by Brad Listi
Cancún, I had decided, seemed like a logical starting point for my wanderings.
After the wedding, I planned to fly to Havana, Cuba.
After that, I didn’t know what I was going to do.
It was up in the air.
My mentor at Fatty Jay’s was a guy named Jim Hogan. Hogan was the owner and general manager. He was a large man in his midforties, twice divorced, misogynistic, and bitter. He had a potbelly and a mullet. He didn’t flinch when I told him I was quitting. He was used to this kind of thing. The pizza business tends to see a lot of turnover.
Hogan knew all about my recent travails, all about Amanda and the funeral and the aborted child. I’d told him the whole story one night after closing up shop. We were in the walk-in freezer at 3:00 a.m., shivering and smoking pot. At that point, he was the only person I had confided in.
A few days before my departure, Hogan insisted on taking me out for drinks at the Bust Stop, a strip club at the north end of Boulder, one of his favorite local hangouts. He was adamant about it.
“You need some naked girls in your life,” he reasoned. “You’ve had a shitty run of luck with chicks. No reason for it. No good explanation. Sometimes you just need to go out and say ‘fuck it.’”
One of Hogan’s ex-wives was a stripper. Her stage name was Evangeline. Her real name was Margaret. She had divorced him in 1984. Packed up her things and left, with very little explanation.
In 1989, she died in a boating accident in Tampa Bay.
II.
1.
Point Break is one of my all-time favorite films. I believe it to be one of the funniest films ever made, on par with the comedies of Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, the Marx Brothers, Preston Sturges, Billy Wilder, Blake Edwards, Woody Allen, Harold Ramis, John Hughes, and Wes Anderson. It’s a distinguished member of a movie subgenre that I refer to as the “accidental comedy.”
Accidental comedy is self-explanatory: It occurs when non-comedies wind up being accidentally hysterical. Action-dramas like Point Break lend themselves well to this phenomenon. Top Gun (1986; Tony Scott, director) is another fine example of accidental comedy.
Point Break. Twentieth Century Fox, 1991. James Cameron, executive producer. Peter Abrams and Robert L. Levy, producers. Rick King and Michael Rauch, co-producers. Donald Peterman, cinematographer. Howard E. Smith and Bert Lovitt, editors. Peter Jamison, production designer. Pamela Marcotte, art director. Linda Spheeris, set decorator. W. Peter Iliff, screenwriter. Based on a story by W. Peter Iliff and Rick King. Directed by Kathryn Bigelow. Rated R.
Synopsis:
Keanu Reeves stars as Johnny Utah, a rookie FBI agent working undercover to bring down a team of bohemian bank robbers. Patrick Swayze plays Bodhi (short for Bodhisattva), the charismatic leader of the elusive bandits, a self-professed adrenaline junkie who spends most of his free time engaged in a wide variety of dangerous activities, including (but not limited to) extreme surfing and skydiving. Spouting Zen-like maritime philosophy with the swaggering charm of a California stoner, Bodhi quickly establishes a complicated bond with Special Agent Utah, leading him into a world and way of life that are more dangerous and alluring than the virtuous young lawman had ever dreamt possible.
Here are a few of Bodhi’s most memorable lines in Point Break:
“If you want the ultimate, you’ve gotta bewilling to pay the ultimate price. It’s nottragic to die doing what you love.”
“Johnny has his own demons. Don’t you, Johnny?”
“Just feel what the wave is doing. Then acceptits energy, get in synch, and charge with it.”
“Fear causes hesitation, and hesitation willcause your worst fears to come true.”
“We can exist on a different plane. We canmake our own rules. Why be a servant to the law, when you can be its master?”
“This was never about the money for us. It was about us against the system—that system that kills the human spirit. We stand for something. To those dead souls inching along the freeways in their metal coffins, we show them that the human spirit is still alive.”
“Life sure has a sick sense of humor, doesn’t it?”
I was pretty sure life itself was an accidental comedy.
Back when I was in film school, I had decided that I would one day like to become the first man to direct an intentional accidental comedy. My plan was to write a psychological action-adventure along the lines of Point Break, something unconsciously vapid and stunningly self-serious, something numb to its own rubber heart. I even had a title in mind.
I wanted to call it The Grandeur of Delusions.
delusions of grandeur n.
A delusion (common in paranoia) that you are much greater and more powerful and influential than you really are.
2.
Playa del Carmen was a good move. It was nice to be someplace warm, nice to be in the company of friends. It was like summer camp, with booze. It was a reunion in paradise. I felt rejuvenated for the first time in months. I felt alive. My spirits were high.
One afternoon while walking around town, I even went so far as to arrange for A.B., myself, and the rest of the groomsmen to go skydiving on the day of the wedding. I did it on impulse, convinced that it would be an appropriate thing to do on the morning of one’s nuptials and a good way for me to spend some of my money.
It could therefore be argued that I equated marriage with spending lots of money and plummeting through the earth’s atmosphere at terminal velocity.
terminal velocity n.
The constant maximum velocity reached by a body falling through the atmosphere under the attraction of gravity.
The magnitude of terminal velocity depends upon the weight of the falling body. Heavy objects tend to fall faster than lighter objects, as air resistance is directly proportional to the plummeting body’s velocity squared.
A.B. was a small guy. He weighed about 145 pounds.
I weighed 175.
A typical skydiver plummets through the earth’s atmosphere at a rate of about 120 miles per hour.
According to the Guinness Book of World Records, the highest speed ever reached by a plummeting skydiver was 325.67 miles per hour. The record was set by Frenchman Michael Brooke at the Millennium Speed Skydiving Competition over Gap, France, on September 19, 1999.
parachute n.
1.) An apparatus used to retard free fall from an aircraft, consisting of a light, usually hemispherical canopy attached by cords to a harness and worn or stored folded until deployed in descent.
2.) Any of various similar unpowered devices that are used for retarding free-speeding or free-falling motion.
Another interesting fact: Shortly after I arranged for A.B. and his groomsmen to go skydiving, I learned that Jenny and her bridesmaids had arranged to go scuba diving that very same morning. While the groom and his groomsmen would be ten thousand feet above sea level, preparing to plummet through the earth’s atmosphere at terminal velocity, Jenny and her bridesmaids would be fifty feet under, submerged in the crystalline waters just off of Isla Mujeres.
3.
There were no passenger seats on the aircraft. There were no tray tables and no upright positions. There were no stewardesses and no adornments—just a cockpit chair, a throttle, and some gadgets. The cabin was spare and empty, and nobody was talking.
The pilot was a large, unruly Mexican man with a large, unruly mustache. He appeared totally confident in the functioning of the aircraft. He was dressed casually in a T-shirt and shorts. His T-shirt read SUPERVIVENCIA? NO PROBLEMA! Above those words, there was a cartoon drawing of a smiling shark.
I did not know what Supervivencia meant. I found this bothersome.
I was seated on the floor of the aircraft, without a seat belt. My knees were up against my chest, and I was hugging them tightly. A.B. was a few feet away, in the back of the aircraft. He was hugging his knees too.
A.B. and I had elected to jump first. The other three groomsmen were on the beach below. They were standin
g in sand, watching the aircraft ascend, waiting their turn in quiet agony. All three had agreed to go skydiving with varying amounts of reluctance. They were doing it because A.B. was doing it. There had to be solidarity among the groom and his groomsmen on the day of the wedding, just as there had to be solidarity among the bride and her maids. Everyone understood this.
If all went well, A.B. and I would be landing on the beach in a matter of moments, triumphant.
If all did not go well, A.B. and I would die in a tragic skydiving accident on the Mayan Riviera. It would be the kind of story that caught fire on the AP wire. A horrifying tale, submitted for public consumption. Inside Edition would almost certainly run a story on us.
Jenny would be interviewed, backlit and weeping.
My parents would be interviewed, ashen and defeated.
4.
The altimeter needle hit 10,000. The pilot turned around and gave the divemasters a hand signal.
My divemaster, Alejandro, had just finished fastening himself to my back with an elaborate system of clips and harnesses.
My palms were raining sweat, and my stomach was in knots. My mind was racing. I felt medicated. Also, I was deeply concerned that I might urinate and/or defecate in my jumpsuit while plummeting through the earth’s atmosphere at terminal velocity. I feared that my fear would be so immense that my bladder and bowels would spontaneously release.
Note: I feared my fear.
Note: I refrained from articulating my fear of my fear to Alejandro for fear of upsetting his concentration.
In a futile attempt to cool my nerves, I looked over at A.B., gave a thumbs-up, and forced a smile. It was the fakest smile I had ever sent into the universe. It was the smile of a child who was secretly urinating in a public swimming pool. A.B. faked a smile in return. He shouted something at me, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying amid the engine’s roar. I smiled again and nodded.
Alejandro placed his mouth inches from my ear and issued the following declaration:
“I am going to open the door now.”
I understood him perfectly and said nothing. Alejandro repeated his declaration. I nodded and gave another thumbs-up. Alejandro reached over and unlocked the latch on the Cessna’s small side door. The door flew open, and a blast of cold air rushed into the cabin with enormous force. My heart leapt. The sound was tremendous. I was now facing the open door and the empty sky. I slid my goggles over my eyes.
Alejandro positioned himself behind me. He put his mouth up to my ear once again and shouted the following command:
“Step out onto the wing.”
Remarkably, I inched toward the edge. There didn’t seem to be any other choice. Alejandro was behind me, pushing gently. The ozone layer was whipping against my face. A.B was getting married that day. It was a special occasion. People went skydiving all the time. It was all perfectly safe. There was nothing to worry about. The important thing to do was to just have fun. The hardest part was jumping. The rest would be easy. Alejandro had a chute, a backup chute, and an AAD (automatic activation device), which would deploy the chute automatically at an altitude of three thousand feet in the event that he somehow slipped into unconsciousness during our descent. The system was reportedly foolproof.
Now I was at the threshold. The bar attached to the wing, where my feet were to be placed, was right there in front of me. Below the wing, there was nothing. Below nothing, there was earth. Below the earth, there was more nothing.
I had to step out onto that wing. I had to step into that nothing.
I placed my feet on the wing. It was the most unnatural moment of my entire life.
My feet were now on the wing of an aircraft that was flying at a cruising altitude of approximately ten thousand feet.
Alejandro asked me if I was ready. I said nothing. Perhaps I nodded.
The next thing I knew, we were dropping, flipping, spinning out of control, a mad rush of air. I didn’t know which way was up. I no longer heard the plane. I was disoriented, didn’t know where I was. I was tumbling out of control, plummeting toward earth at terminal velocity, and then, suddenly, vwoompth, I flattened out. My belly was facing the earth, my arms and legs were outstretched. I had achieved some kind of equilibrium. I was flying. I could see my arms, my hands. I could see wisps of white clouds in the distance. I heard Alejandro let out a battle cry. He was still with me. He had righted us with his expertise.
I looked down. I could see everything. Playa del Carmen. Las Palapas, the resort we were staying at. The Gulf of Mexico, bleeding blue to turquoise as it neared the shore. Hotels tucked among the trees. The beach looked like a long line of cocaine. Inland there was nothing but green.
I didn’t feel Alejandro pull the rip cord. I felt only an enormous tug on my harness when the parachute opened and grabbed the atmosphere. We rushed to what felt like a sudden stop. The next thing I knew, everything was silent. The chaos was over. My chute had engaged. My chute was working. I was alive. I was not going to die. I was floating toward earth at a gentle rate of speed, no longer plummeting. Parachute technology had succeeded. Alejandro was manning the toggles, steering us earthward. I didn’t have to do anything. I was hanging at twenty-five hundred feet. Provided the elaborate system of clips and harness held fast, I would be arriving on the sandy beach below in a matter of moments, physically intact, completely uninjured.
I looked down, liberated. I thought I could see my friends. I had not soiled my jumpsuit, and I was not dead.
Also, it had just occurred to me that I was laughing hysterically, like a child.
5.
The wedding went off without a hitch. A.B. and Jenny were married in a beautiful seaside ceremony at sunset. A small Mexican priest presided. A mariachi band played over the sound of crashing surf. Margaritas were served.
Two days later, I found myself alone, at the Aeropuerto José Martí in Havana, Cuba. I was relieved, having made it through customs without getting my passport stamped. A gloomy, bespectacled gentleman had handled the transaction. He was in his middle thirties, and the crown of his head was oily and bald. Just to be safe, I’d asked him politely in Spanish to refrain from stamping my passport, aware that getting one’s passport stamped was inadvisable in Cuba, where traveling was a direct violation of U.S. trade law. The man said nothing to me in response. He looked at my passport quickly and handed it back to me without a word. When I thanked him for his assistance, he yawned and buzzed me through the security door.
There were guards in green fatigues in the baggage claim area, stone-faced men wielding firearms. They were directing a spastic squad of black cocker spaniels sniffing for bombs and drugs. I’d never seen cocker spaniels doing this kind of work before.
My bag was waiting for me when I arrived at the conveyor belt. I picked it up and walked outside into a swarming horde of taxi drivers. They were all talking to me at once, trying to win my business. It was disorienting. In the end, I negotiated transport with a rail-thin, silver-haired gentleman for the flat rate of US$20. According to my guidebooks, this constituted a fairly reasonable deal.
Next thing I knew, I was sitting in the backseat of his taxi, cutting through the countryside on my way to Havana. The terrain was tropical and unfamiliar. There were tenement building carcasses, laundry hanging from their crumbling balconies. There was a stoic farmer steering a bull-pulled plow through an upturned field. There were dilapidated schools and uniformed children giggling in the littered schoolyards. There was a city bus, impossibly full, arms and faces hanging hot out of the open windows. There were three people on a motorcycle and six in a ’57 Chevy. There were weathered men smoking cigars on the sides of the road, trying to flag rides with smiles.
Nobody was wearing sunglasses.
It was illegal for me to be there.
Within minutes, we entered the city. My driver motioned to a bus station on our right and said something in Spanish that I couldn’t understand. We passed the Plaza de la Revolución. My driver told me in broken Englis
h that the large stone monument in its center stood, like the airport, in honor of José Martí. We made a left turn and wove through the neighborhoods. There were strange faces in the narrow streets. The buildings were Spanish colonial, old and falling down. Children playing stickball on the pavement. Old men smoking on the balconies above. Vintage cars rattling by. Golden era Cadillacs. Buicks and Fords. I rolled down my window and lit up a cigarette. I felt like I was in a time warp.
This was good.
6.
Later that night, I found myself seated at a table in a nightclub. On the advice of my hotel concierge, I had wandered over to a place called the Oasis, on the Paseo de Martí. The Oasis consisted of a long, loud room. There was an eight-piece band on a small stage, and the dance floor was packed with salsa dancers. I was drinking my third mojito. There were girls everywhere. Most were prostitutes, most were dressed in skimpy outfits, and most were very young—teenagers and girls in their early twenties.
Here’s how you make a mojito:
Ingredients:
3 fresh mint sprigs
2 tbsp. lime juice
Dash of simple syrup
Club soda, chilled
1.5 oz. light rum