by Dave Barry
Loud was the voice of the lonely goatherd,
Lay-ee-odl, lay-ee-odl-oo.
I was falling for her. In the purest of ways. We were both clothed. And the earlier stirrings that had made Lieut. Longfellow stand and salute were now at ease. Still, I was more enchanted than ever.
“Can Daisy yodel?” she asked.
“Who’s Daisy?”
She laughed again because she thought I was joking. What she didn’t know was at that particular moment, I literally had no idea who she was talking about.
I looked at her. She looked back. We held those gazes and I wondered if I was going to kiss her. As if I was a spectator to this couple standing alone on this ship’s outer deck with no control of my own actions, I seriously wondered if I was going to surrender to the magnetic pull I was feeling, lean in, and kiss this beautiful nun. So it didn’t surprise me when I allowed my face to drift toward hers. Or when I closed my eyes. Or when my lips lightly touched her lips. What did surprise me, however, was the sound of a voice, the last voice I’d ever want to hear at this tender moment.
“Hey, Horkman! We gotta talk!”
As if suddenly jerked into another reality, I turned to see that idiot Peckerman, naked except for a hat and sunglasses, flanked by a man and woman whom I’d immediately recognized as the ambulance-chasing couple from those tacky television commercials, coming toward us.
“Who’s that?” Maria whispered.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get rid of him,” I whispered back.
Because I had no desire whatsoever to expose Maria to the hideous behavior of this lummox and his new friends, I walked away so I could put as much distance between her and this unsightly trio as possible.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Philip Horkman, say hello to our attorneys, Fricker and Fricker. This is Fricker,” he said, pointing to the woman. “And this is Fricker,” he said, pointing to the man. “Or is it the other way around?” he asked, and then started snickering as if he’d just said something funny. And the fact that both Frickers started laughing as if this was the first time they’d heard anyone make a joke about their names made me despise them before we even exchanged a syllable.
“Our attorneys?” I asked.
“We need them,” he said, leaning toward me as if they couldn’t hear him even though he somehow forgot to lower his voice. “They know everything.”
The wind kicked up a little more, rocking the boat. The four of us instinctively shifted the weight on our feet and grabbed the railing to keep our balance. I took a quick peek back at Maria to make sure she was okay. She was.
“If you can take your mind off of pussy for a second,” he now said under his breath, “I think we should go inside and talk to them.”
“With all due respect,” I said to the Frickers, “if you do know everything, then you know we’re innocent and really don’t need legal representation.” I opted to leave out the rest of that sentence, which would have been, “by shysters such as you.”
“It’s because we know everything that makes us perfect to fight for justice on your behalf,” said the male Fricker.
“And we’ll prevail,” said his female counterpart, who I’d just noticed had her hand on Peckerman’s thigh. “That is, if you allow our team to represent your team.”
They were obviously able to read my hesitance.
“Give it some thought, Mr. Horkman.”
“Okay,” I responded, with every hope that this conversation was over and I could return to Maria.
“Hey, we’re on an ocean liner in the middle of the ocean,” he unfortunately continued, with a smirk that would make a used car salesman look as honest as our nation’s sixteenth president. “So I know you’re not running away.”
“And it’s like we told your partner here,” said Mrs. Fricker, tapping her index finger on Peckerman’s stunted thigh for emphasis, “these conversations are privileged, so there should be no fears about any of this coming back to haunt you.”
“I appreciate . . .”
“But what we can’t control,” interrupted her husband, “is if someone onboard this ship should make an anonymous call to the proper authorities, who’ll be there to greet you when we dock tomorrow.”
A threat? Absolutely. There was no other way to take it. I looked over at Peckerman, who was silently urging me to take these Frickers seriously. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. And I was going to tell them this had I the time. But I didn’t have the time, because just then a particularly large wave caused the boat to rock. As if it were a huge seaborne cradle with the side we were standing on dipping into the Caribbean, before rocking back to where we were high off its surface and then slamming back down again with a thud which sent Maria over the railing and into the water.
I saw it out of the corner of my eye. One second she was there, the next she’d lost her balance, and her attempt to grab the railing failed. In an instant, the ship righted itself and I looked overboard and caught a glimpse of her when she surfaced.
“Maria!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, but had no idea whether she yelled back or even heard me over the sound of the mounting wind. All I then saw was her getting smaller as she receded into the distance.
“Let’s get back inside!” shouted Peckerman.
“Yes! Let’s discuss our legal strategy!” shouted Fricker.
“Yes! There’s so much we have to do!” shouted Fricker.
And then I jumped into the Caribbean. So I could save Maria.
CHAPTER 24
Jeffrey
Even for Horkman, that had to be some kind of record for assholery. We’re in the middle of the ocean, in the middle of a storm, and he jumps off the fucking ship?
Dipshit.
I looked over the railing, but it was dark down there, and I didn’t see anything except waves. I yelled “Horkman!” but looking back on it, that was pretty useless.
Meanwhile, Sharisse was screaming like she had fire ants in her woowoo. To be honest, the only person who did anything practical was Mike, who ran to a life preserver, grabbed it, ran back to the rail, and gave it a mighty heave. It would have been impressive, except at the exact moment he heaved, the ship lurched again, and Mike went over the side after the life preserver. The last thing I heard him say was, quote, “FUUUUUUuuuuuuuu . . .”
Sharisse stopped screaming, ran to the rail, looked over, then looked back at me.
“Ohmigod,” she said. “Mike fell overboard!”
“I know!” I said.
She was pointing at the deck. “Look at that!” she said. “Do you know what that is?”
“A deck?” I said.
“Moisture,” she said.
I looked. “Well, yeah,” I said. “I mean we’re in a storm, so it’s . . .”
“It’s negligence!” she said. “This deck is extremely slippery.”
I have to admit I felt a stab of admiration for this woman, who had just seen her husband fall off a ship, probably to his death, and yet somehow had the presence of mind to start planning the lawsuit, possibly before he hit the water.
I looked over the side again, keeping a good grip on the railing. “We should find a crew person,” I said.
“Good idea,” she said. “Start documenting our case.”
That wasn’t what I meant, but I let it go. “Maybe we should put on some clothes first,” I said. I was cold, and somehow it didn’t seem right to go report three deaths with my schlong waving around.
“Right,” agreed Sharisse. “We want to look businesslike. My cabin’s right near here. You can wear some of Mike’s clothes.” Apparently she was completely done with grieving over Mike.
We went to her cabin. She found me a pair of shorts, a shirt and some sandals. It was all a little too big, and the shirt had that giant Ralph
Lauren horse on it that basically says, when you wear it, “Hi! I’m a douchebag!” But it was okay for an emergency. I kept the hat and shades on, to maintain my disguise.
While Sharisse was dressing, I found the remote control and turned on the TV to check out CNN. The two big headline stories were NEW YORK TERROR ATTACK and SUDDEN HURRICANE GROWS IN ATLANTIC. So basically there were two big shitstorms in the news, and I was in the middle of both of them.
“Come on,” said Sharisse, all dressed now. She grabbed my hand and pulled me out the door and down the corridor. I realized I still had the TV remote in my hand so I stuck it into a pocket.
“Where, exactly, are we going?” I asked.
“We’re going to see the captain,” she said.
“Um, not to piss on your parade, but maybe you noticed we’re in a hurricane here.”
“So?”
“So the captain might be a little busy to be talking to passengers.”
Sharisse looked at me like I was a retard and said, “We’ll see about that.”
And we did. Never again will I underestimate the persuasive power of a woman with legal training and big tits. She went through the ship’s chain of command like a chainsaw through a fruitcake. Fifteen minutes later, we were escorted onto the bridge to meet with the captain. His name was Sven Lutefisk, and he was one of those tall blue-eyed Norwegian-looking dudes who probably shits icicles. He and several other officers were standing in front of a console with a dozen screens showing radar, GPS, and other nautical things. He did not look happy to see us, but he was polite.
“My first officer tells me you have an urgent situation you must discuss with me, and only me, Mrs., ah . . .”
“Fricker,” said Sharisse. “Sharisse Fricker. You may have seen my TV ad.” She stuck out her boobs.
“I cannot say that I have,” said Captain Lutefisk. He looked at me. “And is this Mr. Fricker?”
“No,” said Sharisse and I together.
Lutefisk studied me for a second, frowning, then looked back at Sharisse. “As you can see,” he said, gesturing at the nautical screens, “we are quite busy at the moment, with the weather. So perhaps you can tell me what this urgent matter is.”
“I’ll get right to the point,” said Sharisse. “You have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“A serious problem. With your ship.”
“What are you talking about?”
“People have been hurt,” said Sharisse. “And more people could get hurt.”
Lutefisk looked at me again, longer this time, then back at Sharisse. “Are you threatening me?” he said.
“It’s not a threat if you can back it up,” said Sharisse. “And I am fully prepared to back it up.”
She was going to keep talking, but just then one of the officers, who’d been staring at me, stepped forward and whispered something to Lutefisk. Now both of them were staring at me. Lutefisk said something Norwegian, and the officer walked briskly to a cabinet against a wall. The other officers formed a circle around Sharisse and me.
“What’s going on?” I said, although I was pretty sure I knew. Especially when the guy came back from the cabinet holding a handgun.
“What’s going on,” said Lutefisk, “is that we are going to take you into custody, Mr. Jeffrey Peckerman. And you as well, Mrs. Fricker, or whatever your real name is.”
“You’re making a big mistake,” said Sharisse. “Do you have any idea what I can do to you?”
“Is that another threat?” said Lutefisk.
“You bet your ass it’s a threat,” said Sharisse. “You’re going to lose your whole fucking ship, sailor boy.”
Lutefisk’s eyes narrowed. He said something to the officers, and they took a step closer. Lutefisk pointed to me. “Empty your pockets,” he said.
I reached into the right front pocket of Mike Fricker’s shorts. My hand closed around the TV remote control.
“Slowly,” said Lutefisk.
Slowly, I pulled my hand out of the pocket.
The sailors froze, staring at my hand. The only part of the remote showing was about an inch of the black casing, and the red power button.
Lutefisk said something to the officers, and they took a step back. Their eyes—all, for the record, blue—were locked on the remote.
“Is that what I think it is?” said Lutefisk.
“Well, what the fuck else would it be?” I said. I was wondering what kind of cheap-ass cruise line would make such a big deal about taking a TV remote. You can get those things for ten bucks at Best Buy.
Lutefisk was staring at me. “Where is it?” he said.
“Where is what?”
“The bomb,” he said.
My mouth fell open. I was about to show him that it was a TV remote, but Sharisse put her hand on my arm.
“You think we’re going to just tell you?” she said.
Lutefisk shifted his attention to her.
“Mrs. . . .”
“Fricker,” she said.
“Mrs. Fricker, there are over two thousand innocent people on this ship.”
“Right,” said Sharisse. “And they’re all going to be fine, as long as you do exactly as I say. First, I want that gun.”
Lutefisk hesitated, then said something Norwegian. Reluctantly, the officer handed the gun to Sharisse. She took it, then smiled her moray smile.
“Now,” she said, “let’s talk money.”
CHAPTER 25
Philip
The first thought I had after I jumped off that ship was, I can’t believe I jumped off that ship. The next thought I had, upon hitting the water was, I wonder if I’ll survive the jump off that ship or will the impact turn me into a floating Rorschach blot? And the third thought I had, upon surfacing intact was, Now what?
I immediately focused on swimming toward where I thought Maria was. I’m a very strong swimmer. In a pool. Or a lake. But until that very moment, I never had the occasion to test that prowess in a choppy sea during a raging storm on a moonless night. Truth be told, it was never even on my “to do” list.
But I’m sure you know that adage about necessity being the mother of invention. Well, as I was feverishly trying to work my way across the Caribbean, it occurred to me that now would be an excellent time for someone to invent a car that rode on top of the water so it could stop, give me a lift to wherever Maria was, and then drive the two of us to the nearest place where a person could actually stand without drowning.
Presuming the possibility of that happening was, at best, a long shot, I continued onward, not even sure at this point that I was heading in the right direction. So I stopped and looked back at the SS Windsong, whose lights were still on. I tried my best to gauge where Maria was standing when she went overboard, then turned around and resumed swimming into the darkness. Exactly two strokes. I swam exactly two strokes before becoming entangled in something that felt like a body. A human body whose arms were flailing about in a losing battle to stay afloat! Was it possible? Dear Lord, I have no idea how I reached her so quickly, but then again, the Lord works in mysterious ways, does he not? And it stood to reason, given that she was a nun, that the Lord would mysteriously work overtime on her behalf.
“Maria!” I shouted. “Hold on to me, honey! I’ll save you!”
I’d always wanted to say the words “I’ll save you” to a woman. Even as a kid, the fantasy of saving the damsel in distress, whether it be Sir Lancelot swooping down from a white horse and saving Guinevere from a flame-breathing dragon or The Man of Steel himself swooping down from the sky to untie a bound and gagged Lois Lane from the rails seconds before she’s crushed by an oncoming train. That’s what I wanted to do. I wanted to swoop. And now was my chance.
“I’m swooping, Maria! I’m swooping!”
The question now was, where were we going? Obviously the shorter distance was the ocean liner, which was about a hundred yards behind us, still aglow. I could swim toward its lights and then yell for help. Surely someone would hear me. Although it did cross my mind that it was potentially risky for me—that by drawing attention to myself, I increased the chances of being recognized should any of the passengers or crew had been online since we left New York and had seen mine and Peckerman’s pictures on CNN.com or any other news source, which was now a very distinct probability.
Still, it was a visible, nearby destination that was safest for Maria. And wasn’t that an integral part of the swooping procedure? To put the needs of the swoopee before that of the swooper? Of course it was.
“Don’t worry, we’ll be back at the ship in no time at all,” I said, as I started my one-armed swim back toward the SS Windsong.
“Thank you,” she answered in a gurgling voice that sounded nothing like her. Even allowing for fatigue, the prevailing elements and the trauma of this entire situation, it was deeper than I’d remembered it being. Almost masculine. I was now concerned this was due to water in the lungs, similarly to the way my slightly overweight son Trace, after that lifeguard rescued him, had water in his lungs and his voice sounded deeper and almost masculine. In which case it was advisable, if not necessary, to expel the water.
So I stopped swimming again and, with her back to me, put my arms around her, placed my hands on top of each other in two fists, and pulled them toward me—like in a Heimlich maneuver—and couldn’t help but notice, when I moved my hands up and down the front of her body to get a better grip, I didn’t feel any breasts but did feel, from what I knew from personal experience, a penis. So after I yelled real loud, I spun her around and found myself looking straight into the face of the lawyer Fricker. The male lawyer Fricker.