Lunatics

by Dave Barry

  Peckerman didn’t bother finishing his sentence. He merely pointed across the highway, to the piers that jutted out into the Hudson River, where the SS Windsong, a cruise ship to vacation spots in the Caribbean, was boarding passengers.

  CHAPTER 18

  Jeffrey

  “Come on,” I said, starting toward the ship.

  “Wait a minute,” said Horkman.

  I turned around, ready to shoot the asshole. “What?”

  “Maybe we should turn ourselves in.”

  “What?”

  “Look, we didn’t actually do anything, right?”

  “They think we tried to bomb the GW Bridge.”

  “But we didn’t.”

  “They also think we shot a cop.”

  “We didn’t do that, either.”

  “Right. But the fucking helicopter came down, and they think we did it.”

  “Yes, but we know we didn’t, and if we got good lawyers, given time, we could get this all sorted out. Otherwise, if we just keep running, where do we stop?”

  I hated to admit it, but the asshole had a point.

  “So what are you suggesting?” I said.

  “We make a call,” he said. “I know a good defense attorney. We contact him and he helps us turn ourselves in. That way we don’t look guilty.”

  We were a few yards from a coffee shop. I stuck the gun in my pocket and we went in. Two guys behind the counter were waiting on a half-dozen customers, but nobody looked our way. A TV behind the counter was showing the news, but at the moment we weren’t on it.

  We spotted a pay phone back by the restrooms and headed that way, keeping our heads down. Horkman picked up the phone, keeping his face toward the wall. I grabbed a newspaper off a table and held it in front of my face, pretending to read it while I peeked over the top and scanned the room. My eyes fell on the TV screen.

  “Oh shit,” I said.

  “What?” said Horkman.

  “Look.”

  The TV screen said TERRORISTS IN PERVERT SEX ZOO MASSACRE.

  “Oh shit,” said Horkman.

  Everybody in the coffee shop was staring at the TV. A counter guy turned up the volume.

  “. . . just getting details on this horrific crime,” the announcer was saying. “Police have released this video from surveillance cameras at the Central Park Zoo. We warn you that some of what you are about to see is graphic, and quite frankly disgusting.”

  And there we were on the screen, me and him in grainy black and white, tied together, with me hopping and Horkman’s head jerking up and down.

  “Police have identified these two men as Peckerman and Horkman, the same two suspected members of a New Jersey terrorist cell being sought in connection with the attack on the George Washington Bridge and the gruesome shooting of a courageous NYPD helicopter pilot. It is not yet known exactly what the two men were doing at the zoo, but one police source speculated that they were engaging in some kind of sick, twisted sexual bondage victory dance.”

  Now they replayed the video and slowed it down, so Horkman and I were bouncing in slow motion. You couldn’t really see Horkman’s eyes, but his mouth was opening and closing with every hop. I was gasping for air, but on the video it almost looked like I was smiling.

  “That’s disgusting,” said one of the coffee-shop customers.

  “But what is truly disturbing,” said the TV announcer, “is what happened next. Apparently there were some youths at the zoo, and they had the misfortune to stumble upon this sordid scene.”

  “Youths?” I said. “Youths?”

  I said it a little too loud. One of the customers, a guy in a Yankees cap, glanced my way.

  “According to police,” the announcer said, “the bodies of two youths were found near the scene, disemboweled and being eaten by bears. Sources have identified these as Central Park Zoo bears Hansel and Gretel, which were brought to New York by Mayor Bloomberg as part of an animal exchange program with the Berlin Zoo, which for its part received porcupines. It is not clear at this point whether the terrorists deliberately set the bears loose to kill the youths, or if they disemboweled the youths themselves and then set the bears on them in an attempt to cover their tracks.”

  Yankee cap glanced back at me again, for a second longer this time.

  “What is clear,” continued the announcer, “is that this new, sickeningly horrendous act on the part of these alleged terrorist perverts, who are still at large, has the entire city—and yes, the entire nation—on edge. That is especially true of the police department, which very nearly lost one of its own in a savage attack by these same alleged depraved killers. For more on that, we go to reporter Warren Pristine, who’s on the West Side with members of the police special antiterrorism unit. Warren, what’s the mood like out there?”

  The screen showed a guy in a trenchcoat in front of a bunch of pissed-off-looking cops wearing helmets and body armor and carrying guns the size of piano legs.

  “Steve,” said the reporter, “the mood among these officers is tense and, quite frankly, angry about the brutal and, as you say, savage attack on one of their own. As one officer said to me, and here I quote, cleaning up his language just slightly, ‘If you shoot one of us in the testicles, it’s like you shot all of us in the testicles. Even the women.’ So there’s a lot of anger, Steve—anger and rage. I’m speaking only for myself here, and I am certainly not suggesting that any of these brave and highly professional men and women would deliberately violate departmental regulations, but if they do encounter these alleged terrorists—and we all fervently hope they do, and soon—it would not surprise me if their tactical philosophy could best be summarized as ‘shoot first, and ask questions later.’ Back to you, Steve.”

  “Thanks for that report, Warren,” said Steve. “And be careful out there. To summarize: As the terror campaign against the people and zoo animals of New York City escalates and takes a twisted, disturbing turn, police as well as federal agents are intensifying their search for two suspected terrorist leaders, Jeffrey Peckerman and Philip Horkman.”

  And there we were, on the screen, this time sharp and clear, in living color.

  Now Yankees cap was staring at me.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “HEY!”

  I had the gun out.

  “Don’t move, asshole,” I said.

  “You better listen to him,” said Horkman. “Because he will shoot you in the balls.”

  Five seconds later, we were out the door, running toward the ship.

  CHAPTER 19

  Philip

  So the hope was that the twelve hundred or so passengers now boarding the SS Windsong had been up most of the night packing, grabbed maybe a couple of hours sleep, and then groggily left their homes at dawn to get to Pier 92 by seven a.m., making it feasible they hadn’t the time to see the morning news with our pictures plastered all over the place.

  The ship’s personnel were going to be a different story.

  “Do you have a valid passport on you?” asked Peckerman while we were running toward the cruise ship. “They’re going to want to see one before we board.”

  “No, Peckerman. Call me nearsighted, but when I left my house to drive the two miles to my pet shop I didn’t consider the possibility that I’d be sailing upon international waters before I got home.”

  “I have mine.”

  “You have your passport on you?” I asked.

  “In here,” he said, pointing to a zipper on the leg of his Dockers. “Those guys in Central Park never bothered looking in this pocket. I just realized it was still in there.”

  “Why’s it in there to begin with?”

  “Last summer my wife and I went to Spain for our anniversary. These were the pants I wore on the flight home. I guess I never took the passport out of
there.”

  “Well, there’s a bit of good luck. That today’s the first day you’ve worn those pants since last summer.”

  “You kidding? I wear these pants all the time. They’re real comfortable. Good thing I didn’t wash them, though. Would’ve ruined the passport.”

  “So you haven’t cleaned those pants since last summer?”

  “Oh, way before that. I wore them almost every day in Spain.”

  “Lovely.”

  I knew from the few times Daisy and I went on cruise ships that they just want to see that you have a passport so there won’t be a problem with customs once you get to your destination. They don’t run checks on them. So if Peckerman simply flashed his to the captain or the admiral or the chef or whoever the hell that guy dressed in the white uniform at the top of the ramp leading to the ship’s deck was, he would be fine.

  But what about me? Since our wallets were stolen, I didn’t even have the two alternate pieces of identification that they also accepted. The only ID I had was that bogus doctor badge pinned to the lab coat I was still wearing. Plus there was one other minor problem.

  “We also don’t have tickets,” I whispered to Peckerman.

  We were now standing on a line of excited vacationers awaiting their turns to board.

  “But we do have a gun,” said Peckerman, discreetly lifting his sweater revealing the handle sticking out the top of what I can only imagine was the worst-smelling pair of Dockers in the tri-state area. Any tri-state area.

  “And exactly what are you planning on doing with it, Peckerman? Boatjack the SS Windsong?”

  Something about his expression alarmed me.

  “Just for the record, Peckerman, that was intended to be a rhetorical question,” I told him. “Besides, you see that metal detector at the top of this ramp? Well, from everything I’ve read, guns are made of metal.”

  His expression still alarmed me.

  “Will you be talking soon, Peckerman? Because this line is moving quickly and I’d like to know if you’re about to do something incredibly stupid so I can get off it and pretend I never met you, which has been my profound regret since I met you.”

  “Look” is all he said before nodding at an angle that sent my gaze downward toward the open beach bag of the couple in front of us. An elderly man and woman whose tickets for this very cruise were sitting on top of a towel and next to a few pairs of sunglasses and tubes of Coppertone.

  I looked at Peckerman again and, yes, his expression still alarmed me when he held his finger up to his lips. Everyone moved forward and we were now third in line from having to show our travel documents. It alarmed me even more so when he furtively placed his hand on the gun and started whistling “Camptown Races” in a way I can only describe as the way a person would whistle “Camptown Races” when he doesn’t want anyone to think he has his hand on a gun.

  But his hand wasn’t there much longer because just around the time that his whistling reached the second “Oh, de doo-da day,” the line was moving forward again and Peckerman, in one fluid motion, bent over, dropped the gun into the older woman’s beach bag and rose to a standing position with their tickets in hand just as she and her husband went through the metal detector. And while it isn’t worth describing every detail of the ensuing commotion involving about six security guards descending out of nowhere on two flailing elderly people crying out “We have no idea how it got in there!” as they were carted off and packed into a special bus that took them to someplace that I’m sure was unpleasant, Peckerman (sighing as if he was growing impatient by this delay) pushed me through the metal detector and waved the tickets along with his and the old man’s passport to an apologetic captain or admiral or chef or whoever the hell he was who perfunctorily waved us onto the SS Windsong.

  “How the hell did you pull that off?” I asked as we walked through a sliding door and entered a large reception area where flutes of champagne and a carnival of hors d’oeuvres greeted the passengers, who helped themselves before drifting down carpeted hallways in search of their accommodations.

  “Come on, let’s find our room and then we can come back for food,” he said, as if that was an answer to my question.

  We took an elevator up to the “H” level, which was the most upper deck on the ship. It was also the most exclusive.

  “My God,” we said in unison when we opened the door to Room H22 and stepped into the stateroom. That had a living room. Bedroom. A marbled master bathroom with a steam shower. Two flat-screen TVs. Doors that stepped out onto a private balcony overlooking the water.

  “Sue and Arnie really know how to live,” said Peckerman.

  “Who?”

  “Sue and Arnie Kogen. That incarcerated old couple who were kind enough to let us use this place for the next ten days. Hungry?”

  “Yes,” I answered. “But I’m also exhausted.”

  “Me too.”

  So we took naps. Peckerman won the coin toss, so he took the king-size bed and I was just fine sacking out on the foldout from the couch in the sitting room.

  And when we woke up, we were at sea. Cruising the Atlantic. Away from the police. And from the news reports with our pictures and “800” phone numbers to call if we were spotted.

  I took a steam shower and shaved, using the razor and shaving cream that was in the complimentary toiletry bag on the counter next to the sink. Peckerman didn’t shower or shave or even wash his hands after he used the bathroom for a real long time. The guy was a walking sump pump.

  “Let’s explore the ship,” I suggested.

  “Sure.”

  So we left the stateroom and went down the elevator to the main deck. Through the casino, where dozens of people were playing blackjack and roulette and pulling down the arms on slot machines, now that we were beyond the three-mile limit where it was legal to gamble. Past the stores, where dozens of people were shopping for jewelry and books and sunscreen. And then into the dining room, where dozens of people were seated or on line helping themselves to an unbelievable assortment of the foods from many nations being offered as a buffet lunch.

  It was then, because I couldn’t take it any longer, that I turned to Peckerman and asked, “Have you noticed something out of the ordinary about every single person we’ve seen so far?”

  “You mean that they’re all naked?”

  “You noticed it, too, huh?”

  Yep, Peckerman and I were now stowaways on a “clothing optional” cruise on its way to the Caribbean Islands.

  CHAPTER 20

  Jeffrey

  Horkman pulled me over next to a salad bar the size of a war canoe.

  “We have to get naked,” he said.

  “No,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “We’d look like a pair of homos.”

  “Okay, first of all, that’s very offensive.”

  “Why? Are you a homo?”

  “No, I am not a gay American.”

  “Me neither. That’s why I don’t want to look like a fucking homo.”

  His face got red, and he raised his voice. “Listen,” he said. “There is nothing wrong with two men having an intimate physical relationship. It’s perfectly . . .”

  He stopped there, because a woman who’d been grazing her way down the salad bar had stopped and was looking at us. She was in I’m guessing her late fifties or early sixties, a large woman with hair the color of a traffic cone and large tits. I’m usually a fan of bazooms, but not when they’re resting on a tray that’s also supporting what looked like four pounds of potato salad.

  “He’s right,” she said to me.

  “What?” I said.

  “Your friend is right. On this ship, we don’t judge others. If you want to explore your sexual identity, this is the place for it.”

  “Lady,”
I said. “Number one, I’m not a faggot. Number two, butt out.”

  Now her face was the color of her hair.

  “What did you say?” she said.

  A guy came up behind her, skinny wrinkled dude who weighed maybe as much as one of her thighs. He was holding a banana.

  “Something wrong, honey?” he said.

  “This man,” she said, nodding her head toward me, “is being very offensive.”

  The guy stepped between us, giving me the eyeball. “Is there a problem?” he said. He was trying to look badass, but that’s a look a guy can’t pull off when he’s built like Olive Oyl and he’s naked except for a banana, which for the record—not that I made a point of looking; it’s just the way the angles lined up—was a good five inches longer than his dick.

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” I told him, nodding at his wife. “I was talking to the manatee here.”

  His hand tightened on the banana. “What did you call her?” he said.

  “Christ,” I said, “is everybody on this boat deaf?”

  “We were just leaving,” said Horkman. He grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the dining-room exit. I looked back; Banana and Saggy Tits were talking to a crew member and pointing our way. We ducked out the door, hustled to the elevator, and went back to the cabin.

  “Listen,” said Horkman. “You can’t draw attention to us like that.”

  I didn’t say anything. The asshole was right.

  “We have to fit in,” he said. He was taking off his pants.

  “That’s our plan?” I said. “Get naked? That’s it?”

  “For now,” he said, still undressing. “We lay low on the ship, let things cool down in New York. We get to the Caribbean, get off on an island down there, call our families. We get lawyers, get this whole mess straightened out.”

  He was naked now. He went to the door.

  “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but since we’re stuck on this ship for now, I’m going to try to get something positive out of the experience. I believe there’s a lecture on Japanese flower arranging in the Sea Urchin Salon in twenty minutes.”