by Dave Barry
I had to nod. He’s an asshole, but he had a point. The Salamanders didn’t seem impressed with us.
“So,” continued Horkman, “why’d they send us back over to lead the rebels?”
I shook my head.
“I think,” said Horkman, “they want to make sure that the rebels lose.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But it’s pretty obvious they’re not on the rebel side; they didn’t even let the rebels see them. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if, once the battle starts, the Salamanders are fighting against us.”
I thought about that. “So they’re gonna let us go in there and get killed.”
Horkman nodded and said, “I think they might even help kill us.”
If there’s one rule that I always try to live my life by, it’s this: Don’t get killed. I knew I had to do something. In the seat ahead, Nunez and Ramon had their backs to us. I glanced behind. There were three Cubans in the backseat, but they were all dozing. Behind our truck were some more, but they were a ways back, and there were dust clouds on the road. I moved over toward the edge of the seat.
“What are you doing?” whispered Horkman.
“I’m getting the fuck out of here,” I said.
“Bad idea,” said Horkman. He pointed toward the trees. I looked. There were dark shapes moving in there, keeping pace with the truck. The Salamanders. As I watched, one of them came closer to the road, so I could see his face: It was the guy who saved me, Spider-Man. He pointed at the road, then shook his finger back and forth, indicating Don’t get off the truck. Then he reached down and pulled something out of his boot. It was a really big knife. He held it up, indicating I have a really big knife. With his other hand, he pointed two fingers at his eyes, then one at me, indicating I’m watching you.
I slid back into the middle of the truck, leaned over, and put my head in my hands. Indicating Fuck me.
CHAPTER 35
Philip
It was so hard to believe.
Even as I sat in the back of that truck with a bandanna around my head and a machine gun across my lap, it still hadn’t sunk in that I, Philip Horatio Horkman, a pet shop owner who wore corrective shoes well into my junior year of college, was on my way to Havana to help overthrow the Castro regime.
I had never been in a war. I’m a member of that in-between generation that made me too young for Vietnam and then too old for any of the Gulf Wars—which my father, a decorated WWII veteran, could be counted on to throw up to me whenever the mood hit him.
“Enlist, you coward!” he once shouted, apropos of nothing anyone was talking about at that particular moment.
“Dad . . .”
“Julius, we’re in the middle of a seder,” I remember my mother saying after this outburst. “Your only son is reciting the Four Questions at a meal celebrating freedom from bondage and you’re shouting for him to serve in a war effort?”
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because there’s no war right now,” Mom said.
“And because I’m only seven years old right now,” I reminded him.
But now, so many years later, I was in a war. And looked to for answers before that first shot was even fired.
“What do you suggest we do, El Horko?” asked Ramon. The rebels had taken to calling me El Horko, a nickname I was flattered by until I learned its translation meant “The Vomit.”
The truck was slowing down, so it would be just a matter of moments until we began the mission of liberating Cuba from the grip of a ruling class whose greed became even more palpable when I saw their homes and neighborhoods on the outskirts of the city. Sprawling ostentation worthy of Beverly Hills zip codes, as compared to the squalor inhabited by Ramon and millions like him.
“Secure the perimeter,” I advised.
It was a phrase I’d heard dozens of times in movies, and it seemed to work in those situations where soldiers wanted to contain the enemy, so I figured I’d give it a whirl.
“Of the entire city?” he asked.
“No reason not to,” I answered with the nonchalance of someone who wasn’t soiling himself.
“With all due respect, El Horko, I do not believe that would be effective. As well armed as we are, there are but a few hundred of us. And in a city that covers 280 square miles, unless the enemy decided to run toward each of our soldiers, we’d be too far apart to be able to keep them within that perimeter.”
I felt stupid. And then Peckerman chimed in.
“So why don’t we just secure the radius?”
I no longer felt stupid.
“What are you saying?” asked Ramon.
“Well, if I remember my high school geometry,” explained Peckerman, “the radius extends from the edge of the circle to the middle. So if we all lined up that way, at least half of the perimeter will be secure, which is better than nothing.”
“But the very concept of guerilla warfare is for a small group of camouflaged rebels to hide, ambush, and then quickly retreat,” said Ramon.
“It’s based on the element of surprise, which standing in the middle of a circle where the enemy can not only see us but also pick us off one at a time as if we were ducks in a shooting gallery completely compromises that strategy,” added Nunez.
“Oh,” uttered Peckerman.
At this point, no one anywhere had reason to feel stupid ever again.
A few silent seconds later, we were in Havana where every rebel soldier jumped out before the trucks even came to a complete stop. Because it was still morning, the city square known as Plaza Vieja was relatively empty of shoppers and tourists. This was good as it was Ramon’s wish that no innocent bystanders become casualties, as their beef was with the people inside the big buildings at the heart of the promenade.
The objective was to stealthily go through the doors and seize control of the government without firing even a shot. Peckerman and I liked that part of the plan very, very much. The not-getting-shot part. But there were no guarantees.
“Any suggestions, asshook?” Peckerman asked, as we were at the front of the pack heading up the steps of what is called El Capitolio.
“Let the others pass us,” I told him. “No reason for you and me to be the first ones in that building.”
So we slowed down and, needless to say, that proved to be a wise decision, because as soon as the rebels opened those doors, they were greeted by fusillades coming from the guns of fully armed Cuban soldiers awaiting their arrival.
Who’d tipped them off about this “secret” raid was a debate Peckerman and I didn’t wish to have at that very moment, as the steady gunfire coming from the inside of the government building was sending rebels flying backward to the point where the marble steps we’d just climbed were becoming littered with their bodies.
So Ramon then ordered the rest of their troops to retreat. To not enter the buildings so no more brave young men would sacrifice their lives for what had suddenly turned into a suicide mission. The rebels were outnumbered, out-armed, and betrayed—so Ramon felt their next move should be to recede back into safety at the perimeter and regroup.
“Now what, shit sniffer?” asked Peckerman.
“Run as fast as you can,” I said. “No reason to be the last ones to get away from this building.”
And because Peckerman and I now outran all the other rebels back toward the perimeter, we didn’t realize it when we veered toward the left side of the esplanade that everyone else would be peeling off to the right, heading toward a small park at the far edge of the promenade that was out of the line of fire. No big deal, I figured, when we stopped running and saw what had happened. We’d just circle around and meet up with everyone else.
So we took a couple of steps in their direction, when suddenly all the doorways filled with Cuban army soldiers eme
rging from the buildings, their weapons still drawn, looking out at the promenade for any more living rebels they could make an example of.
They saw none. Except for me and Peckerman. And while some of them dropped to a knee and took aim, the greater majority started running toward us. So we broke into a run—not in a straight line, but rather in an arc to where Ramon and Nunez and the rest of the rebel army were still in crouched hiding. But then the entire Cuban army started running in the direction we were heading.
I never ran so fast. Not even as a soccer referee who no longer required corrective shoes. But still, I was used to the exertion, so my stamina, fueled by the torrents of adrenaline that were now coursing through my system, made it easier for me to sprint toward our comrades. As opposed to Peckerman, lumbering buffoon that he was, who looked as if he was going to have the incredibly rare life experience of actually seeing his heart burst through his chest, given the seismic breaths he was expelling.
I reached the other side first. Though panting heavily, I rejoined the other rebels, so now I, too, was out of sight of the Cuban army, who now started shooting at Peckerman who was only about twenty feet away from us.
What did I feel when I realized that he would probably not make it? Nothing. Under these circumstances, there was simply no time to indulge any emotions. What was needed was action.
So, as if I’d shifted into a gear I didn’t even know I had, I took a deep breath and yelled at the top of my lungs.
“Secure the radius!”
Whereupon all the rebels, including Ramon and Numez, stood up, forming a line from the edge of the perimeter to the midpoint of the promenade and started firing at the unsuspecting soldiers who were running right toward them.
As an exhausted Peckerman collapsed onto the safe ground behind this cordon, the rebels unloaded everything they had and, when the shooting finally ceased, all of the enemy soldiers were dead.
“El Horko! Señor Peckerman!” said a jubilant Ramon, who somehow figured that this was all done by design. “We would be honored to have you lead the way.”
So me and Peckerman moved to the front of the pack, walked across the esplanade, up the marble stairs, entered El Capitolio and took it over.
CHAPTER 36
Jeffrey
I’ve been to some pretty wild parties.
I was at a wedding once where, at around the three-hour mark in the reception, the best man went up to the bandleader and requested “Horse with No Name,” and the bandleader said he was sorry but the band didn’t have that particular tune in their repertoire, and the best man—a large individual—picked up the bandleader by his tuxedo jacket and said, “It’s two fucking chords.” That was all the encouragement that the bandleader needed. The band started playing a half-assed version of “A Horse with No Name,” at which point the back door to the reception hall burst open and the rest of the groomsmen came in leading an actual horse.
I still don’t know where they got it. The reception hall was in Weehawken, New Jersey, which is not exactly the frontier. But wherever they found it, the horse was funny as hell, at least at first. After a while, the groomsmen got tired of holding it and went back to the bar, which meant the horse was just wandering around unsupervised. You almost forgot it was there. You’d be going to take a leak, and you’d see it grazing on the buffet lasagna, and you’d go, “Oh yeah, the horse.”
Finally the owner of the hall showed up, and as you can imagine he was pissed. He wanted the horse out of there, and he wanted more money, and the father of the bride, a lawyer, was shouting that there was nothing in the sales contract that said you couldn’t have a horse. Finally the police came, and they were trying to grab the horse, but the groomsmen lifted the groom onto its back and the horse threw him off, breaking his collarbone, and the horse started freaking out, barging around, knocking over tables, and the bride and her mom were screaming, and it basically turned into a riot. A bunch of people got arrested, and the father of the bride got Tasered. That’s when I left. I never did hear what happened to the horse. I do know the marriage lasted less than a year.
My point is, I’ve seen some parties. But I never saw a party like the ones the Cubans put on the night we won the Battle of Havana. We wound up eating a victory meal in a huge marble-floor room with potted palms around the sides and a big long table in the middle. Every man at the table had a bottle of rum and a glass in front of him. Guys were getting up and giving speeches in Spanish, and at the end they’d hold up a glass and yell, “Secure the radius!” We’d all stand up and gulp down the rum, and then—here’s where the party went to the next level—guys would fire their weapons at the ceiling. Of course the bullets ricocheted right back down, which you might think would put a damper on the shooting, but that’s because you’ve never partied with Cuban revolutionaries who have just overthrown a regime. What they did, as soon as they toasted the radius and squeezed off some rounds, was dive under the table, which fortunately was a hardwood, I’m guessing walnut. We’d all be crouched under there, laughing like maniacs, with bullets hitting the table above us and the floor around us. It was probably still risky, but after the seventh or eighth glass of rum nobody gave a shit.
Speaking of which: I still had diarrhea. You’ll see in a minute why this was important. I think it was from that quesadilla de harina de yuca rellena con camarones y queso crap. All I knew was, all of a sudden I needed to get to a toilet, bad. So I stood up to leave the table. When the Cubans saw this, they thought I was about to make a speech, so they all stood up. So I waved my arms like nonono, and they all waved their arms nonono. So I pointed to my ass to indicate that I had a medical condition, and they thought this was hilarious. They all pointed to their asses, and then they all started yelling “YI-YI-YI!” And then some idiot yelled “Secure the radius!”
I knew what was coming next, so I started running for the door. I got maybe three steps before somebody tackled me, and if you have been following this story you know by now there is only one asshole who would be asshole enough to be the asshole in question.
“IT’S NOT SAFE OUT HERE!” he’s yelling. Like I didn’t notice the bullets bouncing all around us.
“I KNOW THAT, FUCKNUT,” I informed him. “I HAVE TO GET TO A BATHROOM.”
And he goes, “Oh.”
Dipshit.
So he gets off me, and now we’re both running toward the doors at the end of the hall. There were a few stray bullets still pinging around, and the Cubans were still under the table, so I don’t think they’d noticed yet that we were missing. As I ran through the doorway, I thought I saw the potted palms on either side moving, but I was concentrating on getting to the toilet. Suddenly WHAM! the doors slammed shut behind us. I looked back and saw why the palms had been moving: the Salamanders.
Two of them were wrapping a chain around the door handles to lock in the Cubans. The others grabbed Horkman and me, picked us up and started running. I tried to explain that I needed a bathroom, but they weren’t listening. They hustled us down some stairs and through some hallways, and then all of a sudden we were outside in an alley. There were two cars waiting there, old American ones. The Salamanders threw us into the backseat of one and we took off. It was nighttime; they drove on side streets, with the lights off.
“What’s the meaning of this?” said Horkman, because that’s the kind of asshole thing he says.
The oldest Salamander—the leader—looked back from the front seat. “The meaning of this is, you fucked up.”
“What are you talking about?” said Horkman. “We won.”
“Exactly.”
Horkman looked at me. “I was right,” he said. “These guys wanted the rebels to lose.”
“I really need a toilet,” I said.
“What are you going to do with us?” said Horkman.
“We’re gonna take you for a little ride,” answered the leader
. “On the Dildo of Doom.”
“The what?”
“Technically,” said the leader, “it’s the DD-2038X, a very small, very fast, very advanced nuclear stealth submarine. Officially it doesn’t exist, so don’t tell anybody, okay?” He smiled. “Not that you’ll have anybody to tell, where you’re going.”
“I can’t hold it much longer,” I said.
“Where are we going?” demanded Horkman.
The leader smiled again. “Gitmo.”
“Is there a bathroom there?” I said.
“Guantánamo?” said Horkman. “You can’t do that! We’re American citizens!”
“What you are,” said the leader, “is wanted international terrorists. Who are about to go missing. Like Osama.”
The cars stopped in a deserted waterfront area. It was very dark. They hustled us out and onto a rotting dock. The sub was tied there, low in the water, almost invisible. They opened a hatch and shoved us down a ladder into a cramped area with a little bench. They told us to sit on it and stay there. They cast off the lines and closed the hatch. The helmsman flipped switches and worked the controls. The sub started moving.
“Is there a bathroom on this thing?” I said.
“Just a minute,” said the leader. “We’re diving.”
“I don’t have a minute,” I said.
I felt the sub going down. And then I felt something else. Something bad.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
And then a volcano erupted in my bowels.
Horkman, sitting next to me, smelled it first.
“Ohmigod,” he said.
I couldn’t answer. I was still erupting. I was the Old Faithful of feces, the Space Shuttle of shit
“Oh. My. God,” said Horkman, looking at the floor. I don’t even want to tell you what was happening on the floor, other than to say it was not a color usually found in nature.
Almost immediately an unbearable stench filled the sub. It was like being sealed in the business end of a Porta-Potty at a chili cookoff in Phoenix in July. The Salamanders were gagging.
