Tim Dorsey
Author Book List

And busting out of Chattahoochee State Hospital ... without his meds! The thrill-killing Floridaphile needs to get to the bottom of his bookie grandad's bizarre 1964 death -- not to mention launch "Serge & Lenny's Florida Experience," the new Miami specialty tour venture he's cooked up with his best brain-dead druggie-buddy. It's all good. For Serge A. Storms, anyway. Not so much for anyone else.

Excerpt

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

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