Lunatics

by Dave Barry

  “Our immediate destination,” said Shlomo, “is Sana’a.”

  “Where?”

  “The capital of Yemen.”

  “And we’re going there because . . .”

  Another look between them.

  “You don’t need to know that right now.”

  We walked for a couple of hours, until finally we came to a little dirtball town, where we got on a prehistoric bus full of Yemen people. The bus went maybe four miles an hour and smelled like a Porta-Potty at a Metallica concert, but at least there were no mosquitoes. Moishe and Shlomo told us to keep our mouths shut and let them do all the talking, because they spoke Yemish, or whatever you call it.

  After about four million hours on this bus, we finally got to a city. We got off at an airport, which I was pretty happy about, because I figured it meant we were getting the fuck out of Yemen. Outside the terminal, Moishe and Shlomo handed me and Horkman Yemeni passports, which looked real. I opened mine and—I don’t know how they did this; Photoshop, I guess—inside there was a picture of me wearing the douchebag camel-jockey head thing. Next to my picture it said “Yasser al-Fakoob.”

  “Yasser?” I said.

  “It’s a common name in Yemen,” said Moishe.

  “What’s his name?” I asked, pointing at Horkman.

  Horkman looked at his passport and said, “Murad Fazir.”

  “You want to trade passports?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to be Yasser.”

  “Well, why the fuck do I have to be Yasser?”

  Moishe stepped close, and I could feel something pressing into my stomach, which I figured was a gun.

  “Listen,” he said. “If you don’t stop talking right now, I will shoot you. It will be the end of my career, but I will do it anyway, purely for the enjoyment.”

  Asshole.

  We went into the terminal. Moishe and Shlomo also had Yemeni passports, so we acted like a traveling party of four, with them doing all the talking. We went through security, which was a joke, especially when you consider that at least one of us had a gun.

  We got to our gate. The flight was boarding. Shlomo and Moishe handed each of us a ticket.

  “Stick out your left hand,” Moishe told Horkman.

  Horkman did, and Moishe snapped a handcuff around it.

  “What’s that for?” said Horkman.

  “So you will not lose this,” said Moishe, handing Horkman a briefcase, which was attached to the handcuff with a chain.

  “What’s in this?” said Horkman.

  “You don’t need to know that now,” said Moishe.

  “You will board the plane now,” said Shlomo. “We will wait here to make sure you leave with the flight. You’d be fools to get off the plane, anyway; if you stay in Yemen, you would be dead men.”

  “What do we do when we get there?” said Horkman.

  Moishe and Shlomo looked at each other, not quite smiling, but close.

  “Just do what you do best,” said Moishe.

  Whatever the fuck that meant.

  I said, “Why don’t I get a fucking briefcase?”

  “Go,” said Moishe, pointing toward the jetway.

  And so we got on the daily Air China flight from Sana’a to Beijing.

  CHAPTER 48

  Philip

  “You’ve never flown first-class before?” I asked Peckerman.

  “Are you kidding? It’s the only way I travel,” he answered. “Why?”

  “Just curious,” I said, shrugging. “I mean, first class does offer a lot of amenities that aren’t available back in coach—but I don’t remember taking off your clothes and sitting in underpants the color of a wooden salad bowl as being one of them. What airline do you usually fly?”

  “Fuck off, thimble dick!” he said under his breath. “As long as my name has to be Yasser, that thob stays off my body.”

  “And hangs down from the ceiling in the front of the cabin?”

  “Yep.”

  “As opposed to, let’s say, stowed in the overhead compartment?”

  “The overhead compartment is not a statement.”

  “Just so I know, exactly what statement are you trying to make?” I asked.

  “That I will not be pushed around,” he said emphatically.

  I must say that I admired Peckerman’s resolve in wanting to remain his own person. A fascinating stance, I thought, for someone who’d just been given a new name and deposited by gunpoint on a plane to China.

  “Besides,” said Peckerman continuing a conversation I had every reason to believe was over, “if you’re such a fan of the overhead compartment, why don’t you stow that briefcase Moishe gave you up there?”

  “Because it’s handcuffed to my wrist? Because if I put it up there, I’d have to lie next to it for the next twenty-three hours?”

  That’s right. The flight from Sana’a to Beijing was going to take twenty-three hours. Ordinarily, during a long flight, I pass the time reading. I usually pack three books—the one I’m almost finished with, a new one to start, and then a third after I finish that one on the return trip.

  For example, I recently discovered classics that I never got around to reading in my school years. In particular, Jane Austen—the nineteenth-century English novelist whose works of romantic fiction, set among the landed gentry, highlight the dependence of women on marriage to secure social standing and economic security.

  So on my last trip to Portland, Oregon (to visit my wife’s half sister’s brother’s son after he became the recipient of a compatible kidney from my wife’s half sister’s brother’s son’s brother), I made sure to pack Emma, Mansfield Park and Sense and Sensibility.

  But since the flight we were now on was far from anticipated, I obviously didn’t have any reading material with me.

  “Just as well,” said a yawning Peckerman. “Why you’d want to read anything written by that dead goybox is beyond me.”

  “Goybox?”

  “This thing has a huge selection of movies and TV shows,” he said, pointing to the screen he was lifting from the depths of the armrest between us. “Get with it, asshole. No one reads anymore. Reading is for the uninformed.”

  “Goybox?”

  I guess at this point I could tell you what the ensuing twenty-three hours were like. But, with all due respect, I refuse to. Partially for your sake, mostly for mine.

  Because in the interest of preserving my own sanity, I couldn’t bear to revisit what it was like for me to be sitting next to someone who watched the movie Jackass fourteen consecutive times during the flight.

  How he would lie curled up in the seat, his bloated body quaking with muted laughter under the blanket the flight attendant gave him. How, each time the movie was over, he’d peep out from under that blanket, shake his head and say, “One of the three greatest American films ever made! This, The Godfather, and Jackass II,” and then go back under that blanket for another viewing. Or how my jaw dropped each time I reminded myself that the characters in the movies on this particular flight from Sana’a to Beijing were speaking Chinese with Arabic subtitles—two languages that Peckerman didn’t speak.

  So in essence, he was enthralled with moving pictures the way an imbecile is mesmerized by shiny objects. On second thought, it’s worse, because an imbecile just sits and stares in wonderment at shiny objects. He doesn’t laugh and make loud snorting sounds while doing so. Therefore, I apologize to all you imbeciles out there for making such a comparison and clumping you into Peckerman’s category when you already have enough problems of your own.

  And while I’m at it, I may as well apologize to all of you because I’ve gone into vivid detail about all of this after promising I wouldn’t. So, in the spi
rit of trying to regain your trust, I’ll spare you how Peckerman ordered meals from the unassuming flight attendant who didn’t speak English by pointing to a selection on the menu and saying, “I’d like one of these, and both of your Moo Goo Gai Tits.”

  As for me, I couldn’t do much of anything other than sit there wondering what was inside the attaché case dangling from my wrist like a huge charm bracelet. Noticing that the lock had three numbered tumblers, I was fairly confident that during a long flight like this I might have enough time to ultimately come up with the correct combination to open it.

  So I decided to do this systematically.

  “Can I please have a pencil and a pad?” I said, as if it was the English translation of what I was motioning to the flight attendant.

  When she handed them to me, I wondered if the pad had enough pages in it given the number of permutations I might have to try. And I was going to ask for a second and maybe even a third pad, but she was waiting on other passengers at that point so, if need be, I could always get more pads from her later.

  I looked at the lock. The tumblers were showing “0-0-0” so I wrote that down in small numbers at the top of the first page and then tried the switch on the attaché case. It slid and the lock popped up.

  Huh?

  I couldn’t believe I’d gotten it on my first try! Couldn’t believe that Moishe and Shlomo were actually that naïve to set such a simple combination as that! Maybe they weren’t as smart as we thought they were!

  It then became a matter of where I would open the case. There in my seat? Or should I take it into the restroom and open it there, lest one of the other passengers get a glimpse of whatever was inside?

  But since it was still daytime and probably a number of hours before they would dim the cabin lights so people could sleep, I decided to stay put and not risk arousing curiosity by being seen entering a bathroom with an attaché case.

  So while the idiot Peckerman was under his blanket laughing his butt off at the Algonquin Round Table–type wit of one of the three greatest American movies ever made, I laid the attaché case across my lap, slowly lifted its top half with my untethered hand, stopped to peer inside after every inch or so, and didn’t see a thing until it was finally open all the way.

  And there, in the bottom compartment, was a baseball card. A Mickey Mantle rookie baseball card that looked like it was in mint condition, which even the most casual baseball fan knows is worth upwards of $250,000.

  I then sat there for what must’ve been six hours until it was dark outside. Night. When I was confident that not only the other first-class passengers but also the flight attendants were asleep. I went into the restroom, where I had my first experience with trying to wash and dry my hands with an attaché case linked to my wrist banging against the walls.

  I then went back to my seat and, as if I were a surgeon removing a delicate organ from its assigned location inside of a body, carefully lifted the card by its edges. I was able to easily detach the gummy substance that made it adhere to the bottom of the case by rolling it with my fingers and then I examined the back side of the card, which also looked pristine.

  At this point I wasn’t sure if I was more relieved that it wasn’t a bomb or more baffled as to why Moishe and Shlomo would make such a big deal about a baseball card, albeit a valuable one.

  In retrospect, I guess I was more relieved, because after I put the gummy substance back on the bottom of the card before placing it into its original position and closing the case, I was actually comfortable enough to fall asleep. For eight hours. Until we landed at Beijing Capital International Airport. Where, right after Peckerman said “Thanks for the smooth ride, pan-fried vaggies” to that same flight attendant as we were disembarking, we entered the terminal and were met by Chinese soldiers.

  CHAPTER 49

  Jeffrey

  I don’t mean to generalize, but the Chinese are assholes.

  I’m not just saying that because of what happened to me in Beijing. It’s a lot of things. Like—this is just one example—when you get Chinese takeout, why do they give you sixty-three tiny packets of soy sauce containing maybe three molecules of soy sauce apiece, which you end up throwing away because they’re such a pain in the ass? Give us one container of soy sauce, but MAKE IT BIG ENOUGH THAT WE CAN ACTUALLY FUCKING USE IT, OKAY, CHINESE PEOPLE? That’s all I’m saying.

  And don’t get me started on Communism.

  The point being I already had a few bones to pick with China before I even got there, and the flight over did not help. The Air China stewardess was a total bitch. I tried making a few jokes with her, lightening things up a little on a long flight, and, every time, she gave me a look like I puked on her tea tray. She also didn’t like it that I took off the thob. Horkman didn’t like it, either.

  “Peckerman,” he said, “hygiene aside, do you realize how ridiculous you look wearing just underpants and a headpiece?”

  Yes, he actually said “hygiene aside.” To be totally honest, I’d forgotten I was wearing the camel-jockey head thing, but I decided to keep it on because it pissed Horkman off.

  At least they had video on the plane. This is off topic, but: It’s really amazing, the way Jackass holds up. You know the scene where the guy goes into a plumbing supply store, and he takes an actual dump in a display toilet? Believe it or not, that scene is even better in Chinese.

  So anyway, after, like, nineteen million hours of flying, we finally got to Beijing. When we landed, the stewardess bitch brought me the thob, but as a protest I left it in the plane and walked off wearing the Air China blanket. Horkman was right behind me with the briefcase, which I was hoping had money in it. My plan at that point was:

  (1) Find someplace quiet at the airport where we could figure out how to open the briefcase;

  (2) split the money, or better yet find some way to

  (3) dump Horkman and

  (4) keep all the money, then

  (5) buy a plane ticket and get the fuck out of China.

  But right away there was trouble. There were soldiers in the terminal, and as soon as we got off the plane, a couple of them started walking toward us. We tried to walk away, but the soldiers blocked us. They held us by the gate until finally another Chinese guy showed up. Actually, to save words here, I’m going to stop describing people in China as Chinese, because basically everybody over there is Chinese. From now on, if I tell you about a person in China, you can just assume that person is Chinese.

  So anyway, this guy showed up, wearing a suit. He looked at our passports, then started talking to us, not in Chinese, but also not in English, so we had no idea what he was saying. I finally figured out that, because of our passports, he was talking Yemish. So I held up my hand and said, “No comprendo.” I pointed at Horkman and me and said, “No hablo Yemen-o.”

  “Why are you talking to him in Spanish?” said Horkman.

  “Because it’s a foreign language,” I said.

  “But that doesn’t make any sense,” he said.

  “Maybe not to you, asshole,” I said.

  The suit guy, who’d been listening to this discussion, said, in English, “You speak English.”

  We agreed that we did.

  He looked at our passports again and said, “You are Yasser al-Fakoob and Murad Fazir, citizens of Republic of Yemen?”

  “That’s what our passports say,” I answered. Technically, this was true.

  “But you do not speak Arabic?”

  “We’re not originally from Yemen,” I said.

  “Where are you from?” he said.

  “Hungaria,” I said.

  “Hungaria?” he said.

  “Hungaria?” said Horkman.

  “Shut up, asshole,” I whispered. “I’m creating a backstory here.”

  “I know,” he whispered back. “But H
ungaria?”

  Of course by then the asshole had completely blown it. The suit guy said something to the soldiers, then told us, “You will come with me, please.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we were in a speeding black Mercedes with a police escort. The suit guy sat in the front next to the driver; Horkman and I were in the back. Horkman wasted some breath demanding his rights, which the suit guy ignored. His attitude was, hey, this is China, nobody here has any fucking rights.

  Finally, Horkman gave up on the suit guy and leaned over to me. “Listen,” he whispered. “Whatever we do, we can’t let them get what’s in the briefcase.”

  “You know what’s in the briefcase?” I whispered.

  “Yes. I opened it on the plane. It’s a baseball card.”

  “What? A fucking—”

  “Shh. Listen! It’s a very rare card. Mickey Mantle’s rookie card. It’s worth a fortune.”

  “Why would the Israelis give us that? Do they even play baseball? Aside from Sandy Koufax, I mean.”

  “Peckerman, just listen, okay? The card could be the only bargaining chip we have to get out of here. We can’t let them take it away.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We play it by ear.”

  Which is what people say when they have no fucking clue.

  We drove for maybe forty-five minutes in ridiculous traffic to downtown Beijing, which is not an attractive city unless you are attracted to a lot of big-ass buildings jumbled together under a daytime sky the color of infant diarrhea. We turned into a driveway guarded by soldiers and went down a tunnel into some kind of underground complex. There were more soldiers waiting for us underground. They hustled us out of the Mercedes and down some hallways and into a room with a couple of chairs, which they pointed to. We sat down. The soldiers punched a code in a keypad next to the door, opened it, and went out.

  After a few minutes, the keypad beeped and the door opened. In walked a guy I’ll call Lieutenant Sulu because he looked like the Star Trek guy, and before you tell me that Sulu was Japanese not Chinese and I’m a racist who thinks all Asians look alike, allow me to inform you that you should go fuck yourself, because this guy looked exactly like Lieutenant Sulu, okay?