Planet Willie

by Josh Shoemake

  “I’m awake,” he says.

  “What about your paintings?” I say. “Are there any left?”

  “Che’s still got a few,” he says. “Are they letting us out?”

  “Not you just yet, apparently,” I say. “Hold tight and I’ll try and get in touch with the Chief.”

  “I’ll never gamble again, Willie,” I hear him say.

  “I’ll bet a thousand pesos you do.”

  “Okay,” he says, and then the cop’s leading me out the front desk, where he returns my wallet, my belt, and most importantly, its buckle. Then it’s freedom for Willie Lee in sunny Acapulco, where the morning heat is already like something you could chop up and wrap a tortilla around. I have three coffees in a cafe next door and go through the wallet to make sure I’m not missing anything. The pesos all appear to be present, including more than my fair share of Hidalgos, but most importantly I find the little business card I’m looking for:

  Bill Sidell

  Mister Pyrotechnics

  Eastern Arizona Fireworks Association.

  Just outside the cafe there’s a phone booth, but before calling Billy I decide to make good on a promise to keep Lady Eralda apprised of her boyfriend’s whereabouts. So I find another little scrap of paper in the wallet and dial the number on it. Before I can even identify myself, she’s saying, “This is Eralda,” still in that English accent so noble I’m looking around for somebody’s hand to kiss. Appears to have found the accent that suits her, Lady E, and she’s sticking with it. We catch up on all the gossip at the Hotel Blue, my home away from home in New York City, and then I tell her there’s been an Alberto sighting, and that a man named Ricardo Queso is holding him somewhere in Acapulco. She gasps into the phone and loses her accent for a brief moment. She wants to know what she can do, and I ask if Alberto is by any chance an American citizen. He is, she tells me, and so I suggest that the F.B.I. might be interested to learn that an American citizen has been kidnapped in Mexico. If I were her, I’d proceed immediately to the phonebook and maybe drop the accent for a few minutes once she’s got the authorities on the line. She thanks me profusely, and we promise to meet up in New York soon.

  Then I call Billy. He’s real happy to hear from me, and we end up speaking for at least half an hour. Apparently a lot has happened in the life of Billy Sidell since we last played golf together, starting with a catastrophic hangover after a magical evening with Drita.

  “Who’s this Drita?” I say.

  “You were calling her Twiggy,” he says. “I don’t think she appreciated that. She’s a very sensitive woman, Willie. I’ve never met a woman like her. And the lovemaking? Well, I’m not a guy to kiss and tell, but it sure was something.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re in love with Twiggy.”

  “I might be, Willie. I mean I haven’t spoken to her since then, but man just being with her made me question everything I’ve been doing in my life. I tried explaining this to Betty. I’ve always tried to be honest in my marriage, you know? But I guess I said a few things that maybe Betty wasn’t ready to hear.”

  “Such as the quality of your lovemaking with Twiggy.”

  “Yeah, that. Also a lot of stuff about how I feel she’s been thwarting me and whatnot. Anyway, she kicked me out and I’m living temporarily over at the office now.” With the mention of his current accommodations he starts sobbing like a baby. “I miss the kids,” he keeps saying, and it takes me minute or two of calling out his name before I can get him back around to our conversation. I tell him I’ve got an opportunity for him, and the way he’s telling it, an opportunity is exactly what he needs. I tell him I’m in Acapulco, Mexico, and he likes the sound of that. I refrain from mentioning that Twiggy is too, which is probably better for us all. I tell him I’m waist deep in my investigation and may well need fireworks to get myself out.

  “What do you mean, fireworks?” he says.

  “I mean more fireworks than anybody’s allowed under the bylaws of the Eastern Arizona Fireworks Association. I’m talking a big truck full of airborne explosives. Billy? I’m talking Mister Pyrotechnics.”

  “I like the way this is sounding, Willie,” he says, his voice sparking to life again. “I don’t know what the hell you’re up to, but the way you’re putting it here over the telephone, Willie, I think this might just be the kind of opportunity I need.”

  “I wouldn’t call you if it wasn’t, Billy,” I say. “You’re the only man I know who can do this. How soon can you get down here?”

  “I’ll have to look at a map, man, but I imagine that if I don’t hit traffic I can make it in twenty four hours.”

  “Make it twenty three,” I say. “I’m in the Hyatt. And just in case, you may as well bring those pheromones. You never know.”

  “That’s right, Willie,” he says. “You sure as hell don’t. I’ll look forward to seeing you.”

  “Me too, Billy. Drive fast.”

  After hanging up, I hoof it over to El Loco to see if I can find Pepe or the Chief. Lulu may be in the neighborhood too, and at this point I need all the help I can get.

  El Loco, however, offers no friendly faces. No sign of Pepe or the Chief, and the hombres I do recognize don’t look too pleased to see yours truly. Kafka hasn’t exactly endeared us to the population, and I don’t imagine the pesos I took off some of them endeared me either. I order a beer at the bar and take it out to the terrace to think through the situation. Soon enough the situation needs another beer, and I drink it down, studying that plaza for some kind of clue.

  Seems like there are more tourists than locals out there. They come by in big groups, usually behind a guide with some kind of flag held up in the air. A few college kids come by too, taking a break from the wet t-shirt contests to explore a bit of the city. I spot a family of three coming by, a good-looking young couple and their little girl. They’re over by the fountain, where the girl throws out some broken crackers, which a few sparrows come hopping up over the cobblestones to peck. Then the father starts flapping his hands at the girl like they’re sparrow wings too. She doesn’t want to see it at first, she’s too occupied with those birds, but after a moment she starts flapping her hands right back, and I realize that the girl’s deaf and they’re talking. Maybe he’s telling her about Acapulco or the Mexicans, I don’t know. Maybe he’s asking her what she thinks of this place that’s so different from home, but it’s mesmerizing to see them talking this way. I could watch for hours. Makes me wish I could talk with my hands like that. Makes me wish I could invite them over for an orange juice, maybe, and sit there listening to the silence together while fluttering our hands about and sharing all the things we’ve seen down here. I wonder if she’d show me what fireworks look like when you say them with your hands.

  Eventually the family walks off and the sparrows fly away, and I’m left there with my beer, back to contemplating the situation again. I’m keeping an eye out on the church of Santa Pulcheria too, although I don’t know that there’s anything still to be learned from the virgin Lulu. But I’m wondering what kind of debts she racked up to Queso, and who might win in a heads up game between her and Kafka. Either way, you couldn’t sell tickets. Then my thoughts are interrupted by an appearance of the lady herself. She comes from around behind the church, where Kafka said he caught her smoking. She looks preoccupied as she walks past the fountain and doesn’t see me sitting there. She appears to be heading off into town somewhere, and I’m debating following her when another nun comes along about thirty feet behind. This one’s too tall for her habit, such that you get a clear glimpse of some shapely calves. Also she’s wearing combat boots, which does seem unusual, at least until I realize that this nun is Twiggy, taking advantage of her costume fetish to further our cause. I wonder what they’ll make of her back at the convent.

  Then they’re gone, and I’m moving from beer to bourbon. Bourbon is for reflecting, I’ve always felt. With bourbon you can sometimes sneak up on something brilliant. And then sometimes it just co
mes. Hits you like a sign. The answer’s so obvious, I’m amazed I haven’t thought of it already. There’s no doubt that what I’ve got to do pronto is go up to those cliffs and execute a dive so spectacular that Queso’s got no choice but to interview me for a permanent position on the diving team. Learn from a little trick I played back in Vail, Colorado on a certain Le Mons. I’m thinking maybe a back flip. Hell, I’m thinking maybe two. I’m thinking acrobatics so spectacular that they could make even my ex-wife smile.

  22

  Back at the hotel, making my preparations, I am pleased to find that there’s still a cape in my suitcase, which should give the performance that extra something. I try it on in the mirror and like what I see. Makes you feel near invincible, a cape like this, and although it may end up being sacrificed to the deep waters of the ocean, sometimes you can’t always meet the rigorous standards of the code you live by. Sometimes you’ve just got to dive from the cliffs without worrying too much about the cape.

  I double-knot it around my neck, put on my snug swimming trunks beneath the suit and head towards town again. The whole ensemble draws quite a crowd as I walk, but I pay no mind to the crowd. I’m busy visualizing the perfect swan dive, as I’ve heard professionals like Rock Lightford do. You want to jump out far enough to clear the rocks below, and you want to hit the water at the perfect vertical. I try to visualize the perfect vertical, but it’s been a while since I did geometry and a while since I dived. The last attempt I remember was over five years ago while cleaning the pool at Harry Shore’s, which got me fired, but then again, I wasn’t wearing a cape. Admittedly I’m also hoping that the angel bit will prove to be some kind of advantage once I’m in the air, but I’m not counting on it like I’m counting on that cape. It’s just simple aerodynamics.

  The afternoon show has started by the time I arrive at the observation platform. I make my way over to the concrete barrier and find Pepe, who’s already stripped down to his Speedo and is preparing to make his way up to the top. He looks more anxious than I feel, but then he’s probably had the good sense not to spend the night in jail and the morning drinking bourbon.

  “Thanks for coming out, Willie,” he says. “Is that a cape?”

  “That it is, Pepe. I figure I may fly around a bit up there before I hit the water.”

  “What are you talking about?” he says, as I start stripping down to the swimsuit. I hand the Italian threads over to one of Pepe’s lady admirers and bestow the boots upon her friend, who seems only too pleased. As for The Kid, I want him to experience this too. He wouldn’t want to leave Acapulco without catching the view from up there, so I’m taking him with me.

  “What I’m doing, Pepe,” I say as I strip off the shirt, “is called water sports. It may also be called a Double Willie With Cheese, depending on how I feel when I get up there.”

  “You can’t go up there, Willie.”

  “Come on, Pepe. How did you get your start? I mean you can’t very well practice jumping from the cliffs of Acapulco. You can’t practice flying through the air like some magnificent bird. You just have to get up there and fly.”

  “You’re drunk,” he says.

  “Focused is the word, Pepe. So how about we focus on giving these fine people the kind of show they came out here to see.”

  “I can’t let you go up there, Willie,” he says.

  I pull him close to whisper in his ear. “At this point it’s really out of your hands, Pepe. You’ll understand later. I promise I won’t get killed.” He looks at me suspiciously. “And if I do, you can have the boots,” I say, which gets me some cursing in Spanish, but he lets me follow him over to rocks. The crowd starts up a bit of a cheer, which I’m only too happy to acknowledge with some matador-like swoops of the cape. Pepe’s focused on the climb ahead and pays me no mind.

  The rocks have been smoothed by the hands and feet of all the divers who have come before us, including, I assume, Mister Elvis Presley. It’s a momentous occasion, and looking up at the rocks above us, I realize for the first time that if I manage just the climb, it’ll be a near miracle. Not that I’m dissuaded in the slightest, but it does make you think, which at this point is exactly what I shouldn’t be doing. Pepe is moving on all fours like a mountain cat. There’s a pattern to the footholds and handholds, which he knows how to navigate. I attempt to follow his lead but get tangled up a few times and have to step back down a few feet to find the trail again. Divers plunge down past us, blurs out the corner of my eye, such that it really brings home the awesome force of gravity. My fear of heights has got me near paralyzed by the time we make it up to the top, and I’m sorely regretting that Botticelli’s school ever painted anything.

  You may tell me that a hundred feet is not a long ways, but measure it from the top of a cliff and you start to appreciate the significance of a foot, much less a hundred of them. I stand there looking out over the city with Pepe, the observation platform far below us, the water even further down. A few other divers are crossing themselves at a little shrine they’ve got set up, and across the way are the windows of the Mirador restaurant, where I’m hoping Queso sits. The channel down there looks to be about the size of a hot tub, and the blue sky all around us seems so vast that it’s easier to imagine jumping up into it instead of down, not that I really want to be going that direction again anytime soon.

  “You hombres are loco, Pepe,” I say, as one of his pals moves from the shrine to the ledge, rises up on his toes, and stretches his arms in the air before jumping off out of sight. The crowd cheers down below, their voices distorted by the wind, and I edge over to the drop to see how they look down there. Pepe’s amigo is coming up out of the water, and they’re all clapping for him. After a moment the clapping dies off, and they start looking up for the next dive.

  Maybe it’s The Kid. More likely it’s the cape, which is whipping around like it’s got superpowers. Hell, maybe it’s the swimsuit, but whatever it is, they do appear to love it. I mean they’re just roaring down there. Makes you wish you weren’t sheer terrified so you could appreciate it a bit more. I notice a few attractive looking ladies waving their hands in the air. At least they’re attractive at a hundred feet, which like it or not is as good as it’s going to get for the moment.

  “You can’t do this,” Pepe says behind me, though at this point that may just be jealousy.

  “I know,” I say, my stomach feeling like it’s already taken the plunge, “so let’s get it over with. Any last words of advice?”

  “You’re joking, right?” he says with a tight smile. “First of all, since we’re still pretending, the cape. It will probably rip your head off.”

  And I don’t like it – man I don’t like it – but I take off the cape and retie it around my waist. Like a little mini-cape, or a cape for your nether regions. It’s not how I visualized the dive, which is worrisome, but at least it’s still attached. “Anything else?” I say. The crowd’s getting a little restless and is starting to chant something I can’t quite make out.

  “Go in feet first,” he says. “Jump way out and keep your arms in tight.”

  “Come on, Pepe,” I say. “I need to make an impression.”

  “I think you’ve made an impression,” he says.

  “Alright then,” I say, and step out to the very edge, where the wind’s whipping around even harder. Then I take a quick glance down at my target area and wish I hadn’t. My heart gets going like a Mexican jumping bean. I’d say a prayer, but another minute up there and I’ll die by heart attack, and if I’m heaven-bound once again, I’d rather it be a little more memorable for us all.

  Pepe’s saying something behind me, but I’m rising up on my toes and swooping my arms into the air like I saw his amigo do it. “Your hat,” Pepe’s saying, but before this can register, a gust of air has come along and whipped The Kid off my head. It tumbles out into the blue, hovers up there over the water for a moment, then starts to fall. I may yell out something here, but then instinct takes over, and I mean that Go
d-given instinct natural to every man that leads him to defend his own, specifically his own hat. I reach out for it, teetering on my toes, until I lose my balance and start falling. I push off the best I can, and then like it or not, I’m out there in the blue, too.

  They say that in situations like these, a man’s life will flash before his eyes. For me it’s just nothingness. I’m conscious of being alive, and that’s both terrifying and wonderful, but that’s all I am. I don’t see the water and I don’t see the sky. All is silent until I make my splash, and then the only sound is my own heartbeat. Water fills my nostrils and stings my brain as I struggle up towards the light. My cape swirls around me like some kind of exotic jellyfish. But I’m floating, I’m rising up, and faster than I expect, I’m bursting back out into the planet as we know it again, where the noise is just overwhelming. The light and the colors, too. I am like a newborn babe. What can you make of the crazy world out there? Baptism in the Bay of Acapulco. Every angel needs to feel this just once. The crowd goes wild.

  Bobbing on the surface for a moment or two, I try to clear my head of water. Then I wave for the little ladies, who seem intent on making me feel like Elvis himself, but even a growing fan club and what may have been the most exceptional dive ever executed in the history of man can’t bring back a hat called The Kid. It’s flown out over the Pacific, apparently, where it will find its rest. On the bright side, there are other hats, but there will never be another dive like that.