Mosquitoland(25)

Pull it together, Malone.

I nod and smile, and he nods and sort of half smiles, and oh God, if that’s only half the smile, I can’t imagine the whole one. He has a black eye, which I hadn’t noticed before. Even with the shiner though, the eyes are a warm green—bright, stunning, unforgettable. His eyebrows are thick. Not bushy, just thick, as if they were drawn using the broad side of a marker.

“Well, good luck,” he says.

Outside, the cop car is in his direct line of vision. He follows my eyes, then blushes and puts the cap back on the lens.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Good luck to you, too.”

He leans back in his chair, closes his eyes and whispers, “Thanks.” Then, almost in a breath, “I’m gonna need it.”

In the movie of my life, I have scenes and dialogue, rather than experiences and discussions. Instead of friends, a cast; instead of places, a setting. At this moment—a definite movie moment—I blink in slow motion. The camera zooms in on my eyes as I drink in the enigmatic 17C. The audience sits in silent wonder, a combination of hope, sadness, and wistful longing for romance stirring in their bellies. Alas, the girl is leaving, and the boy is staying, and ’twas always thus. The likelihood of their stories intertwining again doesn’t make for a very believable plot. Though I suppose that depends on a person’s definition of believable.

From a thousand metaphorical miles away, a sweet voice rings in my ears. You’d be surprised what I believe these days.

Channeling the faith of Arlene—and with her precious wooden box strapped to my back—I step off the bus. More than anything, I want to be with Mom right now. Whatever her sickness is, she needs me desperately, and I know this. But all my favorite movies have one thing in common: a singular moment in which you can feel the director telling his character’s story as well as his own. It is beautiful, poignant, and appallingly rare.

I don’t know what’s in this box, but I am part of its story, as it is part of mine.

Making my way back across the street, I consider the role of 17C in my movie. It’s a hard sell, our characters meeting again. But I won’t count it out just yet. Because there’s nothing I hate more than a predictable ending.





15


Effing Attitude “GOING FOR NUMBER eight?”

I smile, but it fools no one. “Good one, Glenda. Seriously though, how have you been?” How have you been? My problem is, I never know what to say to people. I clear my throat and press on. “I was wondering if you could tell me where I might find a gas station owned by a guy named Ahab.”

Glenda leans behind the counter, reappears with a spoon.

“I know it’s a strange question,” I say, “but it’s important.”

Dipping her spoon into a vat of cookie dough ice cream, she comes up with a generous scoop. I give her a second, thinking she’s thinking. She’s not, as it turns out. What she is doing is eating the ice cream with orgasmic vigor.

I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. “S’pretty good, yeah?”

Glenda smacks her lips. “I don’t know anyone by that name. Unless you’re talking about Moby-Dick.”

I imagine myself scrambling over the vat of cookie dough, grabbing her by those split ends, and shoving her face in the tub of ice cream. It could be my thing, what I’m known for: a Mim-swirly. Staring at Glenda’s self-satisfied expression, I choose to murder her with kindness instead. I raise both hands and put air quotes around my next three words. “Thank you, Glenda.”

Aces Dairy Dip Mart Stop Plus is within walking distance of all four gas stations. They’re in a little cluster on the other side of the overpass—my best bet at finding Ahab. I grip my backpack and walk across the bridge. Every time a car zooms underneath, the whole thing wobbles a few inches, and here are the things I imagine: the road crumbling under my feet; the bridge caving in as I fall to the highway below; a chunk of cement crushing my head; a monstrous cloud of debris like the videos from nine-eleven . . .

WTF, Malone.

I need to cheer the hell up. I should do whatever happy people do when they’re being happy.

I try whistling.

Nick Drake.

Impossible, as it turns out. I might as well be tap dancing to the theme from Jaws. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why I’ve always thought Nick and I would have gotten along so well. I bet he had zero patience for the kind of thing where someone just oozed their good mood all over the place. (RIP, Nick. RIP.) For the rest of the walk, I strike the perfect balance between happy and miserable, which is, surprisingly, a narrow margin.

The nearest gas station has a sign out front that’s so faded, I can’t tell if it’s a BP or a Shell or a Marathon or what. Probably something preposterous like Ed’s Place. God, I bet that’s exactly what this is. Like a Saharan cactus, a dusty pay phone stands forgotten in the corner of the parking lot, which reminds me of my cell phone, which reminds me of Stevie Wonder, which reminds me of Kathy, which reminds me of Dad. They’re probably worried. They’re probably sort of freaking out by now.

Eff ’em.

The door jangles as I push it open.

“Afternoon!” says Man Behind the Counter.

I almost drop my backpack when I see his name tag: HI, I’M “ED,” AND I’M HERE TO HELP YOU. My brain explodes into a thousand pieces of incredulity.