by LYNDA BARRY
“I saw that blood on you, see, and I thought you were some kind of goddamned I don’t know what. When I seen it was you I thought Arden had cut your throat and meant to pin it on me. Got me nervous there for a minute. Haw. Haw-haw. Almost had me there, Clyde. I’m glad you decided to sign back on. Partners, right? Goddamn partners all the way. Fifty-fifty from here on out.”
We came to a half-dead town. Half dead, half palsied, with a boarded-up main street and crooked telephone poles with wires hanging. The gas station had one pump and the gas man didn’t say a word to us. The father told him to fill it and asked where the bathroom was. He jerked his thumb toward the back. I scrounged some clothes out of the pile and went around the back of the station to a tack-on shed with a horrifying toilet and just a trickle of water coming out of the faucet. I washed off what I could, rewrapped the Ace bandage around my middle, tucked in Little Debbie, and left my bloody clothes on the floor.
When I got in the car, the father said, “He look familiar to you, Clyde? Fellow pumping the gas? He strike you as familiar in any way? Looks like Earlis, doesn’t he?” I didn’t know what Earlis looked like alive but the face on him dead has never left my mind. The smile in the middle of the black rot of his face. Rictus.
I looked at the man. He sat in filthy coveralls on a cast-off kitchen chair just staring straight ahead and sucking his bottom lip in and out. Is that what Earlis had looked like?
The father leaned his head out the window and said, “Hey! Which way’s Vegas?” The lip-sucking man didn’t look at the father but he said something out loud. The father cupped his ear. “I didn’t catch that.”
He turned his horrible eyes onto the father. “There’s a man in my belly wants your company, son.”
The father floored it and Pammy’s head lolled and bounced hard as we curbed the corner. “GodDAMN!” He was scared. “Strange shit lately. A lot.” He kept checking the rearview. He was wearing down.
The time had come for me to speak. What I said was, “That man back there? I think he recognized you.”
The day spun overhead and the road went shiny and sent up heat wiggles and Pammy’s head hung out the window all the way to the Nevada border. She got the worst sunburn.
As the light began to fail I watched the father’s cooked-liver eyes in the rearview. He was on Whitley’s and Snore-Not and the Snore-Not made him jumpy and talkative. Made him come out with different provoking sentences. One was, “You know Clyde, I’ve been meaning to tell you, I’m not really your father.”
Chapter 42
OU GAVE HIM DRUGS?!” Vicky was screaming at me. She was screaming about the Stick’s condition and the Stick was telling her to shut up, just shut up.
Susie yelled from downstairs, “I DRINK TO YOU, CAPTAIN! GODDAMN! WHITLEY’S SPEAKS IN A WHISPER. SHIT AND GODDAMN! I WHISPER!” Vicky yelled, “SHUT UP, SUSIE!”
The Stick was getting the rushes and so was I. It was making us freely ask and answer questions. I said, “Why is his name Susie?”
The Stick said he gave himself that name after seeing the E-Z Bake Oven commercial and grooving violently on its song.
I want to say more about the mysterious Susie Homemaker. Horrible fumes came from him. He was a cigar person, a Swisher Sweets person. He was also a don’t-touch-my-rotting-food person, and a pee-in-a-Gallo-wine-jug person with bad aim. He was a twenty-four-hour person in love with his swivel TV. And he wore women’s clothes, and every time I asked either the Stick or Vicky if Susie was their father they told me to go fuck myself.
“THE STICK CAN’T HAVE DRUGS!” screamed Vicky and she moved like she was going to hit me and then she shivered. Her rushes came late. Her rushes came late because she dropped the Creeper with a Diggy’s milk shake. My stomach was empty and so was the Stick’s. We began to raise.
I said, “You want to hear a story?”
Vicky said, “No.”
The Stick said, “Yes.”
I said, “Once upon a time in a deep cave, a dry cave, a certain spectacular cave among the thousands of caves in the area of the Moapa Indian reservation and the Valley of Fire in the state of Nevada, in a location about to be swallowed up by Dreamland, called Dreamland by the military, called Area 51, a secret testing place for spy planes and nuclear bombs, very near the Dam of Damnation, once Boulder, now Hoover, which insults a huge river called the Colorado, in this cave a three-headed dog sits in the blackness upon three Samsonite suitcases and the suitcases are full of money and the dog has six swirling eyes as big as saucers.”
“How much money?” asked Vicky in a very blasted way, her eyes gone black from the dilation.
“Thousands,” I said. “Thousands and thousands. And it’s still there. And anyone who finds it gets to keep it. And I know exactly where it is. And if anyone wants to get rich, all they have to do is ask me to take them there.”
Vicky raised her hand very excitedly. “Me! Me!”
The Stick started laughing.
I said, “But can you face the six dreaded eyes of the three-headed dog? Many have tried and all have failed. The money is covered with blood.”
Vicky said, “Don’t freak me, Roberta, OK? Because I don’t want you to freak me so just don’t, OK?”
“I’m not trying to freak you, Vicky.”
“Then don’t say the dog has six eyes and the money is covered with blood because it wrecks the whole oh oh oh oh oh oh.” The double rushes shook her and her needle stuck on the word “oh.”
I said to the Stick, “What condition? What was Vicky talking about when she said your condition?”
The Stick stood up and stretched. He said, “I’m going to take a walk outside.”
Then Vicky started laughing very hard. She said, “You? YOU?” Because it turned out the Stick never went outside. He hadn’t been outside for several years. And I was thinking this was the condition because I had heard of this condition where a person is not able to go outside without having a massive flip-out.
But the Stick went down the stairs and I followed him and Vicky grabbed her purse and followed me saying, “I have to see this. I have to see this.” And we walked past Susie Homemaker, who held a yellow Tupperware tumbler full of booze up to us, saying, “Shit and goddamn. I need to get organized.” And around his lounger the clear glass of empty Whitley’s bottles was so plentiful that it looked like he was on an island of ice.
And with no hesitation the Stick went into the kitchen and opened the back door and went right out. “Roberta,” whispered Vicky into the back of my neck. “You just saw history.”
We were in the backyard and the Stick was staring at average things around him. He pointed to the glass-domed electric meter and said, “Whoa.”
He kept stretching and I admired the way he looked against the peeling paint of the collapsing garage. I admired the blue shadow thrown by him. He said, “Let’s go.”
Vicky said, “Go? Stick. Stick. Wait.”
But he was already out of the one-hinged gate. He was already in the alley. He told me he didn’t feel it, feel anything from the Creeper and I could tell he didn’t know it, but the Stick was very high. He was gazing at me. It was different from watching. Different from looking. He was gazing. And I was gazing back. And he said, “You have such a fucked-up nose. And your teeth and your finger. All of you is so fucked up. I have never seen such a fucked-up person and it makes me so sad.”
“Don’t listen to him, Roberta,” Vicky said. “He doesn’t really mean it. He’s not sad about how skanky you are.”
To the Stick she said, “OK, you need to go home now because Susie is alone and Susie can’t be alone and me and Roberta have to go someplace, OK?”
“OK,” said the Stick. And he turned around and went back to the house. And then it was my turn to be so sad.
Vicky said, “Don’t start liking him, Roberta. He’s a user.”
I said, “How? How is he a user?” But she wouldn’t say. She started talking about Dane and his amazing brother and interrupting herself w
ith Creeper revelations like, “Electricity. It’s in the wires,” and, “You should never feel bad about being a skag because for you being a skag is beautiful.” She said she felt like she was in a HeavenScent commercial and she started doing slowmotion running in the middle of the street and flipping her hair up and saying, “Who am I? Who am—I TOLD YOU TO GO HOME!”
The Stick came up behind me.
Vicky yelled, “YOU CAN’T COME WITH US!”
“Hey,” said the Stick, and his hair was falling in his eyes and I was thinking the word “palomino” and the word kept circling in my head palomino palomino palomino and the boy-smell of him was making me lean close.
“GO HOME!” shouted Vicky.
“OK,” said the Stick, and he dropped back into the shadows.
And the whole way to the house of Dane and his amazing brother I was certain the Stick was behind us, following us, and I was very happy about this until I realized it wasn’t true. We were at the gate of 11 Circle View and the long road behind us was empty. Big big trees and some streetlight shadows but no one with hair falling in his eyes.
“What,” said Vicky. “You’re not chickening out on me, are you? I mean, Roberta, look.” She gestured at the house behind the tall wrought-iron gates. It was huge and very brick and very royal in its details. We crossed the curving walkway to the front door. I heard a piano playing inside. Vicky rang the doorbell.
An eyeball looked at us through the peephole. A voice said, “Yes. Absolutely.” The front door swung wide. It was the Turtle who greeted us.
Vicky said, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
The Turtle said, “Please. Come in. The Great Wesley is leaning forward in anticipation.”
Vicky said, “Who the fuck is the Great Wesley? Where’s Dane?”
I kept my eyes down. I did not expect to see the Turtle and I had not wanted to see the Turtle. He said, “Hillbilly Woman. Is it love? You have returned to me.”
Vicky pushed past him. “Dane!?”
A harsh voice answered, “What?”
The Turtle said, “My love.” His eyes were pink. He was extremely high. I followed Vicky into the living room.
The furniture was modern. Big leather couches. Black leather swivel chairs. A huge glass table in a paramecium shape. On it was a tall brass water pipe with personal smoker tubes for everyone. The Ancient Substance was piled high and glowing. There was a gargling sound. A guy was huffing on one of the smoker tubes. It was the amazing Dane.
He looked about seventeen and was decently foxy, although not in my style. He had blond hair and Sir Lancelot features. His eyes were large, with lashes so long I have to say he looked slightly like a girl. He wore in-style clothes, looking new, very hip, but even so, something about him looked lame. When he saw us he looked really irritated.
Vicky lifted her hand. “Hey, Dane.”
He blew out a huge exhale and said, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Vicky said, “We have chocolate mesc.”
The person playing the piano was a fat and pale person in a blue bathrobe. His face was babyish and his hair was scraggly and he was sweating hard. He looked up at Vicky and me and nodded calmly. His expression was friendly. He had a look of kindness.
He rocked back and forth as he played and the music kept shifting, melodies strange and ancient turned into the music for “Marvel the Mustang,” which turned into “Winchester Cathedral.” No song ever finished, one just turned into the other. He said, “Adagio con molto sentimento d’affetto,” and “Junior Samples leads me through worlds of wonder.”
Vicky smiled at me. She smiled the smile of “Didn’t I tell you it would be incredible?” She whispered, “That’s him. That’s his brother. Didn’t I tell you he was perfect?”
She handed the Turtle’s stash box to Dane. He said, “This isn’t mesc. This is that mental-house shit. Wes. Wes.” Dane held up a cap. “It’s that psycho shit you guys stole from the nuthouse, right?”
The piano player nodded.
“The preferred term is pharmaceutical shit,” said the Turtle.
Dane said, “Fuck off, fuckhead.”
The Turtle said, “Are you familiar with the work of Dr. Peter Mark Roget? He understood that to dump sewage into the river you drink from is to no one’s advantage. He would be very happy if you would open up his thesaurus and quit saying ‘fuck.’”
“Don’t fuck with me, man. I can fucking turn you in. Your parents got a reward out, fuckhead. Five thousand bucks. One phone call. You fucking better watch it.”
Vicky said, “Reward? What reward?”
The Turtle said, “Ladies, will you stone?” He offered us smoker tubes. We took in the water-cooled clouds. Dane stared at Vicky for a while and then stood up. He said, “Come on.” She followed him down some stairs.
“Violent One,” called the Turtle. “Reconsider!”
After a while there was the sound of splashing. I went to the window and in the turquoise swimming-pool light I saw Vicky and Dane in some naked positions. The Turtle stood beside me. He said, “He will conjugate her verb. He will use her in a single sentence and punctuate her and there is nothing we can do.”
He leaned onto the piano and said, “My dear dear Wesley. Your brother is the Sultan of all Ass-heads.”
The Great Wesley nodded sadly.
Chapter 43
MEAN, TECHNICALLY,” said the father, “I might be your father. There’s a resemblance, but—” Glug, glug, glug. He never finished the sentence. Glug glug glug. There was severe slippage. The Whitley’s was shrinking his mind.
“All I’m trying to say here, Clyde, is that, except for possibly technically, I’m not your father. I want us to be clear on that. It’s partners, fifty-fifty, partners all the way. If you’re in, you’re in. You in?”
“I’m in,” I said.
“Her.” The father pointed at Pammy. “Fat-ass here. When we hit Vegas I mean to get a powerful buzz on and then I’m going to technically marry her. But it’s not technically going to mean shit to me at all. Technically, I’m still married to your mother, which also don’t count because I never let technical shit constrict me. My philosophy is live and let live or kiss my ass.” Glug glug glug.
“Maybe I’ll go back up to the Knocking Hammer, maybe we’ll just say fuck-all. Maybe I’ll shove her out on the way to goddamned Tijuana. Maybe keep rolling ’til I hit the Panama Canal. Park my car, take my pants off, go wading in my skivvies. What I’m trying to say here, Clyde, is there’s a reason God made roads that lead in every direction. What I’m trying to say here, Clyde, is I think it’s time you learned to drive.”
We were on an unpaved road marked PRIVATE, then we passed through a barbed-wire archway marked NO TRESPASSING, and then we went past signs with red skulls on them saying DANGER RESTRICTED AREA and that is where he gave me my driving lesson. On the shockingly white desert flats between ranges of dried mountains and sudden rock formations so peculiar.
“Straight,” said the father. “Go that way, south, south, until I tell you to turn.” And then he stretched out in the backseat, closed his eyes, and he tumbled into snoring.
I liked driving. I liked it very much. And I liked the weird landscape. It seemed like I had been there before and that was a mysterious feeling.
Pammy stirred. In her oblivion she mumbled some words I couldn’t make out. I tried to keep us going straight on the forbidden road, which was getting fainter in the blowing dust. The place was looking so familiar to me it made some chills run up my back. Pammy mumbled again and I looked over and saw she had wet her pants. Her face was looking quite boiled. Her dried-out lips were moving.
The white flats before me had a shimmer rising. Looking like water up ahead. Looking cool in the wiggling heat. I was feeling so thirsty.
The blowing dust was alkali, called alkali, a mineral in the dirt that the wind kicked up and made you taste it. It was bitter and metallic. But the whiteness it gave to things was beautiful and I will admit I became
enchanted and I found out I could feel even more enchanted if I smoked a cigarette and did some graceful curves with the steering wheel and then I had to try a circle and then I had to try a spiral and then I went back to peaceful serpentines. I had some quenching little sips of Whitley’s and then my mind jolted. There was a reason I knew this place.
The Horror of the Blood Monsters. It Came From Outer Space.Them! The Blob. The Mummy. The Amazing Colossal Man. I was in the valley of the monsters. I was in the middle of the location where so many of the world’s greatest movies were filmed. I was right where the plane did a sudden nosedive and crashed and blew up on fire and an innocent man ran to help, he jumped into the flaming wreckage to pull the pilot to safety, but BLAMBLAM! There was plutonium on the plane and the radioactivity burns him crunch black. He ends up very bald but he lives. The radiation has caused a change. He starts growing. His body becomes huge and he can’t stop wanting to destroy everything, he hurls a bus full of people over his head. They all die. The furious emotions of the Amazing Colossal Man are real.
I kept thinking, “I am driving right where he was formed. I am driving right where he walked.”
I took another little sip of Whitley’s. I thought about how there actually were moments when life was good and decent. I kept driving and sipping. I can’t tell you exactly when I lost the road. At some point I just noticed there were no tire tracks to follow anymore and then a jet came flying so low and silent followed by an explosion so loud that my mind just went white. Then came another and another and another. “Fucking hell!” shouted the father.
Pammy was roused. She unlatched her door, fell out and rolled. I opened my door, walked around the car and leaned on the back bumper. Radiation transformation. I puked silver heaves.
Chapter 44
HE AIR above the white desert flats was so still after the jets passed over. I heard the tobacco on the father’s cigarette burning on every inhale. He was leaning on the hood of the car, surveying the four directions. “We are lost as shit.”
