Lunatics (4 page)

CHAPTER 7

Philip

When I arrived home,
Daisy was waiting in the driveway with something less than the greeting I needed, considering all that had happened. There wasn't a “Hi, honey. How was your day?” Or an “Oh my God, why are your ribs taped and your foot in a cast?” And nothing that even resembled the much preferred “I just read that the American Medical Association says the best cure for cracked ribs and a sprained left ankle is a sympathetic wife who cooks her husband his favorite meal (SpaghettiOs!) and afterward dims the lights in his den while he leans back in his favorite chair, closes his eyes, and listens to
The Very Best of Michael Bolton
.” Instead, what I got was a growl about how we were going to be late for the recital if we didn't hurry.

Both of our children were supposed to dance that night. Heidi, sixteen, was a star. Lithe. Heavenly graced. Poetry in fluid motion. Every season, Miss Grambs, the owner of Dancing For Fun, the studio where the kids took lessons, featured Heidi in as many numbers as possible. But our eight-year-old, despite boundless enthusiasm, had a slight weight problem, was a dreadful dancer, and the target of ruthless snickering. As a result, these recitals were always an odd duality for us because, on one hand, we were there to accept praise and congratulations for Heidi, while on the other hand, we were there to support and very possibly defend our son, Trace, the only boy ballerina in the twenty-six-year history of Dancing For Fun.

And though I was still furious that the lemur had somehow wriggled free and jumped from my car, I found some comfort in knowing exactly where it was. And that all it would take was a simple call to Sgt. Pepper in the morning, and justice would be served. So I opened the door to the Prius (forty-three miles per gallon!), Daisy got in, and we drove to the recital.

“What's the theme this year?” I asked her. These programs usually had a motif that loosely connected all the individual numbers.

“Music from the movies,” Daisy answered.

“That could be good.”

“Heidi has a big solo during ‘The Way We Were.'”

“That's wonderful!” I said.

We drove in silence for a minute or so, knowing that there was another question to be asked, but we both needed a little time to brace ourselves. Finally, I took the plunge.

“And Trace?”

“Trace also has a solo,” she told me.

“Uh-oh . . .”

“During the theme to
The Godfather
.”

“Hey, that's great!” I shouted, figuring
The Godfather
was one of the most masculine movies ever made and that, well, maybe it would sort of, you know, change a thing or two.

“Well, yes and no,” Daisy answered.

“Which means what?”

“He's going to play Sonny Corleone tap dancing through the tollbooth and getting mowed down by Barzini's gunmen.”

“And that would be the ‘yes' part?” I surmised.

“That's right.”

“And the ‘no' part?”

“The gunmen will be doing pirouettes while lobbing pink carnation bullets at him.”

Those were the last sounds uttered by either of us for the rest of that drive.

Perhaps now would be a good time to say a few words about a woman in our community who'll soon play a part in this story. An alcoholic named Denise Rodecker. When her husband was still alive, she was a thin, very attractive, very sensual-looking blonde (think Kathleen Turner in
Body Heat
) for whom most of the men harbored a secret crush. But, generally speaking, the wives in Fort Lee were not jealous of this object of their husbands' nocturnal secretions, as they knew about Denise's unwavering devotion to Jerry and the solidity of their marriage.

But then things took an unforeseen turn during what became known in the tri-state area as the Blizzard of '06, when Jerry, a do-it-yourself type with a tendency to overexert himself, suffered a heart attack while buying a snow shovel, and died two days later. After that, Denise started to drink, packed on about sixty pounds (think Shelley Winters in
The Poseidon Adventure
), contracted diabetes attributable to that weight gain, and began hitting on those same husbands who were no longer attracted to her. She became a conversation piece around town whom I hadn't seen until the night of that recital.

Daisy and I found seats in the third row of the Martin Luther King Jr. Junior High School auditorium. We liked sitting close to the stage to provide visual support should our kids glance in our direction during their performances. These evenings always ran in age order—starting with the youngest kids and ending with the oldest. This was bad news for me and Daisy. Whereas most parents could discreetly leave after watching their child dance, this year we did not have that luxury and would have to sit through the six performances before Trace's and then fifteen more until it was Heidi's turn.

“You know, if Trace played Little League like most boys his age, we could be at a movie right now, then grab a bite to eat, return some calls, take a nap, and still get here in time to see Heidi,” I whispered to Daisy.

Then the lights went down, the recital began, and we sat through everything ranging from triumphant four-year-olds dancing up steps to
Rocky
, to drenched six-year-olds dancing in water to
Titanic
, to frightened seven-year-olds dancing away from Nazis in
Schindler's List
, and now it was Trace's turn. A slightly overweight Sonny Corleone in a silver suit, tapping his way through the cardboard tollbooth, the emergence of at least a dozen twirling mobsters pelting him with a fusillade of colorful petals, and him crying out as he staggers against its force.

Enter Denise Rodecker. Probably through a backstage door and then onto the set to the astonishment of everyone.

“I've watched this film maybe fifty times,” said the guy on the other side of me, “and I've never noticed a fat blond lady in this scene before.”

She, too, was staggering. Reeling, in fact. As I found out later, from the bottle of red wine she polished off at a book club meeting at that idiot Peckerman's house. But she knew that the glucose from that merlot would eventually metabolize and she'd need another infusion. So while my slightly overweight son had finally succumbed to the torrent of flowers and was now writhing on the stage in spastic memories of movement, Denise Rodecker pointed directly at me in the third row, reached inside her coat, pulled out the lemur by its endangered tail, and began swinging it overhead as she shouted at the top of her lungs, “Hey, dickweed, if you want to see this monkey alive again, give me back my fucking insulin pump!” before throwing the now dazed lemur straight up into the air, catching it over her shoulder like Willie Mays did in the 1954 World Series against the Cleveland Indians, stepping over my slightly overweight son, and exiting into the New Jersey night through the backstage door.

CHAPTER 8

Jeffrey

I hate dance.
Ballet, tap, that modern shit where they all look like crack addicts—I hate it all. I'm not saying dance is gay. It
is
gay, but that's not what I'm saying. What I'm saying is it's boring. I had to watch a live ballet once, when Donna dragged me because her cousin's daughter was in it, and it was the most boring thing I ever sat through, except the time I went to a NASCAR race and there was not one fucking crash.

So it was definitely not my plan to drive to a dance recital. When the lunatic asshole Horkman drove away from my house, I had no plan to follow him anywhere. I was planning to go back into my house, pour myself a drink, and get on the phone. Because that lunatic asshole had just nearly run me over in front of witnesses,
on my own swale
. This kind of situation is exactly why the good Lord created Jewish litigation attorneys named Cohn, of whom I personally know four.

I also know, from experience as an expert forensic plumbing witness in courts of law, that pain and suffering can be very difficult to disprove. Even without
visible
injuries, I could very well be suffering from chronic Prius-related neck and back ailments that could cost me potentially millions of dollars in missed income, not to mention loss of consortium with my wife. It crossed my mind, as I watched the asshole's taillights disappear, that I could be on the road to boat ownership.

So that was one point for me. Point two, I still had Buddy. I didn't
want
Buddy, but the lunatic obviously did, a lot, so that was in my favor, as leverage. Plus I was pretty sure I nailed the lunatic with the YA MON mask. Three points for me, versus bupkus for the asshole, unless you count that he got the YA MON mask, which I hated anyway. (But not because it was African-American.)

So I was feeling pretty good, as I got back onto my feet. That feeling lasted maybe eleven seconds, which is how long it took for Denise Rodecker, who is the size of a fire rescue truck but louder, to wobble across the lawn to me, screaming about her insulin pump.

“Denise,” I said, “calm down.”

This was a mistake. Telling a batshit crazy woman to calm down only makes her more batshit crazy.

“DON'T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!” she said.

“Fine,” I said, “
don't
calm down.”

This also was a mistake. Fortunately, Donna had arrived and was attempting to hug Denise, and even though she could only get her arms about halfway around, Denise finally stopped screaming, though she was still blubbering about her pump. She'd had a lot of wine.

“Jeffrey will get your pump back,
won't
you, Jeffrey?” Donna said, giving me a look that said unless I got the pump back, the only consortium I was ever going to have again would be with my right hand.

“Okay,” I said. “I know where the guy works. I'll call the police and tomorrow they can . . .”

“NO!” said Denise, back in Batshit Mode. “I need it right now!”

“But I don't know where the guy lives.”

“Well,
I
do,” said Denise.

“You do?” Donna and I both said.

“I saw him,” said Denise. “It's Philip Horkman. He owns a pet store. I thought he was a nice man! Why did he take my insulin pump?”

“I think he was actually after the lemur,” I said, nodding toward Buddy, who was sitting on Taylor's head.

“That thing is his?” said Denise.

I said it was, which, looking back, was another mistake. For a drunk woman the size of a tool shed, Denise showed excellent quickness. She snatched Buddy off Taylor's head and started toward her car. Donna yelled at me to stop her, and I tried, but Denise threw a stiff arm that caught me right in the throat, and I went down again. I heard Oprah ladies screaming and Taylor crying. Then I heard tires squealing. Then Donna was in my face, grabbing my shirt, pulling me up.

“Jeffrey!” she shouted. “You have to stop her!”

She yanked me to my feet and started shoving me toward my car. “Hurry! She's going to kill herself!”

“She might hurt Buddy!” said Taylor.

I stumbled to my car, started the engine, put it in gear. Then a thought occurred to me. I put it back in park and lowered the window.

“What?” says Donna.

“Where the fuck am I going?”

“Don't use that language in front of Taylor!”

You ever notice this? You make a valid, logical point, and women try to change the subject.

“Well, where
am
I going?” I said.

“After Denise!”

“And where is Denise going?” I said.

That stopped her. She held a quick conference with the other book club women, and they agreed Denise was probably going to find this Philip Horkman. One of the women said he lived in Fox Hollow Estates, which figures because it is a development completely filled with Prius-driving assholes. Somebody pulled out an iPhone and Googled his address. I put the car in gear and took off.

Ten minutes later, I turned into the asshole's street and slammed on my brakes hard just in time to avoid getting hit by Denise Rodecker's Range Rover going the other way at about 280 miles an hour. Just ahead, I saw a lady in a driveway shouting at Denise to slow down. I pulled over and lowered my window, and this lady, who turned out to be Horkman's neighbor, told me Denise had made a big scene, honking her horn, yelling for Horkman to come out.

“So I went out there,” the lady told me, “and I told her the Horkmans aren't home. She was
very
rude. I think she's been drinking. She has a monkey.”

“It's actually a lemur,” I said. “Do you know where she's going?”

“Well, the Horkmans are at a dance recital at Martin Luther King Jr.”

“You told her that?”

“I did. Was that a mistake? Should I call the police?”

“I'll take care of it,” I said, putting the car in gear. At that point, if there was one thing I was sure of, it was this: If the police arrested Denise Rodecker for driving drunk with a stolen lemur, in the eyes of my wife—for that matter, in the eyes of the entire Oprah book club vagina brigade—it would be my fault.

Five minutes later, I'm pulling into the Martin Luther King Jr. Junior High parking lot. I see Denise's Range Rover parked at a bad angle halfway up on the curb. The door's open, the engine's running. Denise is not inside.

I pull up behind the Range Rover and get out. I'm standing there, trying to decide what to do. What I
should
have done, looking back, is take the key out of Denise's car. But I didn't.

Suddenly,
BANG
, a door on the side of the school slams open. Here's who comes out, in order:

 

1. Denise, holding Buddy by his tail, like he's a fur handbag.

2. The asshole, who I'm happy to see is limping, yelling at Denise.

3. A woman, who has to be the asshole's wife, because she is yelling at him.

4. A fat kid wearing some kind of douchebaggy silver suit, who's crying, and right away I know this is the asshole's kid, because (a) he looks like him, and (b) he's a douchebag.

The asshole sees me, and he stops short.

“What are you doing here?” he says.

“What are
you
doing here?” I say, which I admit was not a good comeback, but I didn't have anything prepared.

He says, “I'm here to watch my son's dance recital.”

I look at his son and say, “What's he supposed to be, Elton John as a refrigerator?”

“What's
that
supposed to mean?” says the wife.

“He's Sonny Corleone,” says the asshole.

“He's WHO?”

“It's interpretive,” says the asshole.

“Oh yeah,” I say. “I can definitely see the Corleone family following Sonny here into battle. ‘Come on, fellows! We have to go to the mattresses.'” Only I'm lisping, so it comes out “fellowth” and “mattretheth.”

This really pisses off the asshole's wife. She's in my face, yelling, “Just who the hell do you think you . . .”

Then we hear a slamming sound, which is Denise shutting the door of her Range Rover. The asshole hustles over and pounds on the window. She lowers it, but only a half inch.

“Denise,” he says, trying to sound calm, which he is not. “Give me the lemur.”

“GIVE ME MY INSULIN PUMP!” she says.

“I don't
have
your insulin pump.”

It occurs to me that the asshole doesn't know that Buddy left it in his Prius. I'm about to point this out, but before I can say anything, Denise holds Buddy up by his tail and screams, “THEN YOUR FUCKING LEMUR IS GOING OFF THE GEORGE FUCKING WASHINGTON BRIDGE.” She stomps the gas and fishtails out of the parking lot.

“STOP!” the asshole is screaming. “THAT IS AN ENDANGERED ANIMAL!” He's gimping as fast as he can toward his Prius. I head for my car and get in just as the Prius leaves the parking lot. I put the pedal to the floor and am right behind, the asshole and me weaving through traffic, trying to catch up with Denise, who is driving like a maniac.

My cell rings. It's Donna.

“What,” I say.

“Did you find Denise?” she says.

“Yes.” Up ahead Denise is getting on I-95.

“So she's okay? She got her pump?”

“Um, not yet.” Denise is weaving across four lanes. The asshole is staying as close as he can, but he's having trouble keeping up in the Prius, which has basically the same motor as a food processor.

“What do you mean not yet?” says Donna. “Is there a problem?”

“Listen, this is a bad time, okay? I'll call you right back.”

In the background, I hear Taylor saying something to Donna. Up ahead I see Denise's arm, which is the size of my leg, sticking out the Range Rover window. She has something in her hand. She's waving it around so the asshole can see it.

It's Buddy.

Donna says, “Taylor wants to know if Buddy is okay.”

“Tell her Buddy's fine,” I say, and hang up.