You should know that Louie seemed to be his old self. He took his usual sphere shape and looked the same except perhaps a little bit smaller. He complained to me after having lost several cubic inches that he’d lost a lot of his intelligence. His IQ was down to 660,777. I figure here on Earth that he would still get by.
I was expecting Louie and Molière to try and keep my and Lucas’s identities secret from Karen, but they didn’t. In fact, they seemed to accept Karen as being as trustworthy as yours truly. Which annoyed me a bit. I’d proven myself a friend of the FFs a hundred times, but as far as I could see this gal had done nothing except let Molière play some tricks with her in the water. And not only did they tell her up front who Lucas and I were, but when they began telling me about some of the things FFs were up to around the world and the sorts of games they were playing, they let Karen listen too. Pretty lousy spy-craft it seemed to me. And even worse for my ego.
After a couple of hours of motoring we were all sitting—if FFs can be said to sit—in the aft section of the Carver. There was no one at the helm since we had the boat on automatic pilot. I didn’t bother to hop up every minute or so to make sure we weren’t about to impale ourselves on an oil tanker, because I sensed that Louie and Molière had radar that looked right through the Carver’s superstructure and could probably pick up a toy rubber duck twenty miles away. Our big cruiser, named Who Cares?, zoomed along at thirty knots west-northwest without a human hand touching her wheel. The boat was planing, something old Vagabond probably did as a youngster but hadn’t done more than once since I’d owned her.
The problem was that though I love being on a boat out on the ocean, I like to hear the water splashing around the boat, hear the seagulls crying, see what’s happening around me. At anchor or hove this is possible. Even at fourteen knots—Vagabond’s supreme speed—it was possible. But at thirty or forty knots you could only concentrate on what was right in front of you, and that was at best a distant blur of sea. Speed may be fine for some things, but out on the water it’s a waste.
Anyway, me, Lucas, Karen, and the three FFs were all on the cushioned seats, sometimes bouncing a bit as Who Cares? surged from one wave to the next. Louie-Twoie was throwing himself from one side of the cockpit to the other—like a puppy dashing senselessly back and forth in a living room. Occasionally, Lucas would leap up to intercept him, usually missing. It was late afternoon and I was having my first drink.
Louie was on his third drink, and I’m afraid I couldn’t help getting annoyed every time he poured a mug of bourbon over his top. I couldn’t see that he was actually enjoying it or that booze ever had the slightest effect on him, so it seemed to me a waste. Still, the guy had just given me several million dollars in various accounts, so I was a little reluctant to complain that he was wasting four or five bucks worth of my booze.
That’s when Louie and Molière began to talk to us in more detail about what they were up to. Louie’d always told me that he really enjoyed human beings, found us the most interesting creatures he’d come across since the one-legged Pepperjacks he’d visited two years before—creatures that were brainy as hell but spent most all their time trying to mate with each other and create little Pepperjacks that they would pawn off on the mothers. Apparently they were creatures with a lot of pleasure centers. Pepperjacks were brainy and stupid, he said, just like humans.
I knew Louie seemed to see our planet as a huge garden that had been doing fine until one of the plants, namely humans, started getting bigger and bigger and killing off or making life miserable for a lot of the other animals and plants—including ourselves. He thought we were a bit insane: working day after day to make life miserable for ourselves and a lot of the rest of life on Earth.
“Your civilization is organized around two purposes,” says Louie that afternoon. “Greed and power—which are completely inconsistent with human happiness.
“Think about it: you could be organizing your society so that humans try to live in harmony with each other and with the creatures around you. I’ve been to three or four societies in other universes that do that. You could organize your society around the purpose of making sure that all humans have what they need in terms of food and shelter. Most societies in other universes do that. Instead you in America have created a society where you encourage everyone to want to have more money and more things and more power, and to not give a damn about other people, especially people in the rest of the world. And only rarely to give a damn about all the other creatures and plants on Earth.”
“It’s insanity,” says Molière. “Almost all of the people who buy into the system are doomed to feel themselves losers. The only happy people are the winners.”
“Hey,” says I. “I’m now a millionaire. I must be a winner! I must be happy!”
“You were happy long before we came along,” says Louie.
“But your civilization is insane,” says Molière, pouring a glass of water over his head (he’s a teetotaler). “Western therapists can’t cure this since therapists are as insane as everyone else. Insanity is built into your system.”
“And worst of all,” says Louie, “unless someone or something intervenes, humans are doomed. You can’t change your system because the people who control it have no interest in changing it. And they’ve got the power to prevent everyone else from even tinkering with it a bit, much less throwing it over and trying some new purposes, some new systems. Your civilization has become a cancer, eating away at the health of your planet.”
Molière and Louie suddenly bounced off each other and back to their same places.
“That’s why we’re interested in playing games that kill off some of the cancerous cells,” says Molière, pouring himself another drink. “Games that end the dictatorships that create the cancer cells.”
“What dictatorship?” says I. “We had a president for eight years who wasn’t able to do a damn thing. He couldn’t even dictate to Congress, much less the American people. And this president is just as helpless.”
“Dictatorships, not a dictator,” says Molière. “All the power in the country lies with dictators, and there are dozens of these dictators, who together run the country for their collective benefit.”
“Who are these guys?” says I.
“They’re the men who run your corporations,” says Louie, “and your corporations control most all of the economic and political life of your country—they run the world.”
“And corporations are dictatorships,” Molière says. “All the power is at the top. Does an employee get to have any say at all on the policies of the corporation? Do the customers? Governments are supposed to have a say, but in the last few decades corporations have convinced most people that government regulations are harmful to the economy. They’ve made the regulatory agencies so weak and so packed with people indirectly being paid by the corporations they’re supposed to regulate, that governments have almost no real control.”
“Here comes a boat,” says LT.
Karen and I stood up to see what was approaching, but the FFs stayed where they were, probably because they didn’t need a line of sight to “see” the boat that was approaching. I soon saw it was a big Coast Guard cutter. Maybe we hadn’t escaped the Caymans and the CIA after all.
TWENTY-FIVE
(From Billy Morton’s MY FRIEND LOUIE, pp. 180–187)
We’d wondered whether the CIA would think we might try to leave the Caymans by sea, but when nothing had happened in the first four hours we’d gotten cocky. Thought we could sit in the cockpit and discuss the nature of the universes.
“Turn the boat toward them,” says Louie as he and Molière disappeared below.
At the helm, I took her off autopilot, slowed her a bit, and turned her in an arc toward the approaching Coast Guard.
Louie and Molière emerged from the cabin each dragging four of the waterproof bags they’d stashed our cash in.
“Stay here,” Louie says to Louie-Twoie, and then bounced over the coa
ming and into the sea. Molière followed—they had both taken the waterproof bags with them. LT morphed into a small rat and scurried below.
As we neared the Coast Guard cutter, I slowed the boat. They slowed too, and soon the boats were tied alongside each other. In another minute the Coast Guard chief honcho stood in front of me, a nice-looking guy, though a bit overweight. Behind him, also aboard Who Cares?, were two crew, each with holstered guns.
Lucas sat on the port side glaring at the Coast Guard honcho. Like his old man he has a tendency to glare at most authorities. Karen stood beside me glaring too.
“Are you carrying any arms, contraband, or more than ten thousand dollars in cash?” asks the chief honcho.
“Not any more,” says I. “Threw all that stuff overboard a half hour ago. But if you find any leftover cash, let me know. I can use some.”
“Do you have the right to board this boat without a warrant?” asks Karen.
“Can I see some identification and the title to the boat?” asks the officer, ignoring Karen.
“Sure,” says I. “I’m Jose Rodriguez and this is Karen Bell. The boat title is below.”
“I want to see passports too,” says the officer. “And search your boat.”
“Great,” says I. “Let us know what you find. We threw all the corpses overboard yesterday.”
The honcho gave me a scowling look and then watched his two men follow Karen into the main cabin.
After Karen had found our passports and the boat’s title, the Coast Guard captain looked them over, then gave all three documents to one of his crewmen. The guy then hopped from one boat to the other and disappeared into the main cabin of the Coast Guard cutter. How I envied him his ability to hop. I haven’t hopped in years.
The captain went to the stairs leading into our main cabin, looked in, and then went below.
“Is he going to arrest us?” asks Lucas.
“Probably not,” says I.
“Was it legal for them to search our boat like that?” asks Karen.
“Anything’s legal if you’ve got the weapons,” says I.
“Where do you think Louie and Molière went?” Lucas whispers.
“Some day we’ll find out,” says I. “I hope.”
As I sat down, Karen went over to port and began chatting up a young guy who looked, uniform or no uniform, even younger than the kid reporter. With Karen being friendly, his face glowed like he’d just won a lottery.
About three minutes later the captain emerges from our main cabin.
“You’ve got rats,” he says.
“Yep,” says I. “Damn thing’s been aboard since I bought her.”
“And you’re traveling rather light, aren’t you?” he says.
“Always travel light,” says I. “Don’t like material possessions.”
“Like this little two-hundred-grand cruiser,” says the captain.
The young kid who’d taken our documents emerged from the Coast Guard cutter cabin and hopped back onto our boat. He gave our passports and boat title to the captain along with a two-page computer printout.
The captain handed me back the documents and went over and sat down and began reading the printout.
“You are Jose Rodriguez?” he asks, finally looking up.
“You got it,” I says. “Joe himself in the flesh.”
“You don’t speak with a Spanish accent.”
“I dropped it after I became an American citizen,” says I.
“You have a record as a drug dealer spanning forty years.”
“Yep. Outstanding record. Retired now though. Two years ago. Straight as an arrow ever since.”
“And where are you going with this high-powered boat?” he asks.
“Fishing,” says I.
“Where? Where’s your next port of call?”
“Not sure. Planning to go for marlin off the north coast of Cuba.”
“I should warn you the Cubans can confiscate an American boat that enters their territorial waters without proper visas.”
“Really? Will they take good care of it?”
“And what are you doing aboard this boat, Miss… Bell?”
“I bait the hooks,” says Karen.
I was beginning to like her.
He stared at her a long time. Then looked down at his printout.
“You’re an acrobat?”
“Part-time,” says Karen. “Mostly I bait hooks.”
“Why are you feeding me this bullshit, Miss Bell?”
“Not her fault, Captain,” says I. “She catches it from me.”
“Why are you both feeding me this bullshit? What the fuck are you two doing off the west end of Cuba with one fishing pole that would probably break in two if it hooked a minnow, two lures, and not even a fishing chair?”
Karen and I look at each other.
“We’re having an affair,” she announces. “And we don’t want anyone to know.”
Yeah. Right. Even I couldn’t believe that one.
“And where is your actual destination?” the Coast Guard asks.
“Miami. Our next port of call is Miami.”
“And what do you plan to do there?”
“Make mad passionate love,” says Karen.
She could use a new scriptwriter.
The Coast Guard looks at her, then at me, and sighs. I figure he’s trying to decide which is more likely, that she’s a professional hook baiter or that we could make mad passionate love.
“You’re presently not wanted by any law enforcement agency, Rodriguez, so though this whole business smells fishier than a gutted marlin, I have nothing to cite you for except improper placement of life preservers. My bosun will write out a ticket.
“As for you, Miss Bell, you also have no outstanding warrants. The only thing I might charge you with is lying, but in the United States that’s never been a crime.”
He stood up. He looked at Karen and he looked at me.
“I don’t suppose you have any hidden Proteans aboard,” he says neutrally.
“We had a whole boatful,” says I, “but they got sea sick and ordered a spaceship to come pick them up. Didn’t even thank us for the boat ride.”
The Coast Guard guy just stares at me.
“Some day drop me a line and let me know what you were up to today,” he says quietly and there’s even a hint of a smile. “Because I sure as hell can’t make head nor tail of a boat with nothing on it but an old bullshitter and a young bullshitter, and the boy you’ve never introduced me to who spends all his time glaring at me. No dope, no money, absolutely nothing suspicious except that nothing makes any sense, which makes everything suspicious.”
“Give me your card,” says I, “and I promise to write. You won’t believe what I tell you, but it’ll make a great story to tell your kids.”
It took him a second or two, but he soon realizes that I’m serious.
“I’d appreciate that,” he says. And he reaches into his pants, pulls out a wallet and then from it a card. He hands it to me. “Kelly McGuire” says the card. “Captain, US Coast Guard.”
I offered him my hand.
“I’ll get you the story,” I says as we shake. “If I live long enough.”
“You do that. Let’s go, boys,” he adds to his two men.
“And thanks, Captain,” says I. “You’re a decent guy. Sorry we can’t tell our story yet.”
“I am too,” he says and is over the coaming and back aboard his boat.
ITEM IN THE NEWS
A FEW MORE DEFINITIONS FROM THE NEW PROTEAN DICTIONARY OF AMERICAN USAGE
ADVERTISING: The center of modern civilization, now with a new formula and fifty percent off. It enables humans to replace the old excrement they didn’t need with new excrement they don’t need.
BLACK LIVES MATTER: A movement among black Americans to get white Americans to change their minds on the subject of whether skin pigmentation ought to affect the constitutional right not to be killed for offenses such as running aw
ay, jaywalking, and selling illegal cigarettes.
BUDDHISM: A human institution based on the notion that human institutions are always a source of suffering. Un-American.
CAPITALISM: That economic arrangement whereby corporations and the extremely wealthy arrange the system so that they control the media, the politicians, and all branches of the government, and thereby guarantee that the bank accounts of the wealthy, by the wealthy, and for the wealthy shall not perish from the earth.
COMPROMISE: A quaint method of political interaction recently made archaic by the Republican Party.
DEATH: Life’s transition to a less active state. Considered by most of Earth’s life forms to be as natural and agreeable as birth, but perceived by humans to be a fate worse than death.
GAZA: An open-air penal colony on the Mediterranean where most all are serving life sentences, and prison riots against the wardens are punished severely.
HUMAN-INDUCED CLIMATE CHANGE: An ongoing process denied by many Americans because they know that God alone controls the weather, and accepted by most other Americans with a bored shrug.
IMPERIALISM: That process by which wealthy Western nations for three centuries dominated, terrorized, and impoverished much of the rest of the world. Not mentioned in American dictionaries.
LOVE: That feeling of joy and oneness that transports a human being from his or her usual sad illusions to a state of wonderful illusions.
MEN: The dominant group among humans. Major cultural error.
MILITARY DRONES: A weapon developed to kill people in far away lands that permits the killers not to miss karaoke night at their favorite bar.
MORAL SYSTEMS: Humankind’s effort to control the natural.
MUSIC and DANCE: Humankind’s most wonderful inventions.
NETWORK NIGHTLY NEWS: A half-hour TV program during which lengthy and important commercials are interrupted by occasional discussions of trivial recent events.
RACIAL PREJUDICE: The human attitude of members of a ruling race toward those they dominate and oppress.
RICH MAN: It is harder for a rich man to get into heaven than a camel through the eye of a needle—but the rich man snickers: he can buy heaven, and shrink camels.