by Dave Barry
“Shit, I wouldn’t eat fish eggs,” said Jock.
“Sure you would,” said Johnny, passing the joint back to Wally. “You eat tapioca, right? That’s fish eggs.”
“It is?” said Jock.
“Like shit it is,” said Ted.
“Well, then, what is it?” said Johnny.
“I don’t know,” said Ted, accepting the joint from Wally. “But it’s not fish eggs.”
“How can you say that, if you don’t know?” said Johnny.
“Because if it was fish eggs, there would be a fish called the tapioca fish,” said Ted, passing the joint to Jock. “You ever see that on a menu? Tapioca fish?”
“I’ve seen tapioca pudding on a menu,” said Johnny.
“But that’s pudding,” said Ted.
“So?” said Johnny. “It could be made from a fish. Like, tuna fish salad, that’s made from tuna fish.”
“But there’s no such thing as tapioca salad,” said Ted.
The car was quiet for a moment, as Johnny tried to think of a good counterattack. Muddy Waters still had the blues.
Nothin’ I can do to please her
To make this young woman feel satisfied.
“So Jock,” said Wally, “you’re saying you’re not interested in Tina anymore?”
“What I’m saying,” said Jock, “is she farts.”
“Everybody farts,” said Ted.
“But she farts a lot,” said Jock. “I think it’s from the food she eats. She eats this weird food. Looks like snot.”
“Loud farts?” said Johnny.
“Nope,” said Jock. “That’s the bad part. You don’t hear’em. No warning. Things’ll be going great, I’m getting down to it, and then, whoa, it smells like a sewer blew up. This one’s gone.” He popped the roach into his mouth.
“How come you always get the roach?” said Johnny.
“How come he always gets the women?” said Ted.
“When you say you were getting down to it,” said Wally, “do you mean you were, like . . .”
“I mean I was right down there,” said Jock. “I thought my eyeballs were gonna melt.”
The car was silent again as Wally, Ted, and Johnny absorbed this new information about Tina.
“So does that mean you’re not interested in her?” said Wally.
“I don’t know,” said Jock. “I mean, she looks good, but I don’t want to wear a gas mask to bed, you know?”
“Shit,” said Johnny, “I’d wear a gas mask if Tina was in the bed.”
“I might take a shot at that waitress with the legs,” said Jock. “What’s her name? Jane?”
“Fay,” said Wally, softly.
“Fay,” said Jock, nodding.
“Here we are,” said Johnny, pulling the Voyager into the parking lot of the Chum Bucket bar and restaurant. Beyond the building, the Extravaganza of the Seas loomed at the dock, lights blazing through the swirling night rain. The four guys sat for a few seconds, nobody wanting to leave the warm, dry car.
Muddy Waters sang:Well don’t the heart look lonesome
When your baby find someone else.
“What I wanna know,” said Johnny, “is who the fuck is gonna want to go out and gamble in this?”
“People like us,” said Wally. “Desperate losers.”
Five
EVENING AT THE OLD FARTS SENILE DYING CENTER. In the common area, the after-dinner entertainment was Mrs. Bendocker, the killer show-tune woman, who was shrieking her way through a medley of songs from South Pacific. Her audience consisted mainly of the hearing impaired ; she did a rendition of “Bali Hai” that could shatter crystal. Most of the residents, fleeing the din, had shuffled off to their rooms.
Arnie and Phil had been personally escorted back to the residential area by Dexter Harpwell, who ordered the security guard to make sure they stayed in their rooms. Phil was in room 326, at about the midpoint of a long corridor. Arnie was in room 317, on the other side and closer to the guard, who sat at a desk at the end of the corridor.
A few minutes after Harpwell left, Arnie stuck his head out the door. The guard was studying Juggs magazine and working his way through a box of assorted Krispy Kreme doughnuts, saving his favorite, the blueberry-filled, for last. He reluctantly tore his eyes from a photo spread entitled “Dairy Queen” and gave Arnie a look. Arnie waved and retreated into his room. He picked up the phone and called Phil’s room. Phil, who’d been sitting on his bed, waiting, grabbed the receiver, dropped it on the floor, picked it up.
“Hello?” he said.
“You ready?” said Arnie.
“I dunno about this, Arnie.”
“This’ll work. Trust me.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“I’m older than you. How many people can say that?”
“True.”
“You got your directory?”
“Yup. Right here.”
“OK,” said Arnie. “I’ll take rooms 300 to 325. You take 327 to 350. Remember: There’s doughnuts and a free gift. Make sure you say that. Free gift.”
“A free gift,” said Phil.
“OK,” said Arnie. “Let’s do it.” He disconnected Phil, squinted at the directory in his lap, dialed a number, waited for an answer, and spoke.
“Hello, Mr. Kurtz? This is . . . Hello? Hello? HELLO, IS THIS MR. KURTZ? THIS IS DEXTER HARPWELL. DEXTER HARPWELL. MR. KURTZ, WE’RE HAVING A LITTLE GET-TOGETHER RIGHT NOW AT THE SECURITY DESK, AND WE’RE GIVING EVERYBODY DOUGHNUTS AND A FREE GIFT. YES, FREE. WITH DOUGHNUTS. YES. FREE. OK? HURRY, BECAUSE THERE WON’T BE ANY FREE GIFTS LEFT.”
Arnie hung up, dialed another number.
“Hello Mrs. Paris? This is Dexter Harpwell . . . No, Dexter Harpwell . . . No, Dexter . . . Never mind. I’m calling because we’re giving out doughnuts and a free gift at the . . . that’s right, free. Free. But you need to go to the security desk right now, because it’s first come, first served. Yes, free.”
Over in room 326, Phil was also getting out the word.
“. . . right, a gift. Free. Yes. A free gift, but hurry, because we’re running out. And doughnuts. Correct. Tell your friends. Free. Right.”
About two minutes later, the security guard, whose name was Albert Fenton, heard a door on the corridor open. A man, wearing a bathrobe and walking with a cane, emerged from a room on the right. Almost immediately, another door opened, and a woman with a walker emerged on the left. They both started moving slowly, but determinedly, his way. A few seconds later, another door opened, then another, then another. Now five people, three of them in bathrobes, were coming at Fenton.
The man with the cane reached him first.
“Where is it?” he said.
“Where’s what?” said Fenton.
“What?” said the man.
“WHERE’S WHAT?” said Albert.
“The free gift,” said the man. “The doughnuts.”
“What are you talking about?” said Fenton.
“What?” said the man.
Behind him, more doors were opening, more bathrobed people coming. And more.
“I SAID WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT,” said Fenton.
“The free gifts,” said the man. “The doughnuts.”
“I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT,” said Fenton.
“Here’s the doughnuts right here,” said the man, reaching for one of the Krispy Kremes.
“That’s MINE!” said Fenton, snatching up the doughnut with one hand and using the other to swat at the man’s hand with Juggs.
The man, who was first come and was damn sure not about to be cheated out of being first served, whacked Fenton’s arm with the cane.
“OW!” said Fenton, dropping the doughnut, which rolled to the edge of the desk, where it was snatched, with surprising quickness, by the woman with the walker, who had just arrived at the scene of the action. The cane man, protecting what was his, swung the cane at her, but missed. She lifted her walker and brought one of the tips down on his right foot. He
yelped, dropped the cane, and grabbed the woman’s doughnut hand in both of his, the two of them straining against each other, locked in combat. Fenton started to come around the desk to separate them, then saw two new arrivals grabbing his doughnuts. He turned back and reached for the box, but as he did, he stepped on the cane, which slid sideways, causing him to lose his footing and fall, banging his skull hard on the desk on the way down. He lay dazed for a moment. Somebody stepped on his right hand; something sharp poked his leg. He tried to get up but was too dizzy; he rolled and went fetal, his head throbbing. Through squinted eyes, he saw a forest of ghastly pale skinny legs, with more shuffling his way, and still more. For a fleeting moment, Fenton remembered a movie he’d seen once, called Night of the Living Dead. Above him he heard grunting, the sounds of struggle. A stapler bounced on the floor in front of him; they were rummaging through the security desk. A page torn from Juggs—“Mammary Lane”—drifted down. He snatched at it, then felt something land on his face, something cold and sticky. He took some in his fingers and licked it: blueberry. Those bastards. He reached to his belt, unclipped the walkie-talkie, pulled it to his mouth, pushed the TALK button, and shouted a word that had never been heard before over the Beaux Arts radio system: “Mayday.”
Arnie and Phil eased past the mob and walked down the main corridor toward the common area. A guard came trotting their way, heading for the noise behind them.
“What’s going on down there?” he said.
“You got me,” said Arnie.
They stopped at the end of the corridor and peered into the common area. Mrs. Bendocker was at the grand piano, still shrieking South Pacific to a small audience, most of which was asleep. Straight ahead, through the glass lobby doors, they could see the Beaux Arts van in the driveway. Nestor would be at the wheel, ready to take them to the ship.
“Uh-oh,” said Arnie.
“What?” said Phil.
“The little prick,” said Arnie, pointing to the right. At the far end of the room, his back to them, was Dexter Harpwell, talking to an underling.
“We gotta move,” said Arnie. “Before he turns around.”
They started across the common room, going as fast as they could, which was slow. When they’d almost reached the grand piano, halfway to the door, Arnie glanced right. Harpwell appeared to be finishing his conversation.
“Move it,” Arnie hissed.
“This is as fast as . . . Oh no,” said Phil. He had walked into Mrs. Krugerman, the woman who had the hots for him. She’d been lurking behind the piano and had lunged her walker into Phil’s path.
Some enchanted evening, shrieked Mrs. Bendocker, you may see a stranger . . .
“Hey, stranger,” said Mrs. Krugerman, grabbing Phil’s wrist. “Where’ve you been hiding?”
“I have to go,” said Phil. He tried to pull his hand loose, but Mrs. Krugerman, who took Tae-Bo for Seniors, was stronger than he was.
“Let me go,” said Phil, trying to yank his arm loose.
“You just got here!” said Mrs. Krugerman, strengthening her grip. The woman was a python.
“Come on,” said Arnie. Harpwell was finished with his conversation; he was now looking at some papers in his hand, starting to turn their way.
“She’s got me!” said Phil. “You go on without me!”
Arnie looked over at Harpwell. He was still looking down at his papers, but was walking slowly in their direction. Any second now, he’d look up and see them, and that would be it. Arnie glanced back through the lobby doors, at the waiting van. He took a step that way, then looked back into Phil’s eyes, his buddy’s eyes, the eyes of his only friend left in the world, and he knew what he had to do.
. . . and somehow you’ll know . . .
Arnie went to Mrs. Krugerman, stepped up close to her side, his body pressing against her walker, put his arms around her, and said: “I’m the one you want, darling.” And he turned her face to his and kissed her on the lips, a real kiss, mouth open, some tongue, the first such kiss he had given a woman who was not his wife since 1946. Mrs. Krugerman, who had never been kissed this way by any man, including her late husband of 46 years, went limp, and in her limpness released Phil’s wrist. Arnie pulled his lips from Mrs. Krugerman’s, put his arms on her shoulders, looked her in the eyes, and said, “I must go now, my darling. Wait for me.” He released her and stepped back, and only her walker kept her from collapsing in a rapturous swoon.
Arnie looked over at Harpwell, still looking down at his papers, but only yards away now.
. . . once you have found her, never let her go . . .
“Go go go,” Arnie hissed, shoving Phil toward the lobby doors, which sighed open automatically to let them through. As they sighed closed again, Harpwell looked up from his papers. His eyes registered the two departing shapes, and there was something about them that tickled something somewhere in his brain, something that he almost started to retrieve. But before he could get to it, all thoughts were blown from his brain as Mrs. Bendocker took her shrieking to a new level, aiming gamely for, but missing, those big final notes . . .
. . . ne . . . ver . . . let . . . her . . . GOOOOOOOOO.
Outside, in the driver’s seat of the van, Nestor said, “What the hell is that?”
“Mrs. Bendocker,” said Arnie, climbing into the back.
“Sounds like some kind of human sacrifice,” said Nestor.
“I don’t think she’s human,” said Arnie.
Phil got in next to Arnie.
“Jesus, that was close,” he said. “Listen, Arnie, what you did back there, that was, Jesus, I mean, thank you.”
“Forget it,” said Arnie.
“What’d he do?” said Nestor.
“I said, forget it,” said Arnie. He still had the taste of Mrs. Krugerman in his mouth. It was not an unpleasant taste. It was the taste of Fixodent. Arnie would not admit this to Phil—he could barely admit it to himself—but he kind of liked it, tasting Mrs. Krugerman. Maybe he would look her up some time, see if she played pinochle.
“OK, then,” said Nestor, putting the van in gear, easing out of the covered driveway. “I still think you boys are crazy, going out on a boat in this weather.”
“Yeah,” said Phil, watching huge drops splatter on the windshield. “It’s gonna be ugly out there.”
“Hey,” said Arnie, “after what we’ve been through already, how bad can it be?”
“THIS IS GONNA BE BAD,” SAID EDDIE SMITH, on the bridge of the Extravaganza of the Seas, looking out at the bay.
Eddie Smith was captain of the Extravaganza. He was a good seaman, a natural boathandler, always had been. He once had a very promising nautical career. He hadn’t expected it to lead to this, driving this butt-ugly neon-smeared tub around in circles, going nowhere.
In the ’80s, he’d been a hotshot mate in the cruise industry, rising fast through the ranks on the big ships that sailed from the Port of Miami, loaded to the gunwales with chunky Midwesterners wearing active leisurewear and blindingly white sneakers, ready to spend a fun-filled week at sea, getting chunkier.
In those days, Eddie had cut a fine figure. He looked good in his white officer’s uniform, reminding people of Kevin Costner. He was tall and lean, hair going just a little gray, indicating seriousness, offset by an easy smile, indicating a desire to get laid.
Which he did, a lot. Single women went to great lengths to be in Eddie’s vicinity. So did married women. That was Eddie’s problem: the married women. The truth was, he liked it better when they were married. He liked the excitement, making plans to meet them on deck, looking around to make sure nobody saw, climbing into the lifeboat where he kept a blanket stashed. Or sometimes, when their husbands were in the casino, Eddie would even go to their cabins—into their damn cabins—and the sex was even better, because of the danger of getting caught.
So for a while there, Eddie was one happy ship’s officer. But like most men whose brains are in their dicks, he was not really thinking things through.
Imagine you’re a guy who drives a snack-food van. You’re out there every freaking day, rain or shine, hot or cold, fighting traffic, busting your hump to refill vending machines with Doritos, Snickers, all that crap that office workers eat. You’re constantly being hassled by cubicle dwellers who claim the machine ate their dollar, acting like you’re supposed to reach into your pocket and just hand them a dollar, these people who make more than you do for sitting on their Snickers-padded asses all day. You don’t like this job, but you’ve been doing it for twelve years, and you’re probably going to keep doing it for twenty-five more because you have a wife and two kids and no college degree and this is what you do.
Now imagine that your wife talks you into taking a cruise, which you really can’t afford, but, hey, you haven’t had a real vacation, just the two of you, since you went on your honeymoon, which was in Atlantic City, and it rained both days. So you figure, OK, what’s another two grand on the Visa, you’re never gonna pay the goddamn thing off anyway.
And so you go on the cruise, the two of you, and it really is nice—Jesus, the food they give you—and you’re having a good time, even winning a little at the slots. And then on the third night, this officer sits at your table, tall guy, big smiler, white teeth, you can tell he thinks he looks like hot shit in his uniform. The women, your wife included—your wife especially—are looking at him like he’s a movie star. You even hear your wife tell somebody else’s wife this guy looks exactly like Kevin Costner, whom your wife loves. The guy is talking about what it takes to handle a big ship like this, how complicated it is, and your wife is eating this up, and you’re thinking you’d like to see this pretty boy handle a truck in the traffic you deal with every day, without 97 crewmen to help, but you don’t say anything, you just order another beer.
After dinner, you want to hit the casino again, maybe try blackjack tonight, and your wife says she’s tired, she’s just going to take a walk on the upper deck and maybe turn in early, and you say suit yourself, because to be honest you’re a little pissed off at her anyway. When you get back to the cabin, she’s acting like she’s asleep, but you can tell she’s really not. You get in bed, and after a while you hear her crying. You ask her what’s wrong and she says nothing. You say, OK, then why are you crying? She gets out of bed and goes into the bathroom and closes the door and stays in there doing God knows what, and you fall asleep.