1999 (4 page)

“IMAGINE U COULD RID THE EARTH,”
Debbie sang along to the radio, easing her thumb in and out of the metal loop of the grenade's detonator, “of anyone U choose. Which ones would U need the most? And which ones would U lose?”

PEOPLE. TWO WOMEN.
Just outside Minneapolis, leaning on the hood of a silver Audi in the parking lot of a party store, there they were: one big and one small. At first Sonya barely thought anything of it. But then her brain caught up:
People!

The Accord hit a patch of black ice, fishtailing as Sonya cranked the wheel this way and that, now spinning across the highway, now turned all the way around and facing north, toward Canada, now Mexico, now the Pacific Ocean, now the Atlantic – and finally, slowing, the car slid back across the highway and bumped up against a snowbank, and rested there, and was still. After a quick check – she was fine – leaving the engine idling and the car half in the ditch, Sonya plunged into the world and staggered toward the women.

They turned toward her, faces open. “My,” said the older, fat one, her look of worry mirrored on the face of the other one, a teenager in a hooded sweatshirt. They were eating Snickers bars and drinking Gatorade. Where should Sonya start? With her standard anti-
rant?

But it would have to wait: the matriarch was coming at her, arms out, hauling Sonya into her great duvet of a body. It actually felt sort of good there against and between and within her breasts; nothing said, nothing to say. And then she was released.

“I'm so happy you're okay. That looked very dangerous.” The big woman stroked Sonya's arm. “My name is Mrs. Mendelbaum. This is Esme. We've just met.”

The girl held up a Snickers and said, “Snickers?”

Had anything ever tasted so sweet and fake and good? And here was a Gatorade, that phosphorescent potion of synthetic magic. Sonya gulped down half the bottle. Who were these people? Hangover angels? She raised her eyebrows at Esme, who was clutching a little cardboard packet she'd clearly pilfered along with the candy bars – Tylenol, maybe, or something stronger.

The store in the service station appeared to have been looted, the door splintered as though body slammed until it gave. Beside the pumps rested a snowmobile with the bumper sticker
Live to Sled, Sled to Live
.

“That was my ride,” said Mrs. Mendelbaum. “We'll carpool.”

“So it's only us left?”

“Not sure, my dear. I expect anyone else is on their way to meet the gentleman on the radio. Won't it be wonderful, all those people?”

“Yeah,” began Sonya, finishing off the Gatorade, “about that.”

“Yes, love?”

Sonya looked into the woman's eyes, wide with hope; beside her Esme traced a semi-circle in the dirt, back and forth, with her toe, sneaking glances at Sonya and then at the ground, clutching the stolen meds in her hands as though they were the antidote to whatever had happened to the world.

“It's just –”

Sonya stopped. With a roar a cherry red sports car came barrelling down the highway, speeding past in a great plume of exhaust. It screeched to a halt about fifty yards along, then came whining back in high-speed reverse. While Sonya and Mrs. Mendelbaum and Esme stood gaping, their breath forming clouds in the frosty air, the driver eyed them through the open window.

“More friends!” shrieked Mrs. Mendelbaum. “Hello! Snickers!”

A figure in a cream-coloured cocktail dress stepped out of the car – very tall, very elegant – wrapped herself with a fur stole pulled from the back seat, and carefully tottered toward them in high heels. But before the ceremonial Snickers could be shared, the newcomer, billowing syrupy gusts of perfume, produced a deodorant-sized metal canister and menaced it at them, eyes narrowed behind lashes tarred with mascara.

“Is that,” began Mrs. Mendelbaum.

“A grenade yes and I'll fucking use it asshole,” screamed the woman, shaking the cylinder at them. “You think you're on your way to see him?”

“Ew,” sneered Sonya – but here was Esme, clutching her arm with one hand, stashing the little packet in the front -pocket of her sweatshirt with the other.

“On your knees bitches! Hands on your heads!”

Mrs. Mendelbaum wavered. “Will you blow us up?”

“Shut up. Debbie's in charge now. Got that?
Debbie
. On your knees!”

“Sure thing, Debbie,” Sonya said as she knelt, squeezing Esme's shoulder before she laced her fingers together over her scalp. As the snow stung through her jeans she realized that her headache was completely gone.

With the three women genuflecting before her, Debbie seemed unsure what came next. And before she could figure it out, a gravelly, dyspeptic rumbling interrupted from above – not thunder; this was longer, more sustained. Everyone looked up. The sky had gone a deeper grey as night descended, and from the cloud cover nosed a 767 or some such thing, maybe a mile away and a few hundred feet above the snowy farms and fields, wing tips blinking.

Mrs. Mendelbaum jumped to her feet. “We must be near the airport!” When she wasn't blown up – Debbie was staring slack-jawed at the plane – Esme and Sonya rose as well.

“Let's go,” said Debbie, making for the Corvette – and then paused: it was a two-seater. With a sigh, she gestured at the Audi, then Sonya. “We'll take that thing, I guess. You drive.”

With Mrs. Mendelbaum riding shotgun and Esme cowering in the back seat, Sonya followed Debbie's orders: “Left! Right! Straight! Now turn here!” And by the time the Audi peeled onto an off-ramp that ran parallel to the end of the runway, only a few dozen feet above them the plane – roaring, landing gear lowered – was angling at the earth.

“Stop here, everyone out,” said Debbie, so everyone filed across the highway where they stood in a line at the fence separating the road from the airport.

The plane's front wheels nuzzled the tarmac, bounced slightly, then nestled again and began to roll. Brakes screeching, the 767 tumbled down the runway toward the terminal, slowed gradually, then stopped.

“Excellent landing,” noted Mrs. Mendelbaum.

As the engines died down, the doors swung open and out flopped inflatable slides. One after the other, women appeared – one in a burka, another in a sari, and two slender figures in shimmering salwar kameez; here were the pastels of business casual, the great canvas frock of Bavarian peasant stock, a head wrap and dashiki, a young girl in a parka, a pasty, mincing lady in a Union Jack tracksuit – they all slid one by one to the tarmac until two dozen women clustered shivering together on the runway.

“People,” said Sonya.

“People,” agreed Mrs. Mendelbaum.

“Would you all please just
shut up
,” hissed Debbie.

Then at the open hatch of the plane appeared a final woman, waving, in an official-looking uniform and matching hat. She bowed. The crowd applauded.

“The pilot,” whispered Mrs. Mendelbaum to no one in particular.

This woman swan-dived down the slide and did a tricky flip to land on her feet, much to the delight of the other passengers. Debbie shook her head; beneath the stole her cocktail dress clung like a wet Kleenex to her body. She threaded the fingers of one hand, nail polish flaking, through the links in the fence; the other dangled at her side holding the grenade. Meanwhile, the pilot had stepped forward to address the group.

“Okay,” said Debbie, “we're going in.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Mrs. Mendelbaum.

“Climb the fence, Grandma.”

And so they did: Esme dropped easily to the other side, and then Mrs. Mendelbaum, snowpants and all, was hoisted up and over, tumbling into Esme's arms; next was Sonya, and lastly Debbie, who threw her stilettos to Mrs. Mendelbaum, tucked the grenade into her brassiere and climbed, barefoot and muttering – and then snagged her pantyhose at the top of the fence. The passengers noticed Debbie, like some stranded Yeti up there in her furs, and began waving and cheering encouragement.

Dropping to the airport side, Debbie collected her shoes and announced, “Okay, you're my hostages. Don't do anything stupid.”

“Stupid how?” asked Sonya.

“Just stupid. You run, everyone dies.”

“Gotcha.”

“WOMEN OF THE WORLD,
I'm sittin' here still waitin' 4 U 2 cum. I just wanna – ladies, I can't wait 2 B with U. But the bubble bath is goin' cold and I'm wonderin' where U R. If we R gonna make a life 2gether we gotta start it soon. It all depends on us. It's time. Cum 2 me. Please. I'm just feelin' so alone.”

“MY NAME IS DEBBIE.
I've been an Artist-Formerly-Known-as-Prince fan since I was twelve years old. I've watched
Purple Rain
over a hundred times. I own every album on vinyl
and
CD and I have concert videos none of you have probably even heard of. So if there's anyone here who thinks they're a better person than me to go to Paisley Park then you better stand up and say something now.”

No one moved; the grenade complicated things. All the women sat unspeaking in the orange vinyl chairs of the airport lounge. Debbie stood wide-legged by the Help Desk, the run in her stocking a thin pink fissure from ankle to inner thigh. At her feet, on their knees once again, were Esme, Sonya, and Mrs. Mendelbaum.

“Yeah, I didn't think so. So what's going to happen is that I'm going to take these three with me. And if I get a whiff that any of you are trying to follow us I
will
blow everyone up.” She juggled the grenade from one hand to the other. “The old lady first.”