The Riptide Ultra-Glide (4 page)

On the Other Side of the State

A
rnold Lip was an ordinary doctor in Tampa who ran a modest private practice that had fallen on hard times because he wasn't a very good doctor. He was forced to move his office several times, down descending strata of square footage and facility maintenance. Until he ended up in a professional building that was a two-story converted crack motel. He specialized in diseases that medical journals described as the most likely to go away on their own.

One day just before lunch, he walked through his empty waiting room. The only receptionist had been let go. He stepped outside and looked over the balcony railing, wondering what he was going to do. He looked around the office complex. No cars in the parking lot. None of the other professionals doing any business either, not the forensic accountant, maritime insurance agent, empty office-space broker, Ventures Limited, or something called the Lone Wolf Group. The outsourcing firm next door had been replaced by an office in a converted motel in India.

He strolled toward the end of the balcony with the stairwell, thinking of the sandwich shop across the street. He stopped. What were all those cars doing on the other side of the parking lot? He watched throngs of people flowing toward one particular office on the first floor. He jogged halfway down the stairs and read the sign by the door. What was a personal injury attorney doing in such a run-down business complex? Those guys can afford full-page ads on the backs of phone books.

At the end of the day, Arnold made a point of taking the same stairs. And waiting. All the cars were gone except a Porsche 955. A young man with German features and a Lance Armstrong haircut was the last to leave the building. He folded his jacket neatly in the backseat of the coupe and sped off, punching the car through its gears.

A week later, Arnold Lip sat in his empty office. He was behind the reception desk, eating a tuna-salad sandwich that he had made at home with extra chopped celery because he liked the crunch. The sliding translucent window to the waiting room was closed.

The office's front door opened. Arnold observed a silhouette approach and stop on the other side of the pebbled glass, like a priest hearing confession.

A hand knocked.

Arnold slid the window open, still chewing. “Yes?”

“Is Dr. Lip in?” asked a young professional with a short haircut. He leaned slightly through the window, looking around for other signs of life in the office.

Arnold wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I'm Dr. Lip.”

“Oh.” A gaze that had been straining down the hall dropped down to the man behind the desk. “My name is Hagman Reed . . .” He pointed generally toward one of the walls. “I'm an attorney from the other side of this building.”

Arnold took another bite. “I recognize you from the parking lot. Porsche 955.”

Hagman looked around the office again at stacks of old
US
magazines. “But you are a doctor, right?”

Lip nodded. “How can I help you?”

“I have a business proposition . . .”

THE NEXT DAY

A
rnold opened the door to the waiting room. He looked down a clipboard with a grid full of names and times. “Mr. Euclid?”

He had to raise his voice because the waiting room vibrated from a loud din of conversation, mostly on cell phones. The rest of the overflow clientele flipped through magazines and photo spreads of Angelina dragging Brad Pitt around the third world. The new patients sported a variety of neck braces and casts.

A man with crutches got up and did a three-legged stroll behind Arnold and into an examination room. He was out in two minutes.

Lip stood in the door again. “Mrs. Lambright? . . .”

And so it went the rest of the day. And the week. And the month. You could almost see the waiting line picking up speed.

The attorney's business proposition had kicked in.

The reason lay on the unattended reception desk, the morning edition of the
Tampa Tribune
. A small article below the fold on page fifteen. Physician arrested for insurance fraud.

It wasn't unexpected. Florida had long been plagued by a burgeoning scam industry, making the state the national leader in staged auto accidents. The faux-fender-bender capital was Miami. Until law enforcement cracked down in a big way. And like any other species of scheme in Florida, it was simply a game of Whac-A-Mole. Those who escaped the dragnet just pulled the tent stakes and drove three hundred miles up to the west coast.

Tampa officially became the new U.S. capital of insurance rip-offs. We're Number One!

Authorities rolled up their sleeves and clamped down again. The arrest that was announced in that morning's paper was the sixth in less than a month. But this one was different. He was the physician in league with Hagman Reed.

The doctor faced an eighty-six-count indictment, but Hagman was in the clear because he was a lawyer.

Except it still left him without a conspiring doctor. And twenty more cars had already been smashed up. What about those people? It wouldn't be fair to them. So Hagman had paid a visit to Arnold Lip, because Lip wasn't a good doctor. He could have gone to a good doctor, but that would mean no kickbacks and, most lucrative of all, no documentation for imaginary pain and suffering.

Which brought us to today. Mrs. Lambright sat on the edge of an examination table.

Lip stood over her with a manila patient file. “Where does it hurt?”

“It doesn't.”

He hit her in the leg with a triangular rubber hammer.

“Ow.”

Lip talked to himself as he wrote: “Hyperextended knee.”

Then he set down his folder and got her in a headlock. He twisted.

“Ow.” She pushed him away. “Stop that.”

He picked up the folder. “Delayed neck pain . . .”

Chapter Three

KEY LARGO

I
n the back of a crowd at a customer-service desk:

“Look at this line,” said Coleman. “Why isn't it moving?”

“Because the customer at the counter is telling her life story from the delivery room,” said Serge.

Five minutes later: “ . . . Now, this other person doesn't have ID or a receipt, but wants cash . . .”

Another five minutes: “ . . . He's explaining that he only wore the underwear a single time on a camping trip . . .”

Five more: “ . . . She's holding up a finger for the service rep to wait while she takes a cell-phone call . . .”

“Serge,” said Coleman. “I'm impressed.”

“By this parade of rudeness?”

“No, by your reaction. Don't take this the wrong way, but you can be a little impatient.”

“A little? I'm
super
impatient,” said Serge. “But trying to improve. That's the whole problem with society: We detect countless faults in others, but never work on ourselves. And behavior in long lines brings out the worst. Take the nicest people you'd ever meet, stick them in an ultralong line that's moving like molasses, and it's as if they were bitten by a werewolf. Some sweet old lady who volunteers to read to the blind: ‘Look at this dickhead with
eleven
items in the express lane.' Supermarkets bring out the worst.”

“Supermarkets?”

“I've spent hours with calibrated instruments charting the phenomenon. When the national fabric finally tears itself apart, they'll trace the first rips to grocery checkouts, where all registers are jammed, and suddenly two shoppers with overflowing carts spot the one register with a slightly shorter line. And the rival customers are exactly the same distance away from the register in opposite directions. They both want to get there first, but need to maintain the social facade of not rushing to cut the other one off, so they do the supermarket dance. Happens a million times a day.”

“What do you mean, ‘dance'?”

“They both speed up, but in a special, highly trained way that creates the illusion they're actually slowing down. It's an amazing thing to observe in nature, like the moonwalk. And the key is to deliberately not look at the other shopper, but track their progress with peripheral vision, and responding appropriately by speeding up or slowing down, depending on their velocity and how many people are around who might recognize you from church.

“And this whole pas de deux continues with one woman tracking the other out of the corner of her eye, thinking, ‘She's deliberately not looking at me and watching out of the corner of her eye, so under the rules I'm allowed to speed up and cut a tighter angle past the promotional pyramid of Honey Grahams.' And it goes back and forth like this until they arrive at the same time, and suddenly it's the biggest surprise: ‘Oh, I didn't see you.' ‘I didn't see you either.' ‘Go first.' ‘No, you go first.' ‘No, you.' ‘No, you.' ‘Okay . . .' And the second one is like, ‘She took advantage of me because of all these people that I know from church, goddammit.' ”

“And you're going to change all that?” asked Coleman.

“It only takes one person to begin,” said Serge. “As of this moment, I'm rededicating my entire life to patience. It's the least I can do for the common good. From now on, I'll always let the other person by first, like this woman behind me with her arms full and a crying kid . . . Excuse me, ma'am? Please go ahead of me, and I don't even go to a freakin' church, because
this
is my church. I mean, not this store specifically, but I just rededicated my life a few seconds ago. The evangelicals say good works can't get you into the Kingdom, but then they go telling
you
what to do. What's that about? The devil tempts me not to let you ahead in line, but I tell Satan to get the hell out of my happy place and pound sand . . . Please, go ahead of us . . .” He turned and smiled big at Coleman. “You've just witnessed the start of the country turning around.”

“But, Serge, she's not going ahead of you,” said Coleman. “In fact, she went to an entirely different line.”

“And cut another shopper off in the process.” Serge sighed. “Fixing the country will take more time than I thought. Screw it, life's too short.”

“Dedication to patience only has to last a minute?”

“You're right,” said Serge. “I need to adopt coping mechanisms for stress. I'll control my breathing and think Hindu thoughts.”

“Like what?”

“I'm not sure,” said Serge. “I don't know any Hindus. So I don't know what they're thinking about when they're in long lines and trying to get their heads centered. But I'm guessing they're imagining round things . . . I'm going to think about circles.”

“We're number two in line,” said Coleman. “That woman's still on her cell phone.”

“Must be an important call, too, because she's not conducting any business. Let's listen . . .”

Coleman stuck his head forward next to Serge's. “I think she's mad at her sister-in-law for stinking up the trailer with burned possum . . .”

“I'm thinking of ovals now.”

Coleman strained to hear more. “ . . . And Bobby Jean's new hairdo caught fire in the bug zapper.”

“That's it,” said Serge. “Time for action.”

“I thought you were working on patience.”

“Oh, I'm not losing patience,” said Serge. “It's another way of contributing to the common good. This woman clearly needs help. But how many times have you seen someone in distress and everyone else just stands around doing nothing. It's not neighborly.”

Serge tapped the woman on the shoulder.

She turned around. Into the phone: “Hold on a second, some jerk . . .” She looked up: “What?”

“I couldn't help but overhear,” he said. “Because I was placing my ear real close trying to overhear. My name is Serge Storms, and I wander from town to town helping people. I don't do it for the thanks, just the satisfaction of seeing a person tearfully realize that someone else out there truly cares. But how do I help? you ask. By sharing invaluable pointers that will revolutionize your life! Could be as simple as which technical college fits your strengths, or a slight fashion correction that will land you the big promotion. Friends and relatives could easily do the same, but they'd be jealous of your success. In your case, I've already customized my program to pinpoint everything that's holding you back from the cover of
Fortune
. Ready? You shouldn't spend so much time on the phone if you're shaped like a hippo.”

Serge stepped back with a giant grin.

An astonished gasp. “How dare you!”

“Because I care,” said Serge. “And if that tube top ever gives way, you're going to kill at least five people.”

A shorter man next to her stepped forward. “Who the hell do you think you are, talking to my wife like that?”

“An at-large life coach, just trying to help,” said Serge. “And while I'm at it, lose the diamond earring. You look like a prick and definitely don't want to attract attention to your face.”

The couple rushed away from the counter and toward the door.

Coleman whistled. “Look how fast they're moving.”

“They're chasing success,” said Serge.

“We're next up.”

Serge stepped to the counter and dumped out his bag of CDs and DVDs. He smiled at the employee.

She smiled back. “You want to return those?”

“No,” said Serge. “I want you to open them.”

“Excuse me?”

“Open these, please.” Serge picked up one of the movies and clawed at it like a squirrel. “These things are friggin' impossible to open. And my futile attempts have now passed sleep as the largest time slice of existence.”

“Sir, I just handle returns and exchanges—”

Serge pointed up. “Does the sign say ‘Customer Service'?”

“Yes?”

“Please open these.”

“I can't.”

“Neither can I,” said Serge. “Especially because I bite my nails. I bite other people's, too, but they always had it coming. So I really need you to open these because I don't have the time, but who does if you have a job? I don't have a job, but I participate in current culture, which is like three jobs, not to mention constantly writing letters to the president to keep his spirits up. I recently sent him one saying
Illegitimi non carborundum
. That's Latin for ‘Don't let the bastards grind you down.' Except my Latin was rusty and I think I wrote, ‘The organ grinders are bastards.' Hoo-wee, they must think I'm crazy up there, so I wrote him a corrected letter.” Serge pulled an envelope from his back pocket and flapped it energetically in front of her face. “I'm going to stand in line at the post office next. Even if you're into patience, that's hard-core. Which is why you can surely understand that I need you to open these.”

The woman maintained a professional gaze. “Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to step away from the counter.”

Serge pointed at a male employee walking behind her. “What about you, sir? Can you open these?”

“No, they're too hard to open.” He kept walking.

Serge turned to face the line behind him. “Can any of you open these fucking things?”

They all shook their heads.

“Sir!” the woman said sternly. “Your language! This is a family store.”

“Oh, I get it,” said Serge. “You're one of
those
customer-service people.” He slowly twirled a finger in the air. “You like to twist the meaning of words to your advantage. If anyone in this discussion has family values, it's me. I just bought Beach Boys and Annette Funicello, but do you have any idea how many R-rated movies and CDs with explicit-lyric warnings are on the racks back there?
You're
the ones peddling pussy, bitches, and ho's.”

She picked up the phone. “I'm calling security.”

“Really? You think they can open these?” He turned around to the line again. “Am I right or am I right?”

Three large guards arrived. “What seems to be the problem here?”

Serge pointed behind the desk. “Her . . . I'm just trying to buy some wholesome family entertainment while this establishment is trafficking in cocksucker and cunt.” He began filming the guards with his camcorder. “And could you give me a little more anger for my reality show?”

Seconds later, the front doors of the store burst open. Serge and Coleman came flying out and tumbled on the pavement.

A deep voice. “If we ever see you around here again, we're calling the police.”

Then a shower of violently flung CDs and DVDs that smashed on the ground.

Coleman crawled over with skinned palms and picked up the
Good Vibrations
disc. “Some of these broke open.”

“I was right. I knew they could do it.” Serge pushed himself up. “It just took me to show them their potential.”

WISCONSIN

T
he winter was a long one. Patches of snow still covered the ground near the feet of the protesters, screaming and waving signs at the dome of the state capitol in Madison.

It was a new era of hope.

Across the nation, recent elections had swept fresh blood into office. They would reinstill fiscal responsibility. Among their first chores was to end wasteful collective-bargaining agreements for workers. Which made it a Right-to-Work State. Which cleared the way for layoffs. But the dismissals only trimmed the fat, you know, like police officers, teachers and firefighters.

All the jobs were eliminated by politicians who said their biggest campaign donors deserved tax breaks, because they called themselves job creators.

But you just can't please some people. And hundreds of them now ringed the capitol grounds, hollering and otherwise dampening the party. They'd been coming for weeks, setting up before dawn and rubbing mittens together. TV cameras from local morning shows broadcast the images between traffic reports and college basketball scores.

Twenty miles away, a cold gray light came through a kitchen window. The thermometer outside the window on the bird feeder said five. A red grain silo with a silver dome stood silently on a white hill.

Barbara McDougall glanced at the small television mounted under her cabinets and continued spreading fat-free mayo on a baloney sandwich. The sandwich went in a stack with three others, awaiting Saran Wrap and brown paper bags. Bar, as her parents called her, learned from TV that a dozen protesters had been arrested, Interstate 94 was clear all the way to Oconomowoc and the Badgers won in double overtime.

Bar heard footsteps from behind and smiled, but didn't turn around. A peck on the cheek. “Good morning.” Her husband, Patrick. He started the coffee. The kitchen curtains were plaid, in a color scheme popular at bagpipe funerals.