Lunatics by Dave Barry and Alan Zweibel Page A

doesn’t talk, either,” he countered. “Serotonin talks. Dopamine talks. Ultracet. A lot of your ADD and ADHD medications can be quite chatty. As can certain kinds of marijuana, cocaine and other street drugs. But insulin? Hell no. As boring as diabetes is, it’s a veritable one-man band compared to insulin.”
    â€œWell, something other than this woman is talking!” I shouted. “Can’t you see she’s sick? Just look at her! At her skin color and at that stuff that looks like strawberry Turkish Taffy dripping out of the sides of her mouth.”
    â€œThat
is
strawberry Turkish Taffy,” he answered. “Her coat pockets were stuffed with wrappers when she came in. I’m telling you, she knows exactly what she’s saying.”
    Great, I thought to myself before taking another glance at Denise Rodecker who, once she saw I was looking her way, furtively opened the front of her gown, revealing the entire festival that was going on underneath. Needless to say, I was mortified and, for the sake of not having nightmares for the rest of my life, turned my head, and when I did, I caught a glimpse of the television in a patient’s room across the hall.
    I guess it stands to reason that it’s newsworthy when a police helicopter lands on the Henry Hudson Parkway after its pilot is shot in his scrotum. So there it was, with the newscaster saying that the cops suspect that this was the handiwork of armed terrorists. And then they showed a picture of that idiot Peckerman, and then they showed a picture of me, and I knew right then and there that I should come up with a Plan E or whatever the hell letter I was up to because I, Philip Horkman, was now officially on the lam.

CHAPTER 12
    Jeffrey
    I couldn’t believe the asshole Horkman actually wanted me to help him. A day earlier, I was a successful man with a comfortable lifestyle as one of the top three or four forensic plumbers in northeastern New Jersey. Now, thanks to this lunatic, I’m running from cops who are shooting at me with actual fucking bullets.
Help
him? I wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire.
    So I left Horkman behind and kept running. I lost track of Buddy, but at that point my feeling was that Buddy was on his own.
    It was dark, and I had no idea where I was, except somewhere in Manhattan. I heard a lot of shouting behind me, ducked into an alley, crossed to another street, then into another alley. I stopped to catch my breath, sweating like a pig. I could hear shouting, sirens, more helicopters, but no more shooting, thank God. I kept moving, walking now, alley to alley.
    While I was walking, I was trying to come up with a plan. I decided step one was call Donna, tell her to get hold of a lawyer. I felt for my phone.
    Fuck.
No phone. It was back in my car.
    So I thought, Okay, find a pay phone. But here’s the thing: There’re no pay phones left in Manhattan, at least that I could find. I swear I walked two miles, and I kept seeing places where there
used
to be pay phones, but all there is now is the smell of piss. There’re times when New York City seems like one giant urinal, and this was one of those times.
    I was trying to avoid people, but I decided I had to go into some business that might have a pay phone. I was mid-block on a quiet street, and I saw this little sign that said THE CAMEL’S NOSE , next to some steps leading down to a door. I went in. It looked like a typical shithole bar with three guys—a bartender and two customers—clumped together under a TV. They all turned and looked at me, not friendly. I would describe them—and I’m not being racist, I’m just describing—as swarthy.
    â€œYou got a pay phone?” I said.
    Nobody answered, but while they weren’t answering, I noticed a pay phone at the end of the bar.
    â€œFound it, thanks,” I said, walking past them. They were still staring at me. To be honest, I was wishing I