“To be clear, Lieutenant, I was being insubordinate deliberately as a protest against your government’s ridiculous fucking stance on global politics, which tried to force me to close my tiny little blind on a lovely Pacific night.”
“I see.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Neal and Elspeth, in the meantime, seemed genuinely shocked that the two of us knew each other.
Peggy—excuse me, Lieutenant Jennifer Healey—replied, “In my twenty-one years with the service, Mr. Gunt, you are the worst human being I’ve ever met. The. Worst. Person. Ever.”
“Um, Lieutenant, is there any way for your staff to change my yoga position here in the back seat? It’s hard to open my windpipe to reply to you.”
“Not yet, Mr. Gunt. We’re still assessing your threat level to staff here on the island.”
“Okay. Could you at least tell me what you were doing in my prison cell in LAX dressed like a soccer mom with a dead meerkat glued to your head?”
“Those cellmates of ours, Mr. Gunt, were the two most powerful narcoterrorists in the western hemisphere, only posing as parakeet egg smugglers.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Well, regardless, you wouldn’t want to French kiss those two, would you? Cold sores like raw hamburger patties all over their mouths. Come on, Peggy, have a laugh. You’ve got to admit, that is an unappetizing thought.”
She exhaled a large breath. “In a weird way, I owe you, Raymond. Once your body was carried away, the three of us were able to bond over how awful you’d been—which in turn led them to slip up and give me some information I needed. I may run this island full-time, but those two have been in my gunsight for two decades, ever since I started working for the government. Nabbing them was personal to me, and they’ll be locked up for the next few hundred years.”
“So I actually helped society.”
“You might say that.”
“I even helped you fulfill your dream.”
She eyed me warily.
Neal volunteered, “Raymond wants a better world for all of us. You know—children singing in fields full of flowers—ebony and ivory and all that Michael Jackson stuff, minus the pervy bits.”
From my upside-down position, I looked around me at the cheerless architectural boneyard of crumbling buildings. Time had stopped somewhere in 1971, when Richard Nixon stopped here to take a dump on his way to Guam.
Peggy—Jennifer—finally spoke. “The war on terror and the war on drugs are the same thing to me, Raymond. Actually, I’m at war with everything—it makes mental bookkeeping easier.”
“I imagine so.”
“Boys, pick Mr. Gunt up. I want him standing to attention.”
The MPs hauled me out of the Jeep and stood me up. My legs and arms tingled as blood circulation returned.
“If you change your attitude, Raymond, I might tell you more about what we here on Wake Island are doing. I promise, it’s fascinating.”
“Blimey,” said Neal, as if trapped inside a Beano cartoon. “A secret mission!”
Trucks were roaring about in the background. It was nighttime, but it was also hopping. I sensed something big going on.
I said, “I’m honoured you’d consider trusting me so much, Peggy. Now, could you please uncuff me?”
“Not yet.” She called to the MPs. “Boys, toss him into the slammer!” Then she giggled. “I’ve always wanted to say that.” She put on her aviator glasses, which, under moonlight, gave her a Mexican Day of the Dead kind of look. “Lock Mr. Gunt in Sector D.”
20
So I was thrown into yet another prison cell. I was actually feeling okay about this most recent incarceration and was planning to catch some shut-eye. But when I sat on my bunk, I found a DVD of Billy Elliot and a remote control. Outside the cell’s bars was a 55-inch plasma TV. Inside the DVD case was a note from Peggy:
Greetings, Raymond Gunt.
The DVD is cued to “The Angry Dance” from this most beloved of motion pictures. Perform it tomorrow at lunch in the mess for everyone and you will be allowed to leave the island. Raymond, it has to look like you are trying, really trying. If I don’t think you are trying hard enough, your plane and your friends fly on without you, while you stay here indefinitely to pay for your willfully disobedient violation of the Homeland Security Act. Get cracking, Raymond! Lunch is at noon, sharp.
Love, “Peggy Nielson”
Fuck.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UOGBTFFxOpY
Imagine being locked in a cage and not only having to watch Billy Elliot, but being ordered to replicate some sort of dance routine—I mean, honestly …