Coleman tapped an ash out the window.”Then why’s it called Panama?”

“A rare relevant question. The city’s original developer, George West, bestowed the name because if you draw a line from Chicago to the Panama Canal, it runs through there.”

“That’s fucked-up… Serge, I see fish with nipples.”

“Weeki Wachee, home of the famous mermaid shows and one of the first roadside attractions in the state.”

“Real mermaids?”

“I wish. They just wear costumes and breathe from special tubes hidden in underwater rocks. Tourists watch from below-ground grandstands through giant windows… And from the only-in-Florida file, a classic newspaper photo three decades ago of mermaids on strike in full uniform, picketing along the side of the highway.”

A billboard went by: SWIMMING OUR TAILS OFF SINCE 1947.

“You aren’t stopping,” said Coleman. “You always stop.”

“Not this place.” Serge shot photos out the window without slowing. “My mug shot’s probably posted in their ticket booths on the no-fly list. And just because I dove in the pool during one of the shows in a selfless attempt to save the attraction. Who knew they had big capture nets?”

“How were you trying to save it?”

“By spicing up their act as the Creature from the Black Lagoon-1954, filmed in Florida -which is why I dragged that mermaid to the bottom, but then I forgot which rock had the breathing tubes.”

“What happened?”

“Reached the surface just in time, but no thank-you, only another ‘We’re calling the police.’ That’s usually a good time for lunch. On the bright side, a disgruntled mermaid with Broadway aspirations chased me across the parking lot and asked for a lift. Hit it off right away. And the sex!”

“You had mermaid sex?”

“Around the clock. Name was Crystal, like the river. Barely left the motel room for a week, but finally had to slow down when I started walking bowlegged. Then we broke up.”

“Why’d you break up with a mermaid?”

“Other way around. You know how women are? Mermaids are even worse. Started getting pissed that I always insisted she wear the costume to bed. Accused me of really being in love with it instead of her. I said, ‘Is that a problem?’ When chicks decide they’re leaving you, they really fly. At least I got to keep the suit.”

“Did you try it on?”

“Of course. How often do you get the chance? Except those things are pretty binding, and I had to cut a long slit in the tail to go shopping, but it turned out the stores didn’t want my business anyway.”

Onward. North.

Flea markets, RV parks, drive-through liquor barn, civil war reen-actment, sign beside a house selling Peg-Boards, direct-to-you outlets of preformed pools tipped up toward traffic. Sun umbrellas shaded roadside squatters hawking fresh produce, Tupelo honey, jumbo shrimp, salted mullet… Into Citrus County. Homosassa city limits. Serge jumped the curb and dashed into a visitors’ center.

Coleman ran after him. “Serge? Serge, where are you?…” Peeking through doors. “Serge?… There you are.” He looked around. “What is this place?”

A digital camera flashed nonstop. “The Florida Room at Homo-sassa Springs Wildlife State Park. Exhibit honoring my favorite artist, Winslow Homer.” Sprinting around the room, flash, flash, flash. “Painted these watercolors of local nature during vacation in 1904. And look! Here’s a page of the guest register he signed at the Homo-sassa Lodge!” Flash. “I could stay here forever! Back to the car!”

Farther north, Crystal River, swim-with-the-manatees country. Tour boats and dive specials and viewing platforms. Red-white-and-blue manatee statue in front of city hall.

“Coleman, did you know that hundreds of years ago, manatees were thought to be mermaids?”

“By who?”

“Pirates at sea too long.” Bang, bang, bang.

Coleman turned around. “I think the guy in the trunk wants something.”

“Gerbil dispensers are probably empty.”

MIAMI

People in smartly pressed suits came and went through a high-security gate.

Inside the utilitarian government building, an anthill of movement and efficient activity. Phones rang, reports filed.

CNN was on. A repeat of the breaking story on the missing college student found alive in Massachusetts.

A case agent named Ramirez looked up at the TV.

Patrick McKenna’s face filled the screen.

“… I don’t feel like a hero…”

Agent Ramirez closed his eyes. “Oh, no.”

NORTH FLORIDA

A ’73 Challenger entered Levy County.

The tiny hamlet of Inglis. REDUCED S PEED A HEAD. Serge tried to time a stoplight but lost.

He punched the steering wheel. “Life drains from my body at red lights!”

Coleman popped a can. “I use them to drink beer. Green lights, too.”

“Come on! Come on!…” He began unscrewing a thermos. “Hold the phone. I can’t believe it!”

“What?”

Serge pointed up next to the traffic light, where a green-and-white sign marked the cross street.

Coleman squinted. “Follow That Dream Parkway?”

“It’s a sign.”

“Yeah, metal. See them all over the roads.”

“No, I mean a religious one. God wanted that light to turn red, like a burning bush. From now on, I’ll never question the apparitions of the red lights.”

“What are you going to do?”

Serge hit the left blinker as the light turned green. “Follow that dream!”

The Challenger skidded around the corner. “There’s the chamber of commerce. They’ll have answers.” He pulled into the parking lot.

“Serge, it’s closed.”

“What the hell? The economy doesn’t stop on Sunday.”

Coleman burped. “Back there, I saw a-”

“Not now.” Serge grabbed his camera. “Maybe I can find answers through the office window with my zoom lens.”

“But, Serge-”

He was out of the car. He came back.

“Answers?”

“Only more questions.” He stuck a key in the ignition.

“Serge, what was that brown sign we passed racing around the corner?”

“Coleman, I’m trying to think!” He stopped and turned. “Did you say brown?”

“Yep. Big one.”

“Brown means information, which means God left another message on my machine.”

Serge threw the Challenger in reverse and squealed backward a hundred yards. He stared at the sign, then at Coleman.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“He speaks through you.”

“Cool.” Coleman switched to his flask. “What’s this dream parkway jazz about anyway?”

“The sign reveals all.”

Serge got out and stood fervently before the sun-faded paint. At the top, a rust-streaked logo of an old-style movie camera. Below: Elvis spent July and August of 1961 in this area filming his ninth major motion picture Fo//ow That Dream… The main set was located 5.8 miles ahead at the bridge that crosses Bird Creek.

Serge dashed back to the car. Coleman dove in after it began moving.

They sped west through Crackertown.

The odometer ticked under Serge’s watchful eye. “… Based on the novel Pioneer, Go Home! by Richard Powell…”

Coleman pointed at the running camcorder on the dashboard. “I thought this documentary was about spring break.”

“It is,” said Serge. “In the movie, Elvis plays Toby Kwimper, whose family drives to Florida and homesteads on the side of the highway. Presley was such a force of nature, he created his own spring break. Plus another righteous Florida footnote: One of the film hands from Ocala brought his eleven-year-old nephew to the set, and he was bitten by the Elvis bug, dedicating his life to rock ‘n’ roll. That child? Tom Petty!”

The odometer reached 5.7.

“Is that the bridge?”

“Elvis lives!”

The Challenger skidded to a stop on the tiny span. Serge got out with his camcorder, filming the surrounding marsh. “Coleman, there’s much to do. We must get down on that bank and fashion a bivouac like the Kwimpers’ from available natural materials. Then I’ll buy a guitar and rehearse the theme song while you round up extras from the day-labor office. Nothing in the universe can make me waver until this mission is complete.”