Atomic Lobster
Authors: Tim Dorsey
Atomic Lobster
For Janine
Make gentle the life of this world.
—ROBERT F. KENNEDY
My name is Edith Grabowski. I’m ninety-one years old, and…
Ten A.M. Soon, the regular afternoon sun showers would roll…
Serge worked efficiently in the dark with thick coils of…
We’re still going south.”
Cops quickly roped off the fun-o-rama just over a berm…
The front door opened on a modestly landscaped ranch house…
Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!
Serge considered breakfast the most important meal of the day.
A’73 Mercury Comet sped north from St. Petersburg, up through Clearwater…
Serge pleaded desperately with the cop. “…Honest, I found this…
The church could withstand any hurricane.
The Davenports were on a cleaning-product run. For five seconds.
A ship’s horn made a deep, deafening blast.
A tastefully restored 1923 bungalow sat a couple blocks south…
The dawn was unusually crisp. Two people sat at the…
Jim Davenport’s muffled voice came through the closed bathroom door…
Through the front window of a 1923 bungalow, two people…
Get your signing hands limber!” Steph led the Davenports down…
The big truck all but blocked traffic in front of…
The moving van choked traffic on another narrow residential street.
The bingo room’s air conditioner hummed loudly amid the conspicuous…
Four white-haired women stood alone outside the locked ballroom doors.
The line outside the ballroom was halfway down the hall.
Danielle shook Johnny Vegas’s shoulder. “You okay?” “M-m-m-m-m-…”—pointing up…
The fifty-car phosphate train would not be on time this…
Jim hadn’t slept so late since college. He’d climbed into…
Martha Davenport hummed merrily as she dusted the living room…
Ding-dong!
The G-Unit arrived at the ballroom doors earlier than ever…
Langley, Virginia: one year after the mission in Iraq.
The sun waned on the grimy part of town past…
Jim buttoned a freshly pressed shirt. “Martha? You almost ready?”
It was the best sex they could remember since the…
First thing the next morning, a rusty Comet pulled up…
The house was dark.
Another perfect day in paradise. Local merchants began to drool.
The G-Unit stowed gifts around the cabin.
Martha heard a car come up the driveway and checked…
The Davenports’ drive home was pressurized with domestic tension. Jim…
Straight-A college students bloodied themselves in falls, vomited and had…
Knock-knock-knock.
Jim Davenport sprayed Cheez-Whiz on a Ritz. Someone came over.
They’re late,” said Edna.
By sundown, the cruise terminal had calmed. Feds had hoped…
A fight broke out by the pool. A clown crashed…
The cut-rate cruise promotion was a smashing success.
The highway trooper was out of his patrol car, pleading…
The sky grew dark over the Gulf of Mexico. Passengers…
The SS Serendipity sailed deeper into international waters. The cloudless…
High tide. The flukes of a Danforth boat anchor grabbed…
Every agent aboard the cabin cruiser immediately recognized the image…
All quiet on the SS Serendipity. Nothing to report except…
Passengers streamed out of the ship under a hot morning…
Cabin U115.
Agent Foxtrot received another unofficial commendation for a mission that…
An exclusive excerpt from
Gator A-Go-Go
M
y name is Edith Grabowski. I’m ninety-one years old, and don’t you even
think
of asking me if I had sex last night. Okay, I’ll tell you. Might as well since we’re only going to have to answer another gazillion stupid questions about it in a few minutes when the camera lights come on.
Yeah, I did. Twice. And it was better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. Now go get your own.
We’re backstage again. I don’t understand backstage food. Tiny sandwich triangles with the crusts cut off, water that fizzes. They say it’s more expensive. The world sure has changed since I was a girl. But our agent wants us to be polite, seeing as how the sex questions are why we get insane money to do these TV shows.
It’s all because of the crazy cruise we took out of Tampa that went berserk. I’m just amazed at what people get hung up on. There’s a bunch more interesting parts to our story. I mean,
everything
happened on that ship. People falling overboard, stampedes in the casino, fires, explosions, dead bodies, drunk tourists gouging eyes over life preservers, and the whole boat nearly sinking, not to mention the secret agent named Foxtrot. That’s right, a spy! What
didn’t
this story have? You probably already recognize everyone else involved. Even if you were buried in an avalanche and didn’t hear about the cruise, I’m sure you remember that big fiasco on Triggerfish Lane ten years ago. There’s me and my girlfriends, of course, and who could forget Serge, that lunatic back from God knows
where? Then there’s Jim Davenport, the super-nice family man. Poor Jim Davenport. How much can one person take? We ended with not one, but two colliding horror shows: those nine mystery deaths traced to the smugglers, and the just-released ex-con on a murderous rampage of revenge! The only common denominator was Davenport, who ended up smack in the middle of the train-wreck. Make that shipwreck. But all the talk shows want to hear about is boinking.
What I said before about the sharp stick? I’m not complaining. Tons of women my age would kill for a man, but the ratio is like fifty to one with life expectancy. And a lot of the guys who
are
left have to bring medical equipment. Nothing breaks the mood like getting tangled in the oxygen lines. My own Ambrose went in his sleep a few years back. Very peacefully. So I should count my blessings. And yes, the sex, except there’s so much more to life. Viagra had its role in the beginning. But after a while, you know, enough. The entire country snickers at every mention of the V-word like it’s the most
hilarious
thing they ever heard. Let me give you the skinny from where the rubber meets the road: Whoever called them granny-abuse pills wins the cigar.
Granny.
Something else that needles me. This attitude toward old people. We’re either the objects of kind pity or cruel wisecracks. Our hearing isn’t as bad as you think: Blue-hair, God’s waiting room, all those remarks about our driving. You know what we talk about when you’re not around? Getting in a Buick and plowing through a bunch of young people, then acting confused. So we lose our license. So what? Keep telling your little jokes.
They just gave us the signal backstage. We’re on in three. And here we are again, me and my girlfriends. Who’d have thought we’d get a second fifteen minutes? It all started back with our retiree investment club that outperformed most mutual funds. The press got a big kick out of our names—Edith, Edna, Eunice, Ethel—dubbed us the E-Team without even asking. So this time around it’s in our contracts, our new name. We’re turning that “granny” slur on its head.
There’s the ten-second signal. We can hear the applause. Showtime.
They just opened the curtains.
“Please welcome the G-Unit!…”
SIX MONTHS EARLIER, MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT
“Serge,” said Coleman. “I don’t think you should have any more coffee.”
“Get off my case.”
“But you know how you get—”
“Fuck it. If I feel like singing to the hostage, I’ll sing. He wants me to sing….” Serge looked down. “You want me to sing, don’t you?…See, Coleman?”
“Serge, he’s just screaming his head off.”
“I take that as an enthusiastic yes…. Next song, with apologies to Johnny Cash…. A one, and a two…
I’ve been everywhere, man; the Keys without a care, man;
Spring Break on a tear, man; the Florida State Fair, man…
Hialeah, Fernandina, Boca Chita, Panacea
Tallahassee, Chocoloskee, Miccosukee, Weeki Wachee
New Smyrna, Deltona, Marianna, Ozona.
Homosassa, Buena Vista, Punta Rassa, Pasadena
Floritan, Tamarac, Manalapan, De Funiak
Cintronelle, Titusville, Carrabelle, Chapel Hill
Port Salerno, Pensacola, Hypoluxo, Sarasota
Caya Costa, Gasparilla, Opa-Locka, I’m a killa…
I’ve been everywhere, man!…
“Okay,” said Coleman, “I got the next verse.”
“Rock on.”
I’ve been like everywhere
And we went to a bunch of different places and got really stoned
Then we went to another place and got stoned again
And we met these other stoners and went somewhere else and ate tacos
And I lost my keys and we couldn’t go anywhere, so we just got stoned
Then we ran out of weed, but I remembered my keys were in the other pocket
,
and we went somewhere to score, and got stoned…
“Coleman…”
“And more people came over, and we found a bag of marshmallows and made s’mores…”
“Stop!”
…Then the liquor store opened—
“Shut up!”
“But there’s more.”
“I know.”
“Serge?”
“What?”
“He’s getting heavy. I don’t know how much longer I can hold his ankle.”
“Only a few more minutes.” Serge looked over the railing of the interstate overpass at the man dangling upside down. “How’s it going?”
“Dear God! Don’t drop me! I swear I won’t do it again!”
“Serge,” said Coleman. “My wrists are tired.”
“Almost finished.”
Coleman freed one hand and wiped a sweaty palm on the front of his shirt, then grabbed the leg again. “But this isn’t like you. Dropping a guy doesn’t seem as…what’s the word I’m looking for?”
“Clever?”
“That’s it.”
“Oh, I’m not going to kill him.”
“Then what are we doing out here?”
“This is Serge’s Charm School. We’re teaching manners.”
A semi whizzed under the bridge. Whimpering below:
“Please…”
“Coleman, what do you think? Give him a second chance?”
“He seems sincere.”
“Okay, I guess we can hoist him back. Just let him hang one more minute for positive reinforcement….”
Behind them on the isolated bridge sat their Key-lime ’73 Mercury Comet with the doors open. Suddenly, loud cursing from the backseat.
“Uh-oh,” said Serge. “Must have regained consciousness.”
A six-foot-tall femme fatale leaped from the car. Breathing fire. And that’s not all that was hot: she was a knee-buckling vision from every guy’s deepest fantasy, innocently cute and sinfully sexual, all curves, freckles, wild blond hair flowing down over her black sports bra.
Rachael.
The kind of woman that makes men wake up dazed on the side of the road with mysterious welts and no wallet, and walk away happy. Serge had seen her type before. Very specifically, in fact, and he knew how to handle them. Like rattlesnakes. Never turn your back.
“Shit,” said Serge. “I turned my back. Quick, pull him over the railing.”
Rachael had legs that wouldn’t quit, and now they were in full gallop.
“Motherfucker! You never slap me! You never put a fucking hand on me!…”
She reached the edge of the bridge and elbowed Serge hard in the ribs.
“Ooooffff.” Serge stumbled sideways, the wind knocked out.
She bent down and sunk her teeth into Coleman’s left hand.
“Ow!” He reeled backward and cradled the bloody paw to his chest.
Serge regained his breath and ran to the railing. He looked down. “Whoops.”
Coleman joined him and leaned over. “Where’d he go?”
“I don’t know.”
They spun and ran to the other side of the overpass. Still no sign. Serge sprinted to the end of the bridge and scampered down the embankment. Moments later, he returned at a casual pace.
“See him?” asked Coleman.
Serge shook his head. “Vanished into thin air.” He turned to Rachael. “Jesus. Why’d you do that?”
“That motherfucker slapped me!”
“And you just kill him?”
“You never motherfuckin’ hit a woman!”
“How could he have missed your dedication of feminine virtue, especially when you keep saying motherfucker?”
Coleman stared down over the rail at three dark lanes leading north from Bradenton. “What do we do now?”
“I’m hungry.” Serge grabbed the car keys. “Let’s hit Jack’s.”
TWENTY MILES AWAY
Johnny Vegas had an erection stronger than pestles pharmacists use to mash pills. He told himself he’d finally arrived at the gates of the Promised Land. Her name was Jasmine. Her pants were at half-mast.
They’d met an hour earlier at a Waffle House in Pinellas Park. The attraction was inevitable. Johnny had the thick black mane and sizzling Latin appeal of a hairstyling poster in Supercuts. Jasmine was a world-record nympho in her weight division. Her specialty, she told Johnny, was strategically positioning herself in public so she could “get banged silly” while talking to other people who had no idea what was going on below her waistline.
“But how is that possible?” asked Johnny.
She told him.
He coughed up diet Sprite and pounded his sternum with a fist.
Johnny had his own unique trait, which he judiciously omitted. The Promised Land business was no joke. You’d never guess it from his square-jawed
Playboy
features, but there had been much wandering in the sexual wilderness. An entire lifetime. It wasn’t his come
ons or bedside manner. It was math. The equation between sales pitch and closing the deal. Somewhere out there, some guy in America had to fall at the bottom of the last percentile, cursed with absolutely the worst imaginable luck.
He was Johnny Vegas, the Accidental Virgin.
It was always something. Some kind of crazy, long-shot interruption at the precise moment of penetration that wrecked the delicate surface tension. And in Florida, the possibilities were endless: hurricanes, alligator attacks, brush fires, police manhunts, train derailments, roving bands of escaped monkeys, federal agents seizing Cuban children, and election recounts.
But, an hour after leaving the Waffle House, as Johnny wiggled Harley-Davidson panties down her legs, something told him this time would be different. She had just clocked in for work.
Jasmine’s job required her to stand at a gate rising just above her navel, which required Johnny to lie on his back, contorted across two chairs. He fumbled in the dark and initiated clumsy foreplay. Jasmine moaned. Her eyes closed and head tilted back. A yellow light flashed across Johnny’s face. Metal clanged.
“Yes. More to the right. That’s it. Ooooh…”
An unseen voice. “Ma’am, are you okay?”
Johnny froze. Jasmine opened her eyes. “Couldn’t be better.”
“Looked like you were about to faint.”
“Just tired. Still not used to the night shift.”
A car could be heard driving off. Another vehicle approached. Johnny froze again. The driver handed Jasmine a five. She made change and gave him a receipt. “Have a nice evening….”
The car sped away from Jasmine’s toll lane, the only one left open at this hour.
“Johnny, you can’t keep stopping every time people come through. That misses the whole point.”
“Sorry.”
A late-model Cadillac Escalade headed north on Interstate 275. It reached the causeway near the mouth of Tampa Bay.
“You should have left earlier,” said Martha.
“We’ll be home soon,” said Jim.
The Davenports. Good people. Jim and Martha. Martha was the consummate soccer mom whose emotional fuse matched her fiery red hair. Jim complemented her with an unflappable temperament, which made her madder. Everything about Jim screamed Mr. Average, except for one characteristic that distinguished him from almost everyone else. He was the most nonconfrontational resident of Tampa Bay, maybe the entire state.
“Isn’t this route longer?” asked Martha.
“A little, but there’s less traffic.” Jim responsibly checked the speedometer. “And it’s more scenic. We get to drive over the Skyway.”
“Jim! We don’t have time to sightsee!” said Martha. “It’s after midnight!”
“Won’t be much longer.”
“Why didn’t you leave earlier?”
“Honey, they’re
your
parents.”
“That’s why I need you to say something. You know how I get with my mother.”
“I know.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Baby, I’m agreeing.”
Martha folded her arms. “This happens every time we go to Sarasota.”
“Your mom’s not that bad,” said Jim.
“Are you trying to make me mad?”
“Okay, she is.”
“I knew it. You’ve never liked her.”
“What’s the right answer?”
“So you’re just telling me what I want to hear?”
Jim reached over and put a hand on his wife’s. “I love you.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just every visit with my mom. Sticking her nose into how we raise our kids…”
“That’s natural.”
“…All those supposedly idle comments. She rehearses them, you know.”
“I know.”
“Then her stall tactics when we’re trying to leave. Why didn’t you do something?”
“I did,” said Jim. “I unlocked the car. You’re the one who stood in the driveway talking to her for an hour.”
“That’s her Driveway Strategy. She compiles lists of important topics that are conveniently forgotten until we’re out of the house. And now, here we are again, heading home at some ungodly hour with all the drunks.”
