Skeletons (55 page)
"So long,
Rog
! You son of a bitch!"
I twist away, facing down. By now I'm sure the parachute won't open, because the island has anchored itself below me like the hard bottom of an elevator shaft and I'm falling toward it.
"Oh, Jesus, I'm gonna die!"
But then there's a sharp tug, I feel for a moment like Cap'n Bob has yanked me back into the plane, and will pat me on the back and say, "Just joking, son!" but instead I straighten out into the classic drop position, and look up to see the bright white bloom of a parachute overhead. Up around it I see the belly of our plane banking away, climbing.
What do you know. And I didn't even soil myself.
Below, the ground is still coming up fast. But now I think I can handle it. There's a bunch of trees which I don't like so much, but they slide out from under me, leaving a nice fat strip of beach. I come down whoosh right in the middle of it. Bless the
cap'n
and his little beef-filled head. I should have listened to him, because I keep my legs stiff as ironing boards and come down on one of them, feeling it more or less contract. If there's anyone on the island, they hear my womanly yelp.
A moment later I'm writhing in the sand in pain, sure that my leg has snapped in two. That bastard Cap'n Bob. I want to dust him, mix what's left with water, mold him into a little statue of himself, and stomp him all over again.
But no, the leg ain't broken. Just a little pulled at the ankle, I can even get up and walk like Walter Brennan in “The Real
McCoys
."
Which is what I do.
I'm halfway toward the trees, approaching all kinds of animal noise, when the radio under my shirt comes on, the speaker talking right into my ribs, tickling me like hell and making me fall down laughing.
It keeps talking, and I'm on the ground now, fighting for breath, trying to pull the damn thing from its Velcro straps so I don't die laughing.
"Y-yes?" I finally gasp out, yanking the radio from my side and putting it to my mouth.
"Everything under control down there!" comes Cap'n Bob's ramrod voice.
"Y-yes, fine."
"Good! Call us when you make contact! Over!"
Without even a thanks or good-bye, or waiting to let me say all the tender things in my heart, the radio is silent.
Just because I want to, I push the call button, and when Cap'n Bob comes on immediately, sounding concerned, saying, "What is it, soldier!" I say, "Fu you."
Under the moonlight,
Won't you be true?
Because if you're not,
I'll have to unman you!
Under the
moonli-i-i-ight
(wop-wop-
roop
-wop)
You'd better kiss me! (wop-wop-wop-wop)
Or I'll make an
inci-i-i-ision
(wop-wop-wop-wop)
Around where you pee! (wop-wop-wop . .
wop
!)
Great song, great girl band name of the
Joylettes
, circa 1979. Ah, those were the days. Punk-o-la rock. And I'm feeling great myself, the ol'
Rog
returned, maybe it's the nearness of those humans on this island, or getting away from all those
skels
. Who the hell cares why? I think what it really was, was being away from what I really dig, the music. Ah, my work as a secret agent is almost done, then back to the bands, get some new acts together, write some songs, do some promo, some production, the noise, the babes, the booze, the drugsâyeah!
Ah, those thoughts are like a breath of fresh air. O1'
Adelaid
is just a bad drug trip now. I know what's best, and that's what's best for Roger. No joke, Moe. Just get this little sideshow out of the way, and it's home free on Mr. L's coattails for the rest of my natural life and after. Because what these
skels
don't realize is that I'll be the only human in the whole world, the only cat who gets two lives! Fantastic. like having a spare in your pants. Won-
der
-
ful
.
And these humans, they didn't take long to spot. I mean, they've got this island set up like a circus. Animals, real animals, everywhere, and a gorilla who I'm going to steer clear of. One mean-looking hairball. The two
humes
, Mr. and Mrs., everywhere they go there are two wolves with them, as well as various parrots and gazelles and gerbils splashing and frisking around. Mr. and Mrs. I can't quite figure out, she looks just beyond jailbait, and he's an Oriental dude, skinny and tough, vaguely familiar. They look like they're walking on eggshells around each other. Part of me wants to know their story, the rest of me, which is ninety-nine percent, doesn't give a flip.
I've radioed in, and kept an eye on them all through the afternoon, and now that night's fallen they've built a fire and done a little cooking. Now the Mrs. is cleaning up. Real "Leave It to Beaver" stuff. The Oriental has gone to get more firewood or take a leak, but it's the gorilla I'm keeping my eye on while I eat my own dinner, wonderful G-man rations out of foil packets. Another reason for me to want to see Cap'n Bob and Co. again.
The gorilla's amazing. He's nearly human himself, carrying dishes to the water pot they've got set up, poking sticks at the fire to make it flare up, dancing around the Mrs. like she's some sort of queen. She seems to treat him with regal deference. I watch with envy as the big monkey scrapes off some of the good-smelling veggie stew they had into a bin for some of the other animals to fight over. Could have used some of that myself.
"Hello," a voice says by my ear.
I should have known he'd come around behind me.
The two of them would have had to be blind not to see the plane, my parachute, or heard me screaming around as I came down. Very classy, they were, to rely on my stupidity.
I turn around and give the Oriental dude the patented
Rog
-grin. " 'Lo yourself."
He sits down beside me. Not at all threatening. But I get the feeling he'd break me in half if I did anything stupid. The monkey and woman below are now looking up at us, also.
"Care to join us?" he says calmly, friendly as can be.
"You bet!" I say, getting up.
He gets up, too, holds his hand out. "You might know me as Peter Sun."
Pete Sun! Now I know why he looked familiar. I shake his hand like mad. "Hey, you're the dude that ran that gig in Moscow! All those bands, Peace Day, the whole thing! I'm Roger Garbage, Roundabout Records, we tried to get one of our acts, the Vomits, into that show, but you said you were only booking folk acts, and only paying transportation. Bad idea, man . . ."
He nods vaguely, as if trying to remember. "Sure," he says.
It's okay, it's okay, it was a long time ago, a lot of vodka under the bridge, and I'm impressed with this guy. Pulled off a commie Woodstock, great coup for the West, rock and roll and all that.
He makes his way down to the camp, and hobbling, I follow.
"Looks like that's broken," Pete says, nodding toward my swollen leg, putting a hand out to help me.
"Nah, just a bruise," I say, taking the help anyway. A free ride's a free ride. "Injured it in a miniature-golfing accident."
The Mrs. is waiting for me. Silently, she hands me a plate of veggie stew. Apparently they knew all along I'd be down. I mumble thanks and lace into the food, all the while yakking at the two of them, getting polite words from Pete Sun and no words at all from the babe. The two of them sit close but not close, if you know what I mean. Finally, after I make a brilliant observation to the Mrs., waiting for an answer as she stares at me mutely, ol' Pete rests a hand on the lady's knee for a brief moment, removes it immediately, and says, "Claire doesn't speak."
"Oh, right, sorry. Hey," I add, "great stew, though."
Pete smiles vaguely, lets me finish.
I mean, it's like I'm not there. There's some sort of bubble around these two. Three's a crowd, you know? It's fine if I'm around, fine if I'm not. The ape doesn't seem to like me much, which makes me kind of sad 'cause he'd make a great showpiece in an act, maybe even teach him to keep time with a tambourine. Remember the New
Monkees
? Hey, why not?
So I finish my stew, and ol' Pete's obviously been very polite in letting me eat and chat. There's a question in the air that's obvious to all of us, and finally, after I've had a cup of real coffee the Mrs. has made for me, ol' Pete asks it, albeit in an eerily calm fashion.
"May I ask why you're here?"
"Me? I, uh . . .”
"We saw the plane. I've got binoculars, saw the skeletons in the hatchway with you."
"Uh . . ."
"I also saw your radio."
I wish he would scream, get mad, show craziness, but he just looks at me with that calm
friggin
' face. "I, um, well . . ."
Finally I shrug.
"Did they send you here to find us?"
And then I blurt it out, not really knowing why: "You're the last ones."
He looks at the ground and says, so quiet I almost don't hear him: "Yes."
"Hey, no big deal." I try to be jolly, but now memories of that night with
Adelaid
are coming back, all the wonky stuff I felt, the
friggin
' pain.
Pete Sun looks up at me and smiles slightly. "You mean the three of us are the last ones."
"
Uhhhh
. . ."
He's right, of course.
"What are you going to do?" he asks me, nodding at the radio under my shirt.
"Uh, well . . . I don't know."
I can't stand it. The woman is looking at me with the same poor puppy gaze. I can't think. I get up, spilling the last of the coffee, mumbling some sort of apology. I stagger away. My head feels like it's spinning like a gyro. What the hell is wrong with me? Why can't I think clearly?
I stumble back up the hillside, away from the campsite, hobbling on my leg until I'm well into the woods. Finally I stop to bang my head on a tree, but it doesn't help. I still can't get my thoughts one in front of the other.
Adelaid's
face is there in front of me, mocking me with her smile. Now I realize that her look was only a more cynical version of what Peter Sun and his girlfriend were giving me.
Judas.
So that's it. I continue to hobble up the hillside. Jeez, this leg hurts. I keep thinking of all those old movies, Jeffrey Hunter, Max von
Sydow
as Jesus, the hard, pitying look on their faces when they tell Judas to do what he must.
What are you going to do
? ol' Pete asked me, and he had that same look on his face.
I stop to bang my head against another tree, but the pain is still in there, thick and soupy and not about to leave. I climb on. Suddenly the night opens up above me, a spread of stars, I didn't realize how dark it was here. I'm up high, and realize I'm at the top of the big hill on this island. A cool breeze cuts into me. There's the sound of rushing water nearby. Jeez, the sky is beautiful.
I stumble on, trees behind me, rock underfoot now. The water sound gets louder, a rushing splash. The coolness on my face is highlighted by water spray. And now suddenly I'm at the edge of the island's waterfall. It's gorgeous under starlight, like rushing diamonds into the depths below. I pull out my coke, then shove it back in my pocket. I don't need, don't want coke for this one.
Jeez, for the first time in months I'm straight, no coke or booze, and I'm seeing something I like. Amazing.
I stare at it, mesmerized, and then suddenly realize that we could get to the point where no human eyes ever see this sight again. Truly amazing.
What are you going to do?
That's easy, now. I'm no Judas. Suddenly
Adelaid's
face is really smiling in front of me, the pain is gone, and everything is clear. No way I'm going to let humanity get wiped off the butt of the earth. Not if I can help it. I've still got a couple of angles, can fool the
skel
boys for a while, and work some deals.
No way I'm a Judas, no way. Not me.
My radio gives a beep. It must be time for me to check in.
I'll check in, all right. I'll make these boners dance my dance. Ol' Roger Garbage, the fixer, the man who saved humanity! That's me, bub.
One final time I drink in the scene around me. I feel human. I let the beauty of it all seep into my real skin and real eyes and let the feel of water spray over my real face and hands.
The radio beeps discreetly again, signaling me to check in, to betray the human race, to be Judas. Sorry to disappoint you, boners.
Already there's a plan in my head, I'm cooking, I'll have Cap'n Bob and Stanton and Mr. L and ol'
Pipeman
and the rest of them looking for Pete Sun and his wife for months. I'll kick the coke, stop drinking.
Adelaid's
face is before me, blowing kisses. Even my old man is there, his hand frozen as he raises it to smack me one, a look of puzzled pride crossing his drunken features as he says, "Maybe you're not such a worthless shit after all . . ."
Roger Garbage, savior of humanity, champion of the world!