Lunatics (20 page)

CHAPTER 40

Philip

You know that expression
“Bucket List”? When people write down things they would like to do or the places they would like to visit before they die? Before they kick the (pardon my language) bucket?

Well, being a man who always considered himself blessed and was eternally grateful for the good fortune that life has afforded me and my glorious family, I was never desirous of doing more than I'd already done, as I thought it would be greedy.

So, as far as I was concerned, if the Good Lord deigned that my time in this life should come to an end, with the possible exception of not having the opportunity to ask Francis Ford Coppola what he was thinking when he made
Godfather III
, I would pass away wanting nothing. And with no regrets.

Until now. Until Peckerman started drinking the rum that the pirates placed on the table in the captain's quarters. And until it induced him to start singing the pirate song I used to sing along with the other kids on the bus that took us to day camp the summer between third and fourth grade.

Fifteen men on a dead man's
chest,

Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum . . .

The song that all of us had outgrown and no longer sang the summer between fourth and fifth grade.

Drink and the devil had done for the
rest,

Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum . . .

So it was at that exact point that my bucket list was created.

Fifteen men of the whole ship's list . . .

With only one item on it.

Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum . . .

Which was to take karate lessons and have the sensei teach me how to thrust my hand into Peckerman's chest, remove his heart, and throw it at him before he died.

“Shut up, Peckerman,” I told him.

Dead and be damned and the rest gone whist . . .

“I'm warning you, Peckerman!”

Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum . . .

The door opened again, Ali leaned in again, shouted, “But isn't it
wrong
?” again, and laughed as hard as he did the first time again. And when Peckerman stopped singing and joined him with a ridiculous laugh of his own, I started wondering if that sensei could teach me how to extract my own heart and throw it at myself.

“What's your problem?” Peckerman asked after Ali left.

“My problem, Peckerman? My problem is that no matter how they describe themselves as businessmen, these pirates are ruthless people and you're acting like we're on a ride at Disney World.”

“Yeah, but they think we're just as ruthless. So why not kick back and enjoy ourselves a little? I think we deserve a little RxR considering what we've been through,” he said before taking still another swig.

“RxR?” I asked.

“Rest and relaxation.”

“That's R&R, you moron. RxR is a railroad crossing.”

He took another gulp, which emptied his bottle. He then picked up the untouched one meant for me and emptied about a third of it into that bottomless gullet of his.

“I have a great idea!” he then shouted. At least that's what I think he said as he was now slurring like a cast member of
Jersey
Shore
.

“What's your great idea?”

“Well, this boat is carrying bananas, right?”

“About twelve tons.”

“Then what do you say I mix some of them with this rum and make us a couple of banana daiquiris?”

I didn't even answer. All I knew was that I couldn't bear to be in the same air space as him anymore. So I left the captain's quarters and went outside.

It was night. I looked out as we bore down on what I assumed was the coast of Somalia, when I heard a voice cutting through the darkness.

“Why not join me?”

It was coming from above. I looked up and saw Ali, who motioned for me to climb the small ladder that connected the deck I was on to an upper level. I did and now found myself on the bridge where Ali was piloting the freighter.

“Nice night,” he said.

“Balmy,” I answered nodding.

“Balmy?”

It was the nerves talking. Had to be. I had never used the word “balmy.” Only the weatherman used the word “balmy.” But now I did, too. And in front of a pirate, no less.

He said nothing for a few moments as his look remained fixed on wherever he was steering the freighter. He seemed lost in thought. The silence was awkward. Especially when he shook his head.

“I wouldn't call it balmy,” he finally said. “I think it's more . . . temperate.”

I'm a Jew from New Jersey who was standing on the deck of a freighter talking about the weather with a Somalian pirate. Though I'm not a mathematician, my guess was that the odds against that ever occurring were off the charts.

“Really? I don't know about that,” I told him.

“Why not?”

“You feel that little breeze? I think that little breeze is what makes a temperate day become a balmy one.”

“Temperate plus breeze equals balmy?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

He nodded his head in a way that meant he'd heard what I said but didn't necessarily agree with it. But our meteorological discussion came to an end when he pushed a button on the panel and I no longer heard the sound of engines.

“Ever operate one of these?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said with a laugh that also said
Please don't insult me with questions like
that
.

“Well, we're going to let this drift to those waters over there,” he said, pointing to a place a few hundred yards or so off the shore of Mogadishu. He told me the plan was to let it sit there until the ransom was paid.

“And then we'll have Hamas get you to Beirut.”

“Much appreciated,” I said simultaneous to my large intestine dropping to a place about an inch above my ankles upon hearing that I'd be spending time with Hamas.

The door to the bridge opened. It was Peckerman holding a tray upon which sat a dozen cups filled with liquid he insisted were banana daiquiris. I took one, drank it, and thought it tasted like wet banana cement. Ali drank it, loved it and asked if he could offer the rest of the drinks to the other pirates.

So Peckerman handed him the tray and, confident that I'd indeed operated a freighter, Ali told me to keep an eye on things and said he'd be right back.

“My God, your breath can melt a fire hydrant,” I told Peckerman. “Do you plan to ever stop drinking? You're reeling drunk!”

“Reeling? Is that so, Mr. Bow Wow Meow Tweet Tweet Pet Shop Owner?”

“Jesus, Peckerman . . .”

“Well, for your information I don't even know how to reel.”

At which point, as if a fly fisherman cast him outward, he reeled backward and grabbed the handle of the open door behind him. And then, as if that same fly fisherman reeled him in, he pitched forward, slamming the door shut, and kept his downward trajectory, which caused his face to hit the button which restarted the freighter's engines before his entire body came to rest on the control board itself—more specifically, on top of the lever which put the ship in full throttle.

“Peckerman, we're supposed to be drifting!” I shouted to his inert mass.

I looked out the front window of the freighter and saw the coast of Mogadishu drawing closer. I first tried rolling Peckerman off the control board—like he was a huge blob of dough, which he indeed was. But that proved futile, as the lever itself was caught between two buttons on the idiot's shirt, so even when I rocked him and got a good momentum going, he couldn't roll completely off as he was now virtually tethered to that throttle.

I then attempted to slide Peckerman off the board by grabbing his ankles and tugging in small heaves. The downward slant of the panel helped a little, but even gravity, as great a force as it may be, wasn't able to prevent Peckerman's chin from hitting what I gathered was an important red button as a lot of horns started blaring.

As loud as they were, however, they were no match for the banging on the door made by an enraged Ali who'd just returned with the tray and was less than pleased to see that the freighter was maybe a minute away from making a personal appearance upon the shore of Somalia.

And though I tried my best to let him in, the door's lock was jammed and no amount of ranting and pointing by Ali through the door's window trying to convey what to do seemed to work.

So about the same time that Ali stopped banging on the door and took his pistol out of his belt, I took hold of what I figured was the steering wheel and turned it all the way to the right, with every hope that its forward motion would be stopped by turning it sideways. And though I wasn't naïve enough to think that this 62,700-ton vessel would turn on a dime, I held on to every hope that it would turn on a quarter or a half-dollar.

But all I succeeded in doing was to move the rudders or whatever there was underneath whose job it is to turn a large boat. So when the freighter ran aground (about the same time that Ali shot out the window, reached inside, unlocked the door, and came racing in) their angles caused the ship to tip over onto its side, sending the containers toppling from the deck and spilling about two million bananas (minus the ones Peckerman used for those daiquiris) onto the shore of Mogadishu.

CHAPTER 41

Jeffrey

I thought Ali
was going to kill us. The reason I thought this was that he was pointing his gun at us and shouting, “I WILL KILL YOU! I WILL KILL YOU!”

I tried to point out that he didn't need to kill me, just Horkman, since he was the asshole who crashed the ship into Africa. But I had trouble making myself understood because of all the noise and confusion. The ship was leaning way the hell over and everything was sliding all over the place. Also to tell the truth, I was pretty hammered from the rum.

The ship is what saved us. Ali aimed the gun at Horkman and me, and he actually shot it, but right at that exact instant the boat lurched really hard and leaned even farther over, and Ali fell backward right out the broken window.

You know how, in comics, people are always slipping on banana peels, but you never see that happen in real life, so you wonder if bananas are really that slippery? It turns out they are. Ali fell onto this huge mass of bananas that had poured out of the ship and formed a pile all the way down to the ground. It was a giant banana slide, and Ali went down that thing like an Olympic luge competitor, except he was holding a gun and going backward and not wearing a helmet, which was too bad for him because he had to be going fifty miles an hour when he got to the bottom of the banana pile and hit a big rock. I don't want to get graphic here, but his head exploded like a watermelon in a wood chipper.

I know you think I keep harping on what a complete douchebag Horkman is, but listen to what he wanted to do next:
He wanted to go down and help Ali.
I am not shitting you. He's like, “My God, he's hurt!” I pointed out that (a) Ali had just tried to kill us, and (b) even if we wanted to help him, the only thing we could do for him, first aid–wise, was collect pieces of his brain in a baggie. For once Horkman realized I was right.

The ship was still making lurching noises, so we decided we'd better get off. It turned out that everybody else—pirates and crew—had the same idea. They were hanging a big net down the side, and we all used it to climb down off the ship. We were milling around on this rocky shoreline next to about sixteen billion bananas and what was left of Ali when a dozen guys with guns, some kind of soldiers, came running toward us. They were yelling at the pirates, who were yelling back and pointing at Horkman and me. One of the soldiers, a big guy who apparently was the leader, came over and started shouting at us. Of course, we had no idea what he was saying, so I just stood there, but Horkman held his hands out like he was the pope and said—get ready—“We come in peace.”

I looked at him and said, “Are you
serious
?”

Apparently the big guy also was unimpressed, because he aimed his gun at Horkman and yelled something that I assume was African for “Don't make peaceful gestures at
me
, dickwad who just turned this coastline into the world's largest fruit salad.” He was really pissed, yelling and waving his gun around, and it looked pretty bad for us. I was edging sideways, trying to get behind Horkman in case the big guy started shooting, when one of the other soldiers shouted and pointed inland.

We all turned to look. Coming toward the ship was a really skinny woman and some really skinny little kids. Behind them were more women and kids, and behind them were even more, hundreds of them, all skinny as skeletons. They had their eyes on the bananas. Some of the kids started running toward the pile.

The big guy fired his gun into the air. Everybody stopped. The big guy yelled something to his soldiers. They formed a line in front of the banana pile and pointed their guns at the crowd. Some of the soldiers didn't look too happy about this, but you could tell they didn't dare disagree with the big guy.

Now the big guy was yelling at the crowd, waving his gun to tell them to stay back. The women were crying, holding up their hands like they were begging, but the big guy didn't budge. More women and children were pushing in from behind; the crowd was getting huge, everybody staring at the bananas, but nobody daring to get any closer to the guns. It was tense.

Horkman whispered to me, “We have to do something.”

“Right,” I whispered back. I figured that what he meant by “do something” was “get the fuck out of there while the soldiers are looking the other way.” I now realize this was stupid on my part, seeing as how the asshole had never once in all the time I had ever known him had so much as one good idea. And sure enough, he was not having one then. Instead of sneaking
away
from the soldiers, he started walking straight toward the banana pile. The big guy yelled something at him. Horkman kept walking. He reached the pile and picked up a banana. He turned to the big guy and said, “These people are hungry. Let them have these bananas.”

The big guy raised his gun and aimed it right at Horkman. He seemed to be enjoying this, wanting the moment to last. Everything got very quiet. Horkman didn't move; he just stood there holding the banana. It was like a movie, except it was real; Horkman was about to get killed.

You know how sometimes in life, something happens that makes you see things really clearly? For me, this was one of those times. Standing there, looking at Horkman, who didn't even know these starving people and yet was about to get himself killed trying to help them, I suddenly realized something very significant about myself. Specifically, I realized that this was an excellent opportunity to get myself the fuck out of there.

I took one baby step backward from the big man. Then I took another baby step. Then another.

Then I farted. Sometimes you just don't see them coming. This was a real pantsblaster, maybe four seconds in duration, like
bwaaaapppppppppp
. The big man spun around, saw me moving, and swung the butt of his gun right into my stomach. I went down at his feet like a sack of gravel.

I'm still not 100 percent sure what happened next. As best as I can re-create it, the timeline was as follows:

 

(1) The big man resumes getting ready to shoot Horkman.

(2) As a result of the severe blow to my stomach, I puke maybe a quart of semidigested banana daiquiri directly onto the big man's combat boots.

(3a) The big man looks down to see what the hell is happening at exactly the same instant that . . .

(3b) . . . I lurch violently upward to get away from the puke spatter, which means that . . .

(3c) . . . the top of my skull slams into the big man's chin.

(4) We both fall down, me with a sudden nuclear headache and the big man out cold.

So I'm lying on the ground, holding my head and going “shitshitshit.” Meanwhile, with the ranking officer unconscious, the soldiers don't know what the hell to do. Some of the women and children in the front of the crowd are inching forward toward the bananas. Some of the soldiers lower their guns, but some don't. The crowd comes a little closer. A couple of the soldiers are shouting at the crowd and waving their guns; it looks like they're about to shoot.

Then Horkman runs past the soldiers, so now he's between them and the crowd. He faces the soldiers. Standing in front of the hungry crowd, holding his banana over his head like he was the Statue of Fruit Liberty, he shouts—I swear to God—“LET THESE BANANAS GO!”

For a few seconds, nobody moves. Then Horkman, still holding the banana up, starts walking forward, toward the soldiers. The crowd is following him. Horkman walks right between two soldiers, guns aimed. They don't shoot. A kid, right behind Horkman, scurries to the pile and grabs a banana. He shoves it into his mouth and takes a bite, peel and all.

That was it. The crowd stampeded in, and thirty seconds later you could barely see the pile. There were thousands of people chomping bananas, with more coming. The soldiers didn't even try to stop them.

Horkman worked his way through the mob to where I was lying on the ground. “Are you all right?” he said. I could tell he was really concerned.

“Fuck you,” I said.

I stood up. My skull felt like that sweaty Irish stomping guy was in there, the Riverdance asshole. I just wanted to get out of there, away from all these people. I took a couple of steps and almost fell down. Horkman grabbed me.

“Fuck you,” I reiterated. But I don't think he heard me, because all of a sudden there was a big black helicopter over us, very low, so loud it drowned out the noise of the banana mob. I looked up and saw some guys in the doorway, pointing at Horkman and me. Ten seconds later, they were coming down on ropes, four of them, right on top of us. Two grabbed Horkman; two grabbed me. Horkman yelled, “What are you doing? Who are you?” But they didn't answer. Twenty seconds later, we were being hauled up into the chopper, which was already heading out to sea. The last I saw of Africa was a couple thousand skinny people looking up at us, waving bananas, which I guess was their way of saying thanks.