Lunatics by Dave Barry and Alan Zweibel Page B

picked another place to go into, but at that point I couldn’t pussy out. So I went to the phone and of course it wasn’t a real pay phone belonging to the phone company; it was some phone company I never heard of operated by some raghead in Bangladesh who wanted my credit card number and probably charged me eighty dollars to call Jersey. But what choice did I have?
    While the call was going through, I looked back toward the bar. The good news was, the Three Swarthy Stooges weren’t still looking at me. The bad news was, they were looking at the TV.
    Which was showing my car.
    It was an aerial shot of the Henry Hudson Parkway, and there had to be three hundred cops running around. I could see my smashed car, Horkman’s Prius, and the police helicopter, which had some smoke coming out. The bottom of the screen said: Terrorist Attack on GW Bridge.
    Jesus Christ.
    â€œHello?” said Donna.
    â€œIt’s me.”
    â€œWhere the hell are you?”
    â€œI’m in . . .”
    â€œWhat the hell did you do?”
    â€œListen, Donna, just calm down.”
    â€œDO NOT TELL ME TO CALM DOWN.”
    I think I mentioned this before, but: Never tell a woman to calm down.
    â€œDonna, just listen, okay?”
    â€œNo! YOU listen! Do you know what they’re showing on the TV RIGHT NOW?”
    â€œMy car.”
    â€œThey’re showing your car.”
    â€œI know that. Listen, what . . .”
    â€œJeffrey, they’re saying you’re a terrorist!”
    â€œDonna, if you’ll just . . .”
    â€œShut up a minute. What, Taylor? Oh my God! They’re saying you tried to bomb the George Washington Bridge!”
    â€œDonna, I didn’t . . .”
    â€œQuiet! What, Taylor? Oh my God! No!”
    â€œWhat’d she say?”
    â€œOh my GOD!”
    â€œWhat did she
say?”
    â€œYou shot a police officer!”
    â€œ
What?
I don’t even have a . . .”
    â€œQuiet! What, Taylor? OH. MY. GOD.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou shot a police officer
in the scrotum
!”
    â€œDonna, I SWEAR to you, I don’t . . .”
    â€œBe quiet! Yes, Taylor, it’s a body part. On a man. I’ll explain it later. What? Oh my God. OHMIGOD.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThey’re showing your picture! On TV!”
    I looked at the TV over the bar. It was showing my New Jersey driver’s license photo. Next to it was a photo of the Horkman asshole. The screen said Terrorist Suspects.
    Now the three swarthy guys were looking at me.
    â€œDonna,” I said. “Listen. You need to . . .”
    â€œSomebody’s here! The police are here!”
    â€œDonna . . .”
    â€œJeffrey, they’re at the door! I have to go. I’ll call you right back.”
    â€œBut I don’t have my phone!”
    Too late. She was gone.
    I started trying to get ahold of Bangladesh again so I could call back, when a swarthy hand grabbed the phone from me and hung it up. I turned and saw the bartender, with the other two guys right behind him.
    â€œWhat the fuck,” I said.
    The bartender pointed back in the general direction of the TV.
    â€œYou did this?” he said, except he had some kind of swarthy accent, so “did” sounded like “deed.”
    â€œListen,” I said. “I didn’t do anything.”
    He arched an eyebrow. “But that is you,” he said. “On television.”
    â€œYes, that’s me, but it’s a misunderstanding.”
    He arched his eyebrow again. He had huge eyebrows. Like he was raising miniature porcupines on his forehead.
    â€œMisunderstanding,” he said.
    â€œYes, misunderstanding. I’m not a terrorist. I live in New Jersey. I was following a lady who lost her insulin pump, so she took this guy’s lemur.”
    â€œHis what?”
    â€œLemur. It’s like a monkey.”
    â€œThere is