Lunatics (10 page)

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.”

He opened the door, stepped out into the hallway, and closed the door behind him.

“Homo,” I said, and began undressing.

CHAPTER 21

Philip

There are precious few
activities that grown men should do while naked. Showering. Swimming when no one else is around. Sex, whether someone else is around or not. And anything that takes place in front of blind people. Beyond that, all unclothed activities performed in the presence of those who're sighted should be filed under the heading of “Dear Lord, If He Bends Over One More Time I'm Going to Hang Myself.”

So, as much as I thought it was a good idea that Peckerman and I blend in with everyone else onboard this floating genital convention, I opted to spend the next hour taking a Japanese flower-arranging lesson because it stood to reason that even if there were other men in this class, they would be seated.

I was right. There were twelve other nude flower-lovers in the room where the class was taking place—all women. Even the instructor, who stood in the open area in the middle of the desks arranged in a circle, was a woman. I don't mind telling you I found it fascinating that if someone had asked me what my reaction would be if I'd ever found myself in an enclosed space with thirteen stark naked women, I would've said something along the lines of “I should only be so lucky.” But as I sat there I found that the novelty wore off shortly after checking out the bodies that surrounded me and I was surprisingly unexcited—with the exception of the extremely attractive woman who was sitting to my right, although I didn't realize I was staring at her until she looked at me and smiled.

“First time?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, in an attempt to subtly deny what I was obviously doing. “I've never taken a Japanese flower-arranging class before.”

She smiled some more. The kind of smile that told me that I was not off the hook.

“I mean, is this your first clothing optional cruise?”

“Yes,” I answered, totally embarrassed upon getting busted like this. “I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable.”

Again she laughed. Like someone who understood.

“It will take you a little while,” she explained. “But you'll get used to it.”

I figured she was in her mid-thirties. With a slight accent. Boston? Portugal?

“So you've done this sort of thing before?” I asked.

“I'm very much a naturalist,” she said, nodding. “It's a great equalizer. No clothes or uniforms, no telltale signs of wealth or social standing. On this ship you've got doctors, schoolteachers, bank presidents, gas station attendants, and you can't tell who's who until you get to know them as people. It's nicer that way.”

I liked this naked woman. A lot. And not just because she was naked. I liked her because she was one of those people who, by the way she looked at you when she spoke, made
you
want to speak. Made you feel safe to say what you wanted to. What you
had
to. And that's what I had to do. Until that very moment, I hadn't had a conversation, I mean an honest heart-to-heart dialogue, with another human being (Peckerman was of another species) about what had happened and how I felt about it since this entire ordeal started the night before, and I was ready. Ready to talk about all the running and shooting and hospitals and big black bears and policemen's punctured scrotums that were pent up inside me and, now that I was finally in an idled state, was ready to express.

So as the naked instructor passed out ayakas, azamis, sakuras and other Japanese flowers for us to work with, I had a feeling it wouldn't take much prompting from the naked woman to my right for me to start spilling my guts.

“Aren't these flowers colorful?”

That's all the prompting I needed.

“Yes, they're quite colorful, and you wouldn't believe what's going on in my life right now . . .”

I didn't stop talking for the next hour. The floodgates had opened and the outpouring could have buried a medium-size village. Careful to keep my voice below a whisper, I started with the soccer game and took her straight through to how Peckerman still hadn't bathed, how much I missed Daisy and the kids, and how I was silently praying that Hyo (the sixteen-year-old Korean American who worked for me after school and on weekends, to mind the register and assist customers) would have the good sense to feed the animals at The Wine Shop when he sees that I hadn't been there.

She listened and I could tell she heard every word. What a refreshing phenomenon that was after so many years of marriage—to say words that were actually heard.

Neither of us even attempted to make a flower arrangement, and when the class was over, we took a walk along the outside deck, where naked people were taking in the last few rays of a setting sun, playing shuffleboard, swimming and sipping pre-dinner cocktails. And while the conversations we overheard were very much about the beautiful weather, they also mentioned a forecast of rain and high winds that were supposedly ahead of us.

We had no destination. But we stayed with each other because it seemed like the most natural thing to do. As if this was merely the silent walking portion of the same conversation we were having in the flower-arranging class, and for either of us to say “Good-bye, it was nice talking to you” would have been out of the moment and rude.

I then followed her through an opening that took us back into the ship, then down a carpeted hallway, until she slowed down and came to a stop in front of the door to a room on the “G” level. She turned to me, but we remained silent. Furtive side glances up and down the corridor revealed no one else around. We were alone. I looked at her again. She really was beautiful.

“Do you feel better after telling me what you did?”

“I do.”

“I know it doesn't change the situation,” she said, nodding, “but something always happens when our words hit the air. The emotions are shed and what's left are the bare facts that we have to deal with in a logical manner. It's a big step.”

She exuded an air of calm radiance. She made me feel calm. And, okay, radiant.

“And please know that your secret is safe with me,” she added.

“Thank you.”

I suddenly felt a stirring. The kind of stirring that a red-blooded naked man tends to feel when he's standing maybe one foot away from a beautiful naked woman in an empty carpeted corridor on an ocean liner.

“And I'd like you to feel free to speak to me if and when the need hits you again.”

“Okay.”

“And, for what it's worth, I believe you. I believe in your innocence.”

“It's worth a lot,” I said, while wondering if she noticed my stirring.

“Listen,” I then heard myself saying. “You were so nice to listen to me, but I never gave you a chance to tell me about yourself.”

She smiled in a way that told me that it was okay.

“My name is Maria.”

“I'm Philip Horkman.”

“Nice to meet you, Philip Horkman.”

I was now wondering if she was having a stirring of her own. I couldn't tell. I could never tell. To this very day, I never met any man who can tell.

“You're so easy to talk to, Maria.”

“It comes with the territory—make people feel comfortable so they tell me what's troubling them.”

“Are you a therapist?”

“No, I'm a nun.”