Lunatics

by Dave Barry

  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.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Jeffrey

  I didn’t want to be recognized, and I wasn’t comfortable being completely buck-ass naked, so the first thing I did, after I got undressed, was head for the shopping deck. I got a ship-logo ball cap and a pair of sunglasses, which cost a total of $238.50, which was a complete rip-off, and which I charged to the room of Sue and Arnie Kogen.

  After that I spent an hour walking
around the ship, pretending it was no big deal to be walking naked around a ship full of naked people. In a situation like that, you can’t be every ten seconds pointing at some woman and yelling, “Hey! I can see your vagina!” Even though that’s pretty much all you’re thinking. I’m not saying all the women were hot. Some of them, if they fell overboard, they’d be harpooned by Japs. But there’s something about a naked woman, any naked woman: Your brain always wants you to take a look. Your brain never says, “Nah, I’ve seen enough naked women for now.”

  After a while, I got thirsty from all that looking, so I found a seat at a bar on the sundeck called the Anemone Lounge, where I had a Heineken, which cost twelve dollars, which was picked up by my good friends Sue and Arnie Kogen.

  I’d been sitting at the bar for maybe five minutes when this couple came up to me. She was a blond middle-aged woman, but you could see she worked out, with a nice fake rack. He was a big guy, some muscle, some fat, very hairy, like he was wearing a full-body sweater. He had on one of those fanny packs, which is a douchebag look even if you’re not naked.

  I had this weird feeling that I knew them, but I couldn’t figure out from where.

  The Rack said, “Mind if we join you?”

  I shrugged. They sat down.

  “I’m Sharisse,” said the rack. “This is Mike.”

  Mike stuck out his hand and we shook, him holding it a little too long, letting me know he had a grip.

  He said, “Are you enjoying the cruise so far, Jeffrey?”

  I pulled my hand away. “Do I know you?” I said.

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “Then how do you know my name?”

  Sharisse smiled and said, “Everybody knows you, Jeffrey.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I have to say,” said Mike, “going on a nude cruise, that’s a very creative way to hide out.”

  “I’m not hiding out,” I said.

  “No,” said Sharisse, looking straight at my dick. “You’re not.”

  “Listen,” I said, “I don’t know who you think I am, but . . .”

  “You’re Jeffrey Peckerman,” said Mike. “We recognized you when you got on board.” He unzipped his waist pack, and for a second there, the way things had been going lately, I thought he was going to pull out a gun. But what he pulled out was an iPhone. He tapped on it for a few seconds, then handed it to me. On the screen was the New York Post website. The headline said ZOO SEX PERVERT BRIDGE TERRORISTS LINKED TO AL-QAEDA CELL. There were the usual pictures of me and Horkman, but now there were four new pictures, crappy black-and-white head shots taken from video. Three were of the assholes from the bar who kidnapped me, with raghead names under their pictures. The fourth was Fook. At least I figured it was; the actual photo showed the head of Chuck E. Cheese, underneath which it said Mystery Cell Leader.

  I read the first few paragraphs of the story. The cops had checked surveillance videos from Central Park the night Horkman and I had been at the zoo. They’d identified the three assholes, who it turned out were serious al-Qaeda, wanted by the FBI. So now the story, according to “federal sources,” was that Horkman and I were working with al-Qaeda, taking orders from the highest levels, and we were planning major new terror attacks. There was a nationwide manhunt on for us; the president had declared a state of emergency; the public was completely freaking out; and Fox News was spearheading a boycott of Chuck E. Cheese.

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Sharisse. She rested her hand on my thigh. “You’re a popular man, Jeffrey.”

  “Listen,” I said. “This is a huge mistake. I have nothing to do with al-Qaeda.”

  “Then why’d you go to the zoo with them?” said Mike.

  “I didn’t. I mean, I did, but they forced me.”

  “I see,” said Mike. “And did they force you to bomb the GW Bridge and shoot down the police chopper?”

  “No.”

  “So you did that on your own?”

  “No! I didn’t do any of that!”

  “I see. And after not doing any of that, you suddenly decided to take a nude cruise, get out of town for a while.”

  “With your friend Philip Horkman,” said Sharisse. “Traveling under the names Sue and Arnie Kogen.”

  “I’m curious,” said Mike. “Which one of you is Arnie, and which one is Sue?”

  I took a swig of beer, put the bottle back down. “Okay,” I said. “I know it looks bad.”

  “Yes, it does,” said Mike.

  “Very bad,” said Sharisse. Who, by the way, still had her hand on my thigh.

  “But,” I said, “I swear to you, I can explain, if you’ll just give me a minute, okay? A couple of days ago, I was at my daughter’s soccer game, and I don’t know if you’re familiar with the offside rule, but . . .”

  I stopped there, because of how they were looking at me.

  “You’re not gonna buy this, are you?” I said.

  “No,” said Mike.

  “I’m blond,” said Sharisse. “But I’m not stupid.”

  “So,” I said. “Are you going to turn me in?”

  “No,” said Mike.

  “You’re not?”

  “Jeffrey,” said Sharisse, breathing right in my ear. “Whatever happened, it’s not your fault.”

  Then it hit me, where I knew them from. “You’re the lawyers!” I said. “In that ad. On cable. Somebody and somebody.”

  “Fricker and Fricker,” said Mike. “Whatever happened, it’s not your fault. That’s more than just a motto for us, Jeffrey. That’s how we live our lives.”

  “We help people who need help,” said Sharisse. “Even if they don’t know it.”

  “And you, my friend, need help,” said Mike.

  “Okay,” I said. “But why would you help me? What’s in it for you?”

  Mike leaned in. “Let’s say we’re able to help you out,” he said. “Maybe you know some people who would appreciate that. Maybe these are people with resources. And maybe they’ll be inclined to feel a certain degree of gratitude toward the law firm of Fricker and Fricker.”

  “What people? Who are you talking about?”

  “You know,” said Sharisse. “Important people you might happen to know. With resources.”

  I stared at her. “You mean terrorists?” I said.

  A big smile from Sharisse, and another squeeze.

  “Such an ugly word, ‘terrorists,’” said Mike. “Why can’t we stop the name-calling and the labeling? Why can’t we just get along?”

  “Listen to me,” I said. “I don’t know those people.”

  Mike smiled. “Of course you don’t,” he said. “As your lawyers, we wouldn’t want to hear you say anything else.”

  “Wait. You’re my lawyers?”

  “I would hope so, for your sake,” said Mike. “Because if we weren’t your lawyers, this wouldn’t be a privileged conversation. And if that were the case, we’d have no choice, as citizens, but to turn you in.”

  “We’d hate to do that,” said Sharisse.

  I stared at them. They were smiling at me, big smiles. Like moray eels, but without the warmth.

  “You know what?” said Mike. “It’s getting windy out here, and we have a lot to talk about. Let’s go find your friend Philip.”

  He stood. Sharisse pulled me to my feet. It really was getting windy; the ocean looked rough, and the deck was moving. I stumbled a little, and Mike and Sharisse grabbed me, holding me up between them. My legal team.

  CHAPTER 23

  Philip

  With the possible exception of the semi-erection that involuntarily sprouted when I thought I saw Diane Sawyer in an airport, I had never cheated on my wife Daisy. We’d exchanged sacred vows some eightee
n years earlier and I was proud that even my fantasy life, at its wildest, was of the PG-13 nature. That’s to say that my most lurid wanderings permitted a woman to peel (or be peeled) down to her underwear. Hey, I’m a guy! But the moment any move was made to undo the hooks on her bra, I was quick to pull the plug on the proceedings by smacking the back of my head and switching to another daydream. Yes, that’s how faithful I’d been and planned to remain. So it stood to reason that if I were to step out on Daisy, the perfect situation would be to do so with someone who was celibate.

  Maria, the twelfth of seventeen children born to extremely Catholic parents, had wanted to enter the clergy since grade school. But now, at the age of thirty-four, was questioning whether she still had the same passion and was taking time off to reassess.

  “So you’re sort of like the Maria in The Sound of Music,” I said.

  It was about a half hour later and we were now walking on the ship’s outer deck again. Because the winds were blowing a little stronger and the temperature was a little lower, we’d both taken the time to exercise the ‘optional’ part of this clothing optional cruise and got dressed—me in the only pants and shirt I had with me, she in a pair of jeans and bathing suit top.

  “Remember that movie?” I continued. “Julie Andrews played a nun who temporarily left the convent because she had the same questions you do and ended up marrying Captain von Trapp and helping him lead his seven children over the Alps and into Switzerland because the Nazis were bearing down on them.”

  She thought for a moment, and then shook her head.

  “There’s a big difference between that Maria and me.”

  “How so?”

  She looked at me and smiled.

  “I’m a better yodeler.”

  And then I smiled.

  “Oh, is that a fact?”

  And then she started singing.

  High on a hill stood a lonely goatherd,

  And then she started yodeling.

  Lay-ee-odl, lay-ee-odl, lay-hee-hoo . . .

  And then I started laughing as she continued.