Excerpt of Cadillac Beach by Tim Dorsey

Tampa -- 1996

A bearded man in rags stood on the side of a busy noon
intersection, holding up a cardboard sign: will be your
psychic friend for food.

A Volvo rolled up. The bum leaned to the window.

"People are out to get you. Vaccinations will be rendered
obsolete in coming years by superaggressive bacteria. Your
memory will start playing tricks. Tackle those feelings of
hopelessness by giving up."

The driver handed over a dollar. Serge stuffed the bill in
his pocket and waved as the car pulled away. "Have a nice
day!"

The traffic light cycled again; an Infiniti pulled up.

"Today is the day to seize opportunities and act on long-
term goals. But not for you. The House of Capricorn is in
regression, which means the water signs are ambiguous at
best. Meanwhile, Libra is rising and out to fuck you
stupid. Stay home and watch lots of TV."

A dollar came through the window.

"Peace, brother."

The light ran through its colors. Serge knocked on the
window of a Mitsubishi. The glass opened an inch.

"Put off making that crucial life-decision today because
you'll be wrong. Stop and notice the small things in life,
like pollen. Wear something silly and give in to that
whimsical urge to kick people in the crotch."

A dollar came through the window slit. Serge waved
cheerfully as tires squealed. Next: a cigar-chomping man
in an Isuzu. Serge bent down.

"The word 'smegma' will come up today at an awkward
moment. Begin keeping a journal; write down all your
thoughts so you can see how stupid they are. Don't be
rash! Blue works for you!"

"Hey, what kind of a reading is that?"

"Top-of-the-line," said Serge, holding out his
hand. "Where's my money?"

"I'm not paying you."

"Come on, ya cheapskate!"

"That was a lousy reading!"

"Okay, let's see what else I got." Serge placed the back
of his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. "Wait,
I'm getting a strong signal now. A transient will take
down your license plate, track your address through the
Department of Motor Vehicles, come to your house at night
and kill you in your sleep." Serge opened his eyes and
smiled. "How was that?"

The silent driver held out a dollar.

"Oh, no," said Serge," that was my special five-dollar
prediction." The man didn't move.

"No problem," said Serge, pulling a notepad from his
pocket. "I'll just jot down your plate and come by later
to get the money."

The man pulled a five from his wallet, threw it out the
window and sped off.

Serge picked up the bill, kissed it and waved. He looked
around and smiled at his chosen surroundings: drive-
through liquor stores, robbery stakeout signs, bus benches
advertising twelve-step programs, billboards for deserted
dog tracks and talentless morning radio. A sooty diesel
cloud floated by. Ah, the great outdoors! Serge turned and
headed away from the street. Back to the swamp. It was a
small swamp, but it was his swamp, nestled in the quarter-
loop of a freeway interchange in the part of Tampa where I-
275 dumps Busch Gardens visitors off for thrifty motels
and breakfast buffets and encounters with local residents
that make the Kumba inverting three-G roller coaster look
like a teeter-totter. Serge pushed back brambles and
shuffled through underbrush until he popped into a
clearing at a hobo camp. Smudge-faced men tended a small
fire in the middle of the cardboard boomtown, empty quart
bottles randomly strewn everywhere, except on the
southeast quadrant, where bottles formed strict geometric
crop patterns in Serge's "quart-bottle garden."

Serge sat down at the fire. The other guys scooted closer
to him. Serge began handing out money.

"How do you make so much?" asked Toledo Tom.

"Why do you just give it away to us?" asked Saratoga Sam.

"Why don't you have a nickname?" asked Night Train
O'Donnell.

"I'm a simple man, with simple needs," said Serge. "I'm on
an Eastern ascetic journey right now, trying to shed
material wants."

"How did you get to be homeless?" asked Whooping Cough
Willie.

"Oh, I'm not homeless," said Serge. "I'm camping."

They laughed and passed a bottle.

"No, really. I love camping, ever since I was a kid. I
used to go to the state parks, but cities are much more
dangerous and fun."

"But your beard ...?"

"Your smelly clothes ...?"

"Begging on street corners ...?"

"That's for the cops. If you're a fugitive and want the
police to leave you alone -- if you want everyone to leave
you alone -- go homeless-style. No eye contact, nothing.
It's like being invisible. Even if you get in some kind of
scrape, you're too much trouble to be worth the paperwork.
They just tell you to move along or drive you to the city
limits, not even fingerprints."

"You're hiding from the cops?" asked Tom.

"Ever since I escaped from Chattahoochee."

"You escaped from Chattahoochee?" Sam said with alarm. "A
few times."

"Isn't that where they keep the crazy people?" asked
Willie.

"Oh, like you guys are a group photo of solid mental
health," said Serge.

"What were you in for?" asked Tom.

"I killed a bunch of vagrants."

They began crab-walking backward from Serge.

"That was a joke! I was kidding! Jesus!"

They slid forward.

"Of course, how do you really know when someone from
Chattahoochee is kidding?"

They stood up.

"I was kidding that time," said Serge. They sat back
down. "But do you really know for sure?"

They took off running in crooked directions.

"Guys! It was a joke! I thought if anyone could appreciate
irony ... !" Serge stood and made a megaphone with