Magnificent Vibration (15 page)

We’re all holding our breath as our little toy car bounces to a stop as well. Great gouts of black smoke are pouring from the stricken craft and chaos is everywhere. A yellow evacuation slide suddenly pops open from a lower rear door on the whale-like fuselage of the destroyed airliner and we watch transfixed as a single person jumps into it and glides to relative safety—then starts running in our direction.

“I think we maybe ought to back up some,” says Lexington Vargas with characteristic understatement.

But the escaping figure is passing stationary cars between our vulnerable little vehicle and the giant plane and looks to be heading directly toward us. My first thought is that it’s a woman with long black hair but the running motion and general outline are masculine. He stops at our car, yanks open the rear door, and squeezes in beside Lexington Vargas amid grunts and groans from the latter.

“We would be wise to leave the area,” suggests the hitchhiker with Lexington Vargas–like restraint, and I momentarily catch sight of his extremely beautiful and completely undamaged, coffee-colored face. I’m thinking this is one lucky dude. I’m also wondering why more passengers aren’t exiting the wreckage, but I get my answer as a violent fireball explodes out of the open rear door of the Airbus, windows pop from the heat, and flames begin to lick the outside of the plane’s now-boiling skin. Anticipating what may come next, I slam the car into reverse and bang right into the front end of a stationary Mercedes. This is no time to exchange numbers and insurance information, so I spin the wheel and we begin racing the wrong way back along the
freeway we’ve just travelled. Other cars are turning to follow suit when it happens. I see the blinding flash of light reflected off every wet surface before me—followed by the thump/whump of the detonation as thousands of gallons of ridiculously flammable jet fuel ignite and turn the three-hundred-million-dollar aircraft and the five-hundred or so travelers into gore and cinders. Then comes the heat. I look in the rearview mirror at the inferno that was once an airplane. Cars between us are bursting into flames from the high radiant temperature as the mighty Kia makes good its escape with not much more to show for it than a slightly crumpled ass-end.

I whip out my phone and juggle it open to call 911, watching for oncoming traffic as I pilot the life-saving automobile up an open on-ramp to the comparative refuge of the side streets.

“There’s no need to do that,” says a calm voice from the back. “Everyone is calling. Believe me.”

Alice and I exchange a look. The stranger’s relaxed demeanor is disconcerting, to say the least. Like it’s no big deal that he seems to be
the only survivor of what could conceivably be the single worst airplane disaster in the history of aviation. Is he a terrorist? Did
he
bring the giant plane down?

“I am Merikh,” he says, extending a smooth, dark hand to Lexington Vargas. He has a very subtle, impossible-to-place accent. And a stunningly beautiful face. My first thought is that he’s black. But he has the long hair of an American Indian, lustrous and iron straight, and his eyes tilt to a slightly oriental aspect but are the pale blue/green of a shallow tropical sea. His full lips and skin are African but his strong nose is almost Middle Eastern. He looks like an amalgam of every fine feature of every known race. I almost can’t take my eyes off him, he is so physically fucking attractive, but I must steer this awe-inspiring, life-saving Korean auto and avoid any possible head-ons.

“What happened?” asks L.V., his voice slightly tremulous and clenched-sounding. He does not offer his hand in return.

“The plane crashed,” is this guy Merikh’s monumentally vapid answer.

“Did you do that?” L.V. quizzes, jabbing a fat thumb back at the fast-retreating firestorm. Obviously Lexington Vargas has had the same thought that I did.

“That is not my doing, no,” is the understated reply.

“There’s been a lot of terrorist crap going on lately,” L.V. continues, more to us than the new guy.

“Why did you run to our car?” Alice interrogates. Her voice sounds strained, too. We’re all in shock trying to deal with this horrifically unreal situation.

“It seemed like the correct course of action,” Merikh replies.

“You are one lucky mofo,” I respond, my voice too loud.

“I am, as you say, one lucky mofo, yes.”

“We should probably drop you at a police station or hospital somewhere.”

“I am uninjured and will contact the authorities tomorrow, thank you.” This guy is sounding weirder by the minute.

“I don’t know, dude, this is pretty strange you surviving that crash and not seeming wigged-out or in shock or anything. You don’t even have a mark on you. How is that possible? Why did that plane go down?” For some reason I tend to ramble in stressful situations.

“I had a feeling when we left Narita that the plane would crash,” Merikh answers, again oddly.

“Never heard of any country called Narita before. Sounds Middle Eastern.” Lexington Vargas either still thinks this guy’s a terrorist or, like me, he just never paid attention in geography.

“Narita is the Tokyo airport . . . in Japan,” Merikh explains.

“Okay, we know where Tokyo is,” I say, somewhat peeved, although in all fairness to the guy there was no condescension in his tone.

“What were you in Japan for?” Alice again takes over with a fine non sequitur.

“I was there for the tsunami event.”

“Doing what?” I can’t keep the slightly suspicious note out of my voice. We all sound like we don’t trust this very pretty man. And we don’t.

“Helping,” is all he says.

There is a moment of silence that I would like to suggest is for all the poor souls who have just lost their lives in the recent air-travel-related conflagration on the 101 freeway, but in truth we are all trying
to piece together a logical line of questioning for this very strange person. Merikh seems willing enough to provide answers, but somehow he’s not really telling us much.

He is handsome, though. It’s almost ridiculous how good-looking this dude is. I covetously check Alice, my sizzling-hot Christ-bride, for any signs of attraction. I blame Woody for this sudden switch of focus, but at least it’s proof that the trauma is starting to wear off.

“Honestly, I think we should hand him over to the cops, man. There’s gotta be a lot of questions people are gonna be asking that he can maybe answer.” This really sensible idea is voiced by none other than our once-perceived-as-a homicidal-maniac, Lexington Vargas.

“I agree, I think that’s the right bet,” I add. “It’s best for everyone if you just tell the police your story. And I don’t think we should be driving aimlessly around Hollywood with the only survivor of the world’s worst air disaster in our backseat.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Alice chimes in, and I believe that means she is not sexually attracted to this gorgeous but weird fellow. Damnit, Woody, shut up!!!

“LAPD’s on Wilcox,” says L.V.

“You sure?” I ask.

“Yeah . . . I’m sure,” and his tone suggests that Lexington Vargas has some possible skeletons in his very large closet. I make a left and head the great and powerful Kia toward Wilcox Avenue.

“That’s not a good idea,” suggests Merikh. No one responds.

There is more silence. This time it’s quite unnerving. Honestly, none of us know this guy from Adam. He could be capable of anything. The sooner we drop his ass off at a cop shop, the better we’ll all feel.

“You two seem to be reading the same book,” Merikh finally adds.
Both Alice and Lexington Vargas still have their copies of
Magnificent Vibration
on their laps.

“This has been a really weird night,” is what I answer. “And that book started it all.”

“Perhaps this will change your minds,” says Mr. Hot Stuff.

In the rearview mirror I see he is now reaching into his brown leather jacket. I know what’s coming.

“No way! You’ve got to be kidding me. Not
another
copy of that freaking book?” I exclaim.

But it is not. What it
is
, is a gun! And it’s big, too. And really, really old. This odd hitchhiker is threatening us with an eighteenth-century flintlock pistol that has a bore so big I think I could squeeze my head into the barrel’s opening. An ornate piece of antiquity with scrolling designs adorning its body and an elegant silver cap at the end of the handle. The gun looks like Jack Sparrow’s piece from
Pirates of the Caribbean
, the last movie I filled the void of a lonely night watching. In fact, it looks
astonishingly
like that screen weapon! Almost identical. WTF! But who’s looking at the details (other than a guy with ADD) when the business end is pointed in the general direction of your head. How could we have missed that he had this frigging cannon under his jacket? And how did he ever get the thing on a plane??

“Oh, Shit!!!” we all exclaim once again in unison.

He directs the large-bore opening at Lexington Vargas’s temple. If the thing went off, I would suspect a major part of L.V.’s cranium would be decorating the interior of the silver Kia.

“Wait, wait, what are you doing?” screams Alice, wigging.

This guy has now proven himself to be
completely
unpredictable.

“Take it easy, just . . . slow down a minute here,” I chime in, pretty
much as wigged as she is. Only Lexington Vargas seems unruffled. Has he had a gun pulled on him before? Perhaps.

“My suggestion is that you do not drive me to the police. Instead, we stick together,” says Weirdo.

“Why would we want to do that when you’re threatening us with a gun?” Me trying on my best hostage-negotiator voice.

“Because I am here to help,” he says.

“Help who?” Alice almost pleads.

“You,” he returns.

“Help
us
? To do what?” she asks.

There is a beat or two. Then the very pretty nutball finally answers: “I don’t know.”

I
’m still sitting on the floor by Josie’s bed when the dreaded but anticipated knock at the front door finally comes. I’ve had the most horrific visions while I’ve been waiting for this visit. Awful prison scenes have flashed though my masochistic mind. One where I am badly
manhandled, punched, kicked, poked, and coerced into becoming a fully tattooed, white-supremacist skinhead in order to survive in “the joint.” Another, I am a “bitch” married to the big, hairy fat guy with the most cigarettes. And yet more where I’m beaten and raped daily by inmates as the guards stand around, laugh, and shoot video. Supervised phone calls with my mother where I listen helplessly as she collapses into inconsolable tears. Even, God help me, conjugal visits from the Reverend’s now-ex-strumpet. It has been a terrifying hour and a half. I hear footsteps down the hall and I look up. My mother is standing there with two sheriffs; both of them appear to be armed to the teeth and ostensibly trigger-happy, ready to shoot first and plant a gun on me later. No point in making a break for it now, anyway.

“These gentlemen would like a word with you, Horatio.” She barely gets it out.

“Yes,” I answer. “Is it okay if we talk in the living room? I don’t want Josie to hear this.”

The serious men in brown seriously nod their serious assent. I rise, bend down, and kiss my girl good-bye. Then, like the condemned man I am, I walk out into the hallway. The sheriffs follow. I am so screwed.

We all take seats in the modest living room as a blond, blue-eyed, Caucasian Jesus looks on from a frame above the mantel with a mixture of sympathy and barely suppressed horror.

“May we speak with your son in private, Ma’am?” asks the older sheriff. “It’s completely up to you, of course, but there are some delicate matters to discuss and we feel he may be more forthcoming if it’s just us men.” He smiles conspiratorially at me. Uh-oh. Is he the “good” cop? I make a mental note that the younger one has now been identified, by a process of elimination, as the “bad” cop. They get ready to work me over, rolls of quarters in their meaty fists, phone books at the ready to wrap
around my ribs so the bruises won’t show. I almost want my mother here with me but the humiliation would be too much, so I say nothing as she sighs tragically, rises, and walks into the kitchen like the martyred saint she is.