Gator A-Go-Go by Tim Dorsey

constantly walking around talking to myself, but just because I don’t have that stupid crap on my ear, people give me a wide berth and jump to the mistaken conclusion that I’m simply another jabbering street loon. Yet ever since I attached this thing to my head, completely new attitude, no matter what I’m saying: ‘I’ll destroy that motherfucker for ten generations!’”
    “People dig that?”
    “No, they still recoil—but in admiration. Now they think I’m a killer in the boardroom.” He nodded and smiled to himself. “Yes, sir, total respect.”
    Beach babes passed the other way, pointing and laughing.
    Coleman tugged Serge’s shirt as they reached a makeshift liquor stand. “Hold up—”
    “No! Told you we can’t stop. The documentary is practically filming itself.” He stepped in front of a sloshed brunette from Rutgers. “Excuse me, miss . . .”—raising the viewfinder to his right eye— “. . . mind if I ask you a few questions?”
    She began pulling up her shirt.
    “No, not your tits.” Serge reached and yanked it back down. “I want your soul.”
    “Fuck off, weirdo.”
    “Is that like your generation’s catchphrase?” asked Serge. “Because I’ve been getting it a lot lately.”
    She brushed past him. “Blow me.”
    “That’s a close second.” Serge turned off the camera.
    Another tug on his shirt.
    “Coleman, we don’t have time to stop for liquor.”
    “Not booze. Look!”
    Serge followed his pal’s gaze up toward the sky. Two massive steel towers rose like a giant V. Between them, even higher, distant screams from a tiny flying ball. The sphere had open-air seating for two students, who were held in place by a triple-reinforced roller-coaster harness. A pair of super bungee cords ran from the tops of the towers to the sides of the ball.
    Moments earlier, the ball had been sitting at street level. Underneath, a large metal latch held it to the base platform. The ride’s operator worked controls that turned gears on the tips of the towers, stretching the elastic cords to the max. Then he hit the button, releasing the latch and firing the catapult.
    The kids went vertical, zero to 120 miles per hour in under three seconds. They pulled six Gs before the ball reached its apex high above the city and the cords stretched the other way, jerking them back down. The bungees stretched almost to the ground, launching them again, this time slightly less high. Then down again. Up again, tumbling randomly, students shrieking all the way. Down, up, down, each time dissipating energy, now slowly arcing over at the peaks.
    In less than two minutes, it was over. The ball sagged motionless thirty feet from the ground, and the operator reversed his controls. The towers let out line, lowering the kids the rest of the way. They climbed from the ball, dizzy and sick. “That ruled!”
    The students left through a safety gate and past a sign—T HE R OCKET L AUNCH —where Serge waited impatiently, waving cash. “Ooooooh! Me, me, me! I’m next!”
    The operator led Serge and Coleman onto the platform and pointed at a pair of plastic bowls. “Empty your pockets and take off anything loose. Sunglasses, hats, that thing on your ear.”
    Serge’s wallet, cell phone and keys went in one bowl. Coleman filled the other with a bottle cap, M&Ms and twigs.
    The operator looked at Serge’s left hand. “You can’t take the camcorder.”
    “It’s all right,” said Serge. “I’m filming the most shocking documentary ever made.”
    “No, I mean there’s no way you’ll be able to hang on to it. You’re going to snap pretty hard the first way up.”
    “But I’m recapturing state pride.”
    The operator pointed at the restraint bar. “We got a tiny camera mounted toward the seats. You can buy a souvenir DVD afterward if you want.”
    “What a deal!”
    The pair climbed into the ball, and the operator strapped them in. Then he left the platform, positioning himself behind the control panel.