Last God Standing (23 page)

(LC)
“I’ve been learning to walk again, which explains the cane. When I was a kid I used to fantasize about being one of those pimps, the guys who strut around Salt Lake City with those Jackal-headed walking sticks, which explains my new pimp stroll. Last night I got so carried away with it that I tried to talk my wife into dressing up like a hooker, which explains the two black eyes.”

< Audience laughs >

(LC)
“You know you take a lot of things for granted when you have your health, silly things like flowers, friends… dry underwear…”

(Peta)
“Hi Hooooo!”

(LC)
“Yeah it’s good to be back. Don’t get me wrong… I could use another six months of silence and mental downtime, but what would that leave for the President?”

(Peta)
“Hi Hooooo!”

(LC)
“My bandleader: Peta Nocona, ladies and gentlemen. ‘The Commanche Camper’. Give him a hand.”

(Peta)
“Heigh ahhhh Hooo ahhh!”

<
Audience chants
“Heigh–ahoooaahhh!” >

(LC)
“Peta… what in the hells are you doing?”

(Peta)
“While you were recuperating I decided to try a new catchphrase, LC – something that celebrates my indigenous heritage and the heritage of our founding fathers.”

(LC)
“That’s ridiculous.”

(Peta)
“Hey, you could drop dead any minute, so what the hell?”

(LC)
“Thanks. My loyal sidekick, ladies and gentlemen.”

< Audience applauds >

(Peta)
“I say it’s time to inject some ‘Big Medicine’ into this show. Heigh aahh hoooaaa!”

(LC)
“Just don’t do a raindance. Then I really will die.”

(Peta)
“And one, two, one-two-three-and…”

<
Band plays tom toms/raindance music and rimshot. Audience laughs >

(LC)
“Oh Peta?”

(Peta)
“Yes, O Great Brown Bear Who Signs Tiny Paycheck?”

(LC)
“How do you say ‘you’re fired’ in Commanche?”

(Peta)
“You’re fired.”

< Audience laughs and applauds >

LC threw himself into his car and locked the doors a second before the crazy-haired woman plastered her face against his window. She hammered at the other side of the bulletproof glass with both fists.

“I just want to talk! We can go to my place! No one has to know!”

LC waved and smiled at the crazy woman. Behind her, three security guards were hustling toward his car, but these days he had to watch himself in public. With the increased scrutiny from the fans, and the moths, the papparazi, waiting for him to collapse on camera, he felt constantly pressured to manage his image.

“You’re out of phase!” the crazy woman hissed. “You must be resynchronized! Come with me if you want to live!”

The security wardens tackled her.

“I’m a priestess! I have a cable show!”

Hans, the big, blond Captain of Security for ACC Studios, mouthed an apology to LC over his shoulder. LC waved back: no problem. He was able to hold it all back until Hans hustled the crazy woman into the gatehouse. Then he laid his head against the driver’s headrest and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Breathe.”

He counted slowly, trying to slow his thundering heartbeat, remembering his physical therapy sessions.

Panic attacks are perfectly normal, LC. People who’ve survived near death experiences sometimes suffer from a kind of post-traumatic stress disorder.

He opened his eyes. For a moment he felt the terrible disorientation that had been whispering at the edges of his awareness since he’d checked out of the hospital, the feeling that he was standing at the lip of a precipice, one step away from plunging over that edge into an unfathomable darkness. He reached up to the sun visor over his head, flipped it down and checked his reflection in the small mirror. Other than the deep pits under his eyes, he looked normal.

“This is wrong.”

In the two months since “The Miraculous Return From The Great Beyond”, he had begun talking to himself. Sometimes, in his office or in the car, or while walking Domino at the dog park, he would quiz himself, hoping to uncover answers to the questions that plagued him. Sometimes he did it simply to hear another voice in his head, trying to counter a feeling of abandonment so intense that he often found himself near tears.

“What the hell’s wrong with you, man? You’ve got three beautiful kids, the number one late night show on the planet, and a wife who…”

Surabhi.

“Stop it! Danielle loves you. She took you back didn’t she?”

He was answered only by the howling silence.

“You came back though, didn’t you? The bastards tried, but they blew it… big time, baby.”

Who “the bastards” were, or why they were trying to kill him, remained a mystery. But he was certain that there were forces out there, forces aligned against him; maybe someone at the network, or some asshole he’d screwed over on his way to the top. He didn’t know who “they” were, but he knew they were gunning for him. Somehow, he had slipped through their nets, thrown the hounds off his scent. He had survived lackluster reviews for the last three seasons, ratings lulls that would have sunk other talk shows, and even that thing with the intern three years ago. That had been a real cobra in his blanket. It had taken every persuasive weapon he could muster to keep Danielle on board after the
National Bee
broke the story about the affair – plus sizable payoffs to all parties involved. But he’d moved on. Now he had beaten a brain tumor.

But the silence was unbearable.

The reassuring voice he remembered was gone, flushed away with the tumor. But how could he miss something that had never existed?

“Go home, idiot. Go see the kids, hug Danielle. Maybe get Martika to babysit and go check out that new Thai place on Michigan Avenue.”

“Sun’s Eye Boulevard,” the face in the mirror said. “The Thai place is on Sun’s Eye.”

“No, man. It’s on Michigan Avenue, right around the corner from Herb’s downtown location.”

“Michigan Avenue is in Chicago,” his reflection said. “You live in the Angels. And Cooper Automotive went out of business.”

“The Angels,” LC said. “Of course. I live in
’Pyi ’nte niaggeloc
.”

It was the word he’d learned in school, spoken in the tongue he’d spoken all his life. But why did it sound so strange to him now? He punched the car into Drive and pulled out of his parking space. He voice-activated the music function through the car’s artificial sentience interface. The latest electronic mantra filtered through the cabin, the ringing beat of the riq; the gentle twang of the oud; the shuttered breath of the nay: music sometimes kept the terrible silence at bay.

The thump on his window startled him.

“You alright, LC?”

It was old Chenzira Nkuku, the security warden responsible for the studio’s main entrance.

LC lowered his window. “Yeah, Chet. Just meditating before I head home.”

“Sorry to startle you, LC. When I saw you sittin’ here…”

“Thanks, Chet.”

“You know… I’m such a big fan of the show…”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, no problem, LC. Blessings of the Gods to ya.”

“And to you. Ahhh Chet?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m just a little fuzzy at the moment. Could you tell me… what street is that?”

The old security warden turned and scowled at the busy street just beyond the main gate. Then he turned back, a wary smile on his face. “Why… that’s Makatawi Boulevard!”

“Maka…?”

“Makatawi Boulevard. You know, after the chief.”

“The ahhh… the chief?”

“The Seminole chief? Makatawi-Mishikaka?”

Chet chuckled and wagged his forefinger. “You forgetting your history, LC? Ol’ Maka united the Tribes against the Colonials. Everybody remembers ol’ Chief Big Chest.”

And suddenly, LC did remember the story of MakatawiMishikaka, known to the rest of the world as Black Hawk, who, working in tandem with allies from the Indo-Egyptian Empire, had successfully repelled the first European Federation war parties in 1499. His actions led to the Federation’s recognition of the United Territories of Anowarkowa and her diverse peoples as a sovereign nation. After centuries of lucrative trade with the Europeans, the mostly friendly nations of the African continent and the recognition of shared ancestry with the Pacific Rim nations and indeed with much of Asia, the countries of the North, Central and South Anorwarkowan partitions all looked to Black Hawk as the one of their most revered Founding Fathers.

“Say,” Chet Nkuku said warily, his eyes scanning the interior of LC’s car. “You’re not doin’ one of your comedy bits are you? You got a camera hidden inside here somewhere? You guys pullin’ ol’ Chenzira’s nose?”

LC smiled, despite the cold unease unfolding in the pit of his stomach. There was something wrong with Chet. No… that wasn’t quite right. It was something about the way the old warden spoke.

“See you tomorrow, Chet.”

“That’s a good one,” Chet chuckled. “‘What street is this?’ LC, you’re a damn panic!”

LC voice keyed the BMW’s autonav function.

“Home.”

As the BMW took control and pulled smoothly onto Makatawi Boulevard, LC focused on controlling the panic.

“Call Philip Chapman,” he said to the car’s computer. “Urgent.”

LC had become confused by the name he saw on the street sign that hung over the Makatawi entrance to Akhet Cormorant-Charvaka Studios. To his eye, the sign was printed in a foreign language, the same language that Chet Nkuku was speaking; the language that adorned all the street signs and storefront windows and fast food restaurant marquees he passed along his route home. It was the language LC had been speaking in but not thinking in since waking up in the hospital.

It was Coptic, the universal language of the Indo-Egyptian Empire. It was LC’s first language; the first language of his friends, his family and of nearly everyone he knew. But since waking up from his coma he’d been thinking, dreaming, in a different language.

“My name is Lando Kalel Cooper,” he breathed. “I’m married to Danielle Ahmet Cooper. I am fifty-three years old and I live in the city of House of Angels…”

No. My name is Lando Calrissian Darnell Cooper. I am twenty-nine years old. I’m single…

Surabhi… she needs me…

“No. I’m the host of the number one late night talk-show on the Ten networks.”

I live in Chicago.

“No! I live in the Chumash-Egyptian sister city of House of Angels. I have three children: my oldest son Haru; my daughter, Oheo – it’s an Iroquois name, it means Beautiful; my youngest son is Herbert-Hasani.”

The carphone chirped, “Call from Doctor Philip Chapman.”

“Phil, thank the Gods.”

“You called during dinner. I hope the sheets in your guestroom are clean.”

They’d been working together for nearly three years, starting after the intern fiasco, during which Danielle had insisted LC seek individual counseling. Despite his European origins, the British psychiatrist had become as much a confidante as a therapist.

“Sorry,” LC said. “I’m having a moment.”

“A bad one, I gather.”

“I’m thinking in a foreign language and remembering things that never happened.”

“Things like what?”

“Places… names. I feel like I’m… not myself.”

“Who do you think you are?”

“Someone else.”

“Anyone interesting?”

“I’m serious, Philip.”

“So am I. In our sessions you’ve expressed a feeling of being alienated from your own life, disconnection from the people and things that should have the greatest meaning to you. My question to you now – in the moments before my wife chucks my dinner down the disposal – is… why?”

“I don’t know why,” LC snapped. “Isn’t that why I pay you? To tell me why I’m crazy?”

“LC, we’ve talked about false beliefs, delusions. Most delusions reveal or illuminate some inner conflict, usually some frightening or unpleasant circumstance which we refuse to consciously acknowledge because its presence forces us to consider potentially difficult choices about our lives. This denial requires us to create a false reality in order to justify our dependence on maintaining the status quo, usually in order to preserve some untenable but deeply entrenched belief about ourselves. These beliefs are always self-serving, and always destructive in the end. They allow us a kind of emotional placebo, sort of, ‘Hey, if I don’t look at the real problem because I’m too emotionally distracted by my delusionary world, then I can’t be held responsible for dealing with it’. Meanwhile, your true needs are ignored. This causes more anger and frustration, which in turn necessitate more denial in order to protect the delusion. But the question I want you to ask yourself is: how do these delusions keep me from understanding what’s absolutely vital for me to achieve lasting happiness?”

“Wow. Do you have that stuff written down somewhere?”

“I’m very good. Three marriages and two divorces can’t be wrong.”

“I’m sorry about interrupting your dinner. I just needed to talk to someone.”

“Say no more. Are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine. Thanks, Phil. I’ll think about everything you said.”

“Please do. I’m very clever and I’m usually right.”

The carphone function chirped again, “Call from home.”

“I’ve got another call. See you Wednesday?”

“See me what? Oh. That’s very funny.”

“What’s funny?”

“You just said, ‘See you Wednesday.’”

“Call from… home.”

“Why is that funny?”

“‘Wednesday’, from the Middle English, wednes dei, or as derived from the Old English, Wodendaeg: the day named after the Scandinavian god, Woden. You’re thinking in English. That’s very interesting.”

“Call from… HOME. URGENT.”

“Go on,” the Englishman sighed. “I’ll see you on ‘Wednesday’.”

LC voice keyed the Homelink function. The lights in the BMW dimmed as the front windshield switched to playback mode and Herbert-Hasani’s face filled the windshield.

“Where are you, Daddy? Mommy wants to know so she can start making dinner.”

They’d named HH after Lando’s dead father to honor his memory. But sometimes such synchronicities were hard to bear, especially when LC was staring them in the face. From nearly the moment he was born it was clear to everyone involved that Herbert-Hasani bore a startling resemblance to his long dead grandfather.

“Daddy, are you crying?”

“No, Hasa. Just got a little dust in my eye.”

“You look like you’re crying. Daddy?”

“Yes, son?”

“Are you and Mommy getting a divorce?”

“Why do you ask?”

HerbertHasani shrugged, his eyes flickering away from the smarthouse commcamera in LC’s office. “Because Mommy told Aunt Ma’at that you’ve been acting weird since you woke up from your cola.”

“The word is coma, Hasa, and no, Mommy and I are not getting a divorce.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Hasa?”

“When people die like you did, do they come back cause they’re really flesh-sucking zombies, like in the movies?”

LC decided he’d definitely talk to House about letting the children screen too many horror movies. “No, Hasa. Sometimes people just… come back.”

“Why?”

“No one knows. Some people are just lucky, I guess.”

“Lucky how?”

“Because they get a second chance to show the people they love how much they love them. Right?”

“I guess so. Daddy?”

“Yes, Hasa.”

“Are you going to die again?”

LC’s “death” was as much a mystery to his doctors as it remained to his youngest son. Despite heroic efforts by Aziz and the attending anesthesiologist, LC had gone into cardiac arrest, his brainwave activity flatlined. The crash team had just applied the “Hands of Thoth” and were preparing to administer a second jolt of electrical stimulus to jumpstart LC’s heart, when he’d gasped, once.

Days later, while LC lay in his private suite trying to remember who he was, Doctor Aziz, his mother and even Flaunt had tried to make him understand how miraculous his resuscitation was.

“You were dead as old camel crap,” Flaunt reminded him, one afternoon while Barbara was at temple. “Clinically deceased, my man. No heartbeat, no pulse and less brain activity than when you were a snotnosed teenager.”

Flaunt had slapped him, hard, on the shoulder, sending shocks of pain through his now healthy skull. “You’re a godhammered medical miracle!”

“Daddy? What’s wrong?”