Atomic Lobster Read Online Free Page A

chest-high metal control box and cracked open the quarters. Coins clanged through a slot at a steady pace. A finger pressed the start button.
    Serge and Coleman sat cross-legged on the ground behind the safety net. The neon sign over their heads was dark: FUN-O-RAMA .
    In front of them, a machine cranked to life with rhythmic mechanical cadence. Behind them, the soothing hum of interstate traffic on the other side of a berm. Tractor-trailers, SUVs, sports cars, sedans, all racing around a ’91 Buick Electra going thirty miles under the speed limit in the left lane.
    “Why is it taking so long to get home?” asked Eunice.
    “She’s driving slow again,” said Edna.
    “Why are you driving so slow?” asked Eunice.
    “I am not driving slow!” said Edith, her seat all the way up to reach the pedals.
    “Everyone’s passing us.”
    “Can you even see over the dashboard?”
    “I’m taller than you, bee-ach.”
    “You’ve shrunk.”
    “Shut up! I’m trying to concentrate!”
    “Are you going the right way?”
    “I don’t think she’s going the right way.”
    “I know what I’m doing!”
    “We’re supposed to be going north,” said Eunice.
    “I think she’s going south.”
    “You want to walk?” asked Edith. “I’ll pull over right now.”
    “She had too many gins at dinner.”
    “I did not!”
    “Is that why you’re driving the wrong way with the blinker on?”
    Edith looked around the side of the steering column. “Shoot.” She hit a lever.
    “We’re still going south.”
    “I’m going north!”
    Eunice pointed at the giant floating ball attached to the dashboard with a suction cup. “That’s not what the compass says.”
    “Must be mounted backward,” said Edith.
    “The ball’s floating,” said Edna. “It doesn’t matter how you mount it.”
    “Everyone shut up! I know where I’m going!” “South.”
    LATER THAT EVENING
    Coleman moaned through another five-star pass-out. Against long-shot odds, he had made it back to his bed. Bunk bed to be specific, bottom unit. The top mattress belonged to Serge. It was empty.
    Another groan and eyes fluttered open. Serge’s face was six inches away.
    “Ahhhhhh!” Coleman pushed himself up. “You scared me.”
    “I can’t sleep.”
    Coleman climbed out of bed and grabbed his bong. “How long were you staring at me?”
    “Hour.”
    Coleman prepared to pack the pipe. He stopped and held the bowl to his eye. “What happened to the screen?” He began going through the carpet.
    “Why can’t I sleep?” said Serge.
    “The dope will pull right through without a screen.”
    “Let’s go do something.”
    “I know.” Coleman snapped his fingers. “I’ll get a screen off the sink faucet.”
    “Where should we go?” Serge walked over to the bookshelf and his collection of vintage National Geographic s with every issue since 1905 containing a feature on Florida.
    “What the—?” Coleman stuck his pinkie up through the end of the faucet. “Someone already took the screen.”
    “I got it.” Serge examined the magazines’ spines. “We’ll pick a place at random from one of the articles.”
    Coleman slumped in a chair. “What kind of loser would take a screen from a faucet?”
    “Coke whore used to rent here.”
    “So?”
    “A forensic team couldn’t comb a place better for paraphernalia.”
    “I’ll just use stems to block the hole.”
    Time passed. Serge turned pages. Water bubbled in a tube. A knock at the door. Coleman looked up. “You expecting anyone?”
    “No,” said Serge. “Unless it’s that guy I’ve been waiting for my entire life.”
    “Which guy’s that?”
    “The one who knocks on the door and says, ‘Your existence has just changed totally and for the better. Please come with me.’”
    “Never heard of him.”
    “Neither have I,” said Serge. “That’s what separates me from the rest of society. A lot of people say they’re into hope, but they aim too low.”
    Coleman repacked the bong.