Lunatics (26 page)

CHAPTER 52

Jeffrey

To be honest,
I didn't mind the crate. I'll tell you why.

When I was a kid, we had a Weimaraner named Jimmy Carter. Seriously. My dad named him that because Jimmy Carter was the president at the time, and my dad thought he was a douchebag. He named the dog after him specifically so he (my dad) could say stuff like, “Look, Jimmy Carter is licking his balls again.” Or, “Look, Jimmy Carter is dragging his ass on the carpet.” Or, “Look, Jimmy Carter puked on the bed.” My dad really didn't care what Jimmy Carter (the dog) did, because (a) he got to say, “Look, Jimmy Carter did whatever,” which he always thought was funny no matter how many times he said it; and (b) whatever it was that Jimmy Carter did, my dad never cleaned it up. My dad believed cleaning was a woman's job, along with food shopping, cooking, laundry, yard maintenance, minor home repairs, and anything involving children, except teaching them to throw like a fucking man.

Anyway, in warm weather we used to keep Jimmy Carter outside on this deck we had over the carport. So one day, we were going to go to the mall, and when we got outside, Jimmy Carter, who like basically every other dog in the world had the IQ of a glazed donut, decided he wanted to join us, so he jumped off the carport. The problem was, he was tied to the doorknob by a piece of rope, which was supposed to keep him from jumping off the carport, so all of a sudden he's hanging by his neck with his legs about seven feet off the ground, making really high-pitched noises for a dog his size, sounding more like a squirrel.

So we're all yelling, and my dad runs over and gets underneath Jimmy Carter and is trying to hold him up, and meanwhile he's shouting for somebody to forgodsake go inside and untie the fucking dog. So my brother runs to the door, but it's locked, so he runs back to my mom to get the keys, and just then—it was probably some kind of nervous digestive reaction to being choked—Jimmy Carter releases a serious load all over my dad.

For a minute there it was really quiet, and then my mom said, “Look, boys, Jimmy Carter pooped on your father.” Which was probably the funniest thing my mom ever said. The three of us busted out laughing so hard, we were crying. That went on for, like, thirty seconds, us laughing, my dad standing totally still while Jimmy Carter's stool dribbled down his head. And then Dad just let go and walked away, leaving Jimmy Carter hanging there making squirrel noises. My brother got the keys and ran upstairs and untied Jimmy Carter, and he dropped to the driveway and took off running, and we never saw him again, which to be honest was fine with everybody.

The reason I bring this up is that Jimmy Carter had this big crate that he used to sleep in, and after he ran away, my dad had this idea of using it for car trips to keep my brother and me from fighting. He'd put it in the back part of the station wagon, and the first time either one of us hit the other, which was usually while we were still in the driveway, my dad would make whoever he thought was guilty ride back in the crate. It was supposed to be a punishment, but I actually liked it. I could curl up in there and get comfortable, and it was farther from my dad, who was always in a bad mood when he was driving, because all the other drivers were such fucking assholes. After a while it got so whenever we drove anywhere, I just automatically got into the crate, and nobody even thought about it.

This caused a problem one time when we drove to Canada on vacation, and on the way back a Canadian border officer saw me in the crate, and he pulled my dad over because he thought maybe it was some kind of kidnapping. My mom tried to explain that I was their legal child who just liked to ride in a dog crate, but she was overruled by my dad, who preferred to explain to the officer, who my dad referred to as Dudley Do-Right, that who the fuck did he think he was, stopping an American citizen on his way to America, and was he aware that if it wasn't for America, Canada would have had its ass kicked in World War II? So we ended up spending an extra day in Canada, and my dad ended up on a special Canadian list of people not allowed to return. (He's on a similar list for Disney World because of the time he put Dale, of Chip 'n' Dale, into a chokehold because of what my dad claimed was a clearly anti-Semitic gesture, but I don't want to digress here.)

Anyway, I really liked Jimmy Carter's crate, and I kept riding in it until one day my mom, without asking me—and I never totally forgave her for this—threw it away, because according to her it was inappropriate for a child entering tenth grade. But the point is, as a youth I spent many hours in a crate, and those were some of the happiest hours of my childhood. So when the Air China stewardess bitch put me and Horkman into the refrigerator crate, I wasn't nearly as upset as he was. It was nice to be alone for a change, and I enjoyed myself, and if you're going to tell me that you never enjoy yourself when you're alone, we both know you're a fucking liar. I actually enjoyed myself four times, including one involving Charo, before I got bored and decided to swallow the pills.

After that I don't remember anything, until I heard Horkman calling to me from the other side of the crate.

“Peckerman,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Are you awake?”

“Yeah.”

“I think somebody's opening the crate.”

I felt the tapping on the crate, and heard voices.

“Where are we?” I said.

“I don't know,” he said. “But they're talking English, and they sound like Americans.”

“Thank God.”

“Why thank God?”

“Because, asshole, if they're Americans, that means we're back in America.”

“Right. In America, where we're wanted terrorists. Who could be shot on sight.”

I'd forgotten about that. I figured the stewardess bitch must have set us up, claiming she was helping us, but really shipping us back to the U.S. to be killed. Fucking Chinese, with their lies and their fucking little soy packets.

I could hear the front being pried off the crate. I edged forward, my plan being that as soon as there was space, I'd jump over to Horkman's side and use him for protection in case there was any shooting on sight. By the time the front came all the way off the crate, I was crouched behind Horkman with my eyes closed.

I waited for shooting, but there wasn't any. Instead, there was a voice saying, “What the
hell
?” And then, “Who the hell are you?”

“Allow me to introduce myself,” said Horkman. “My name is Murad Fazir. The gentleman cowering on the floor behind me is my colleague, Yasser al-Fakoob. We come in peace.”

Yes, he actually said “We come in peace.”

I stood up behind Horkman. Standing outside the crate, looking in, were two guys, one older and one basically a kid, both wearing khaki pants and blue shirts that said
BEST BUY
. Behind them was a huge industrial kitchen, with some guys in chef suits on the far side of the room.

“What the hell are you doing in there?” said the older guy.

“What the fuck does it
look
like we're doing?” I said. I don't honestly know what I meant by that, but the guy's tone just pissed me off.

“This crate is supposed to contain a commercial refrigerator,” said the guy. “Which we're supposed to install.”

Horkman—and even though he's an asshole, I have to give him credit for this line—said: “Clearly there has been some mistake.”

There was a pause there, while the older guy pondered the situation, two guys wearing blankets in a crate that was supposed to contain a refrigerator. Finally he decided to do what guys like him have been doing for as long as there have been guys like him.

“I'm going to call my supervisor,” he said. He pulled out his phone and said, “Shit. No service down here.” He turned to the kid and said, “Nick, you stay here with them.”

He left the kitchen. Horkman and I stepped out of the crate. Nick was looking at us, and our Air China blankets. You could tell Nick was not the brightest firefly in the forest. After a few seconds, you could actually see his head jerk back a little bit, from the unexpected impact of having a thought.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Are you those guys?”

“No,” I said.

“What guys?” said Horkman.

“The Whaddyacallits,” said Nick. “Of the Gnocchi.”

“No,” I said.

“The
what
?” said Horkman.

Nick was looking hard at us now. “You
are
them,” he said. He turned and yelled toward the kitchen in general. “It's those guys! They're here!”

“Fuck,” I said.

“Yes,” agreed Horkman.

We looked around. There was an exit close by, with two big swinging doors. We trotted over and pushed through. Now we were in a long corridor lined with racks of trays and kitchen stuff. There were people to the left in waiter uniforms, so we started trotting to the right. We came to another corridor, turned left on that one, kept trotting. We kept going for a while, making random turns, I'm puffing and sweating through my blanket. We didn't really have a plan except get the fuck out of there.

We were coming to another corridor junction, and up ahead a sign that said
PARKING GARAGE
and an arrow pointing around the corner to the right. That was the good news, because a garage would be a way out. The bad news was, there were voices coming from the same direction, moving our way. In a few seconds, they'd come around the corner and see us. Horkman grabbed my arm and said, “Over here.” He yanked me toward an elevator and pushed the button. We were staring at the door, waiting for it to open, going “come on come on come on.” Finally, just when the voices were coming around the corridor, the door opened, and we ran inside. Horkman stabbed a floor button, and now we were waiting for the fucking door to shut.
Come on come on come on . . .

The door started to close. We exhaled.

Then a hand stuck in the door, and it opened.

Standing in the doorway were a bunch of guys in suits, including two guys the size of forklifts who were obviously security. The reason for the security was obviously the guy standing in the middle.

Donald Fucking Trump.

For a second, everybody stared at everybody else.

Then both forklifts pulled guns.

Then Donald Trump held up his hand and said, quote, “Wait a minute.” Then he looked right at me and said, “Jeffrey Peckerman?”

I nearly shat my underpants.
Donald Fucking Trump knew who I
was.

“It's an honor to meet you,” he said. To
me
, he said that.
Donald Fucking
Trump.

Have you ever been in one of those situations where you're thinking of two different things you could say, but instead of picking one, you say part of each one, so they morph together into a new thing that is not right, kind of like what happened to Jeff Goldblum in
The Fly
? That's what happened with me and Donald Trump. I stuck out my hand, and the two things I was thinking of saying were “I'm a big fan” and “This is an honor,” but what came out was “I'm a bonor,” with “bonor” sounding basically like “boner.” At the same instant I realized I was telling Donald Trump that I was a boner, I also remembered that he hates to shake hands because of germs, so I yanked my hand back really hard, and my Air China blanket fell off. So I was standing there in basically my underpants. Donald Trump turned to Horkman and said, “And you must be Philip Horkman.”

Horkman said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Trump.” He stuck out his hand, and
Donald Trump shook
it
.

“I just want to say,” said Donald Trump, “that I deeply,
deeply
admire what you two men have accomplished.”

“Thank you,” said Horkman, flashing me a sideways look that said
What the
fuck?

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Donald Trump,” I said. I stuck out my hand again, to try to get a shake, but the timing was wrong. The handshaking window was closed. I have never hated Horkman more than I did at that moment.

“I take it,” Donald Trump was saying, “that you're here to attend the convention?”

“What conv—OUCH,” I said, because of Horkman elbowing me.

“Yes,” said Horkman.

“Well,” said Donald Trump, “I would be honored if you would sit in my box.”

Which is how Horkman and I, wearing Air China blankets, ended up walking with Donald Trump into the Republican Party national convention on the night when the Republicans were going to nominate their candidate for president of the United States.

CHAPTER 53

Philip

I hate politics.

Don't get me wrong, I have strong opinions about what's going on and am very concerned about the direction our country is heading. But my frustration these days lies with the fact that it's almost impossible to implement curative policy because of self-serving partisanship.

As a concerned citizen who grew up in a Republican household that revered President Eisenhower, a five-star general who rode the wave of his WWII popularity into the White House for eight flourishing years, I learned at an early age that a person can be an effective public servant without having to be compromised by the politics it takes to get into office.

Even that night in Tampa, as Trump held the door for us to enter the St. Pete Times Forum, he expressed his own frustration that within the party itself, the lack of unity had divided the delegates' votes among six candidates, so there was still no nominee.

“Assholes,” said Trump. “They should change our party's symbol from an elephant to an elephant with six assholes.”

For a second, I thought Peckerman was talking.

But Trump's choice of words aside, I was curious about his take on the situation.

“If it were up to you, Mr. Trump,” I asked, as he led the way to his box, “who would you like the party to choose?”

“Me,” he said.

Then smiled like that was a joke. Then got serious like it really wasn't a joke.

I must say it was exciting to be inside that arena—a convention center that held concerts and where the Tampa Bay Lightning hockey team plays their home games. I mean, watching it at home is one thing, but to be where the actual delegates were, right there on the floor announcing who they were casting their votes for, was a big thrill.

And to be guests in Donald Trump's private box was an extra thrill—a glass-enclosed booth with about twelve cushioned chairs like the ones in a movie theater, as well as a TV monitor bracketed to the ceiling showing all the action down on the floor.

“You fellas hungry? Want food? Something to drink?” Trump asked, pointing to a buffet and fully stocked bar.

I was famished. I really hadn't eaten anything since that Air China flight to Beijing. But it was Peckerman, who'd had about six meals on the plane, who answered.

“You bet, Donny Boy!” he exclaimed, before picking up a plate and making a beeline from one end of the table to the other, grabbing enough food to feed the seven other people who were already seated in the booth—nicely dressed men and women whom I got the impression worked for Trump. And all of who emitted a collective gasp upon hearing the idiot Peckerman call their boss “Donny Boy.”

All eyes, including ours, were now on Trump, awaiting his reaction. His face was taut and his eyebrows contracted.

“Donny Boy?” he said. “I've never been called that. By anyone.”

But then, as if he had reminded himself about something, the scowl slowly started to relax, giving way to a smile.

“But I always wanted to be called Donny Boy,” he said, before looking at his employees. “Didn't I?” in a tone signifying that the answer was “yes.”

“Yes, Mr. Trump,” they said in a single voice.

He then told me and Peckerman to come sit next to him at the front of the booth after we'd gotten our food. When he sat down with his back to everyone, the postures of the employees behind him visibly relaxed.

After filling our plates, Peckerman and I stopped at the bar to order drinks. Peckerman ordered three large gin and tonics. That's right: three. I asked for a cranberry juice with a splash of soda.

“Got a yeast infection, shithead?”

“What are you saying, Peckerman? That a person can't order cranberry juice simply because he enjoys it?”

“Nobody simply enjoys cranberry juice.”

“Fine. So I'm the only one who likes cranberry juice.”

While the bartender was making our drinks, we looked out onto the floor where the delegation from Tennessee was casting its votes. Since the roll call was always in alphabetical order, it meant that they were getting down toward the end of this ballot.

Peckerman shook his head and got reflective for a moment.

“You know, seeing this makes me long for my days in politics,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“There's a lot you don't know about me, Horkman. Fact is, I was president of my class in fourth grade.”

“That's very impressive, Peckerman. Though I find it very hard to believe that anyone who knew you actually voted for you.”

“They didn't vote for me. I stole the kid who ran for president's bike and told him I wouldn't give it back unless he made me his running mate. So when he won, I became the vice president.”

“But you just said you were president.”

“Well, after the kid who was president got shot, I moved up.”

“Got shot? A fourth grade kid? Who shot a fourth-grade kid?”

Peckerman looked at the bartender to make sure he wasn't eavesdropping.

“I did,” he whispered.

“You what!”

“It was a BB gun, you dipshit. After I gave him back his bike, I hid in some bushes, and when he rode by, I shot him about twelve times in the stomach . . .”

“Jesus, Peckerman!”

“So when he fell off his bike and a car ran him over and he spent the rest of the year in a full body cast and was homeschooled, I assumed the presidency.”

Before I had a chance to respond, Trump was standing and calling to us.

“Hey, come here, you two,” he said, waving his hand and indicating the seats next to him. “I want to hear all about the escapades of the
Fantasmas de la
Noche
.”

“The escapades of who?” Peckerman whispered to me.

“I have no idea,” I answered, as we grabbed our drinks and approached Trump.

“Now, Mr. Horkman, I'd like you to sit here,” he said, pointing to a seat on his right. “And Fantasma Peckerman, why don't you take the seat on the other side of me, so I can hear your magnificent crusade in stereo.”

When Trump chuckled and then looked at his employees indicating that the stereo reference was a joke, they laughed.

“Be right there, Donny Boy,” said Peckerman.

“Donny Boy,” Trump repeated. “God, I love that name,” he said before looking at his employees.

“Me, too!” they said in unison.

By the time we took our seats, Wyoming had just cast its votes for the very short governor of a very large state. And, once again, when the tally was announced, there was no candidate with a majority and the collective disappointment in the arena was palpable.

“Motherfucker!” exclaimed Trump, who then shook his head with the same scowl he usually has just before he fires someone on
The Apprentice
.

“Hey, we're on television,” said Peckerman, pointing to the monitor that showed us on either side of Trump—the cameras had cut to him for his reaction to the continued impasse in the nominating process.

Then the oddest thing happened. Almost immediately after the camera cut away to the podium where the chairman of the Republican Party was calling for still another ballot, it cut back to the shot of us and held it. And the longer that picture of me, Peckerman, and Trump was not only on our monitor—but on every video screen in St. Pete Times Forum, including the four huge ones on the scoreboard that hung down from the arena's ceiling—the more the attention of the over nineteen thousand people in the place was drawn to it.

And as it did, the cheering grew and grew until reaching a point of sustained pandemonium.

“Boy, they really love me, don't they?” said Trump.

“Indeed they do!” said his employees.

Trump saluted in response to this commotion, and then spoke to me and Peckerman in a hushed tone.

“How would you boys like to have a million dollars? Each.”

“Gee, thanks, Donny Boy!” said Peckerman.

“How come?” I asked.

“Who gives a shit how come? Could that be in cash so we don't have to pay taxes on it, Donny Boy?”

“The reason I want to give it to you is because you're heroes,” Trump said, mostly for my benefit as Peckerman had already borrowed a pen and notepad from one of the employees and was making a list of the things he was going to spend the money on.

“You're heroes and you're champions of democracy,” Trump continued. “In so many ways, you remind me of me.”

“They remind us, too,” said the employees.

“So as a fellow champion, I not only wish to personally reward you for your Trumpean efforts, but to reward our country by having you go out there and nominate me as the Republican candidate for president.”

“Us? Why us? Look how we're dressed,” I said, tugging on my Air China blanket.

“How much is a Bentley?” Peckerman asked the employees. “You? You? Any of you know?”

“I wouldn't worry about how you're dressed,” said Trump. “I have a feeling those folks out there need to be reminded about the Blanket Revolution.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“What's that, he asks,” said Trump, laughing.

“What's that, he asks,” said the employees, laughing.

“Well, I'm honored that you feel this way, Mr. Trump, but . . .”

“Please. Call me Donny Boy.”

“But if this is for my country, that's reward enough. We don't need any money to do it.”

The gash I got on my forehead after Peckerman stabbed me with the pen he borrowed from one of Trump's employees looked worse than it actually was.

“Douchebag,” said Peckerman.

“I'm entitled to my feelings about things, Peckerman.”

“Not when it affects my reward, you don't. Just know that if you don't want to keep your million dollars, I'd be more than happy to take it off your hands.”

We were back inside the corridors of the St. Pete Times Forum, being led to the speakers' platform by Trump and the same bodyguards we'd seen earlier.

“Anything in particular you want us to say, Donny Boy?” I asked.

“Just speak from the heart, Mr. Horkman. Just say how you feel about our country and what's best for it. Except every time you get the urge to say your name, say mine instead.”

We approached a blue curtain that the bodyguards parted to allow me, Peckerman and Trump to pass through first. We did and found ourselves at the back of the podium. We were still pretty much hidden from the crowd at this point, as we were behind a number of people swarming about.

Trump approached a man I recognized as the one we'd seen on the TV monitor chairing the proceedings. Trump whispered something to him and then gestured in our direction. The man looked our way, then back at Trump and nodded.

Then Trump left his side and came back to me and Peckerman.

“Okay, fellas. You're on.”