39.1
Seven Months Later. Washington DC.
Rupert walks out of the DC Forest Park Piney Branch Rehab Center carrying his duffle bag. He scans the parking lot and sees Leenda get out of her red 2016 Hypersonic Prius. He thinks of the 70s time warp of Florida and is glad to be home.
Rehab hadn’t been nearly as difficult as Rupert had expected, and in fact, his withdrawal symptoms were so mild, the staff suspected he had faked his addiction and had him tested. Lo, his system was loaded with illicit drugs and he stayed the entire length of the program, doing a lot of gardening and art therapy.
Leenda runs to him and jumps into his arms as they wrap around her waist, lifting her off the ground. She covers his face with kisses and he’s laughing. And then:
“Ow, my boobs.”
And he puts her down. She grabs his hand and smiles up at him.
“Come on. Let’s go.”
* * *
As they drive, Rupert’s pocket vibrates. It takes him a moment to react, as he’s still not used to having a cell phone. It’s a text. He struggles with the buttons for a minute, still learning what does what, and then turns the music in the car down.
“Anteé?” He checks to see if Leenda might know who this is.
“Oh, yeah,” she says. “Mr. Anteé. Pyrdewy’s replacement. We haven’t met yet, but I’ve heard good things.”
After the shit went down and the D.E.A.T.H. work program was revealed to have been simply one of a number of ways for Pyrdewy to get his hands on some of that Obama federal long green—there was a huge national scandal, revealing about thirty other Federal Government rip-off schemes Pyrdewy had operating all over the country under the banner of the Spliphsonian. The whole thing was just a cover—the file he’d given Rupert had been complete bullshit. He had expected Rupert to catch onto the scheme and simply go along with it, write up an equally bullshit academic analysis to save his job, and that’d be that. Pyrdewy apparently thought Rupert was smarter than he was, as the expectation was just a few steps beyond what Rupert was going to put together. Pyrdewy was fired and is awaiting trial, which Rupert and Leenda plan on attending, for the sheer amusement of it. He’s expected to go away for a very long time. And he learned a valuable lesson: If you don’t want the stupid thing you’re doing to end up on the national news, don’t do it in Florida.
“So, what does it say?” Leenda asks.
“He . . . she?”
“He.”
“He is insisting that I come by the museum. Like, right now.”
They exchange a worried look. Rupert had lost his entropologist job there, what with his meth addiction and bumming around seedy areas of Sarasota for a bit after the incident. Leenda retained hers because she was merely an innocent bystander and was supposed to be down there anyway. She worked on the Spanish Point burial mound—the focus of which had changed—and took care of Rupert at his worst as they lived in a room at the Regency Courtyard Royal-Clarion Inn. His worst was the trade-off for his best—living reasonably anxiety-free—which Leenda had accepted. That said, she had noticed that Rupert whacked out on Smack wasn’t much different than his normal behavior, despite how utterly fucked up he insisted he was.
She was happy, though, when she bailed him out of jail that night after being locked in an unlocked closet for most of an evening and he announced he was going to get clean, and they would return to DC. His behavior would be unchanged, but surely having that shit in your system was not a good thing in the long run.
And sure, Junkies say they’re getting clean all the time, but Rupert didn’t lie to Leenda, and he hasn’t yet.
“The last time I got called in there, bad shit ensued,” Rupert said, shifting in his seat.
“Yes, but . . . it brought us together,” Leenda points out, trying to keep him optimistic.
Rupert produces a weak smile and squeezes her hand.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Leenda continues. “It’s not Pyrdewy. Maybe Anteé wants to consult with you on some entropic business.”
“Maybe,” Rupert says, “but I still don’t want to work there anymore. I’m done with entropy.”
Leenda shrugs.
“Well, let’s get it out of the way so we can go home,” she says. “I went to the Consolation Zone yesterday.” Leenda winks at Rupert.
Rupert is happy the Consolation Zone has locations across the country. They have the best deals on the highest quality products.
“By the way,” Leenda says, smiling. “Did I ever tell you what Pyrdewy means?”
“No. I’m sure I’d have remembered.”
“It’s a from a medieval phrase, ‘to play the Pyrdewy.’ It means ‘to fuck.’”
They both sit in contemplative silence—considering how Pyrdewy had certainly fucked himself—for the remainder of the drive.
* * *
Rupert and Leenda come out of the Mall exit of the Metrorail and walk. When they cross Madison Drive and head up 12thStreet, Rupert can’t keep his eyes off the building. He hasn’t been in it . . . or near it . . . since he left for Florida so long ago.
They round the corner on Constitution Ave and walk up the steps. Rupert’s chest tightens and he can’t pinpoint why. Nothing particularly terrible happened to him here. But as they come through the entrance, it hits him. The foyer is massive, cavernous, and the whole experience that took place beneath Spanish Point comes back to him, but instead of there being a massive freakazoid aloe plant-monster, there’s a giant elephant display.
He stops short, his hand going to his chest as if that can stop his heart from racing.
“It’s okay, Rupert. It’s only the museum.”
Leenda slips her arm around his waist and coaxes him forward, past the elephant, through the visitors milling about, into a hallway and to an elevator. After some deep breathing on the way up, they get off on the carpeted floor of the administrative area of the museum.
They knock on an office door and a young woman opens it. Still-fading scars cover her face, and her hair is black and shoulder length. Rupert stares at her for a moment.
“Angel.”
Leenda looks at him. “You know her?”
“Desk clerk at the Royal Courtyard Econo-Regency Chalet.”
Angel smiles and nods, then, her smile falters a little.
“You also saw me take a dump in a mop bucket,” Angel says.
Leenda looks incredulously at Rupert, who gives the same look to Angel.
“High school janitorial closet . . . ” Rupert clarifies.
Leenda nods.
“This is also. . . ” Rupert begins, but can’t finish.
“Shit Pail.” Leenda says flatly.
“I thought we’d be in there for days . . . wait, what?” Angel asks.
“You were only in there for a few hours,” Leenda parries.
Angel shrugs. “I was high as balls. Also, full disclosure: I had you bugged and tracked everywhere you went in Florida. The whole story you told me in the closet—I already knew it all. Sorry about that. But come in. Let me take you to the boss.”
“ . . . what?” Rupert protests, but they are ushered through another door and into an office with a wonderful view of, well, the Department of Justice. The office itself—Pyrdewy’s former office—has been restored to its former antique-y, musty, old time glory. A man stands with his back to them, looking out the window. As Angel leaves, he says: “Thank you, Angel.”
“Mr. Anty,” Rupert says.
“An-tee-ay.” The man turns around, smiling.
Both Rupert and Leenda gasp, frightened for a moment. Mr. Anteé is none other than Efunibi, cleaned up, wearing a very smart suit, and no longer the leathery, wrinkled, psychotic freakshow he was down in Florida. He also has a British accent, which Rupert would not have expected and feels it’s a bit of a swing too far to the other end of the spectrum—not offensive to one’s morality, but to one’s sense of place in the world.
However, Rupert is comforted by this, but then he remembers how Efunibi had left the scene and he’s on guard again. Mr. Anteé walks around and leans against his desk, on which Rupert now notices a black-thorned aloe plant in a decorative pot that he swears waved at him when they first came in. Rupert pulls Leenda close to him.
“No need for that, Rupert. But I’ve definitely got some ‘splainin to do.” Anteé slips into a Desi Arnaz, which, while still offensive to those who don’t know who that is, is still better than Tonto.
Mr. Anteé goes on to explain that, yes, everything that happened in Florida actually happened, and he apologizes for his sudden, and rather shocking departure, but he didn’t want to smash to bits on the cavern floor.
“Fine,” Rupert said, his arms still around Leenda, who isn’t arguing.
“Both of you, please, sit.” Mr. Anteé says. “It’s a long story. Coffee? Tea?”
“No.” Both Rupert and Leenda say together.
“Okay . . . ” Mr. Anteé says, takes a deep breath, and begins: “Crack Planet? Crack Planet is real. It is made entirely of crack cocaine and yes, it’s free. Free to anyone who wants it.”
“Bye,” Rupert says and starts to get up, Leenda right behind him.
Mr. Anteé puts his hands out. “Come on, hear me out.”
The pair look at him, more irritated now than concerned for their safety. Leenda sits down slowly. Rupert follows.
“No joke,” Rupert says to Mr. Anteé. “I’m not into this shit anymore.”
“I understand, just hear me out.”
Sock it to me...