Mosquitoland(26)

It’s an Ed. In quotes. Congratulations, Universe. You win.

I turn on my heels and walk out of the gas station; I don’t even care if that was Ahab’s boyfriend or not. Henceforth, I have a new policy, and it is unflinchingly rigid: no Eds, no mo’.

The next gas station is owned by a guy named Morris, who is pretty frowny and tragic. Luckily, he answers my questions in short yeps and nahs, and I don’t have to spend any more time with him than is absolutely necessary. The third gas station is owned by some-guy-who’s-not-Ahab. The last station is an actual Shell, and the young girl behind the counter blows a giant bubble with her gum and offers me free cigarettes. (Sometimes I think Shell might be taking over the world, and I just can’t believe everyone is okay with this. I mean, pretty soon we’re going to have gum-blowing girls offering free cigarettes to underage kids on every street corner in ’merica, and I would like to state for the record, I am not okay with this.) Somehow, I end up under the very bridge I’d envisaged collapsing, watching my Greyhound speed by, northbound sans Mim.

I raise a hand as it passes, not in farewell, but in good riddance.

And that, as they say, is that.

Alone in Independence.

How terribly fitting.

I pull out Mom’s lipstick, twirl it in my fingers, and try to think what to do next. Maybe it’s the unseasonably warm weather, or the sinking realization that I just waved good-bye to 17C forever and ever, or the residue of Glenda’s third-rate spirit, or the shortage of sound sleep I got at last night’s motel, but I’m feeling decidedly insurgent and exhausted. All these Eds and Morrises and Guys Who Aren’t Ahab, and Young Girls Who Blow Gum and Offer Free Cigarettes, and unending disappointments, disenchantments, and a hundred other disses have just drained me.

So eff it.

I’m going to sit. Right here, and only for a minute.

I pull my knees up, rest my forehead between them, and stare at the ground. The cracks on the pavement come together in the shape of a rabbit. The twitchy nose, the long feet, the fluffy tail, it’s all there.

How strange.





16


White Rabbit

“MIM, WHY DON’T you have a seat?”

“Why don’t you drop dead?”

“Mary, sit. Your mothe—Kathy and I have something to tell you.”

“Oh my shit, Dad. Really?”

“God, Mim, language.”

“That woman is not my mother. And I’m not Mary, not to you.”

“We have news, would you like to hear it, or not?”

“Hey, hey, I’m Walt.”

I jolt awake.

The rabbit is still there, but a different shade. I rub my eyes as a blurry pair of green Converse comes into focus.

“Hey, hey, I’m Walt.”

On either side of the highway, the shadows of the trees are longer; traffic is heavier, slower. Rush hour. I curse, stand up, and brush the street off my jeans. My bandaged leg is throbbing from the awkward position of my impromptu nap.

“Hey, hey, I’m Walt.”

The owner of the Chucks is about my height, my age, and for all I know, he’s been standing here introducing himself all afternoon. His hair, poking out beneath an old Chicago Cubs baseball cap, isn’t so much long as it is scraggly and stringy, like a stray mutt’s. He’s holding a Rubik’s Cube in one hand and an almost-empty twenty-ounce Mountain Dew in the other. Before I can introduce myself, he throws his head back and chugs the last of the soda. With authority.

My smile takes on a life of its own. “Hey, Walt. I’m Mim.”

Nodding, he holds out a dewy hand. I shake it—and suddenly, space and time shift. It’s the summer before third grade. A new family has just moved in across the street. They have a boy, Ricky, about my age. We have the same bike, a kick-ass neon Schwinn—qualification enough to become fast friends. His speech is slurred and his mind slow, but he walks fast. Every step is intentional, quick-footed, as if he’s always late for something. We hang out that whole summer. And things are good. And then school starts. Ty Zarnstorff, in front of everyone on the playground, says, “Hey, Mim, if you love Ricky the Retard so much, why don’t you marry him?” Everyone laughs. I’m not sure why, but I know enough to know it’s not nice. So I punch Ty, breaking his nose and earning a one-day suspension. That night at dinner, I ask Mom what retarded means, and if Ricky is a retard. She says, “Retard is a mean word used by mean people. Ricky has what is called Down syndrome, and all it means is that he’s a little slower than most.” A few minutes later, Dad goes to the bathroom. Mom takes a bite, clears her throat. “There are worse fates than being slow-witted,” she says. “You broke that other kid’s nose, right? The one who made fun of Ricky?” I say, “Yes ma’am, I did.” “Good,” she says, taking another bite.

“Hey, hey, you okay?”

I am pulled back to reality by a kid currently stuffing the pocket of his jeans with an empty Mountain Dew bottle. Exactly the sort of thing Ricky might do.

“You do the Dew, Walt?”

He laughs a laugh for the ages, and my young heart damn near melts all over the side of the road.

“What are you doing?” he asks, shifting focus to his Rubik’s Cube.

“What do you mean?”