Whale Season by N. M. Kelby Read Free Book Online Page B

a dog, the dog that always seems to bark in the slow hours of morning. And, if you listen closely, you can also hear the grinding whine of Dagmar’s Mercedes as she downshifts from 90 mph to stop to ask Jesus if he wants a ride.
    But Leon doesn’t hear any of it. He unlocks the driver’s door and feels his future unroll in front of him like a red carpet on the corner of Hollywood and Vine. He takes his wraparound sunglasses from his shirt pocket and puts them on, just because. The door handle is cool to the touch. Inside the American Dream there are real leather chairs, instead of bucket seats. Leon brushes off the bottom of his pants and sits down softly. Wishes he’d had a bath.
    He closes the door slowly. It moves so easily in his hand, he can hardly believe it. Doesn’t snap and crack on its hinges like the door in his mandarin orange El Dorado. It just shuts calmly with a whoosh, then a loud click. Startled, Leon jumps then looks around to see if anyone saw. A jackrabbit runs across the parking lot. Leon takes a deep breath. Automatic locks. Man, that’s nice, he thinks. Opens the door again quickly, just to be sure he isn’t locked in. Then shuts it. Doesn’t want to let any of the new car smell escape.
    As the sun rises higher in the sky, Leon leans over and takes a huge whiff of the passenger’s seat. His sunglasses slip off his nose onto the sweet cream leather. It doesn’t matter. The moment is perfect. A feeling of well-being settles over him.
    He is unaware that, right now, at home, in his own RV, Carlotta had fallen out of the waterbed and is now as awake as a rabid dog—and as industrious. His only suit is being heaved across the gravel yard of the motor court and is tumbling toward the swamp. His beer can collection now rocks back and forth in the gentle morning breeze, wrinkled like so many accordions. Clyde, the six-foot stuffed brown bear Leon won the week before from the taxidermist in Florida City, looks on in stuffed horror. But at this moment, Leon thinks of nothing but the new leather air of the American Dream. Tears fill his eyes.
    Gently, he turns the key in the ignition, the engine kicks to life. Then hums. Leon wipes the tears from his face with his sleeve. The air is electric with dings and buzzers. The dashboard looks like a cockpit. LED lights flicker, turn his face blue. Leon wants to take the Dream for a spin, but it’s not like anything he’s ever driven before. There are no rearview mirrors; just two video cameras connected to a twenty-inch flat-screen TV that’s built into the dashboard between the driver and passenger’s chairs. He touches the screen. There’s a spark. Static electricity.
    â€œSorry,” he says.
    On the dashboard, there’s a small computer screen about the size of a hand. “The Global Position Satellite” is printed in neat silver letters. Leon presses the “On” button. Deep in space, a satellite flying over New Jersey latches on to his signal. As does another near the Bermuda Triangle. As does a third that is slipping across the sky of Orlando over the sleeping Magic Kingdom. The signals converge. A tiny map appears on the screen with an “x.” “You are here.” The “x” floats outside of U.S. 41; looks as though no roads connect him with the interstate to Miami. He types in the words
Miami Beach, FL.
The screen states that Miami is approximately 89.7 miles, 105 minutes away. One hundred and five minutes until he can order an ice cold Busch, poolside, surrounded by widows with faces tight as Saran Wrap. That is, if he leaves now. In half an hour, somewhere around 7 A.M. , the tourists will wake up—then it will be four hours or more, if he’s lucky.
    Leon looks at the gas gauge. Nearly empty. If he runs out of gas, he knows he’ll need a wrecker to get the Dream down to the freeway to the nearest gas station. Nobody in Whale Harbor is open on