The Riptide Ultra-Glide by Tim Dorsey Read Free Book Online

disbelief, then signed off immediately before they could change their minds.
    Their classrooms had special, washable paint, floor padding, and no sharp corners. Three grades were combined, six-to-eight-year-olds, emotional disorders. Courtney cried all day, Jason had to wear a football helmet, Gary was permanently stuck making a beeping sound like a truck backing up, and Alex threw feces.
    That was just Barbara’s class. Patrick was stabbed at least once at the beginning of each day, even though it was only a Popsicle stick.
    â€œI stab you! Stab! Stab! Stab!”
    â€œThat’s nice, Jeffrey. Now time to sit down.”
    Then Harry’s turn: “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
    And all the other kids in unison: “I’m telling!” “I’m telling!” “I’m telling!”
    As he did every morning, Patrick picked up an acoustic guitar. The students magically settled down, more or less, and sang along.
    The McDougalls were unflagging. First to arrive at school, last to leave. And every single student got extra attention. They spent hours on the phone with parents and made house calls.
    At the end of the first year, the children had become, well, a year older. Still the same by measurable test standards. But there was a difference only a parent could notice. They were more reachable .
    At the PTA meetings, some parents had tears. Bar and Pat were nominated and heavily favored for teachers of the year, but the award instead went to someone whose family barbecued with the chairman of the school board. The principal put in for special merit-pay raises, but the district gave it to a phys ed teacher who turned the football team around.
    A lot of people complained.
    But not the McDougalls. They were happy as long as they were with their students.
    So they were laid off.

Chapter Four
    KEY LARGO
    T wo men sprinted frantically from a post office and jumped in the front seat of a ’76 Gran Torino.
    â€œI got to get the hell out of here.” Serge turned the ignition and floored it. “I know I said I was into patience, but that was like waterboarding.” He grabbed his camcorder and rewound the film. “All that footage was worthless. Just people standing around. It was too real.”
    Coleman’s shaking hands cracked a beer. “Don’t ever let me go back in that place. It’s enough to make me give up pot.”
    â€œI thought you said you had a good buzz.”
    â€œI did. It was excellent weed,” said Coleman. “That’s the problem. I was totally grooving, and suddenly I realized I’m in a brightly lit place crowded with people that’s super-quiet. And they all just knew I was stoned, man. Except they all acted like they didn’t, which is how you know they can tell you’re totally baked. Your pulse races, you can’t catch your breath, and your face and palms get all clammy, which just makes it more obvious. There’s nothing so terrifying as when they all know, man.”
    â€œColeman, I really don’t think anyone knew,” said Serge.
    â€œOf course they didn’t know,” said Coleman. “It was just the drug creating this horrible effect. That’s how you can tell it’s excellent weed.”
    â€œI had my own horror show back there,” said Serge. “Like one of those bad science-fiction movies where an alien ray gun shoots a plasma beam at the town square, and it acts like a giant blob of glue.”
    â€œI thought it was only the pot that made them seem slow to me,” said Coleman. “Could have sworn the guy working that one counter had died.”
    â€œNo, it wasn’t the pot,” said Serge. “He actually had a near-death experience. His heart stopped and he was clinically dead while handling three or four customers, then when he came back from the tunnel of light, he’s thinking: ‘All this rushing isn’t good for me. I’m going to smell the roses.’