door opened. “What’s all the racket out here?”
“… Don’t give a damn ’bout my bad reputation…”
“You got a tattoo!”
“So?”
“We forbid you! And we didn’t give any permission!”
Nicole shrugged. “Serge got it for me. He’s really cool.”
“Serge!” snapped Martha. She began strangling something invisible in midair. “I’ll kill him. He disfigured our daughter!”
“You’re such a drama queen,” said Nicole.
“Turn around immediately!” said Martha. “I want to see what that monster did to you!”
“No!”
Martha looked sideways. “Jim!”
“Nicole,” said her father. “Turn around.”
The teen opened her mouth. But then remembered her promise to Serge. “Okay, Dad.”
She turned around, lifting her shirt and pulling the waistband down an inch.
The parents leaned in for a close inspection.
There it was, just below the tan line. A word in feminine cursive script:
Family.
Nicole dropped her shirt and turned around to face them again. “Satisfied?”
Her parents stood mute.
“Serge also told me to be more grateful for you guys. Whatever.”
Nicole went back in her room and closed the door.