Tim Dorsey Collection #1 (5 page)

T
RAFFIC ON DALE MABRY HIGHWAY
honked and scattered to avoid the gold Lincoln Navigator drifting in and out of its lane.

A Datsun blared its horn and accelerated past.

The Lincoln’s driver stuck his head and middle finger out the window. “Suck my dick!”

He pulled his head back in the window. “No, not you,” he said in his cell-phone headset. He looked down at the map spread across the steering wheel and wandered into oncoming traffic.

A Tempo honked.

The driver’s head was back out the Lincoln’s window. “Hey ass-wipe! I’m working! Unlike you, I have a fuckin’ job!”

“No, I’m talking to some ass-wipe,” he said into his headset. “No, a
different
ass-wipe.”

The driver located his position on the map, which indicated he needed to take the next right. He saw the red light ahead and cut through a corner gas station without slowing. The Navigator had a bumper sticker: MANATEES BEND PROPS.

Lance Boyle was forty-nine years old and used Grecian Formula on his ponytail and beard. He decided his beer gut
was hurting his chances with the babes, so he began wearing the Untucked Barber Shirt of Denial. The radio was on, two shock jocks reading the news tag-team.

“…And in Tampa, the well-known car dealer Honest Al was crushed to death…”

“He tipped a vending machine over on himself!”

“What a dumb-ass!”

Lance had also sold used cars once upon a time, but now he was in real estate. It began at 2
A
.
M
. on a Wednesday when Lance was surfing drunk for
Sex Court
on the Playboy Channel and instead found an infomercial on how to triple your income and “move out of that one-bedroom apartment.” It had something to do with buying and selling houses. Lance looked around his one-bedroom apartment and called the toll-free number.

Lance didn’t remember ordering the Instant Wealth Kit when the mailman delivered it three days later. But he opened it anyway, Xeroxed it, and returned the original for a full refund.

That was five years ago, and Lance had since defined his own niche. Lance was the one in a thousand who actually made wealth with the Instant Wealth Kit. He would find a checkered neighborhood and buy all the properties he could on both sides of the same street. Then he’d rent them out and wait for the houses in between to go on the market. When he finally owned enough consecutive homes, he demolished them and erected upscale town houses.

Lance was all set to begin construction on his latest complex; he just needed a few more homes. This was nail-biting time. It became a race against the clock. While waiting for those last owners to sell, Lance’s tenants were busy destroying his rental houses like six-foot Formosan termites. If he completed the string of properties, it wouldn’t matter.
They’d all be plowed under for the town houses. But if the straight flush couldn’t be assembled, Lance would have to sell off the rentals at a huge loss because of the Keith Moon wear and tear. Lance could have screened for better tenants, but the ones who were murder on the plumbing were also the best at running off home owners. Lance’s current project was supposed to make him a killing.

That’s how it looked on paper. The reality was something else. Turnover had hit a ceiling, and the acquisitions stalled. Meanwhile, his rentals crumbled. Lance decided to become a more active landlord.

The Lincoln pulled up to a red light. Lance waited for a break in traffic to make another right, but traffic was too heavy. Then Lance noticed all the cars had their lights on. “Oh, for the love of…!”

A funeral procession.

Lance used the idle time to pull a tiny metal nitroglycerin-pill tube from his pocket and snort some speed. He didn’t like the idea of doing speed, because he was a staunch supporter of the War on Drugs. But this was business, and right now he needed every advantage. The funeral procession was long and slow, and Lance began punching the steering wheel. “C’mon, all these people couldn’t have known this motherfucker!”

Lance finally honked and cut off one of the mourners and pulled into the procession. He turned on his headlights. There, he thought, now I don’t have to worry about any more red lights. He tooted up again and began humming as he sailed through three intersections, completely forgetting what address he was looking for, then remembering at the last second when he saw the street sign. He turned sharply onto Triggerfish Lane, barely missing a white Suburban.

Jim Davenport swerved to avoid a gold Lincoln Navigator
as he turned out of Triggerfish Lane and headed across town to Tampa Bay Motors. He found Rocco Silvertone at the showroom water-cooler and explained his problem.

“Oh, sure, absolutely! We can take a look at that electrical system!” said Rocco. “Anything for my old friend Jim.”

Rocco walked Jim over to the service department and placed him in the care of three ex-cons wiping oil off their hands. Rocco then made his thumb and index finger into a gun and pointed it at Jim. “Call me if you need anything, big guy!” Then he left for the day.

Jim sat in the service waiting room an hour and a half, watching talking fungus on
Ricki Lake
and reading an
US
magazine article, “My Life Was a Living Hell!” by Gary Coleman.

One of the ex-cons stuck his head in the door. The car was ready. Jim thanked them and drove off the lot. No warning lights. He tested the wipers. Perfect.

He made a left turn. Someone honked. Jim looked around. Nobody. He made another left, and someone honked again. Jim realized
he
was the one honking. He looked down at the steering wheel to see where the horn was. His hands weren’t near it.

Jim made a honking U-turn and headed back to the dealership. He drove around behind the showroom and made a left into the service bay.

A mechanic came out wiping his hands on a towel. “You honked?”

“No I didn’t,” said Jim.

The mechanic stopped wiping and gave Jim a look.

“You did something when you were working on her, and now every time I make a left, the horn honks.”

“Couldn’t have. I wasn’t working anywhere near the horn.”

“All I know is it never did it before, I bring it in here, and now it does it all the time.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“I’m not saying you did it. I’m just telling you what the problem is.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to fix it.”

“I’ll have to fill out a work order.”

Sally Jessy came on in the waiting room. Jim picked up
Popular Mechanics
, learning how to build a two-man submarine with hydraulic claws. An hour passed. Someone on TV began whimpering.

The mechanic stuck his head in the door. “Ready.”

Jim walked up to the Suburban, opened the door and turned the wheel to the left. The horn honked.

“It’s still doing it.”

“Let me look at the work order.” The mechanic held up a yellow sheet of paper. “Says, ‘Fix horn.’ ” He reached through the open window and hit the horn. It honked.

“The horn works.”

“I know it works,” said Jim. “It goes off every time I make a left.”

The mechanic was silent.

“You didn’t fix it.”

“The work order says fix horn.”

“And?”

“The horn works.”

“But I want it to stop blowing every time I turn left.”

The mechanic pointed at the yellow paper. “I just go by what the work order says.”

“But you’re the one who wrote the work order. I told you what the problem was.”

“I don’t make the rules.”

“I want the horn fixed.”

“You want to talk to the manager?”

“I want to talk to the manager.”

“Hey, Charley!” the mechanic yelled into the service bay. “Guy out here wants to talk to you!”

“What about?” said Charley, emerging from the bay wiping his hands.

“Guy says his horn don’t work.”

“No, that’s not it—”

Charley reached in the car and hit the horn. It honked.

“Sounds fixed to me.”

“It goes off every time I make a left.”

“Want us to take a look at it?”

“I wanted you to look at it the first time.”

Charley grabbed the yellow sheet of paper. “That’s not what the work order says.”

Jim bit his lip. He began speaking calmly and slowly. “The horn goes off every time I turn left, whether I hit the horn or not. I would like you to pick up tools and do repair activity so that every time I turn left, the horn does not make the horn sound in the future anymore.”

“You asking us to disconnect the horn? Afraid I can’t do that. Against the law.”

“No, I want it fixed.”

“It’s already fixed.”

“No it’s not.”

Charley reached in and hit the horn again. It honked.

“Ninety-six dollars.”

“Ninety-six dollars!”

“Standard fee. Fixing horn. Says here right in the book.”

“But it was never broken.”

Charley squinted at Jim. “Mister, you’ve been arguing with me for some time now that the horn wasn’t fixed. And
now you tell me it was never broken to begin with. I think you’re trying to pull something.”

“I’m not trying to pull anything.”

“I want you to start getting out your money right now.”

“What about the warranty?”

“Doesn’t cover unnecessary work.”

“What!”

“Is there going to be trouble?”

“No, I don’t want any trouble.” Jim took out his checkbook.

“We don’t accept personal checks.”

JIM WALKED TO
an ATM, came back, paid. He got in the car, put on his seat belt and turned on the radio.

Bang.

The passenger airbag went off.

Charley came out of the repair bay with a dipstick. “What was that bang?”

Jim pointed at the deployed bag. “I turned on the radio.”

“The airbag’s deployed.”

“I know.”

“You’re not allowed to drive like that.”

JIM DROVE HOME
with his newly purchased and installed airbag. He was afraid to offend other drivers by honking at them, so each time Jim had to make a left turn, he drove an extra block and made a box of three rights instead. He got to Triggerfish Lane and pulled into the driveway.

Martha came out the front door. “You honked?”

S
IX STUDENTS FROM
the University of South Florida slouched on ratty sofas in the living room at 857 Triggerfish.
The Wizard of Oz
was on TV, no sound. The stereo was extra loud—Pink Floyd’s
Dark Side of the Moon.
The only textbook in sight was under the leg of a wobbly coffee table, where residual smoke curled out the cylinder of a giant Lucite water pipe. The front door was wide open.

One of the students walked to the refrigerator and pulled the lever on the beer tap drilled through the door, refilling a large plastic stadium cup. He returned to the living room and nodded at the others; they nodded back.

“Dude.”

“Dude.”

“Dude.”

“Dude.”

The student with the fresh beer was Bernie, a freckled white kid with a huge red afro from
The Paper Chase.
His classmates, clockwise around the room from the Che Guevara poster over the Guatemalan oolite incense frog: Frankie “Slowhand” Pagnetti, wanna-be rock musician who had taken up the electric bass because it was the easiest instrument to fake and played in a very bad band consisting
entirely of bass players called “No Drummer”; Chip “Memory Chip” Perkins, who had the guts of four salvaged computers spread across the kitchen table and was trying to hack into the Pentagon with a reconfigured copy of John Madden Smash-Mouth Football 6.0; Jeb “Siddhartha” Youngblood, formerly devout southern Baptist who had moved in a week ago, accidentally ate a hash brownie, became self-aware for the first time in his life and now endlessly wandered the rental house in a solipsistic daze; William “Bill the Elder” Moss, forty-two years old with twelve hundred credit hours carefully distributed among seventeen academic disciplines so as not to inadvertently precipitate graduation; Manny “Waste-oid” Wasserman, on academic suspension, scraping out the bong. They respectively majored in English, philosophy, English philosophy, French poetry, art history, and no declared major, and they all expected to land easy, high-paying jobs immediately after graduation without trying.

“Check it out!” said Waste-oid, pointing at the TV. “The movie’s in perfect sync with the album. See how the heartbeat from
Dark Side
matches up with Dorothy putting her ear to the Tin Man’s chest? You can’t tell me that’s a coincidence. Floyd planned the whole thing. They were fuckin’ geniuses!” He fired up the bong.

“How did you do that again?” asked Bernie.

“You wait until the second roar of the MGM lion at the beginning of
Oz
, then start the album.”

Frankie “Slowhand” Pagnetti stood next to the TV set, playing air bass along with the CD.

Bill the Elder shook his head. “Floyd’s playing in
B minor.
”

Frankie looked down at his empty hands. “You’re right.” He made the necessary adjustments.

Bernie refilled his beer; Siddhartha sat in a corner, staring at his thumbprint and weeping.

Lance Boyle appeared in the open doorway unnoticed.

“Listening to
Dark Side
and watching
Oz
, eh?” said Lance.

The startled students turned to the door. Lance came inside and walked around the room like Dean Wormer in
Animal House.
The students stashed dope and paraphernalia behind their backs.

“Relax,” said Lance. “I know you’re getting fucked up in here. You got everything you need? Enough weed?” He pointed at Waste-oid, hiding the bong behind him and holding a toke.

Waste-oid nodded.

“Good, good,” said Lance. “What about beer? How you fixed?” He opened the refrigerator and saw a keg with a clear tube leading to the tap in the door. “Excellent. You guys are pretty responsible.”

Lance looked up at the olive army surplus parachute hanging from the ceiling, then over at the shelving system of discarded lumber and milk crates. “You must tell me who your decorator is.” He went over to the stereo. “Sure this is loud enough?” He turned the volume all the way up.

“…Kicking around on a piece of ground in your hometown…”

Bernie cleared his throat. “Uh, dude, I mean Mr. Boyle, about the rent…My folks are real sick…”

“Mine are dead,” said Lance.

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry about the rent,” said Lance. “The main thing is to make sure you’re enjoying yourselves. You
are
enjoying yourselves, aren’t you?”

They nodded.

“Good,” said Lance. “Look, I’m in a bit of a rush—got an appointment with some new tenants. But I wanted to drop by and find out if you’ve been throwing any parties in here.”

“Absolutely not,” said Bernie.

“Then start. Say on a weeknight. This Tuesday. I’ll have some kegs delivered. Any questions?”

Bernie raised his hand. “Why are you doing this?”

“That’s just the kind of person I am,” said Lance. “Always giving.”