Magnificent Vibration

by Rick Springfield

  As I slam on the brakes, the lightweight Kia instantly and predictably launches into hydroplane mode, spinning in impotent circles across the mercifully fairly vacant lanes of the 101 and causing several cars to dodge and weave around us. It all happens so fast. A giant, thirty-foot green-and-white freeway off-ramp sign crashes down onto the asphalt right next to us, scaring the crap out of me, sending sparks flying, and tearing itself to pieces on impact, none of which, thankfully, hits us, as I would guess the sign is made of much sturdier stuff than the auto that’s currently still spinning like a kid’s top. This is all accompanied by a deafening, end-of-the-world-type howling roar that is getting more thunderous by the second. I’m suddenly aware of something gigantic looming overhead. I finally get the damn Kia under control as an object the size of a football field comes into view through the upper edge of the windshield and very, very close.

  “OH, SHIT!!!” we all seem to scream in unison as a colossal Airbus A380, the largest passenger jetliner in the world, thunders through the downpour, all lights blazing, and attempts to make a landing directly in front of us on the freeway. It looks monstrous and out of control as it descends. Large pieces begin shearing off the wings as they come in contact with walls, signs, pillars and posts at the edges of the roadway, sending sparks and debris in every direction and causing the giant airplane to lose what remaining control it is under.

  I frantically pump the brakes as this incredible event unfolds right before our eyes. Even straddling all the north- and southbound lanes, the airplane is still too big for the freeway to give it a clear landing path. Cars are weaving, pirouetting, crashing into one another, the divider, and the off-ramp walls and generally adding to the shitstorm that is coming as the giant tires finally punch down onto the wet and shining blacktop. They hit so hard that most of the rubber shreds like gray string cheese on impact, the front wheel-strut collapsing altogether, causing the immense nose of the aircraft to drop, hit, and light up like the fourth of July. We’re all still screaming and the jet engine noise is deafening as the giant metal flying machine roars down the highway—inexorably screeching, pitching, yawing, and sparking—destroying everything it happens upon until it finally lurches to a halt mere yards from a concrete overpass.

  We’re all holding our breath as our little toy car bounces to a stop as well. Great gouts of black smoke are pouring from the stricken craft and chaos is everywhere. A yellow evacuation slide suddenly pops open from a lower rear door on the whale-like fuselage of the destroyed airliner and we watch transfixed as a single person jumps into it and glides to relative safety—then starts running in our direction.

  “I think we maybe ought to back up some,” says Lexington Vargas with characteristic understatement.

  But the escaping figure is passing stationary cars between our vulnerable little vehicle and the giant plane and looks to be heading directly toward us. My first thought is that it’s a woman with long black hair but the running motion and general outline are masculine. He stops at our car, yanks open the rear door, and squeezes in beside Lexington Vargas amid grunts and groans from the latter.

  “We would be wise to leave the area,” suggests the hitchhiker with Lexington Vargas–like restraint, and I momentarily catch sight of his extremely beautiful and completely undamaged, coffee-colored face. I’m thinking this is one lucky dude. I’m also wondering why more passengers aren’t exiting the wreckage, but I get my answer as a violent fireball explodes out of the open rear door of the Airbus, windows pop from the heat, and flames begin to lick the outside of the plane’s now-boiling skin. Anticipating what may come next, I slam the car into reverse and bang right into the front end of a stationary Mercedes. This is no time to exchange numbers and insurance information, so I spin the wheel and we begin racing the wrong way back along the freeway we’ve just travelled. Other cars are turning to follow suit when it happens. I see the blinding flash of light reflected off every wet surface before me—followed by the thump/whump of the detonation as thousands of gallons of ridiculously flammable jet fuel ignite and turn the three-hundred-million-dollar aircraft and the five-hundred or so travelers into gore and cinders. Then comes the heat. I look in the rearview mirror at the inferno that was once an airplane. Cars between us are bursting into flames from the high radiant temperature as the mighty Kia makes good its escape with not much more to show for it than a slightly crumpled ass-end.

  I whip out my phone and juggle it open to call 911, watching for oncoming traffic as I pilot the life-saving automobile up an open on-ramp to the comparative refuge of the side streets.

  “There’s no need to do that,” says a calm voice from the back. “Everyone is calling. Believe me.”

  Alice and I exchange a look. The stranger’s relaxed demeanor is disconcerting, to say the least. Like it’s no big deal that he seems to be the only survivor of what could conceivably be the single worst airplane disaster in the history of aviation. Is he a terrorist? Did he bring the giant plane down?

  “I am Merikh,” he says, extending a smooth, dark hand to Lexington Vargas. He has a very subtle, impossible-to-place accent. And a stunningly beautiful face. My first thought is that he’s black. But he has the long hair of an American Indian, lustrous and iron straight, and his eyes tilt to a slightly oriental aspect but are the pale blue/green of a shallow tropical sea. His full lips and skin are African but his strong nose is almost Middle Eastern. He looks like an amalgam of every fine feature of every known race. I almost can’t take my eyes off him, he is so physically fucking attractive, but I must steer this awe-inspiring, life-saving Korean auto and avoid any possible head-ons.

  “What happened?” asks L.V., his voice slightly tremulous and clenched-sounding. He does not offer his hand in return.

  “The plane crashed,” is this guy Merikh’s monumentally vapid answer.

  “Did you do that?” L.V. quizzes, jabbing a fat thumb back at the fast-retreating firestorm. Obviously Lexington Vargas has had the same thought that I did.

  “That is not my doing, no,” is the understated reply.

  “There’s been a lot of terrorist crap going on lately,” L.V. continues, more to us than the new guy.

  “Why did you run to our car?” Alice interrogates. Her voice sounds strained, too. We’re all in shock trying to deal with this horrifically unreal situation.

  “It seemed like the correct course of action,” Merikh replies.

  “You are one lucky mofo,” I respond, my voice too loud.

  “I am, as you say, one lucky mofo, yes.”

  “We should probably drop you at a police station or hospital somewhere.”

  “I am uninjured and will contact the authorities tomorrow, thank you.” This guy is sounding weirder by the minute.

  “I don’t know, dude, this is pretty strange you surviving that crash and not seeming wigged-out or in shock or anything. You don’t even have a mark on you. How is that possible? Why did that plane go down?” For some reason I tend to ramble in stressful situations.

  “I had a feeling when we left Narita that the plane would crash,” Merikh answers, again oddly.

  “Never heard of any country called Narita before. Sounds Middle Eastern.” Lexington Vargas either still thinks this guy’s a terrorist or, like me, he just never paid attention in geography.

  “Narita is the Tokyo airport . . . in Japan,” Merikh explains.

  “Okay, we know where Tokyo is,” I say, somewhat peeved, although in all fairness to the guy there was no condescension in his tone.

  “What were you in Japan for?” Alice again takes over with a fine non sequitur.

  “I was there for the tsunami event.”

  “Doing what?” I can’t keep the slightly suspicious note out of my voice. We all sound like we don’t trust this very pretty man. And we don’t.

  “Helping,” is all he says.

  There is a moment of silence that I would like to suggest is for all the poor souls who have just lost their lives in the recent air-travel-re
lated conflagration on the 101 freeway, but in truth we are all trying to piece together a logical line of questioning for this very strange person. Merikh seems willing enough to provide answers, but somehow he’s not really telling us much.

  He is handsome, though. It’s almost ridiculous how good-looking this dude is. I covetously check Alice, my sizzling-hot Christ-bride, for any signs of attraction. I blame Woody for this sudden switch of focus, but at least it’s proof that the trauma is starting to wear off.

  “Honestly, I think we should hand him over to the cops, man. There’s gotta be a lot of questions people are gonna be asking that he can maybe answer.” This really sensible idea is voiced by none other than our once-perceived-as-a homicidal-maniac, Lexington Vargas.

  “I agree, I think that’s the right bet,” I add. “It’s best for everyone if you just tell the police your story. And I don’t think we should be driving aimlessly around Hollywood with the only survivor of the world’s worst air disaster in our backseat.”

  “That sounds like a plan,” Alice chimes in, and I believe that means she is not sexually attracted to this gorgeous but weird fellow. Damnit, Woody, shut up!!!

  “LAPD’s on Wilcox,” says L.V.

  “You sure?” I ask.

  “Yeah . . . I’m sure,” and his tone suggests that Lexington Vargas has some possible skeletons in his very large closet. I make a left and head the great and powerful Kia toward Wilcox Avenue.

  “That’s not a good idea,” suggests Merikh. No one responds.

  There is more silence. This time it’s quite unnerving. Honestly, none of us know this guy from Adam. He could be capable of anything. The sooner we drop his ass off at a cop shop, the better we’ll all feel.

  “You two seem to be reading the same book,” Merikh finally adds. Both Alice and Lexington Vargas still have their copies of Magnificent Vibration on their laps.

  “This has been a really weird night,” is what I answer. “And that book started it all.”

  “Perhaps this will change your minds,” says Mr. Hot Stuff.

  In the rearview mirror I see he is now reaching into his brown leather jacket. I know what’s coming.

  “No way! You’ve got to be kidding me. Not another copy of that freaking book?” I exclaim.

  But it is not. What it is, is a gun! And it’s big, too. And really, really old. This odd hitchhiker is threatening us with an eighteenth-century flintlock pistol that has a bore so big I think I could squeeze my head into the barrel’s opening. An ornate piece of antiquity with scrolling designs adorning its body and an elegant silver cap at the end of the handle. The gun looks like Jack Sparrow’s piece from Pirates of the Caribbean, the last movie I filled the void of a lonely night watching. In fact, it looks astonishingly like that screen weapon! Almost identical. WTF! But who’s looking at the details (other than a guy with ADD) when the business end is pointed in the general direction of your head. How could we have missed that he had this frigging cannon under his jacket? And how did he ever get the thing on a plane??

  “Oh, Shit!!!” we all exclaim once again in unison.

  He directs the large-bore opening at Lexington Vargas’s temple. If the thing went off, I would suspect a major part of L.V.’s cranium would be decorating the interior of the silver Kia.

  “Wait, wait, what are you doing?” screams Alice, wigging.

  This guy has now proven himself to be completely unpredictable.

  “Take it easy, just . . . slow down a minute here,” I chime in, pretty much as wigged as she is. Only Lexington Vargas seems unruffled. Has he had a gun pulled on him before? Perhaps.

  “My suggestion is that you do not drive me to the police. Instead, we stick together,” says Weirdo.

  “Why would we want to do that when you’re threatening us with a gun?” Me trying on my best hostage-negotiator voice.

  “Because I am here to help,” he says.

  “Help who?” Alice almost pleads.

  “You,” he returns.

  “Help us? To do what?” she asks.

  There is a beat or two. Then the very pretty nutball finally answers: “I don’t know.”

  Horatio

  I’m still sitting on the floor by Josie’s bed when the dreaded but anticipated knock at the front door finally comes. I’ve had the most horrific visions while I’ve been waiting for this visit. Awful prison scenes have flashed though my masochistic mind. One where I am badly manhandled, punched, kicked, poked, and coerced into becoming a fully tattooed, white-supremacist skinhead in order to survive in “the joint.” Another, I am a “bitch” married to the big, hairy fat guy with the most cigarettes. And yet more where I’m beaten and raped daily by inmates as the guards stand around, laugh, and shoot video. Supervised phone calls with my mother where I listen helplessly as she collapses into inconsolable tears. Even, God help me, conjugal visits from the Reverend’s now-ex-strumpet. It has been a terrifying hour and a half. I hear footsteps down the hall and I look up. My mother is standing there with two sheriffs; both of them appear to be armed to the teeth and ostensibly trigger-happy, ready to shoot first and plant a gun on me later. No point in making a break for it now, anyway.

  “These gentlemen would like a word with you, Horatio.” She barely gets it out.

  “Yes,” I answer. “Is it okay if we talk in the living room? I don’t want Josie to hear this.”

  The serious men in brown seriously nod their serious assent. I rise, bend down, and kiss my girl good-bye. Then, like the condemned man I am, I walk out into the hallway. The sheriffs follow. I am so screwed.

  We all take seats in the modest living room as a blond, blue-eyed, Caucasian Jesus looks on from a frame above the mantel with a mixture of sympathy and barely suppressed horror.

  “May we speak with your son in private, Ma’am?” asks the older sheriff. “It’s completely up to you, of course, but there are some delicate matters to discuss and we feel he may be more forthcoming if it’s just us men.” He smiles conspiratorially at me. Uh-oh. Is he the “good” cop? I make a mental note that the younger one has now been identified, by a process of elimination, as the “bad” cop. They get ready to work me over, rolls of quarters in their meaty fists, phone books at the ready to wrap around my ribs so the bruises won’t show. I almost want my mother here with me but the humiliation would be too much, so I say nothing as she sighs tragically, rises, and walks into the kitchen like the martyred saint she is.

  The sheriffs wait until she’s gone.

  “Now, son,” begins the “good” cop, with some condescension. “We understand this is difficult for you, but we need you to tell us the truth. Do you understand? This is off the record for now—we’re just gathering facts, okay? Nothing you say will be held or used against you.”

  I nod, white-faced. They’re probably recording it.

  “This conversation is about Virginia Whiting, Reverend Whiting’s wife,” he continues. “We’ve heard from quite a few boys now that Mrs. . . .”

  “Boys?” I squeak. He just lost me.

  The “bad” cop chimes in and I flinch. “They’ve come forward about Virginia Whiting’s alleged sexual advances,” is the shocking answer. I am already reeling. She’s been telling people about us???!!! And telling young BOYS??? What the hell!!!

  “Good” cop continues. “Young men, around your age. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen.”

  I am having serious trouble following all this. Why would she tell other people when she was always admonishing me about the necessary secrecy of our trysts? My shaky little-boy voice asks the big, mean men, “What did she say about me?”

  The “good” cop looks puzzled. They both seem to be getting impatient with how thick I apparently am, so they decide to spell it out for yours half-wittedly. “Virginia Whiting has allegedly been having sex with a number of young men,” is the unbelievable response from the “good” cop. “Men both attached to her husband’s church and outside it. As young men will do, some of them have been bragging to their frie
nds about their sexual encounters with Mrs. Whiting. A concerned mother overheard something that was said and came to us. Our investigations have turned up quite a few boys, both under and over the age of consent, that Mrs. Whiting has allegedly been sexually involved with.”

  I am fucking stunned!!! My Virgi . . . Mrs. Whi . . . the Reverend’s wi . . . SHE has been having sex with other guys??!!

  It finally lands in my lap. The cuckolder (me) has been cuckolded. A lot.

  I am devastated.

  I have to ask. “Is it illegal to have sex with a Reverend’s wife in this state?”

  They seem amused by this. “Good” cop says, “We’re investigating Virginia Whiting for having unlawful sex with young men not of consenting age and also abusing her office.”

  So I’m off the hook?

  I am deeply relieved that they are investigating her and not me. But still devastated. Yes, quite devastated.

  And although extremely grateful, I categorically deny any sexual involvement with the Reverend’s apparently very horny and oversexed wife. The sheriffs both look doubtful.

  “Son, we’re aware that Mrs. Whiting has spent a lot of time in your home . . .”

  “I never touched her,” I lie like a bastard.

  “HORATIO!” my mother reprimands from the kitchen. Damnit, she’s been listening the whole time.

  They both look at me expectantly. I look back. “Nothing happened between Vir . . . Mrs. Whiting and me.”

  I’m no stoolie. And I’m sure as hell not going to testify in some court of law, in front of a jury of my peers, that I have been snaking the Reverend’s missus. The sheriffs give each other a look and both rise. They call to my mother, who enters so quickly she must have been standing right by the friggin’ door.

  “Bad” cop hands her his card. “If your son changes his mind, please give us a call. Thank you.”

  Apparently I am dismissed.

  The men in brown exit the premises without me in handcuffs being shoved unkindly ahead of them. I am momentarily relieved.