Coleman pulled up a chair. He took off his shoes and switched them. “The pain’s gone.”

“It definitely has to be about Florida.” Serge surfed various history sites. “Just haven’t zeroed in on the specific topic.”

“Why does it have to be about Florida?”

“To set the record straight. Remember the highest-grossing movie ever filmed here?”

“You told me. Deep Throat.”

“Bingo. And the state’s bestselling documentary?”

Coleman shrugged.

“Girls Gone Wild: Spring Break.”

“Oh, yeah!” said Coleman. “Great plot!”

“Plot?”

“Get chicks drunk and have them make out with each other.”

“That’s your idea of a plot?”

“The best there is,” said Coleman. “Unless, of course, they can convince three-”

“That’s exploitative!” Serge tapped his way around the Internet. “I cannot idly stand by and allow that gooey stain to sully my home state’s fabric.”

“There’s a sequel,” said Coleman. “They have this hot tub-”

“Enough!” Tap, tap, tap. “Now I absolutely must make this film. But what subject? Calusa shell mounds? The eight ‘lost’ Florida parishes when the Panhandle used to extend to Louisiana? Tampa ’s Great Blizzard of 1899? Mosquito control through the ages?…”

Time flew. Coleman passed out at the table with his cheek on a wicker place mat.

“… Sports? Rail infrastructure? Osceola’s heartbreak? Our chief export behind citrus: fucking up national elections?…”

Coleman raised his head and looked around. “Am I here?”

“Why can’t I find the hook?” Tap, tap, tap…

Coleman drank from the open beer he discovered in his hand. “Just remembered. What about the horn-honker in your trunk? He’s been in there a day now.”

“That’s why I hung gerbil-pellet and water dispensers from the spare tire.” Tap, tap, tap…

“What are you doing?”

“Checking my in-box.”

“Wow, you really won the Irish lottery?”

“Coleman-”

“We’re rich!” He jumped up and broke into a Riverdance jig. “We’re rich! We’re rich! We’re-rich-we’re-rich-we’re-rich!…”

“Coleman-”

He plopped back down and wedged his head between Serge and the laptop. “How much did we win?”

“Nothing.”

“No, really?”

“I’m serious.”

“Nothing?” Coleman sat back in his chair. “Then why do the Irish buy the tickets?”

Serge scrolled down the screen, deleting more spam. He stopped.

“What’s this?”

“What?”

Serge opened the next junk e-mail: Online Pharmacy Spring Break Blowout! Quality meds without prescription!

“Coleman, it’s a sign from God!” Serge got up and pulled a suitcase from the closet. “That’s two references this afternoon, which can be no coincidence. I’ve just got my new documentary.”

“What’s the subject?”

“Serge and Coleman do spring break!”

UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN

Friday afternoon, last class of the week.

Gray sky. Gusting wind.

Students in bulky coats and parkas dragged luggage down snow-covered dormitory steps. Others with wool scarves up to their eyes pumped gas.

Madison, Wisconsin. Ice scraped off windshields. Portable stereos went in trunks.

Columbus, Ohio. Car heaters warmed. Traffic stacked up at red lights heading out of town.

The same scene across the northern tier of the country. Milwaukee, Chicago, East Lansing, Hartford. Everyone in the starting gate. Heading south, expressways, truss bridges, railroad yards, brick chimneys, leafless trees, frozen riverbanks.

Rear window paint:

FLORIDA OR B UST.

In Durham, three University of New Hampshire students loaded final bags into a station wagon with wood paneling.

“Hope you didn’t forget to make reservations like last time,” said the driver.

“No,” said another student, slamming the rear hatch. “Taken care of. Alligator Arms.”

“Sounds like a dump.”

“It’s cheap.”

The driver checked his watch. “Where is he? We have to get moving.”

“He doesn’t realize he’s going yet.”

“What?”

“You know the guy. He’d never come on his own. And even if he did agree in advance, he’d back out at the last minute like he does for everything else.”

“Nobody told me about this.” The driver looked at his wrist again as a snowflake landed on the Timex. “It’s going to blow our schedule. Weather’s turning.”

“But he’s our friend. All that studying can’t be healthy. We owe it to him to show him some fun.”

“When do we break the good news?”

“When we find him.”

“You mean you don’t know where he is?”

“Sure I do. Somewhere studying.”

“This is already a disaster,” said the driver.

“It won’t kill us to do a good deed. I’m actually starting to worry about him.”

“You overthink shit.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. The more I’m around him, the more I get this vibe.”

“What kind of vibe?”

“Like he’s trying to hide something.”

Chapter Seven

FLORIDA

A 1973 Dodge Challenger raced up the gulf coast on U.S. 19.

Coleman’s window was down, his head outside like a cocker spaniel. “Are the chicks from the videos going to be there?”

“By the thousand.”

“Cool!”

“Coleman, this is a serious documentary. We’re not interested in drunk babes flashing tits.”

“Serge, a space creature has taken control of your vocal cords.”

“Spring break is one of the most profound social influences Florida has given the rest of the nation. Because of our state, kids not only come here, but now flock to Mexico, the Lesser Antilles, even Colorado ski slopes. And it all started in a single swimming pool in 1935.”

Coleman hung farther out the window. “Show me your tits!”

“Dude, get a grip. There’s nobody around.”

“Spring break! Wooooooo! I’m Gertrude Schwartz!…”

Serge pulled him back inside by his belt. “Coleman, that’s seriously ripped, even for you.”

Saliva began stringing from Coleman’s mouth, pooling on his stomach.

Serge passed a Kleenex from his door organizer. “Thought you had that problem mastered.”

Coleman placed the tissue on his chest like a bib and handed Serge a dark-orange safety bottle.

Serge read the label: GERTRUDE SCHWARTZ. Then the contents. “Coleman, this is one of the most powerful narcotics known to man. How’d you get it? You’re not a woman.”

“Dfjoiakl-said I was her son- msdffkdsflsd…”

An hour later, Coleman’s head lolled on its neck swivel. “Serge, someone messed with that highway sign. Says we’re going north.”

“We are going north.”

“Who drives north for spring break?”

“People who want to travel back in time.”

“I thought we were heading to a beach.”

“We are. But time travel is the structure of my award-hoarding documentary,” said Serge. “ Florida ’s always had a love-hate relationship with spring break. First a community wants the money and rolls out the red carpet. Then they get rich and weary of hotel damage- ‘Yo, students: Thanks for the cash, now scram!’-deploying police harassment. So another city with a lesser economy says, ‘Hey, kids, why put up with that crap? We’ll treat you right.’ Then that place prospers and asks, ‘Why do we have to put up with this crap? Get ’em out of here!’ And so on.”

“How many times has it happened?”

“The history of spring break in Florida can be divided into three distinct epochs: Panama City Beach, the current party mecca; Day-tona Beach, which ruled the late eighties and nineties; and Fort Lauderdale, where it all began.”

“So we’re going to…?”

“ Panama City. I’m working my way back through time.”

“I thought this was about Florida.”

“What are you talking about? It is Florida. The Panhandle.“