Title: Like Something Out Of A Movie
Featuring: Lance Marshall
Date: 3/20/11
Location: Hawaii, Abu Dhabi, Los Angeles, Japan (ReV 242 vs. Bryan Dawkins)

"Lance, come on."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because this is embarrassing, Lani!"

Lani smiled at the man currently sinking back into the safety provided by the circle of shade cast by the umbrella next to his deck chair. She’d heard Lance bitching about Hawaii from the moment he’d arrived in the unit, grousing about how much he hated it here and would love nothing more than to leave at the first available opportunity. She hadn’t it taken it personally. Steve had clued her in to the reasons why Lance had needed to transfer from New Jersey, the need for Lance to be in Hawaii in order to stay close to his ex and their son. She admired him for that, for his willingness to put his son’s needs above his own.

That didn’t mean she wasn’t going to try to get him to relax a little, mind you. So she had made it her personal mission to show Lance that, hey, there were things about living here that were pretty amazing. The rest of the unit had considered it a small miracle that she’d managed to take Lance out for shaved ice. She’d had to remind everyone that it was not a date, thank you very much. Hitting a football game at Kalani High with Steve and Chin had been nice…well, until some lolo Samoan gangbangers had decided to make trouble. Hell, she’d even managed (after a whole lot of convincing) to get him to the beach!

Well, she’d managed as far as a deck chair. Right now, Lance was showing absolutely no inclination to go any further than that. The super touristy pair of Hawaiian print board shorts he was wearing probably wasn’t helping much. Lani had to admit, though, that a thorough reappraisal of her partner had been in order now that she was seeing him out of the rumpled shirts and ties that he tended to favor at work. She’d been able to tell he was athletic from the way he carried himself at work and the way his clothes fit him…but she’d never imagined what was on display right now. Even trying as desperately as possible not to be noticed, Lance was attracting appreciative looks from some of the women walking by. That, in turn, was earning Lani the occasional stinkface from those who just assumed they were together.

What had been the real shock, though, was just how pale Lance had been. Sure, he worked a lot and was very clear about not having a lot of leisure time but damn, man was looking like an opake here.

"Hele on, Lance. We’re losing daylight."

"No. I’m just gonna look like a joke."

"Come on, I know you’ve got beaches back in Jersey. Hell, you guys invented that whole GTL thing, right?"

"Do I look like one of those Guidos from Jersey Shore," snapped Lance, shooting Lani a look like she’d just farted right in his face.

"Truthfully? You look like you could kick all their asses."

A small smile crept along Lance’s face. "Okay, so maybe I don’t entirely hate you right now. But no make fun, okay?"

"Hey," Lani smiled as Lance got up and started his making his way towards the ocean, "you’re picking up some of the lingo! Get some sun on you, pretty soon people gonna start thinking you’re a moke."

Lance flashed her a look in response that suggested that he didn’t believe a word of what she’d just said.

"Well, a local haole at least."

They’d made it about five steps to the ocean when the alarm sounded.

---

Lani tensed, knowing immediately what the sound meant and what the two of them needed to do. Lance, however, just stood there, looking confused. No surprise there, Lani thought. Why would he have any idea?
Typical. Just fucking typical, she thought. Take Lance to a football game, people start shooting. Take him out for a friendly lunch, they end up stopping an armed robbery. Finally get him to the beach and…

"Tsunami."

Lance looked at her as though she’d suddenly blurted out "I wanna fuck you right here."

"Tsunami? Are you kidding?"

"No joke, we’ve got to evacuate the beach. Now."

Lance was a step behind Lani as she headed towards the crowd of beachgoers, trying to process what he’d just heard. That alarm was a tsunami alert?! Still shaking his head in confusion, he started turning in the direction Lani was heading when…

---

Freeze. Stop tape. Zoom in on Lance’s eyes. Tight closeup.

---

I blink. I know this for a fact. I don’t lose consciousness, black out, space out, zone out, micronap or any of that bullshit. I blink. My eyes close and open again rapidly. Can’t take more than a few seconds. When my eyes close, it’s the middle of the day and when they open…

…it’s night. I’m still wearing the same clothes only now the beach is deserted. There’s a wall of water rearing up in front of me, looking about as high as a two story building. I don’t have time to run or scream or take a breath as the tower of water comes crashing down on me.

I try to hold out as long as I can. But eventually my body betrays me. And as I go down, sinking into the swirling mass of water, one very clear realization comes into my mind:

I’m going to die.

---

When my eyes jerk open, I don’t remember where I am for a second. All I know for sure is that I can still taste salt on my tongue. It feels like forever before I finally remember that I’m in bed, in room 1217 of the Shangri-La hotel in Abu Dhabi. Lani and I had spoken after the Istanbul show and we’d both agreed. The distances were becoming way too long for it to be practical for me to come home after every show. Too much air travel, too much lost time. PRIME had been gracious enough to make arrangements for everyone staying on with the tour and, now that we were here in the United Arab Emirates, we’d been booked into the Shangri-La.

I can’t complain, really. The room is clean and comfortable, the food is good, the gym’s pretty decent and the free broadband is a godsend most nights when I’m talking to Lani and Zach on Skype every night.

It’s still weird, though. There’s this image that you get of what the Middle East will be like, the picture painted for you from footage on CNN. The UAE, so far, is proving to be nothing like that. Sure, there is Arabic everywhere. You still see men walking around looking like the oil barons you see on TV, women in hijabs or full on burkas. But there are just as many men in suits, women wearing high fashion, kids in T-shirts and jeans. Everybody speaks English. Western brands are everywhere, English pop music blares out of the speakers at the mall. It finally hits me when I’m browsing through the racks of CDs in the Virgin Megastore, picking up a CD that I know won’t be released for a few months in the States…I’m halfway around the world, somewhere I’ve never been before in my life and I can still get my Starbucks fix just by heading down one floor.

The more things change, huh?

---

I’m not sleeping that great. Sleep’s always been a bit of a struggle for me under the best of circumstances but combine it with long flights, jet lag, promotional duties for PRIME, homesickness…let’s just say it’s a good thing the clerk at the pharmacy didn’t ask any questions when he rang me up that bottle of Unisom.

I’d been up in my room when I saw it, killing some time online before heading out to a promotional event. PRIME was doing well here in the UAE and that, combined with folks who remembered my name, meant that my presence was requested for an autograph signing at a local mall. About ten AM local time, I’d clicked over to cnn.com and…

Earthquake. Japan. 8.9.

I flashed on the first time I’d ever experienced an earthquake. It couldn’t have been more than five days after I’d arrived at Camp Zama. I remember being freaked as the ground started swaying beneath me, little obaasans giggling at the big, goofy looking gaijin and wondering why he was getting so concerned. This kind of thing happened all the time, I was told. Nothing to get so worked up about.

But an 8.9…

I spread the word among my co-workers at the event. To their credit, everyone seems suitably thrown by what’s happened. I grab a few minutes with Lisa Tyler the first chance I get, tell her about what’s happened, ask if there’s anything we can do. She swears that PRIME will write out a check for the relief effort. She can’t guarantee it’ll be huge but it will be something. I tell her how thankful I am, ask about maybe donating a portion of the proceeds from our show in Yokohama. She says she’ll look into it, see what she can do.

Every day, without fail, I’m in touch with Lani and Zach. Lani tells me that was some tsunami activity on the big island but that it had been relatively minor and her family was doing fine. We both thank God for that. The coverage on the news back home is getting insane, channels showing video footage of the tsunami all the time and whipping up fears about possible problems with one of Japan’s nuclear reactors. She’s had to sit down with Zach every night, explaining to him exactly what’s going on, separating out the lies and the half-truths. I make sure to tell Zach that I love him every night, promise him that we’ll spend an entire day when I get home doing whatever he wants.

We all know what’s involved in this life. Lani knows that it means time away. Zach knows I can’t always be there. We keep in contact, let each other know that we’re thinking of each other all the time.

It doesn't make it suck any less, though.

---

It takes me three days to reach anyone in Camp Zama. Not surprising, given what the quake’s done to the phone networks, but it doesn’t help my nerves any. I finally reach Brian on the third day. Brian was the chief supply clerk at Zama back in my day and now, almost thirty years later, he’s still there. He’s glad to hear from me and I can’t disguise how glad I am to hear his voice. He tells me that everything is about as fine as possible. There’d been some mild structural damage but no one had been seriously hurt.

Brian pulls a few strings, gets me in touch with Zama’s current CO, Major General Harrison. We talk for a while. I offer any help I can give, give him the name of PRIME’s PR rep in case they might want to try coordinating anything with us. He’s polite and courteous, says he’ll get in touch with us if anything comes up.

I send a donation to the Red Cross that night. That’s all I do. That’s all I can do.

It hits me later that night as I lay in bed, the air from the air conditioning curling around me and the diphenhydramine slowly taking me under.

Mind racing, stomaching churning, praying from more than three hours of sleep this time around.

David Byrne’s voice in my mind, whispering "And you may ask yourself, How did I get here?"
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