Free Atomic Lobster by Tim Dorsey Page B

around the dinghies. Kids diving over and over. The crowd on the seawall exchanged puzzled glances.
    Coleman ventured from behind the pylon for a closer look. “What the hell’s taking so long?”
    Behind him, a loud splash as something broke the surface.
    Coleman turned and grabbed his chest. “Jesus, don’t do that!”
    Serge pulled the emergency air canister from his mouth. “Hurry up. We don’t have much time.”
    Coleman raised the disposable, underwater camera attached to his arm with a rubber wrist strap. He aimed it at his pal.
    Serge grinned and held a white cross next to his face.
    Click.
    Coleman lowered the camera. “Can we go now?”
    “Professionals never just take one picture. What if my eyes were closed? Then we’ll have to come back next year.”
    Coleman advanced the film with his thumb. Click.
    “Again!”
    Click.
    “One with me kissing the cross.”
    Click.
    Dozens of baffled teens dog-paddled in the background. Now and then, one would take another deep breath, dive back down and come up empty.
    Click.
    “A profile shot. Which is my good side? Screw it. Shoot both.”
    Click. Click.
    “Underwater action sequence.”
    They submerged. Click, click, click…
    Coleman came up breathing hard. “I’m out of film. Now can we go?”
    “Absolutely not. I have to return this thing.”
    “You got to be shittin’ me. We spent all this time getting that, and you’re just going to give it back?”
    “Coleman, I have to give it back.” Serge rinsed spit from the air canister’s mouthpiece. “This is a sacred religious event. It would be grossly disrespectful to interfere.”
    “But I want to party. I only agreed to all this because I thought the ouzo part was coming up.”
    “It is. Just a little longer.”
    “So I’m going to be stuck here waiting again?”
    “No. Here’s what I want you to do….”
    Coleman listened until Serge finished. He furrowed his brow. “That’ll never work.”
    “Just do it!”
    Serge stuck the mini-tank back in his mouth and disappeared beneath the water.

ELEVEN
    GAINESVILLE
    T he Davenports were on a cleaning-product run. For five seconds. Less than fifty feet from his son’s apartment door, Jim stopped behind a Jeep with homemade plywood speakers built into the rear bay.
    “What the hell’s he doing?” said Martha. “The road’s clear.”
    “I think he’s talking to that girl in a bikini leaning against his door.”
    “I know what he’s doing,” said Martha. “That’s no place to talk. He’s blocking the parking lot’s exit.”
    “I’m sure he’ll just be another moment.”
    “If you’re not going to do something, I will!”
    “Martha, please.”
    She rolled down her window. “Hey! You in the Jeep! Move it!”
    “He couldn’t hear,” said Jim. “Stereo’s too loud.”
    Martha reached across her husband and leaned on the horn.
    “Martha—”
    A tanned, muscle-bound man got out of the Jeep and walked back to Jim’s door. A meaty fist pounded the window. “You just fuckin’ honk at me?”
    Jim lowered his window a slit. “Actually my wife—Yes, I honked at you.”
    “What’s your fuckin’ problem?”
    “No problem.” Jim grinned.
    “You just honk at me for fun?”
    “Jim!” yelled Martha. “Don’t take that from this creep!”
    “Martha, please. Let me handle this.” He turned back to the window. “You’re blocking the exit.”
    “Out of the car! I’m going to seriously fuck you up!”
    Jim hit the electric button closing his window. He faced forward.
    “Jim!” said Martha. “What’s wrong with you? You’re twice his age!”
    “Martha, that only works if I’m twenty and he’s ten.”
    More banging on the window.
    “So we just take it?”
    “He’ll eventually go away.”
     
    The bishop took off his hat and scratched his head.
    The kids from the dinghies were milling around back on land now, everyone staring perplexed into the dark water. Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
    Coleman strolled along the