After a quick shower he locked up the apartment and hurried out to his Xterra.
Suddenly in the wee hours, Lanny knew where to find Miranda.
He just had to pull off a vocational pose in order to get to her.
26
LANNY DID NOT TRUST Atlanta, much less its airport. A direct flight was his preference—and Orlanda offered such a flight. He drove for six hours, stopped to refuel north of the city, and barreled on at high speed.
En route he taped a note to his rearview mirror. The note was hardly original. By now he was too crazed, too excited even, to come up with anything more than cliché.
Desperate times call for desperate measures….
Returning to the Caribbean was the desperate measure;discovering the whereabouts of Miranda was the call. Well, that and the news that DJ Ned was back on the airwaves. Sometime in late morning, out of sheer curiosity, Lanny tuned his radio to Fence-Straddler AM.
Lanny recognized the voice booming through his speakers—and this voice caused him to want to pick up his cell phone and call Ned’s show. Even better, if DJ Ned is back on the air, I could pay him a visit, invite him to come along, tell him I’m sorry he got sent back to Cuba. Wonder how he escaped this time?
Lanny managed a slight smile as he heard Ned’s song intro: “This one goes out to an old friend, Lanny, who, if he’s still around, is welcome to visit me anytime here in my Orlando studio. I’m DJ Ned Nazareth, coming at you live and revived from Fence-Mender AM.”
Lanny jerked his truck to the shoulder and yelled, “Noooo!” at his radio.
DJ Ned continued. “Most of you are well acquainted with the funky guitar in this next song.”
Stopped fully and stunned beyond comprehension, Lanny recognized the opening guitar lick to one of his favorite tunes: “Play that Funky Music, White Boy.”
DJ Ned spoke over the riff. “In case any listeners are still straddling the fence, I hope the lyrics in this song will prompt you to join the big team. You do want to join the big team . . . now, don’t you?”
The new lyrics boomed inside the truck, and Lanny flinched at the chorus of “Praise the Zealot Movement, Lost Boy.”
Lanny’s head dropped against the steering wheel. Eyes shut, his mind in wobbly orbit, he lacked the energy to yell at the radio again. All he could do was whisper, “No, Ned. No, no, no.”
He drove in a daze for the airport, but five minutes later the temptation to listen overwhelmed him. As if to sneak up on his own radio, Lanny reached slowly for the knob.
DJ Ned’s voice boomed again. “A new superstar is making waves with his debut album, and he and his band are currently on tour across the southeastern U.S. Today, I, DJ Ned, get to introduce this group to you. Please welcome to Fence-Mender AM Radio, MC Deluxe and the InnerCity Rap Ensemble. I’ll now play their new single, ‘A Skippuh’s Nod to God.’ “
No! Not MC, too! Lanny couldn’t bring himself to listen to the song. He turned off the radio and pulled back onto the interstate and drove slumped in his seat.
I might just be the last poser left on the planet, but I’m still holding out hope for Miranda.
At Orlando International Airport, Lanny parked his truck, slipped deep into poser mode, and hurried inside the terminal. His desperate measure grew mega-desperate as he approached the customer service counter of Detour Airlines.
“Next flight to Puerto Rico,” he said to the counter girl. “Economy class.”
“Of course,” she replied, typing the flight number into her keyboard. “And would you like to be seated in singing or non-singing?”
“Um… non.”
Lanny paid $160 cash for his ticket, but Counter Girl hesitated to give him his boarding pass. She held it over her head, shook it twice, and said, “Recite the code phrase, sir?”
Lanny cleared his throat and reached confidently for his boarding pass. “Triumphant soldiers.”
“Enjoy your flight, sir.”
Donald Deacon and Sir Crackhead stood waiting on the warm Puerto Rican tarmac, greeting all arriving tourists.In black fatigues and WWMD bracelets they greeted them. Surprised but not shocked to see his old mates transformed—after the DJ Ned and MC fiascos he expected as much—Lanny descended the stairs from the plane, relieved that Marvin’s Lear Jet was nowhere in sight. Halfway down he sniffed warm tropical breezes, then stepped onto Puerto Rican soil for the first time.
Lanny could tell from their blank faces that these former prison mates didn’t recognize him. These two were not crucial to his mission, however, so he extended his hand to Donald Deacon and shook hard. “Triumphant soldiers.”
“Triumphant soldiers to thee,” Donald Deacon repeated in monotone.
“Indeed, thou art in the presence of triumphant soldiers,” said Sir Crackhead, shaking Lanny’s hand with a limpish wrist. “What bringeth thee to Puerto Rico?”
Aw, man, now these two speak the KJ, too. Lanny kept such thoughts to himself, knowing that these guys could be his best asset. Accepted as their equal, he walked to an observation area and stood with them in the shade of palms, all three sweating in the Caribbean heat.
“I’m here volunteering to help with construction of Marvin’s language school,” Lanny explained. “In my former life I owned a contracting business, remember?”
“Ah,” said Sir Crackhead with a smile. “I hath no recollection.”
Lanny figured they were so brainwashed that they didn’t remember anything, even their shared imprisonment in Cuba. Neither man had asked about DJ Ned or MC. Thus Lanny played innocent, noting the hilly terrain on one side of the island and wondering if Miranda were hidden there. He wanted to ease in to his big request, but anxiety and excitement merged and produced in him a newfound bluntness. “Would you guys mind if I took a quick look at the resistors who are held captive here?”
Donald Deacon raised a finger of objection. “Urn, sir, as thou art a construction worker, does not thou desireth first to see the building site? Bulldozers already cleareth the land.”
“I’d really like to see the resistors…. Haven’t met any in a while.”
Sir Crackhead moved closer to Lanny, as if to whisper in his ear. “Can thou keepest a secret?”
“Of course.”
“Here in Puerto Rico is where we keepeth the female resistors.”
Yes! Lanny thought, doing his best not to grin or dance a jig on the tarmac. I was right. I knew it, I knew it!
Donald Deacon nodded in the affirmative, pulled a ringing cell phone from his pocket, and stepped away to talk to someone in private. “Thou needest special permission to meet thy fairer gender,” he explained over his shoulder.
“I just want one little look.”
Sir Crackhead reached for his wallet. “Okay, if thou insist on seeing them, I do owneth wallet-sized photos. But if thou art hoping to meet someone new, thou really did not need to cometh all this way. If thou wouldst subscribeth to the new online dating service, E-Marviny, thou could viewest these female resistors and readeth their profiles.”
He handed the first photo to Lanny, who dismissed it with great haste.A stout blonde in cowboy boots? This ain’t Miranda.
“That blonde,” said Sir Crackhead, taking back the photo, “she art a rodeo girl who haileth from Amarillo. Donald Deacon desireth to date her… when she becometh legal, that is.”
“You mean she’s underage?” Lanny glanced anxiously as Sir Crackhead pulled four more photos from his wallet.
“No, I meant that if thou art hoping to marry one, thy must waiteth until total reform hath completeth its course. Then she becometh legal to weddeth. Thou canst also readeth this rule on E-Marviny.”
Lanny snatched the four photos from Sir Crackhead’s hand and saw four women of various ethnicity, none of the faces familiar. His heart sank again, though determination bouyed it for one last try. “This. . .this can’t be all.”
Sir Crackhead tapped the third photo. “The Asian woman and I flirteth yesterday during paint detail.”
“No more exist. There are only five women here.”
Disappointment so welled up in Lanny that he grabbed Sir Crackhead by the shoulders and shook him. “This is all the female resistors you have?! Where else are they kept?”
Sir Crackhead spoke in haste, as if unfamiliar with emotion. “There is nowhere else. All five holdouts were broughteth here. The blonde even earneth her Texas captor a Big Reward! But thou shouldest not worry about their treatment;the women haveth their own loft apartments, 200-thread-count sheets, and a small budget for décor.”
Lanny shook him a second time. “This is it?! There were never more than these five? Why would Marvin build a language school for just five people?”
“Thou engagest in faulty thinking. The Puerto Rican language school shall be mostly for those who’ve already joineth the movement. Although the tall woman and the rodeo girl doth showeth a great knack for languages.”
Only five?“But this can’t be…”
Lanny let go of Sir Crackhead. This cannot be.
Lanny turned to see Donald Deacon striding over, the pasted-on smile reminding him of zealot fast-food workers. “Sir, the five women remaineth busy painting portraits of Marvin on white canvas. Thou cannot disturbeth them.”
Lanny searched his face for any sign of joviality. “C’mon, Donald! Y’all stop kidding with me. Where are the rest of the female resistors? Tell me there are more somewhere!”
Donald Deacon shook his head no and left to greet a second plane.
Sir Crackhead had no words of sympathy as he walked Lanny back to the terminal. Lanny sat in the lobby and grasped his hair above his ears and commenced to rocking slowly. His expression sank into the spaced-out comportment of one devoid of hope, although to any casual observor he was merely a man mildly suffering, perhaps having a bad day.
Sir Crackhead looked on with brainwashed confusion, though after a time he sat beside Lanny and tried to make conversation. “Thou leavest so soon? What of thy contractor work?”
Lanny motioned for him to leave.
He did not. “But thou just arriveth…”
Slowly Lanny raised his head. But he could not look upon any more zealots, so he just spoke to the lobby window. “I. . . forgot my tools. I have to go back to Orlando.” His words lacked all emotion, just the residue of conscience.
Sir Crackhead patted Lanny on the back before walking away. “Thou must worketh on thy memory,” he said, tapping the side of his head as he strolled down the lobby.
For the return flight aboard Detour Airlines, Lanny settled into seat 3F, the lone outbound passenger.
With reddened eyes he stared out his window as the plane took off.
Miranda is gone…. Gone! I’m alone in the world, and every idea I have leads to a dead end.
The plane rose swiftly, but neither blue waters nor coastal scenery had any effect on him. Blank-faced and despondent, he would not even accept the flight attendant’s offer of charismatic peanuts.
I just want out of this misery.
27
THE NIGHTMARE HAD COME TRUE, and now Lanny figured a downtown Orlando high-rise an appropriate venue for his exit.
The one he chose was still under construction, half completed, if that. The outer shell of the twenty-story building appeared a monstrous gray skeleton, as emotionless as the inhabitants he’d met in Puerto Rico. No glass yet in the windows, few doors hung, and the high-rise’s shadow angling across the Xterra’s hood.
No workers around on this cloudy Saturday afternoon, just heavy equipment, a crane, a dumpster overflowing with debris. Lanny drove to the gate, got out, and used his pair of bolt cutters to break in. Confident that he was alone, he eased his truck to within fifty feet of the building and sat idling, peering up through his windshield.
Lanny wanted a twenty-story building. He’d already driven around and rejected nine other structures. He left his truck on the asphalt and didn’t bother to lock his door. The only item he took with him was a pre-paid cell phone he’d purchased earlier that morning while posing in his Got Religion?T-shirt.
He entered the buildling through an unframed doorway. Sand and concrete powder covered the first floor. I should at least tell somebody, bring some closure to mg life. Tell Ned he can have mg Xterra to drive to his zealot meetings.
The inner stairs were of unfinished concrete, the steel bannisters cool to the touch. Wind blew through the north end of the building and whooshed out the far side. Lanny never hesitated as he climbed higher, though between the twelfth and thirteenth floors he paused to look down. Not high enough.
Higher and higher he climbed, his thoughts and memories fighting for supremacy, as if they, too, knew their time was short. We walked barefoot on a golf course at sunset….… I drove her to the airport…. She wrote me into her will… DJ Ned loved disco before he became a, zealot…. I once soaked in Castro’s hot tub…. Miranda’s mom left her a phone message in Cocoa Beach: “Miranda, we’re on our way to the marina to check on your dad’s boat. It’s 10:20 now, and we’ll be back by 10:45 to take you to the airport. There’s some turkey and Swiss cheese in the fridge if you’d like to make a sandwich to take on the plane,”… I tried my best to find you, Miranda… . I wanted to marry you.
Lanny reached the twentieth floor, made his way to a metal door, and stepped out onto the roof. From the south corner he saw Orlando spread before him—office buildings, bridges, lakes, sidewalks, palm trees, the outskirts of Deity World, train tracks—and hopelessness.
A gust pushed him backward off the corner, but he stepped back up and peered down again. After a long moment of meditation, he pulled his cell phone out and dialed a number.
“Welcome, caller, to Fence-Mender AM! I’m DJ Ned Na—”
“Ned, it’s Lanny, and I’m just calling to tell you that—”
A short pause. “Folks, I have here on the line a genuine American poser, a man with whom I once—”
Lanny cut him off again. “Ned, even though you’re now a zealot, I wanted to let someone know that I’m exiting this misery. Tell your cohorts they won. Tell Marvin he rules the earth. Tell ‘em whatever you want. You can even have my Xterra if you want it…. I’ve decided to… I just want. . . She was all I had… all I wanted…. It was nice knowin’ ya, Ned, back when you were normal…. I’m outta here.”
“Wait, Lanny! I’m… just. . . just tell me where you are.”
“I’m not telling you where I am… but I can see the top of your station from here.”
And with that, Lanny tossed his cell phone over the side of the building. He watched it somersault for two hundred feet until it burst into fragments on the asphalt.
Lanny inched his toes out over open air. He teetered at the next gust. And the next, and the one after that.
Again his thoughts raced. All my friends fell victim to the brainwashing…. Miranda gone, my golf buddies gone… Remember to jump far so you don’t hit the building on the way down…. There’s no afterlife…. Life here is worthless… .Jump far so you don’t hit the building…. Nothing here counts for anything…. I wish I’d punched Marvin in the geezer… .Just five more seconds… Miranda, I love you… wherever you are…Jump far and don’t hit the building…. New Year’s Eve we danced to James Brown music…. Close your eyes…. No, keep them open…. Go headfirst… I tried to find you Miranda…. Don’t look down… . Yes, face your fear and do it….
A figure below ran through the open gate and onto the asphalt, waving his arms and shouting up through his hands.
“Lanny, don’t jump!” he yelled. “I’m a poser…. What you heard on the radio was just to satisfy the zealots!… We’re about to head west!… We think the zealots lied!… There may be millions of us out there!… Don’t give up on Miranda!… Don’t jump, Lanny!”
But Lanny could not hear Ned. The same winds that buffete
d his shirt and hair restrained the words;the thirteenth or fourtheenth floor was their apex, as high as they could manage. All Lanny saw below was a small figure of a man—obviously a zealot—waving his arms in protest.
Oh, so now Mr. Zealot Maintenance Worker doesn’t want to have to clean up my mess after I splatter. He probably called the cops on me.
Ned shouted up again. “Lanny, it’s me, Ned Neutral!… I’ve been posing for two weeks now!… I lied to get out of Cuba! There is no DJ Ned Nazareth!”
His words carried upwards again, this time to the fifteenth floor. Lanny peered down over the corner, teetering. Don’t look down again…. Yes, do look…. You don’t want to hit that zealot and have him cushion your fall.
His next glance down revealed a second figure of a man, this one leaner, darker, waving at first, then dropping to the ground and spinning. Just another zealot wanting me to join them. But they don’t wantto know me;they’ll always be strangers, just wanting to nail their vinyl siding on my life, put bumper stickers on my car. Would any of them ever admit to a lustful thought? A white lie? A big lie? To cheating on their taxes?. . .Jump far and don’t hit the building…. Close your eyes…. No, keep them open…. Go headfirst.… J tried to find you, Miranda.… I really loved you.… Now why is that second zealot on his back, spinning around in circles?
Lanny clenched his fists, closed his eyes. A gust startled him and he looked down again.
Why is that guy gyrating on the ground?
Lanny leaned out over the edge. Again he teetered with the wind.
His mind was raw mayhem, marinated in chaos and deep-fried in a vat of confusion.
The End.
“That’s it?!” I asked Larry. Actually, I yelled this at him from across my office. “How can you write an ending that’s so unutterably depressing?!”
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