Free Atomic Lobster by Tim Dorsey

ran to the end of the block and looked around the corner. “Shoot! Of course! We’re going thewrong way! I just naturally assumed it was Dodecanese Bayou at the sponge boats, but it’s the other by the war memorial.”
    GAINESVILLE
    A black Camaro raced down a dirt driveway and joined traffic on Route 24. From the road, it was difficult to make out the third body on the farmhouse steps.
    Tex McGraw worked his way across campus and passed the stadium. He reached Interstate 75 and sped south. On the other side of the highway, a late-model Cadillac Escalade headed north.
    “I think this is our exit,” said Martha.
    Jim hit the blinker and began getting over, but a Mustang saw the flashing taillight and sped up to close the gap. Jim jerked the wheel back to avoid a collision. “Where’d that guy come from?”
    “He did it on purpose!” said Martha. “What’s with people who accelerate as soon as they see your turn signal?”
    “Martha, please stop giving people the finger in traffic.”
    “He made us miss our exit!”
    “There’s another in two miles. We’ll double back.” Jim broke into a smile. “Can’t believe Melvin’s already halfway through his freshman year. Seems like only three seconds ago he was in Little League.”
    Martha looked out her window at higher learning. Traffic snarls, flirting between cars, low-speed fender benders, and thousands of empty vehicles left at crazy angles across lawns, curbs and sidewalks like they’d just held the Rapture. “I don’t know why he wanted to ride with his friends instead of us.”
    “It’s natural.”
    “But he doesn’t mind using our car to lug all his stuff.”
    Jim took the next exit. Slow going across town. Massive, chaotic foot-traffic in all directions, a designer-brand refugee movement of students pack-muling stereo systems, plasma TVs, computers, golf clubs, wet bars, no books.
    “This really brings back memories.”
    “I don’t remember all the kegs.”
    “Martha, we were exactly the same when we went to school…. Here’s his apartment building.”
    “There he is!”
    Jim turned into a crowded parking lot. “Where?”
    “Waving to us from the balcony.”

TEN
    DOWN ON THE BAYOU
    T he church could withstand any hurricane.
    Built from huge quarried slabs, it stood proudly as it had for over a century at the corner of Tarpon and Pinellas avenues. The architecture was exotic even for Florida.
    For the last hour, a throbbing crowd had gathered on the sidewalk. The front doors finally opened. Cheers went up. A bearded man appeared in an immaculate robe and tall bejeweled hat. He waved with dignity during his short walk to a waiting car, which drove him another brief distance.
    A second, larger crowd at Spring Bayou erupted when the vehicle’s doors opened. The adulation grew louder as they followed the bishop down to the gently curving seawall. A small fleet of wooden dinghies was already anchored in the water, each containing several boys in white swim trunks, sixteen to eighteen years of age.
    On the opposite side of the bayou, Serge tapped page 132 of National Geographic . “The kids in the boats. Looks exactly the same sixty-one years later. These people are all about tradition. Like St. Nicholas Church we passed earlier. One of the state’s greatest landmarks that nobody even knows exists. The Mediterranean dome and spire were patterned after Aya Sophia in Istanbul….”
    “Can we go now?” asked Coleman.
    “But we haven’t seen it yet.”
    “Seen what?”
    “It’s January sixth. I’ve been waiting for this my whole life. The ultimate Greek tradition.”
    “But you’re not Greek.”
    “But I love Greek Orthodox,” said Serge. “I’m down with any faith that’s into bitchin’ pastry.”
    “Wait a minute,” said Coleman. “These aren’t the people who drink ouzo….”
    “The same.”
    “Those cats rock!”
    “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
    “Can we stay?”
    “Sure.”
    “Catch me up on