Lunatics Read online

  OTHER BOOKS BY DAVE BARRY

  * * *

  FICTION

  The Bridge to Never Land (with Ridley Pearson)

  Peter and the Sword of Mercy (with Ridley Pearson)

  Science Fair (with Ridley Pearson)

  Peter and the Secret of Rundoon (with Ridley Pearson)

  Cave of the Dark Wind (with Ridley Pearson)

  The Shepherd, the Angel, and Walter the Christmas Miracle Dog

  Escape from the Carnivale (with Ridley Pearson)

  Peter and the Shadow Thieves (with Ridley Pearson)

  Peter and the Starcatchers (with Ridley Pearson)

  Tricky Business

  Big Trouble

  NONFICTION

  I’ll Mature When I’m Dead

  Dave Barry’s History of the Millennium (So Far)

  Dave Barry’s Money Secrets

  Boogers Are My Beat

  Dave Barry Hits Below the Beltway

  Dave Barry Is Not Taking This Sitting Down

  Dave Barry Turns 50

  Dave Barry Is from Mars and Venus

  Dave Barry’s Book of Bad Songs

  Dave Barry in Cyberspace

  Dave Barry’s Complete Guide to Guys

  Dave Barry Is Not Making This Up

  Dave Barry Does Japan

  Dave Barry’s Only Travel Guide You’ll Ever Need

  Dave Barry Talks Back

  Dave Barry Turns 40

  Dave Barry Slept Here

  Dave Barry’s Greatest Hits

  Dave Barry’s Homes and Other Black Holes

  Dave Barry’s Guide to Marriage and/or Sex

  Dave Barry’s Bad Habits

  Claw Your Way to the Top

  Stay Fit and Healthy Until You’re Dead

  Babies and Other Hazards of Sex

  The Taming of the Screw

  OTHER BOOKS BY ALAN ZWEIBEL

  * * *

  Clothing Optional: And Other Ways to Read These Stories

  The Other Shulman: A Novel

  Bunny Bunny: Gilda Radner—A Sort of Love Story

  Our Tree Named Steve (children’s book)

  North

  Lunatics

  Dave Barry

  and

  Alan Zweibel

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  NEW YORK

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Copyright © 2012 by Dave Barry and Alan Zweibel

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  ISBN 978-1-101-56577-3

  BOOK DESIGN BY BRIAN MULLIGAN

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  While the authors have made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the authors assume any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Contents

  ADVISORY

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  EPILOGUE

  We dedicate this book to our wives,

  Michelle and Robin,

  who, if we had discussed the idea with them ahead

  of time, would definitely have discouraged us.

  ADVISORY

  Dave Barry and Alan Zweibel have both written books for children. This is definitely not one of them.

  PROLOGUE

  Before we explain how it all happened, we’d like to take this opportunity, from the get-go, to apologize.

  What do you mean “we”?

  I thought we agreed that we would take responsibility for . . .

  Whoa whoa whoa. I agree that YOU should take responsibility. No way in hell am I apologizing for something I didn’t do. Because none of this, no, let me correct that, NONE of this, would ever have happened if you knew the goddam rules of the game of socc . . .

  Okay, let’s not get into that again . . .

  I’ll get into whatever I want to get into, you douchebag.

  The point is, dear reader, that mistakes were made, and things got out of hand, and we, I should say I’m, very sorry for any mental anguish, financial loss, destruction of prope
rty, or serious physical injury that may have been caused to anyone, including my loving wife and children, my friends, my community, innocent bystanders, the brave and dedicated men and women of the New York Police Department, the staff and patients of Lenox Hill Hospital, the fine officers, crew and passengers aboard the SS Windsong, the Port-au-Prince Duffel Bag Company, Charo, and the U.S. armed forces—in particular the Coast Guard. I also apologize to all three branches of the United States government, Arnie and Sue Kogen, and to both the General Assembly and Security Council of the United Nations for any role we may have played—and I assure you it was completely inadvertent—in exacerbating world tensions. And on a more personal note, let me say that, as a passionate lifelong lover and protector of animals, I deeply regret any of our actions that endangered any of the helpless, vulnerable creatures of the Central Park Zoo.

  HELPLESS? Those things had teeth like fucking steak knives.

  Finally, on the advice of legal counsel, I want to stress that nothing in the account that you are about to read is meant to suggest or imply that there is now, or has ever been, a connection between any international terrorist organization and the Chuck E. Cheese restaurant chain.

  Chuck E. Cheese can bite me.

  CHAPTER 1

  Philip

  What a wonderful day! One of those magical Sundays that punctuate the end of a great week with a huge exclamation point!

  My name is Philip Horkman, and I own a pet shop called The Wine Shop—a modest store I opened fifteen years ago with money my in-laws, Lillian and Gerald Wine, loaned me on the condition that I name the place after them.

  “But won’t that be confusing?” I asked at the time. “Customers will think I sell liquor.”

  “Then sell liquor,” they said.

  “But I want to sell pets.”

  “Then borrow money from people named Pets.”

  Hungry to strike out on my own and desperate for funds, I acceded and opened The Wine Shop in a mini-mall a stone’s throw from the George Washington Bridge. Things were slow at first. Painfully slow. But after months of bewildered looks and torrents of invective hurled from those seeking a merlot instead of an iguana, word slowly got out that we indeed sold animals. And the misnomer emblazoned on our sign eventually changed from being a source of scorn to a magnet attracting pet lovers who applauded our originality and found our wit refreshing.

  Seven days a week, I worked in that store, and it is no exaggeration when I say that I loved every minute of it. Not only because it was so darned rewarding to see the glee on the faces of children whose folks treated them to a dog, a cat, a bird or colorful fish—but it had also allowed me to provide my family with a comfortable home and middle-class lifestyle in suburban New Jersey. We had two cars. Went skiing every winter. The kids took dancing lessons. Life was good, with promises to get even better, because I’d spent that Saturday morning at the bank signing what seemed like a thousand pages of loan documents so The Wine Shop could expand to a second location the following spring.

  The next day was Sunday and I did what I always did on Sundays. I refereed soccer games for our town’s AYSO league. I’m sure a lot of folks found that odd, as both of our children were well into their teens and hadn’t played in this league for some time. That said, after being cooped up in a store all week, I still enjoyed refereeing, as nothing helped me unwind better than to be outdoors breathing the crisp autumn air while running up and down a grass field. Plus, I found it invigorating to be amongst such spirited children whose enthusiasm was fanned by their parents and friends who came out to cheer their favorite ten-year-old players on.

  But that Sunday’s game was set on an even bigger stage, as the winners of the two divisional playoffs were playing each other for the league championship. It was a special day. The crowd was bigger, the local press and their papers’ photographers were on hand, and the kids rose to the occasion, playing their hearts out in a 1–0 nail-biter. And with the exception of one overzealous father who shouted his displeasure when I ruled his daughter offside after she kicked what would have been the tying goal, a great time was had by all, and the rest of the parents thanked me afterward for a job well done.

  That glory of that Sunday continued that evening when I took my family to our favorite restaurant to celebrate the new store, returned home, watched our favorite movie (The Sound of Music) in HD on the flat screen, went upstairs, and fell asleep spooning my wife, Daisy.

  I’m not a religious man. Yet I’ve always considered myself blessed. And though life presents us with challenges that test our resolve along the way, it’s a positive attitude that’s granted me the strength to handle any situation adeptly, cope with it, and move forward. I’ve always been the kind of person who, when given the choice, chooses to err on the side of being grateful.

  CHAPTER 2

  Jeffrey

  I’ll be honest: I wanted to kill the asshole.

  That was the first thing I said to my wife, Donna, after I temporarily stopped yelling at the asshole for calling offside on Taylor when there was NO WAY it was offside.

  “I want to kill that asshole” were my exact words.

  “Jeffrey,” she said, looking around at the other parents, who were making a point of not looking at me. “Language.”

  “Right, sorry,” I said. “I want to kill that fucking asshole.” Now some of the parents were actively edging away from me. But I’m sorry. My daughter kicks the tying goal in the league championship, and this asshole calls offside? When it clearly was not? And I’m supposed to not notice?

  It happens to be my job to notice things. It’s my profession. I’m a forensic plumber. And before you laugh, you might be interested to know that forensic plumbing is a growing, high-demand field, with its own national association, which I happen to be on the board of directors of. You might also be interested to know that a top forensic plumber can command $300 per hour plus expenses, and that the expert testimony of forensic plumbers has proven to be crucial in several high-profile court cases, including one in which a man was found guilty of murdering his wife by holding her facedown in their master-bedroom toilet. He claimed she committed suicide, but the forensic plumber, testifying for the prosecution, was able to show the jury, by means of a dramatic courtroom reenactment, that with that particular model commode there was no way the victim could have reached the flush lever and still got that level of facial suction.

  I’m not saying I’ve been involved in anything that glamorous. I mostly handle insurance work. But I make a good living, and the reason is that I have a highly organized mind and an eye for detail, which is how I know there was no fucking way Taylor was offside.

  After the game, I confronted the ref. Donna was tugging on my sleeve, telling me not to embarrass Taylor. Like THAT was the issue, embarrassing Taylor, when the issue was that this asshole is out there making a complete mockery of the girls ten-and-under league championship. Which is what I told him to his face, and you know what he said? He said—and this should give you an idea of the mindset I was dealing with—“I’m sorry you feel that way, but she definitely looked offside to me.”

  Asshole.

  So I told him that she probably looked offside to Ray Charles and Little Stevie Wonder, too, but anybody with working eyeballs could see she wasn’t.

  That was when Taylor started tugging on my other sleeve, saying, “Dad, forget about it.” This is something I need to work on with her. As a player, she has all the physical tools, but she doesn’t have the fire, the fight you want to see. If she doesn’t turn that around, she’s going to get killed when she moves up to the twelve-and-under division. Those girls will rip your throat out.

  So anyway, we left. The last thing I saw was the asshole ref talking to some parents, and they were smiling. Parents from our side, I’m talking about. Smiling.

  You wonder what has happened to this nation.
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br />   As you can imagine, I was in a pretty bad mood when we got home, so I ate some lasagna in the media room and watched Silence of the Lambs, and I felt a little better. I was still thinking about writing an email to the league, using my official stationery, Jeffrey A. Peckerman, C.F.P., so these people would know who they were dealing with. The only thing I was second-guessing myself about was that I mentioned both Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder. It wasn’t racist. I was just going for blind guys, and in the heat of the moment no white blind guys came to mind. There don’t seem to be that many famous ones. In a way, you could argue that what I said was actually kind of a tribute to African-Americans, but you just know the asshole ref would be the kind to twist things around. So I finally decided, reluctantly, that I wasn’t going to pursue the matter any further.

  And I probably wouldn’t have, except for Oprah. She has this thing where she announces that everybody should read a certain book, and her zombie army of women followers go out and buy millions of copies of it. One of them is my wife, who belongs to a group of Oprah women who all buy the book and then meet in somebody’s house to drink wine and discuss it, although mostly they drink wine because they haven’t read the actual book.

  So anyway, the next day I was driving home, coming from an inspection of an eighteen-unit apartment building whose landlord had hired me to find out which of his tenants was flushing metal balls down the toilet that were totally screwing up the plumbing. So far I had determined that the balls were from a game called Pétanque, which was invented by the French, so my next step in the investigation was to find out if any of the tenants were either French or known to exhibit French behavior such as scarves.

  But the point is, I was driving home by an unusual route that took me near the George Washington Bridge, and Donna called my cell to tell me the Oprah zombie group was meeting at our house that night and could I stop and pick up some wine. I was just telling her that I was in an unfamiliar area and didn’t know where a liquor store was, when I happened to glance to my right and see a strip mall with a sign listing the stores, including one called The Wine Shop.