Mad Boys (19 page)

I fell asleep in the manure and woke up in the middle of the next day. It was pretty here with low wooded hills, the trees not too high or too close together as they were in the East. Rocks were craggy and made designs. A road sign advertised the Alamo. I was on the outskirts of San Antonio, Texas.

At a red light, I hopped off and started walking. It was a typical service road consisting of fast-food restaurants, convenience markets, real estate offices, video-rental stores. Aygand saygo faygorth. All these places had their own dumpsters, supplying enough food and drink to feed an army.

I kept walking until I reached a huge, grand, and new hotel. It was called Home On The Range Motel. A sign said “OPEC Convention.” I saw a herd of swarthy men in long white gowns. One of them was astride a camel, and news photographers were taking his picture. I heard him say something to a cohort below in a language I did not understand. I walked among the group, and they parted, their noses twitching with disgust at the smell of me.

From a café parking lot, I sneaked a ride on the back end of a truck transporting horses. From the looks of these broken-down nags, they were headed for the glue factory. I made friends with one horse, an old girl with a swayback and cataracts in her eyes. I whispered in her ear, “I love you.” She snorted sweetly in response, stamped her foot, and gave me big wet kisses. She didn’t care how I smelled, and I didn’t care how she smelled. I patted her head and kissed her mooshy mouth. We kissed back and forth, but after a while I got tired of kissing and tired of standing. I halfleaned and half-sat on a railing. I couldn’t lie down for fear of being accidentally trampled to death.

The next thing I knew, we were in the middle of the desert someplace at another cafe. I kissed my horse friend good-bye and got off. I raided a dumpster for a lunch of soggy hamburg rolls, but I couldn’t find anything to drink, and my mouth was dry. I tried to hitch a ride. Nobody stopped, so I just walked without sticking my thumb out. It was better to walk than to stand still. The landscape was lonely but kind of thrilling, too. The weather was hot, and my neck itched under my collar. But I kept it on. What was it Royal had said? The collar was my destiny. What could he have meant by that? I had no idea, but it was all I had to remind me of the good times in my brief past. In the distance I could see purple mountains. Up close the land was dry and beige, the plants scruffy. I saw a rabbit, lots of birds, and a rattlesnake. I wished I had a gun to kill the snake. Also the rabbit. And maybe some of the birds. Way in the distance, I saw some antelope. Kill them, too. That’s what it was like walking: seeing critters, pretending I was a hunter with a high-powered rifle, shooting everything that moved, getting thirsty. Waiting, wishing I could find somebody who spoke kindly and in English.

I was so wrapped in daydreams that I hardly noticed when the land closed up as the road twisted through a canyon, and I didn’t see the men coming around some rocks on foot until they were almost on top of me. They were dark with straight hair. They dressed like bums, and most carried blanket packs wrapped on sticks that rested on their shoulders, wetbacks from Mexico.

One man paused and looked at me with a crook in his neck, and then he spoke to me in his own language.

“Does anybody speak English?” I hollered. That was the wrong thing to say. The men started to hurry off, not running exactly but walking very fast.

Seconds later a tractor-trailer truck came up the road and grumbled to a stop in front of us. The driver stayed behind the wheel, but a man in the passenger seat who wore a cowboy hat and blue jeans and carried a clipboard hopped down. He went around to the back of the truck and heaved open the rear doors. He said something in Mexican, but I could tell by the gruff way he used the words that he was not one of them, but probably a Texan. He didn’t notice me as I hopped in back with the rest of the men. We squatted down, the doors were shut, and it was dark inside. Somebody popped a match to light a cigarette, and that was reassuring. A minute later and we were off.

Somebody had a jug of warm water, which kept getting passed around, but it was not enough. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the darkness, maybe it was the getting-thirstier feeling, or maybe it was the banter in a language I did not understand, but I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started worrying about others. I worried about Father, hoping he’d lucked out and ended in heaven. I worried about Royal and his ambitions. I worried about the boy gangs. I worried about the Autodidact and Sally. I worried about Nurse Wilder and Doctor Hitchcock and Doctor Thatcher. I worried about these poor people from across the border, the wives and children back home that had to be clothed and fed, the goats and chickens that had to be cared for, and the future that had to be considered. These people were so shy. I wanted to tell them that bashfulness wouldn’t get them diddly-squat in the U.S.A. I worried about humanity in general. I worried about the Alien, hoping he could somehow find a way to help humanity without violating the free-will principle. I worried about the Director, who couldn’t seem to make headway in getting me to act properly in the film he was making.

I could have used more than “praise the Lord/Lords” at this minute. I could have used a real, working religion, the Amish’s, Nurse Wilder’s, anybody’s, it didn’t matter. But the fact was I didn’t have a religion, so why should any of the persons in God listen to me? I tried praying without religion, but it was hard, real hard to concentrate and even harder to believe that my prayer amounted to anything; that He or She or It or Them was really out there listening to me instead of to some rich guy who, when he said “praise the Lord” knew who he was talking to. I concluded that I couldn’t pray for real. I apologized to Jesus and Allah and Buddha and all the rest of the gods out there whose names I did not know. My apology became my prayer. I said, “You whose name I do not know, help me. . . . You whose name I do not know, help me. . . . You whose name I do not know, help me. . . .”

In the end, what kept my spirits from falling too far were odd things—the sight of the occasional flares of matches, the dim red glows of cigarette butts, the voices of these shy people, the smell of their sweat and anxiety. By the time we reached our destination some hours later, the water was gone, everybody was thirsty and getting sleepy from lack of air, and I was thinking: might as well die here as anyplace; at least I’m not alone. So I prayed some more, “You whose name I do not know, help me. . . .” And then the doors swung open. Fresh air poured in: hope. I thought about the mother, who was gone from my memory.

Night had fallen, so it was impossible for me to tell where we were. I could see fields and then a strip of highway. The wetbacks had been brought in to pick vegetables, and they were being checked over by the guy with the clipboard. The wetback would give his name, the guy would check him off, and the wetback would race to the water bubbler for a drink. I was in the middle of the line. We were quiet. Everybody was thinking about the water. All of us had become our thirst. I guess the word that I was an outsider must have gotten to the clipboard guy, because he stopped his work and walked down to the line to me.

First he said something to me in Mexican. When I didn’t respond, he said in English, “Hey, you.” I broke into a run. He went after me—and fell. Laughter, Mexican style, issued from the wetbacks.

I reached the highway and walked maybe two or three miles to a service road. Eventually I came to a place that had a pink and purple sign that looked familiar, and yet something about it sort of misted over in my mind. It said Adult Books & Videos. A man came out of the store and caught my eye. He was heavy-built with big, hairy arms, lots of turquoise rings on his fingers, cowboy boots on his feet, and a gigantic, turquoise-decorated belt buckle. He smiled at me. I smiled back. He grabbed his belt and hoisted the belt buckle.

“Howdy, sweetsums,” he said.

“Water, water,” I whispered.

He came toward me. I caught a whiff of him. He used an aftershave lotion that made him smell like toilet deodorizer.

“Water,” I could barely breathe the word.

At that moment, the wind must have shifted because now it was his turn to catch a whiff of me. I guess the smell of decaying shrimp, manure, horse slobber, and Mexican wetback revolted him because he got a look on his face as if somebody had dunked him in a barrel of puke.

“Water, water—please,” I begged.

He backed away from me in the stiff, dignified gait of men wearing high-heel boots.

I stumbled on until, lucky me, I found a Mrs. McIntosh Restaurant. The food lines were long, and I had no money. “Water?” I gasped. I was crazy with thirst. The robot wait-help did not respond. I left the line and went for the men’s room. Two teenagers stood in front of the sinks, gazing into mirrors over the washbasins as they combed their hair. I couldn’t stand the waiting, so I rushed into the bathroom stall, shut the door, and locked it. The toilet was flushed and clean. I counted the blessing. Praise the Lord/Lords. Four or five? I couldn’t remember. Then I knelt before the water and lapped it up like a dog.

After I’d had my fill, I was in better shape. I had a vague idea where to head next. I would keep going west until I reached New Mexico. My mother and I walk up the ramp to the mother ship with the Children of the Cacti. The Alien trains us in his ways. We return to Xi in triumph. Peace, plenty, and fun envelop Xi
.

That thought along with the water cheered me up; I was almost optimistic when I stepped out of the toilet closet. The teenagers were gone, but some people were blocking my way, two men who looked like gangsters and a rugged boy wearing turquoise-rimmed sunglasses, black trousers, and an orange T-shirt.

“Web, you’ve got the worst b.o. I’ve ever smelled.” It was Royal Durocher.

BETWEEN HERE AND THERE

I was looking forward to visiting not only with Royal but with Siena, but her family had been killed by government soldiers and she had left to fight in the Souvien civil war and Royal had a new driver. And anyway I probably wouldn’t have gotten to talk with Siena because I smelled so bad that Royal made me ride in the trunk of his limo. It was dark in the trunk, but there was plenty of room and the bottom was padded. It occurred to me that maybe Royal had once knocked somebody off, and I might be lying at this moment where a murdered person had been. That was comforting.

We drove to a hotel in a city. It was fun going through the lobby, me first, then Royal and his two grown-up goons lagging behind. The stink I generated was so powerful that the crowd parted, and we walked right through. We got in the elevator, and everybody cleared out. Even the goons couldn’t stand it. They waited for the next ride up. But Royal showed his loyalty to me. He put one arm around my shoulder and held his nose with the fingers of his other hand, as we rode up together. I could see that he’d begun to shave regularly.

“How did you find me?” I asked.

He tugged at the collar around my throat. “I tracked you. It sends out a signal.”

“You know wherever I go?”

“Everywhere. It’s the same technology used to track grizzlies, wolves, spies, and cheating lovers.”

“I want to take it off.”

“Go ahead.”

I started to remove the collar, but then something held me back. I hesitated.

“Where are you without that collar?” Royal asked. I blinked, not sure what he meant. “I’ll tell you,” he went on. “You’re nowhere. Alone. A speck in the dark. Nobody can see you. Keep the collar, and you can be everywhere. You’ll exist in the minds of others—you’ll become their thoughts. Out of the dark, in the light.”

Being watched was pretty close to being watched over. “I’ll leave it on,” I said.

“I knew you would. Destiny. Remember that word, Web.”

We got off at the thirteenth floor and walked down the hall.

“The best rooms in the hotel are on this floor.” Royal stopped at number 1313. “My favorite number.” Royal reached into his pocket and gave me what looked like a credit card.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked.

“That’s your room key. Put it in the slot, and you can open the door. Across the hall is your room, number 1314. This is my suite.” He knocked on wood (actually, some kind of metal alloy). “I know you’re pretty tired, and it’s getting late. So clean up and get a good night’s sleep. If you want anything to eat, you’ll find it in the fridge in the little alcove between the bathroom and bedroom. If you have any nightmares or hallucinations of your demons, call the hotel shrink. The number’s on the phone list along with yours truly’s.”

Royal slid his card in the slot, the door opened, and he went in. Suddenly, I was alone. I walked over to my room and stared at the number, 1314. I stood for a second, the card key in my hand. Nervous as a turkey at a Pilgrim & Indian picnic, I put the card in the slot. For a second, nothing happened. I looked down at my feet. The floor was carpeted; I could sleep there. But I didn’t have to. The door opened.

My room was big, clean, and decorated with wallpaper featuring cacti in bloom, sunsets, and purpling mountains. The bed was big enough to rest the crew of a fire truck. The TV was on rollers and I pushed it into the bathroom. I channel-switched until I found a program I liked, “Best Car Chases in Movie History.” I left the picture on, but turned the sound down. I stripped and soaked my filthy body in the tub, just lying there in the grips of zentensity as cars careened and crashed on the video monitor.

Soon, however, the program was interrupted. On the TV screen was the Director. He was at a construction site in the middle of the desert walking with men wearing hardhats. I watched him for a few minutes. I wondered if this qualified as a hallucination. From the tub, I reached for the white telephone on the wall and dialed the number Royal had given me for the hotel psychiatrist. A gargling voice on the other end of the line said, “This is the Director. May I help you?”

“Are you real, or is the picture on the screen of you real?” I said.

“The screen image is videotaped,” the Director said. “Wash up, you’ll be all right.”