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click-wheel.
    Coleman sat down in front of the paused picture on the TV set. “So what’s this movie?”
    “The Punisher,”
Serge yelled from the bathroom.
    “What’s it about?”
    “My favorite,” said Serge, coming back into the room. “Lots of punishment.”
    He sat down on the bed next to Coleman, restarted the movie with the remote and went back to his iPod.
    Coleman gestured at the skyline on TV. “I didn’t know Tampa looked so cool.”
    Serge pressed buttons and nodded. “
The Punisher
finally showcased our fine city in the light we so richly deserve. I was first in line opening night. I figured, this is it! Tampa’s on its way now! Then, the ultimate injustice.”
    “What was that?”
    “Nobody went to see the fucking thing.”
    “Why not?”
    “Beats me. It had Travolta after all, plus a killer script. We really lucked out there.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Hollywood’s completely out of ideas. They could have easily stuck us with an unoriginal script, but fortunately we got the thirty-seventh movie about a comic-book hero.”
    “Weren’t you an extra in that thing?”
    Serge nodded. “Stood in line a whole day when they were taking applications. Even wore my best tropical shirt, which is why they selected me. Said I had the right look. That’s the way their culture works, lots of flattery right up until those guards dragged me off the set.”
    “What happened?”
    “Artistic differences. They were filming the climactic scene with Travolta, and I yelled, ‘You call
that
punishment?’”
    There was a metal box on the wall behind the bed. It had a slot. Coleman stuck a quarter in it. The quarter was on a string. He pulled it back out. The bed began to vibrate. Coleman reclined on a pillow, fired up a joint and began watching the movie. Serge played with his iPod.
    “Serge…”
    “What?”
    “Why do you like old motels so much?”
    “Florida history.”
    “Why do you like Florida history so much?”
    “Because it’s in short supply. We’re such a young state, it makes every piece extra special. Unfortunately, that’s also the problem. Too many carpetbagging developers from up north think something sixty years old isn’t important. But what else have we got? That’s another objective of my screenplay, to motivate preservation, like
Miami Vice
did for South Beach. If we don’t start right now, what will our grandchildren have?”
    “We’re having grandchildren?”
    “Universal grandchildren, like the president talks about in his weekly radio address.”
    Coleman hit his joint. “I don’t get that station.”
    “Nobody does. The most powerful man on the planet has the worst-rated program.”
    “That’s embarrassing.”
    “The shame is, it doesn’t have to be,” said Serge. “A few months ago I mailed the White House some suggestions to pump up the show.”
    “Like what?”
    “Prank calls. He’s already got the red phone. He could dial other world leaders and disguise his voice. It would be a scream! I also suggested he do like that guy on Howard Stern and play the piano with his penis. He doesn’t even need to know the piano; he could team up with the vice president and learn ‘Chopsticks.’ People would
definitely
start tuning in. Then, right after the song, he could pitch another tax break for his buddies and who’d complain?” Serge walked over to the window and peeked through the blinds. “Did you notice the bottom of our motel sign? Says: COLOR TV, with each letter a different color. It’s like we’re at the pyramids.”
    Coleman’s voice warbled: “I like beds with the Magic Fingers.”
    “Another barometer of historic excellence.” Serge left the window and sat back down at his typewriter. “Okay. Focus. You can do it!…”
    “I’m bored,” said Coleman. “Let’s go do something.”
    “Can’t,” said Serge. “I’m way behind deadline on this script. I’ve already lost two weeks playing with my iPod and peeing.”
    Coleman went back