Tall Tales of Felony and Failure Page 3

  "That's not good. What if the cops found it?"

  "I don't think they did. When we ran out of the bar, I saw three guys kicking the shit out of the thief and some Marine stuffing loose wallets in his pants. It was probably long gone by the time the cops showed up."

  "They were looking at your truck right before we left."

  "If they had my wallet, they would have come straight to the room. They're looking for a couple of sailors with a beat up truck. That narrows it down to about half the people on base." Tom pauses for a moment, thinking. "Where did you put your bloody clothes?"

  "In a trash can at the barracks, except for the pants. I left them on my bathroom floor."

  Tom lets out a long slow breath, swearing at the end. "Oh well. I guess we're hosed. All they need to do is match the blood on your clothes to the blood you left in the bar and in my truck. They would have done it without your clothes, I guess. I didn't have a whole lot of time to think this through. We could be poked."

  "You keep saying, we. What's this ‘we’ shit? I didn't kill anybody."

  "If you weren't such an idiot, I wouldn't have had to do what I did. That means you're guilty, too."

  We sit in silence for a few minutes, listening to the cabby's Hawaiian music.

  "I stopped time last night."

  "What?"

  "I stopped time last night. I was about to get punched, then it all stopped. I spent hours wandering around the bar with everyone frozen. I drank beers and stole. That guy everyone was kicking the shit out of was just some dope sitting at the table where I tossed the wallets and purses when I was done rifling through them."

  Tom's looking at me, squinting. I think he wants to throw me out of the cab. "Then why did you get punched?"

  "I went to the bar to get my smokes. Time unfroze and I got hit. If you don't believe me, then how did all of those wallets and purses end up on the table? That's something people would notice as it was happening. Think back. One second they weren't there, the next they were. And why was I facing a different direction when the bouncer's punch landed than I was a millisecond before, especially when he had me pinned against the bar?"

  "Well, you're a squirrely bastard, so I'm not surprised that you got out of his grip. I don't know about the rest, and I don't care. Just shut up. I've got to think about what we're going to do. We're sure as hell not flying to Guam to meet the boat. These plane tickets are no good."

  "But we are flying somewhere?"

  "We can't hide out here. I'd like to be gone before they're no-shit looking for us. We may be past that point already, though."

  "How are we going to get new plane tickets?" I ask.

  "We’ll use my credit card. My dad gave it to me for emergencies when I joined the Navy."

  "You're twenty-three years old and still have daddy's credit card."

  "Shut up."

  Tom's thinking again, so I leave him alone until we're almost to the airport.

  "I tried to stop time again at the barracks, when I saw the cops out back. It didn't work."

  "What a surprise."

  "I even slammed my head against the wall. I'm under the impression my brain wants more damage."

  "I don't care."

  "I think I need a fear trigger. It might only work because I'm such a coward."

  "I'll keep that in mind. Now shut up, we're here."

  We pull up to the departure level at Honolulu International Airport. We haven't picked out an airline or a destination yet, so the cab drops us off at the first entrance. I tell Tom that I don't have any cash, so he pays for the cab with his credit card.

  We have our passports because they're required for some port visits during deployment, so it looks like we can fly wherever we want--as long as we land before our names become too popular.

  We decide on Thailand because we'd both debauched there magnificently during a liberty stop on our last deployment, and risk using Tom's credit card again. We'll land, lay low, and see how long four-hundred and twenty-seven dollars will last. Probably about seventeen minutes, considering the type of people we are and our destination.

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  It's about two in the afternoon now and we've pigeonholed ourselves at a corner table in one of the airport bars, waiting for our six o'clock flight to Bangkok. We've been here for a few hours, the beer and the lack of hassles allowing us to loosen up a bit. We haven't noticed any police or airport security trolling around, so my guess is that we're leaps and bounds ahead of them. With Tom's clever plans and my squirreliness, we can't lose.

  Tom gazes past me. "Look at that guy, throwing his money around, phone out on the table. He’s waiting for that important call."

  I turn around. There's a guy sitting at the table behind me, drinking bottled water and staring at us. I guess Tom's voice carried the six feet it would take for the man to hear him, which was probably Tom's intent.

  Today wasn't the best day to start drinking at eleven in the morning. At least all of the nine-dollar beers are going on Tom's credit card.

  Tom's still rambling. "I bet when someone does call him, he talks really loud, so everyone can hear how important he is. Nice fancy phone."

  The poor bastard’s in his low thirties. Nothing about him strikes me as rich or pompous. He's probably just some low level company tool flying back from some business thing in Honolulu. I think Tom's recovered from this morning's panic and boredom is setting in.

  The guy's small and a little meek looking. Tom likes to play it safe, when he can. I decide that friendship will be the goal of the moment.

  "Hi there," I say. "Come on over. My good buddy, Tom here, is buying."

  "No thanks," he replies, dismissively and somewhat nasally. I start changing my mind about this man. He thinks he’s better than us.

  I turn back around in my chair and give Tom the signal to drop it. If this continues, we'll have to, in good conscience, beat this man...especially since he’s smallish.

  Tom, as usual, perseveres.

  "Does your phone have internet?" he asks.

  The man gives us a funny look but doesn’t answer, turning instead to a newspaper on the table in front of him.

  Tom's homing in, now. "Can you download smut on your phone?"

  Again, business-traveler ignores us.

  * * * *

  It's four thirty in the afternoon. Tom's jogging to an airport bathroom with the man’s phone in his pocket. He’ll meet me at the Royal Dutch Airline terminal for our six o'clock flight to Bangkok. I have a couple of minutes so I stop and grab a cigarette in one of the airport smoking prisons.

  The businessman is unconscious in the airport bar, shy one cell phone and one wallet. It took us a while, but we managed to convince him to join us for drinks. He finally passed out sitting up, head drooping forward a bit. We placed his newspaper in front of him so he'd look like he was deep in his reading instead of unconscious.

  After a few cigarettes, I find Tom waiting for me at the gate, and he looks bad. The fear's on him. He's slumped in his chair, sweating, eyes darting.

  My guts start turning. I walk over and sit next to him, waiting for the inevitable. Tom only gets the fear when it's undeniable. I missed it this morning at the barracks, but I can smell it on him now.

  I consider dashing my head around to stop time and escape from the airport, but decide against it because I'd just look like a moron if it didn't work. Also, my wound seems to be leaking less and clotting up a little. I can feel the sock that Tom stuck there getting a little cakey beneath my cap. I'll leave it be for a while to let my magic recharge.

  Moments pass, and nothing happens. Nobody approaches with guns drawn, no pictures of us on the 24 hour news channel airing on TVs all over the airport. Nothing.

  Tom's still sitting there, catatonic except for his shifting eyes.

  "So, what's up?" I ask.

  Tom's unresponsive for a bit, then whispers. "I’ve seen a terrible thing."

  This answer is both good a
nd bad. It doesn't seem we're in any immediate danger, but I can't have my chaperone breaking down on me. Not now, anyway.

  "What are you talking about?" Why am I whispering?

  "I've seen some dude's prolapsed asshole, on the internet. I didn't know an asshole could do that."

  Well, there you go. Goddamn internet. If you’ve been on it for more than five minutes without accidentally seeing something terrifying, you’re doing something wrong.

  "It was supposed to be a picture of goats," he mutters. "Not that I'm into that. The goats. But it wasn't the goats. It was worse. It's what hell looks like, and that's where I'm going because I'm a terrible person."

  Shit. Of course you're a terrible person. That's why I need you.

  "It couldn't have been that bad. Let me see it."

  "You can't. I went back to the bar and put the phone back in that little bitch's jacket pocket. That was the right thing to do, and from now on I won't do anything unless it's the right thing to do."

  That's just great. In Thailand I intend to be very far from 'the right thing to do'.

  "We're drunk, we've had a rough couple of days, and you saw something disgusting on the internet. We don't have time for this bullshit. I'm getting up now and boarding our flight, because they’ve just called our section. You can either come with me or stay here and be arrested. Your choice.”

  "Oh, I'm coming with you,” he says, standing up and putting his game face back on. That's my boy. "I think that jail would ruin me, and that I would be the goat."

  Jesus. Doesn't he understand that I'm the flake, and he's the one on the tiller? With Tom losing it, who's steering? Somehow, we make it past the ticket lady and find our seats. The situation has gone down the toilet. Tom had better cowboy up quick and think of a way to un-fuck this mess. Hopefully he'll steady during our little R&R in Thailand. God help us if I'm the one who has to try and pull us through.

  * * *

  Chapter Five

  Soon enough we're in the air. Aided by airplane booze, I calm down and feel a little better. Tom's already drunk himself into a coma, which is fine. I'm enjoying the peace and quiet. I'm taking it easy and trying to maintain a while longer before passing out. Singha Gold is a mighty tasty beer, and they've got plenty of it on this plane.

  When I do fall asleep I'm wracked by dreams. Twisting replays of last night, dead men grinning ear to ear surrounding Tom and me. Finally, I see a talking head, staring at me. It's mounted on a white pedestal in a huge, gray, empty room. I can’t hear what the head is saying, but I know that it wants me to wake up, which is hard because of the layer of booze between me and consciousness.

  The first thing I realize when I wake up is that I’m still drunk. The second is that I’m going to be sick. My stomach is trying to force itself up my throat and onto my lap. I feel that bad. I need to take a leak.

  I’m being pressed back against my chair, like my body is trying to fly up and backwards, the only things preventing this being my seatbelt and the chair back. I look over at Tom death-gripping the arms of his chair and crying.

  My stupor dissipates. Everyone’s screaming, crying, wailing. I look around the plane and see a baby, floating serenely, like an angel. Others are floating too, but not serenely. They’ve joined the majority and are adding to the general ruckus. Not me and the baby cherub, though. We’re doing alright, just getting by.

  I look out the window to watch the ground come up as my plane goes down. It’s hard to focus because we’re being shaken around quite a bit, but I see the earth and decide to accept its upcoming embrace. I manage to get my hand over to Tom’s arm, to give it a comforting squeeze. It seems that justice will be served, after all. I just wish this belt wasn’t biting so hard into my lap.

  The comfort and peace peter out as I watch the ground, a jungle or at least a lot of trees, gain clarity as we descend. This isn’t what I want. I’m not happy with this. This sure as hell isn’t the time to accept the inevitable victory of justice.

  I join the cacophony of the dissatisfied onboard this plane. We’re all of a mind to refuse this outcome. None of us are pleased. Someone is very, very misinformed if He believes that fiery fucking jungle death is an acceptable substitution for landing safely in Thailand.

  I turn to Tom to hysterically express this thought. Tom’s way ahead of me and has ramped his crying and hysterics up to a level that mocks mine. I turn in defeat to scream at the window, to scream at the approaching tree tops. Neither the trees, close enough now to almost notice their individuality, nor the window care. I howl at Tom again, convinced that my last moments should be spent in some kind of camaraderie.

  Tom’s screeching has left the English language behind. It's pure now, bare and primal. I join in, getting the feel for his highs and lows, sustained bellows and staccato yelps. My hysterics weave around his, complementing without detracting from his passion, focus and depth.

  Precious seconds have passed. The jungle canopy is immediately below us. We’re rushing toward it with singular purpose. I’m staring at it with morbid intensity. How can I survive years of self-neglect and reckless indulgence only to be murdered by the statistically safest mode of transportation available?

  I’m pondering this triviality for at least a minute before I notice the plane has stopped falling and my window has yet to penetrate the canopy. As a matter of fact, my window is directly level with to tree tops.

  My first thought is that the jungle is so dense that it halted our fall, that the front of the plane became wrapped up in the trees. My second thought is, that’s fucking ridiculous. Of course, I’ve stopped time again, saving us all.

  Throughout the now silent plane, passengers are frozen in terror, some halted in midair. Three tears that had been falling off of Tom’s cheeks have stopped their plummet, proof of his lack of self control and less-than-manly ways.

  Not me, though. Moments ago, maybe, but not now. I have my game face on. There’s quite a bit of work ahead of me if I’m going to save everyone onboard and be a hero.

  I’m twenty-four years old and the Master of Time. I didn’t even need to smash my skull against anything and nothing has caught fire. Fear is my trigger, like I’d thought. The razor’s edge of its purity cuts through all the bullshit regarding what can or cannot be done. I realize how dangerous this new power is, being wielded by someone as incompetent, inane and trivial as me. This makes me smile.

  Enough pondering. Thinking’s never been my strong point, and I don’t know how long this bubble’s going to last. It’s time to get my groove on. I think I’ll use my pimp-walk. That always cheers me up.

  Pimp-walking down the roughly sixty-degree slope to first class doesn’t end well. After squeezing past Tom, I fall down three times before giving up and crawling

  Crawling is less than stellar. For the inevitable retelling of my heroic deeds, the pimp-walk will be maintained, with purposeful stride and white-toothed smile.

  The plane is longer then I’d imagined, or the trees aren’t as tall as I’d thought. I release one of the emergency escape doors in first class and see the ground only about twenty-five feet below. The escape ramp inflates and manages to barely reach the ground from the escape door, presenting a very steep descent. The nose of the plane is halted only a few feet from scarring the planet with itself.

  Appreciating the impeccability of my timing, I crawl back up to the nearest stewardess nook, hopeful for some emergency gear. I find a red satchel in a cupboard, which I unzip and empty onto the floor. It holds a length of sturdy nylon cord, a couple of flares, a pack of cigarettes and a first aid kit. I place these items back into the bag, which I toss next to the emergency escape. Digging around some more, I find another bag, self-explanatorily marked as a life raft. I toss it next to the first bag. Can’t be too careful.

  Back at the escape door, I peer down and toss the bags to the steamy earth. Goddamn, but it’s hot out there. I consider scaring off any natives that might be prowling around by tossing down a lighted flare or a t
iki god, but the thought passes and I crawl back up to Tom. I just hope someone onboard has a fire-stick. You can’t be too careful when there’s a potential for cannibals.

  I stare at Tom, sitting there locked in his fear. His lack of faith upsets me, but he needs to bottom out before my reality becomes clear to him. Any recovering alcoholic can tell you that rock bottom clarifies one’s appreciation of what's important. Or maybe that’s just my impression of things. I don’t know.

  How the hell do I pull him out of time with me? Is the intent enough? Is it even possible? I decide to shake him hard because it’s something Tom’s deserved for a long while. A good shaking, that is. I grab his shoulders and rattle him about. Finally, he blinks, then his wail rolls out like it hadn’t stopped. I suppose for him it hadn’t.

  He wails for a while, still crying, before realizing the need for such has passed, and that he’d better man up a bit. That or he’s tired of me slapping him. The slapping, like the shaking, is more for me. He’s just staring at me, wide-eyed and vibrating with fear.

  “The talking head woke me up. It’s time to get on the stick.” I don’t know if this clarifies much for Tom, but it fits the mood I’m in. The strangeness of events is catching up. I’m starting to fear that I’ll soon accept the impossibility of it all and, in doing so, end the lock I have on time. “I don’t know how much longer we have, but there’re a lot of people we need to get off this plane. I want to start with the baby frozen in the air over there, if that’s all right with you.”

  Tom nods, breathing jagged. Good old Tom. He may not understand what’s going right now, but if there’s one thing he can do, it’s getting on the stick. He lurches over to look out the window, I assume to get his bearings, then hops out of his chair. Pushing past me, he slides down to the open escape door. Peering out, he says, “Quite a drop. You’ll have to go first.”

  “We have to get the people out,” I say.

  “I think we should try the ramp once, just to make sure it’s safe.” He’s talking fast, and sweating. He hasn’t even asked me how I did this yet, which is a little upsetting. We don’t have time to discuss it right now, but a little recognition of my achievement is appropriate.